Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

I.

Sometimes, if Martin closes his eyes, he can see a place.

Its name is heavy in his mouth. He’s afraid to say it, to even try. Will his tongue curl the wrong way around the vowels? Will he stumble over the wrong threshold? Will he make it known to anyone who can hear that he doesn’t belong to it, not anymore? That it doesn’t belong to him?

You can know a place without naming it, though. And Martin knows it, down to his bones. Sometimes he still wakes up disoriented, expecting his bedroom to have a different configuration and the sounds around him a different lull. He always shakes himself off it soon enough but the faint edges of the memory stay. Stick. Like his name, in his mouth. But only sometimes.

It’s almost a cliché to wake up and think that London weather is dreadful. 

Like, of course it is . It’s dampy and foggy on a good day, so prone to break out in spontaneous rains that several movies have made it a running gag.  Martin isn’t exactly a genius for thinking it but, well, he supposes it’s part of being a Londoner nowadays, pointing out (at least to oneself) that London’s weather sucks more than all those suitors sucked Jonah Magnus’s feet. Because Martin might not have a fancy university degree but he’s not a total idiot and he has access to documents , okay, he can read between the lines.

Boring place to work at sometimes, the Institute. At least Martin can find entertainment from two hundred year old rich person drama. 

Anyway, he has a reason to curse on the British Isles’ terrible forecast today. A reason tucked into the inside pocket of his backpack, safe and dry in case rainwater decides to get onto his documents and his tupperware again. 

Warmed by that thought, he braves the street with his umbrella, forcing himself not to notice the disgruntled passersby that crouches just enough not to touch him and the lack of nosy staring. It’s second nature at this point and he walks through the damp to the metro and then again towards the imposing, grey front that precedes the entrance to the institute. 

It takes him a considerable effort to push down his excitement as he smiles at Rosie, greets the few employees he passes on the halls and walks down the - frankly dangerous - stairs to the impossibly-damper-than-London-streets basement where the Archives are settled.

“Good morning!” he cheers into the dim light, at boxes and a surely-already-holed-up-in-his-office-Jonathan-Sims. And what if it’s a little too loud for the hour? Jon’s probably here since, like, four. At most, he’s serving as some human alarm clock.

There’s a clatter from Archival Storage. Alarm clock today it is, then. Martin bites back the smug smile and heads for the breakroom. It’s not that he likes to wake up a man that’s already two weeks past sleep deprived, it’s just that Jon spent forty five minutes yesterday tearing apart one of his reports over - somehow - Martin’s overuse of dashes.  

He searches through the half empty cupboards for the spare sponge, since the one over the sink is already kind of rotting. He grabs the big spoon that has been laying around since Friday and cleans it. Okay, so it’s not like Martin didn’t very politely argue back that dashes are inconsequential on a report over how a woman found wolf pups sleeping inside her sister’s rotting body. It’s just that, sometimes, it’s very difficult to prove his point when he’s pretending to have a masters in parapsychology and focusing on not showing it’s a sham . Being too snippy at his (already tetchy) new boss seems like a recipe for suspicion and investigation. So, yeah, better to pick his battles and make himself as wanted in the Archives as he can be. 

He opens his backpack and searches for his precious package. At least Tim and Sasha are friendly. Or, yknow, not actively hostile to any human being in a ten block radius.

“Is that Mr. Martin Blackwood I hear?’ Speaking of the devil. Tim’s voice carries through to the breakroom seconds before the man himself appears. He’s smiling wide and motions to the backpack. “Did you bring it?”

Martin nods enthusiastically.

“Is it the good stuff?” Tim asks in what pretends to be a hushed tone but is loud enough to be considered scandalous. There’s no clatter in the distance Martin can hear but, well, sound carries. Especially if you’re just above five feet one and nosy. 

“The good stuff. Ready to use.”

“Good morning!” Sasha singsongs, breezing past Tim to kiss Martin on the cheek and settle on the chair with a loud clang. She pauses to stare between Martin’s backpack in his hands and Tim’s eager expression. “You found it?”

“Of course he did!” Tim exclaims, still at outdoor volume, crossing the room to ask for a kiss of his own. Sasha bats at his face with a good-natured mutter of Not you, you poser . He settles for a one armed hug. “Martin knows where to find the good stuff. He’s our resident expert!”

Sasha bites a half smile on her lip and looks between Martin and Tim again. 

“You know you’re probably making Jon think there’s some drug exchange going back here, don’t you?” She asks, voice hushed and eyes glinting with amusement. 

Tim's face widens into a bigger grin while Martin’s falls into a confused sputter.

“That’s the idea!”

“Wait, he thinks what?”

“He’s eavesdropping from the hall. If he decides to not come in, pull a Hollywood and think Martin is our resident expert drug lord, that’s his fault.”

“He won’t think that! Tim!”

“Don’t worry, Martin, we know him. He’s uptight but he’s probably already planning to ignore and deny it if asked, he’s not a snitch. Or, yknow, won’t care as long as you do your work.”

“Probably both,” Sasha supplies. “He’ll even support consumption if it makes us go through Gertrude’s mess faster.”

“Actually!” Tim raises his voice again and now it’s gone from loud to obviously theatrical. Martin and Sasha don’t even blink but yeah, still a bit obnoxious. “This stuff is energy-giving isn’t it? I’ve heard it really pumps you up.”

Martin looks at Sasha, who is snickering behind her hand.

“Are you okay with this?”

“I’m a little bit offended you haven’t named me second-in-command, honestly. Bit sexist.”

Martin won’t even argue anymore. Cool. Cool. Cool. He won’t lose his cheer over this, he has mate to prepare. And to be honest, the picture of Jon eavesdropping and somehow thinking there’s a shady latin american-led-drug-exchange going in the breakroom of the Archives of all places — well, it is kinda funny. Something to describe with an impressive amount of dashes.

The nature of nicknames in Argentina is such that once it’s assigned and it sticks, it’s here to stay. 

The nature of Martin Blackwood’s nickname can be attributed to his Tío Martín, his tocayo and also his father’s cousin. Story goes like this. Martín Kampelmacher Blackwood (because isn’t that a fucking mouthful already) was a really chubby baby. Like, a truly big adorable baby that uncles, aunts and all elders in the family (blood related or not) passed around to hold and coo over. 

This cooing was pretty standard. “Que lindo mi nene” , “Sos la cosita más rica del mundo, no? Si que lo sos, y lo sabés!” and other similar sentiments are quite universal when the specimen known as the human race encounters a smaller version of itself. But Martín’s family - as any Argentinian family usually does - took it to a bigger, more intense extent. 

All this to say, Martín’s name was being repeated so much it lost meaning and started to get nicknamed. “Martucho,” “Martuchuchito,” “Martutito bonito” was repeated over and over again. It was quite inevitable that when he got to Tio Martín’s arms, it took one staring contest for him to declare “Miralo al chucho.”

Every Latin American person requires a nickname. Since “Chucho” is less of a mouthful than Martucho (and Martín Kampelmacher Blackwood, no doubt), the nickname stuck. And so, it stayed. 

Martin likes rituals. The process of preparing mate is a well-loved, old-learned and well-crafted ritual.  He knows it by heart, yet, every time, he can’t help repeating the steps under his breath, just in case. 

For mate, the right way , you need three things: the mate cup, yerba mate and a bombilla. His cup is wooden and twenty years old but it holds up with dignity, a few scratches to the base and mild discoloration as proof of age and use. The bombilla is a way more recent acquisition - the one from the big move got lost a few years ago when his mother and him moved to London - but he cherishes it anyway, a lucky find in a novelty shop lost between two corners he never found again. The yerba mate… well, this is London . It’s not impossible to find it, although it’s sometimes overpriced and of bad quality. But he knows his yerba, he’s perfected over the years where to go, which one to buy. 

Yes, Martin likes rituals. But this one in particular, he’s proud of it. If he can be called clumsy or useless on anything else, he knows this.

He gets the cup and the bombilla from his backpack and puts it on the table. Then he grabs the spoon from where it was drying on the breakroom’s small kitchenette and, finally, unearths the precious yerba from the inner pocket of his backpack. He wrapped it with two plastic bags from the supermarket, just in case. It’s a bit of an overkill for a pack that’s closed but he wanted to prevent any possibility of wayward water ruining it (At Tim and Sasha’s enthusiasm over the drink, he decided to splurge on a new pack from a fancier brand over the well used, half opened pack sitting on his kitchen’s cupboards). 

He opens the packet and, carefully, grabs spoonfuls of the yerba and dumps them on the cup, careful not to fill it to the brim. 

“I never get tired of the smell,” Martin says, not caring about his volume, at Sasha and Tim who are observing his every movement. They’re sprawled in the chairs around the table and haven’t said a peep since Martin started narrating the process to them. He breathes deeply and extends the open packet for them to smell. “It’s way better than tea.”

They huddle around the packet while he goes over to the kitchenette to fill the kettle with water and put it on the stove. He should have done it earlier. It’s okay, it’s not even eight forty. They have time. 

“It does smell good,” Tim says, burying his nose way too deep into the packet. Sasha swats his arm so she gets a turn “No wonder you’re so addicted to it.”

“I’m not addicted,” Martin answers, “People in Argentina drink it all the time. I switch between it and tea. It’s just…”

“Good morning, Jon!” Sasha sinsongs loudly, interrupting what would have most decidedly been a way too personal statement to make to his coworkers at 8:38 in the morning.

Because, of course, this is the moment Jon decides to enter the breakroom in what’s most decidedly the least unsubtle walk ever and narrow his eyes at Tim and Sasha, who are taking turns to bury their faces into the mate packet.

“Good morning,” Jon answers, clearly automatically. He looks even more sleep deprived than yesterday, half his hair is on the incorrect side of his head, drool on his cheek. “What’s going on?”

Martin’s never met anyone who looked like they needed a mate this much. But, because he doesn’t want his boss to think he’s some kind of movie-stereotype-drug-dealer, he refrains to say something like “Hey, I’ve got something special that will definitely wake you up. Want some?”

“Hi, Jon,” he says instead. Then he raises the wooden cup “I’m making Tim and Sasha some mate. It’s, uh, a drink from Argentina.”

“A drink.”

“Yeah, like tea.”

“Ah,” Jon makes an expression that’s definitely not complete displeasure  “Tea. Yes, makes sense.”

The kettle starts to let out steam. Martin turns off the stove. 

“I have to take it out at first boil,” He explains to no one in particular. Tim and Sasha are more focused on bickering over who gets to smell the packet. They’re going to break the paper if they keep tugging it.  Strangely enough, it’s Jon who answers with a hum and peers closer to watch.

“Here we go,” he mutters and puts the kettle on the table. He then puts his right hand over the cup and turns it around, hitting the bottom gently. “Some people filter the leaves but I’m honestly too lazy to. This is easier”

He pours the water on a small hole he makes on la yerba with la bombilla and takes a sip, scowling at the taste. The first one is always the worst.  He drinks until he starts slurping on air then refills again. Yeah, now it’s better. It tastes like mate. 

He fills it up and looks around the table. Tim and Sasha are urging Jon to smell the packet and he’s refusing.

“Who wants the next one?”

Jon stares at the cup but says nothing. If he’s not speaking in something other than monosilabes in ten minutes Martin is making him a pot of tea. Sasha holds out her hands while Tim besides her raises his eyebrows with bafflement.  

“Wait, what the hell, we share it?” He asks.

Martin shrugs. Yeah, that’s how it’s always been.

“Are you going to be all primary school about it? Are you afraid of getting cooties?” Sasha teases, taking the cup with both hands then slurping loudly. Then she makes a face “Oh, this tastes weird weird . C’mon, Tim, try it. ”

She finishes quickly and gives it to Martin, who refills it and extends it to Tim. He makes a show of taking it with his pointy finger raised and taking slow sips, as if it was tea from fine china or an expensive cocktail. 

“This...” He puts it down. “isn’t bad at all.”

“I prefer coffee to wake up,” Sasha says “But I agree. Now, stop hoarding it.”

Tim sticks out his tongue in her direction and takes some slow, loud sips until he runs out of water. 

 “Uh, now what do I do” He asks. Martin holds out his hands and Tim passes the cup back to him. Refill. Look around. 

Jon’s still staring at the cup. A little voice inside Martin urges to leave him alone but, well, he’s here isn’t he? It’d be rude to not offer. And, honestly, the obnoxious people pleaser in him kind of really wants Jon’s feedback regarding mate. 

“Do you want some, Jon?” He asks as neutrally as he can.

“No, thank you,” He says. Martin is definitely not disappointed and doesn’t push down the urge to insist because adults know their own wants and needs. Of course they do. Even when they could use the help.

Nonetheless, Jon stays on the table while Tim, Sasha and Martin drink in sleepy silence. He stays until the water in the kettle runs out, all the way through.

—————— 

Martin’s four years old when he starts paying attention to the family stories adults tell.

The act of storytelling in real life doesn’t happen the way movies portray it. It’s not some big, memorable moment in which a wise elder tells the young protagonist the secret of life enveloped in a metaphor. In reality, it’s small mundane moments in which Martin’s dad shares how he met his mom, his Abuelo tells his father’s near death at hands of bad people that killed a lot of people or his Tía Lucía (who Martin isn’t really related to but she lives next street and has known him forever) confides how she kidnapped an ostrich.

Martin likes it. And - with the special kind of pride only a child possesses - he knows how to spot them before they happen.

So he sits around the dinner table and waits until his father’s eyes shine and he pats his own leg in excitement. He lays on the sidewalk - exhausted after an afternoon playing futbol with other kids - and listens to the old neighbour who’s sitting on the doorstep. He clasps his mother’s hand on the crowded bus and looks up at the stranger telling her (tight lipped - she’s not used to this country’s overfamiliarity) a story from her childhood.

He won’t remember all of these when he’s an adult. But the habit, old capricious thing, will stay.

Martin can’t stress this enough: fuck modernity. 

Yeah, okay. It sounds like a hipster thought. He’s always had a small uh, fondness for the analogue. He misses CDs and VHS and - sue him - he admits there’s a charm in the tape recorders Jon uses because the statements don’t record on their (truly outdated and shitty) laptops. 

He respects technological evolution or whatever the fuck it’s called but the idea of changing smartphones year after year because there’s something more modern feels pointless. And pedantic. And a waste of money. 

Talking of…

Jane Prentiss knocks on the door again. That’s okay. That’s not news, considering she’s been doing that for the past eight days nonstop. Or, he thinks it’s eight days. He’d know - and could have called for help - if he had his bloody smartphone on him. The one he’ll have to replace.

Another knock. So soon? He tried timing them the first few days, y’know, before he realised paying attention to them drove him insane. 

Modernity! Okay! He’s not an old man but there’s something to say about how the United Kingdom is absolutely goddamn obsessed with modernity. And it’s ridiculous. Martin hates it. They’re a backwards first world country built on colonisation and imperialism! They still have royalty, for fuck’s sake! What’s the obsession with modernity that they couldn’t bother to install a gas stove instead of making all his appliances electrical?

 Another knock. She must be having fun.

“Oh, Martin, why are you cursing electrical appliances?” He mutters to himself, because he's probably going crazy.  If he’s gesticulating and his tone is more ironic than not, well, no one will know. He’s trapped alone in his apartment. No one will care. “Why aren’t you cursing the brutal capitalistic practices, Martin?”

“Well, Martin, you see” He answers to himself, summoning an intellectual tone that is surely not copying any rude boss in particular. “ The power’s off.”

Another knock. He raises his voice. He’ll lecture the worm lady if he has to.

“With no power, there’s no oven!” He paces around the room. “There’s no microwave! There’s no stove!”

Martin grabs a cushion from the couch and throws it at the door. 

“Without a stove there’s no tea!” Knock. He throws another and yells louder. “No coffee! And most importantly, there’s no mate to keep awake while a literal bag of rot and shit stands a siege in your apartment!”

There’s no answer. Not like Martin expected one or - or- or-  a dashing rescue. He deflates, drained, on the couch and looks at the ceiling. 

There won’t be an answer. Just another knock. Just Martin with his eyes dry for trying to keep himself awake and the all encompassing certainty that no one’s coming. 

Martin’s seven and he knows many houses.

La Boca isn’t a small neighbourhood but it’s far enough from the center of the city that kids can play on quiet streets without being bothered by cars and, at least on his block, most people know each other. He lives in one of the few apartment buildings but most of his neighbours live in houses, crammed next to each other, doors sometimes unlocked. It’s a bit overconfident for Buenos Aires (all kids know there are simply some streets you don’t go past) but robbers generally don’t mess with their neighbors.  

Point is, Martin’s seven and during the day, after school’s over, he can help his mom with the groceries and then have enough time to go anywhere he pleases. In theory, at least. He doesn’t want to stay out too long - his dad has been coming home very late and his mother looks more tired every day. He wants to help. But she doesn’t like it when he worries too much so he goes out to play with the other kids (a couple got game consoles recently) or to eat the biscuits the old lady who manages the till at the butcher makes.

Martin enjoys the company, of course, and he’s just so charmed when he goes over. Each house is so different from the other: big patios and small rooms, two floors and one long hallway, gas stoves and analog clocks. Old mementos spread around the rooms, one bookcase with more CDs than books, ceramic figurines of little angels with eyes wide open, homemade cloth dolls that smell of lavender and are a little bit creepy.  There’s so much personality stored in these places his loved ones have decided to call home, places they open and let Martin in, like it’s easy, like it’s nothing.

Martin’s twenty eight and he’s going to die.

come closer don’t you want a home don’t you want a home with us come closer we love you and here you’ll belong come closer don’t you want a home with us a home just for you a home

He covers his ears. He doesn’t know if he’s hallucinating or if Jane has really started singing. Or if it’s the worms. If there’s any difference between them at all.

there’s a home in us a home for you a home with you a home that will cherish you and won’t let you go a home that’s yours yours yours come closer come closer open the door.

He’s started drawing. He doesn’t draw — pointedly doesn’t, in fact. He’s a poetry kinda guy. A stand-awkwardly-at-slams-dying-to-read-and-doesn’t kinda guy. But, well, twelve days trapped on little sleep can do that to you. 

Martin wants to register that he was here. He doesn’t want his landlord to come to his half empty apartment and just… clean it like nothing. Get rid of Martin’s body, put up some paint, rent it to the next tenant and that’s it. He wants it to be work, to feel like he occupied some space. 

come closer don’t you want a home we love you and we want you we want to burrow under your skin inhabit your lungs 

Mom didn’t want to bring any furniture when they moved to England. Too expensive, she said. Pack everything you might miss in two suitcases and off we go. Martin never told her - too afraid of burdening her further, of bothering her, sick and tired and trying - that it was impossible. He couldn’t pack the random fights on the bus, the nosy old ladies of the neighbourhood or the cows munching grass placidly on the green plains while he zoomed past them on the car. 

we want to nestle against the muscle the liver the bone the gore and make a home right there come closer

So, yeah, he’s drawing. If whatever he’s doing can be called drawing. 

It’s just random doodles - so unlike the old man in El Caminito that drew for the tourists and lived across the hall from Martin and his parents. He made a portrait of Martin, once, seven years old with big cheeks and big arms and far too tall for his age. Big nose, round face, light brown skin and dark brown hair. 

Martin’s artistry right now limits to doodles. The street he grew up, cobbled stones and low buildings with dark windows. El Obelisco (not that difficult to depict, it’s a penis but angular). The cows.

come closer we can make you a home wecanmakeyouahomeyoumissahomecomecloserwecanmakeyouahome

Sometimes he thinks he dreamed up some details. He was, what, ten when they moved? He’s probably idealising his home country too much. Like, c’mon, he watches the news. His mother made the right call. Of course she did. 

England, after all, is all about modernity.

Abuela Susana doesn’t know how to cook. 

His dad shushes Martin when he mentions it. He doesn’t understand why. The rest of the table’s too busy to hear them, preoccupied with their animated chatter, and Martin practically whispered it. And even if he had yelled, it’s not exactly a quiet family, he’s sure no one would have noticed it. 

“She does know how to cook,” his dad corrects. In English because, as Martin’s mother usually remarks, Abuela Susana doesn’t speak English either “She just… isn’t as good with it as..”

“El Abuelo Gastón y la Tía Mariana,” Martin nods wisely. He likes their food. And making it with them is fun: they let him help in the kitchen and look away when he sneaks slices of cheese. “It’s okay, though. Mamá doesn’t cook very well either.”

“You don’t like your mother’s food?” Martin winces and shakes his head. His father puts his hand on his shoulder. “ Let’s not tell her that, okay? She’s a little sensitive. She likes to hear good things.” 

Martin frowns.

“It’s true though!” He insists “Don’t you always say I have to tell the truth?”

His father sighs.

“Sometimes… it’s just better to hide the truth?” The hand on Martin’s shoulder presses down “Because it hurts people. Or us.”

“But...”

“You’re eight, Martín. You’ll understand when you grow up.” His father squeezes his shoulder then leans in to kiss him on the forehead “Sometimes the truth makes things worse.” 

His father goes back to talking with the other adults and Martin gets distracted by his Tía Mariana hugging him and insisting she can pick him up even with her bad hip. Conversation moves on and he eats both the delicious and the bland food without complaint, the afternoon fading altogether and blending with all the other afternoons at his grandparents - a pleasant, sunlit dream.

Five months later, Martin’s father leaves the house and never comes back.

The Archives smell damp.

Martin shouldn’t think ill of the place. It’s after all, all he has, after Jon left him stay. He even has a bed, if the cot he’s currently laying on can be called a bed. What was the saying the old chilean lady at the supermarket taught him? He helped her with her groceries when he was a teenager and, after he apologised for his rusty Spanish, she patted him on the arm and said...

“A caballo regalado no se le ven los dientes,”  He repeats out loud, and immediately feels silly about it even though no one will hear.  The Archives are empty at this hour. And, most importantly, they’re safe. No nightmarish monsters. No squirming worms. No knocking.

And, of course, right after Martin thinks this, he hears a loud thud and he absolutely shits himself. 

He sits up, adrenaline coursing through his body and ears buzzing. He can’t hear squirming. Yet. But who says he could hear the worms from here? 

God, it could be anything. 

He doesn’t want to check it out.

He definitely wants to check it.

He considers his surroundings. He could close the door to Archival Storage. It worked last time. But he’s got no provisions here - just hundreds of papers, a half opened box of cookies, whatever belongings he could salvage from his home and the corkscrew he sleeps with. Locking himself from Prentiss worked last time but if he tries that again, he’ll very well starve to death . Also, here it smells like damp and it’s driving him crazy

So, because Martin apparently fancies himself the first victim of a horror film, he marches out of the room, down the hall to inspect the source of the noise, corkscrew in hand.

The office is silent. No squirming, no ominous knocking, nothing. It could have very well been a product of his imagination except for the fact the break room light is on. Martin is sure he turned it off before going to bed. 

He walks slowly towards the door, making sure he’s as quiet as can be. That’s okay, he’s got experience on this. He doesn’t call out to whoever is inside, though. He isn’t that much of a fool. He gets closer and closer and closer —-

— just to find out the cabinets ransacked and the packet of mate opened with, unmistakably, Jon’s face buried in it. 

Martin would have been less shocked if Jane Prentiss was making out with Jonah Magnus’s corpse in the breakroom.

“What the actual fuck , Jon?” Martin asks because he’s got limited self-restraint. Jon jumps ten feet —  because that was definitely a volume too high for this hour. 

Jon looks… well, Jon looks like shit . He’s been beating records at overworking and sleep deprivation, lately, with Martin as main witness but this is... kinda pathetic. So, what, he snuck back into the Archives after he was (gently) kicked out because, what, he wanted to smell mate leaves? He isn’t even drinking the thing?

“Ah, uh, hello, Martin.” He looks guilty at being caught, at least, but he hugs the mate packet to his chest. If Martin held any fear towards  his boss before, it’s gone. Woosh. Up in flames “What are you doing up at this hour?”

“I couldn’t sleep,” Martin answers automatically. And then, because he has no mouth filter. “What are you doing here?”

“Came to uh…”

“If you say catch up on some work, I swear--”

“I won’t say it, then.”

They stare at each other in a sort of impasse. Martin’s eyes fix on the mate’s packet and has a terrible, definitely-going-to-be-awkward idea. But, because he’s got absolutely nothing to lose in a world where stalkerish worm women are real and his uptight boss makes ridiculous decisions at four am…

“Seeing as neither of us will get any sleep,” He points at the bag, “Would you like me to make us both some mate?”

Jon’s jaw tightens. He says nothing, just stares. Martin fidgets. Yup, definitely awkward.

“I mean, you definitely don’t have to,” He adds, because his mouth always runs ahead of himself when he’s nervous and tired. “I was just going to make myself some…” 

Jon’s face falls.

”Oh,” He nods and straightens. The effect is probably meant to be serious and imposing, but he’s still leaning sideways and his eyes are half closed. God, he really needs that caffeine, doesn’t he?  “I won’t get in the way, then.”

He makes a motion to leave, still hugging the packet to his chest. Martin’s heart breaks a little. For fuck’s sake, this is so fucking stupid.

“Wait!” He says. “I just meant there’s no pressure to. But I’d like you to join me. Mate is a social thing, did you know?”

Jon turns around and perches himself on the closest chair.

“Alright,” He stays quiet, face morphing between expressions before settling into a pleasant, albeith sleepy, nod. “Thank you, Martin.”

“Don’t thank me, I’m dooming you to stay awake for a couple hours then come back at midday to drink more.” And probably dooming us both to the most awkward chat, he bites his tongue to say, because that’s just mean. Jon’s a dick but at least, y’know, didn’t tell him to fuck off after Martin gave him his Statement. Which was probably minimum decency but Martin’s never had the healthiest standards of human interaction. 

He fills the kettle and puts it on the - he notes again with delight - gas stove. Maybe The Archives are the least backwards place in all of Great Britain. Maybe Magnusarchives or whoever was in charge of building this basement two centuries ago had some common sense. 

Martin grabs the mate cup and bombilla from the cupboard. When he turns to the table with them on hand, he realises Jon’s still hugging the packet to his chest. And staring at him. It should be creepy. It is creepy. And weird. And - because Martin has many issues he doesn’t want to unpack - a little bit adorable. 

“I..” Martin points at the packet. “I kind of need that.”

“Uh, yes. Of course.” Jon gives it but keeps staring as Martin dumps the yerba on the mate, as he turns it out and hits the bottom, as takes the kettle for a little bit to dump a spray part of the leaves with lukewarm water before taking it back to the stove. He’s prone to staring, Martin has noticed. Either that or he ignores his surroundings entirely. It’s especially scalding when he’s tearing down his work - all that attention centered on the mistakes only to fade away and dismiss Martin the moment he’s done. He usually resists the impulse to argue but, well, this isn’t the most professional of circumstances anyway and he feels a little bit justified because Jon’s being weird .

He puts the cup on the table with more force than intended. 

“Okay, what?”  He asks. Jon shakes his head, startled.

“What?”

“You do know this isn’t drugs, don’t you Jon?” He blurts out.

“What?” Jon’s louder but it’s still not a denial. Oh, for fuck’s — 

“I know you heard Tim! Everyone heard Tim!” Martin throws his arms up  “It isn’t drugs! It’s just tea! Well, it isn’t tea but it’s a similar, not drug related plant!”

“I know what mate is!” Jon sounds quite indignant about it.

“Okay!” Martin answers, probably louder than needed. Then, because he absolutely needs to clarify, “I’m not a drug dealer.”

Jon shakes his head.

“Good lord, I never thought so,” He says and Martin huffs because yeah , right. Jon rolls his eyes. "Of course I didn't, Martin. You wouldn't deal drugs . "

He says it with such condescension — as if it’s not his morals he doubts but his capabilities— that Martin sputters, now feeling quite offended.

“I could deal drugs!”

Jon narrows his eyes and looks at him in a manner that can be universally translated as “fuck right off”. Which, classic Jonathan Sims, exuding disbelief at every edge of his pointy, pointy body. Martin detests him sometimes.

"I mean I wouldn't!” He repeats because it’s very important for him that Jon understands this. ‘'Nasty stuff. And too cliché, Latin American immigrant and such. But I could be doing it, I could be great at it and you and your nosy grandmother self wouldn't notice!”

“What are you exactly trying to convince me of here, Martin?” Jon asks. Then, he seems to process Martin’s words and furrows his brow “And, wait, what do you even mean ?”

Martin’s hands flutter around, fiddling with the cup and wishing the kettle would boil already.

“Eh, yes. The eavesdropping.” He bites his lip and explains “You remind me of the old grandmothers that hung around the street and were very nosy. Although, everyone in Argentina was kinda nosy--”

“If anyone’s nosy here,” Jon interrupts, pronouncing the word as if it’s foreign to him, “it’s definitely the man who snuck up on me at four am…”

“You were making noise!” Martin quips, voice a few pitches higher, but Jon pays him no mind, back straight, chin high and left palm raised.

“... while I was minding my own business ”

“I thought you were Prentiss!” Martin blurts out, interrupting whatever speech Jon was elaborating on its tracks. Jon freezes. Well, can’t take that truth back now, can he. “I-I thought you were Prentiss, okay? You were making noise and it smelled damp and I thought…yeah.”

“Ah” Jon’s pointedly not looking at him. He clears his throat.  “Right.”

Martin’s keenly aware he just basically dumped his pathetic worm-related trauma on his boss. What’s next, daddy issues? 

“Sorry” He says. Jon snaps his head towards him. He looks bewildered, pained.

“It’s not you who has to apologise here, Martin,” He declares.

Then he keeps looking at him and says nothing. Martin blinks.  The kettle starts to whistle and he rushes to turn the stove off and place it on the table, then sits down again. Jon keeps looking at him and says nothing. 

The silence drags on too long to be a pause and something in Martin’s brain clicks.

“Oh. That’s… that’s. That was you apologising” 

Jon blinks.

“I…” He says and his hands flutter in his lap “I was trying to. ”

He sounds so pained about it, so miffed that Martin can’t help it. A bubble of hysterical, disbelieving laughter comes out of his throat unprompted.

“You do know an apology usually includes “sorry” in it, right?” He quips. 

“Yes, yes, yes, I’m aware.”

“Because you made a weird pause there.”

“I was thinking , Martin!” Jon snaps but he doesn’t sound angry, only flustered, out of his depth. 

Martin raises his arms in peace but he’s smiling. This is ridiculous. This might be possibly the most ridiculous, earnest non-apology he’s ever received in his life. He can’t believe this man went to Oxford — he’s seen the sweater. Or rather, on second thought, he can. 

Jon breathes, in, out, then straightens his back and, chin raised,  he looks at Martin right in the eyes.

“I’m sorry.” He says. Martin opens his mouth automatically and Jon raises his hand “No, don’t — don’t quip. Please. I am . You’re my subordinate and I put you in danger. Although you did go there after hours without permission or notice…”

Martin raises his eyebrows. 

“Shut — you did !” Jon clenches his teeth with a snap and gets himself back on track. “But. I’m aware my managerial, er, pressure was significant on that. And I’m sorry, I’m really sorry. Not only for sending you there, but for what you went through, for just calling and not checking . You didn’t deserve that. You don’t deserve to be stuck here, either. And I’m sorry.”

Well.

That’s a lot. 

Martin takes the kettle, now mildly cooling back to something resembling the ideal temperature, and pours a bit on the cup. He drinks the first mate and barely pays attention to the awful taste, turning what he just heard over and over in his head. He finishes it, fills it up and - without any ceremony - he extends the mate to Jon. 

He takes it but doesn’t drink. 

“I…” Martin starts, then clears his throat. He feels suddenly, painfully raw. “Thank you, Jon. I want you to know that I don’t blame you for… all of that. Yeah, you are a bit, eh, intense sometimes and I did insist on going back to that basement because of it but you couldn’t have known Prentiss was there. Or the worms, or what she did.”

Jon nods but he doesn’t look convinced, not really. 

“And regarding staying in the Archives. It’s not ideal. Obviously. But it… means a lot that you let me stay. More than you know. I just couldn’t go back to-to- to- ” He bites his lip to stop himself from rambling. Get to the point, Martin “So yeah. You’re forgiven.”

Jon nods, serious.

“Thank you,” He says solemnly. Martin rolls his eyes and smiles.

“Just drink your mate, Jon.”

“What?” He shakes his head, looks down, and seems to register he’s had the cup in his hand for a couple minutes now. Then, with the intensity Martin has only seen spent on reports before, Jon rushes down to sip from la bombilla and promptly burns his tongue.

“Ah, bloody hell!”

“You’re supposed to drink slowly !”

"And how exactly would I know that, Martin?"

Somehow, they make this a ritual. 

Martin’s ten and he’s moving out of the house, the neighbourhood, the country he’s lived all his life.

“We need to move back,” his mom says, has repeated over and over for months. Back for him is a picture, a video he’s seen on tv, the perfumes from Europe his mother still keeps. “There’s nothing for us on this place, Martin.”

She doesn't call him Martín that often, not the way his dad used to call him, not the way everyone else does. 

It's a subtle change. It’s okay. She’s sick. He wants her to be happy. If he needs to be Martin instead of Martín, well. It’s not that bad.

The neighbours knocked on the door a lot, after his father left. So did Martin’s aunt and grandparents. She opened at first, received the platitudes and the offers for help, thanked them and never took them up on it. Now, they knock less and she just ignores it. 

Martin stays inside with her, ignores the door and the phone as instructed, tells his friends he can’t go out for football, tells Inés de la verdulería they’ll pay her later — even when she insists they don’t, it’s just apples and tomatoes, corazón, no te preocupes.

He stays inside and goes out only for groceries and to pick up cardboard boxes from the neighbourhood. They’ll need them, his mom says, they need to pack it all up, years of toys and clothes and mementos and furniture. 

His mom’s sick. She'll get better care in England. They’ll have a way of supporting themselves in England. It's only logical. There's nothing here, Martin.

That’s a lie — he wants to say — there’s so much here, for him. 

There’s his Abuela Susana and his Abuelo Gastón and aunts and uncles and cousins who he can stay with instead. There’s his favourite horse in la calesita and his favourite teacher at school.  There’s Mabel, the old lady who tells him he looks just like her son the dictatorship took and gives him poetry books he doesn’t understand.  There’s Ricardo and Francisco, the couple that manages the small almacén down the block and always look away when the kids sneak cookies from the big glass jars. 

There’s the park, so big he can get lost in, and every tree his aunt promised she’d help him climb. There’s El Caminito y el Riachuelo and the cobbled streets he’s ran in a thousand times.  There’s… his mamá. And she's ill and she's alone and he's too small to really help. He knows he's a bit of a burden so if he can help, why won't he?

 So Martin puts his head down and follows her when she packs everything away, when he has to say goodbye to the people he grew up with, the people he loves, when he has to leave his home. 

And so he goes into a new country, a whole different life and language he doesn't fully know.

“Do you remember when you called the Archives a boring job?” Martin scolds himself, careful not to make too much noise. ’Were you daring the place not to be?”

And if he was, he muses while reaching for the gauze on the spare medical kit under his cot, this is a bit of an excessive response.

He takes the amount he needs and then rushes towards his desk, where Sasha is still slumped over, pressing a tea towel on her shoulder to stop the bleeding.  When he gets in front of her, she opens one of her eyes and pats his hand softly with a faint smile.

“I’m sorry for waking you up,” She says, voice hoarse and tired. “I just wanted to be here when Jon comes in. I didn’t want to alarm you.”

“It’s alright,” Martin answers, and he means it. It’s not like he's been sleeping much lately anyway — the amount of worms lurking outside the institute increases by the day and he lays in his cot at night sure that every whisper and shuffle means they’ve finally gotten into the Archives. “I just. I know you want to tell him but. Was it Prentiss?”

Sasha bites her lip. Martin moves the towel away from her shoulder and sets on cleaning the wound.

“No,” She concedes, then hesitates. “Not exactly.”

He opens his mouth to protest, to ask her what she means but she cuts him off with a touch on his elbow.

“Can we talk about something else? Until Jon arrives?” Her hand trembles “Please.”

Martin nods. He understands. In some small, fucked up way, he understands. Recounting the days in his apartment, trapped, while Prentiss waited outside… it’s an experience he only wants to tell once. Let the tapes tell the story for him infinite times if they want to. He only wants to relive it once.

“What do you want to talk about?” He asks instead, sitting beside her on the desk. It's a bit cluttered - too many wrappers he hasn't binned and post it notes to remind him of research procedures and calls Jon asked him to make.

“Anything, really.” Sasha says. Her hair gets on her mouth and she blows it away “Maybe… maybe something pleasant.”

“I, uh, bought a deck of cards.” 

“What, did Tim finally convince you to join him on Poker games against those smarmy dudes at the pub?”

“Not those type of cards. It’s, ah, a spanish deck.” He bought it to distract himself and also because he had the faint hope he could teach his coworkers the games he hasn’t played in years, the games that need more than - well, one person to play.   "I used to play with those as a a kid."

"Ah," She nods sagely "Like brisca? My parents always made me join them after dinner." 

"Never played that one. More, like, truco, la escoba del quince, chancho, chin chon…"

"Nah. Cuadrado?"

"No. Chin?"

"Nope. What's the obsession argentinians have with the sound anyway?"

"What sound?"

"The che sound. Chin. Chancho. Chin chon. Che. Che. Che," She imitates, dragging the last words longer than natural. Martin lets out a snicker and she tries again, dragging it a little more. "Che chabón."

"That's not how it sounds."

"That's exactly how it sounds."

"Maybe it is," Martin concedes. Then, softly, almost without thinking, he adds, "Haven't been an authority on it for a while."

A silence falls in the room. Martin wants to take it back. That was too much, too open, too vulnerable . 

Then, Sasha narrows her eyes and shakes a hand.

"Oh, that's nonsense," She says.

"I'm serious!"

"Yeah, I'm sure you are. But it's bullshit." She moves her hand again, now more emphatically, and the movement makes her hiss. "If you're no authority on your own native language because you emigrated here a bazillion years ago, what does that make me? I'm not updated on the latests Cuban trends either."

"It's not the same —" Martin starts to answer because it's not but she's on a roll, voice higher.

"And I came here by choice . I willfully abandoned my country and my manners and, and, and language , by your standards!"

" Sasha. "  He calls and if his voice's flatter than usual, harder than usual, he's got good reason to. He doesn't think that. He doesn't mean that. Not about her, at least.  "You came here to have a better life. You came here as an adult . That's the difference. I'm less..."

"What?" Sasha retorts, cutting. "Less, what? Valid?"

Her tone is almost mocking and he stills his shoulders and doesn't answer.

" I was practically raised here," He says instead.

"Except from the fact you weren't, were you?" Martin looks away. He's never told her the specifics of his experience but she more or less guessed it. Well, it's not like he's special.

"Listen, I'm not going to give you a — bloody pep talk on Latin American identity or whatever." Sasha starts and Martin's not looking at her but it sounds like she's tapping her leg. A nervous tick. "That's not what this is, Martin. Just. Listen to me.

"Emigrating's weird . It's a difficult in between to be in. Because, yeah, we're here because we sought a better life or because we simply are, because our family needed to be here…"

She drifts off a bit, then shakes herself off with renewed momentum.

"And it makes sense. Shit back home - my home, your home, whatever— can be so rough. It's rough back in Latin America. Sometimes you just have to get out. But it's still, y'know, ours . We still miss it. We can miss it. It sucks that we had to leave. So, yeah, we're lucky to be here. But we're also extremely unfortunate for it."

Silence falls again, interrupted only by the steady tick of the clock. When Sasha talks, it's kinder, softer.

"It's still ours, Martin. Even though we've been away for a long time." 

He doesn't answer. There's no need to. He's already said more than he needed to. And at the end of the day, it's not a pleasant thing to talk about. She wanted something pleasant.

Martin watches her. She's still blowing the strands of hair out of her face, deep in thought.

Almost without thinking, he takes out a hair tie he keeps on his wrist for his own small bun, taps her elbow and hands it to her wordlessly. Sasha accepts it for the truce it is with an understanding smile.

When Martin finally speaks, it's softly. Pleasant things, she said. He can do that.

"My grandparents lived in the south of the country, did I ever tell you that? Close to the Antarctic." 

"Aw, were you cold?" She jokes and pats his cheek softly with her free hand "Can't relate. I'm from the Caribbean, baby. Superior in every way."

Martin bats her hand away halfheartedly, takes out his phone and scrolls. When he hands it to her, there's a picture. Snowed mountains behind a big shiny lake and tiny wooden houses over the hill. 

Sasha smiles.

"That's beautiful." 

"Ushuaia. They call it 'the city at the end of the world.'" He grins a bit when she swaps to the next picture. It's a scan of an old photograph of him and his grandparents laying on a daisy field "That's a hill outside of the city. It's a place only locals know of. You have to walk a path in the forest to get to it and there's a little beach under it."

"Oh god, I love those little nooks tourists can't get access to. It's so relaxing." Sasha says. "There was this hidden beach that we fought tooth and nail to keep secret..."

She makes a move towards her trouser pockets, winces and then Martin remembers he never really finished up on cleaning and patching up the wound on her shoulder. 

He tells her so and they fall in a quiet silence while he works.

“Gracias,” She mutters as he presses the gauze on the wound as delicately as he can. It doesn’t look deep but it also doesn’t look normal . Uneven the way a knife wouldn’t cut and if Martin looks at it too long, the edges of his vision fade and glitch a little. “No deberías haberte molestado, Martin.”

Martin scowls and shushes her. They don’t talk Spanish much in the office - both for courtesy to Jon and Tim and because they’ve lived in the UK long enough to be comfortable with English. Especially Martin, who doesn’t speak much Spanish in general, too self conscious of his accent, even when he desperately wants to.

“En serio,” Sasha insists, nudging his calf with the bottom of her shoe. Usually, Martin would nudge back but she’s been fucking stabbed and she won’t say by what until Jon gets here and there are worms outside the Archives and Martin is too furious, too worn out and too scared right now to react in some way that isn’t cleaning wounds and making tea. “Gracias.”

He sighs and finally looks at her, both eyes open and sincere, glasses askew, dark curly hair tied back in a bun. She’s here and she’s hurt but she’s alive. At least right now, they’re alive. She nudges him again encouragingly and he rolls his eyes.

“De nada.” 

Chapter Text

Martin’s five and he’s running through the neighbourhood, short feet straining to keep up behind...someone. Is he alone? No, of course he’s not. Their face is blurry and they aren’t that much taller than him and Martin knows them, knows him . 

Víctor (that’s his name!) stops and turns around. The color of his eyes is confusing but he has a chip on his front teeth. Got that while they were playing hide and seek and he hid underneath a chair. Martin couldn’t stop laughing afterwards.

“Chucho!” He says, big smile and raised eyebrows, “Tenés que robar la pelota para patearla, nene! Ese es el punto del fútbol!”

Martin crosses his arms, pissed.

“I’m not sure how you expect me to catch the ball if you keep sprinting like that, Toto.” He snarks. Far from getting annoyed at the response, Victor smiles wider.

“Hurry up, then, Chucho. We don’t have all day. I want to go home before midnight, if possible.”

Martin opens his mouth to retort a through “Fuck off” then stops. Something’s not right.

“Fuck off” doesn’t feel like enough for what he means, does it? He meant to say something different. Wait, no, he did say something different to Toto that summer afternoon running amongst the tourists besides el Riachuelo. 

But that’s not today. That was years ago. 

“Chucho?” Victor’s face is blurry once again. Did he really have that chip on his front tooth? Or was that Rafael? Is his name even Victor? “What’s wrong?”

“You don’t even speak English.” Martin says, then wakes up.

Turns out, surviving unspeakable trauma at the hands of a worm woman grants Martin paid time off by the Institute’s standards. 

The events with Prentiss fall under an already existing clause . He never knew the bureaucratic hell of academia could have sections dedicated to supernatural workplace hazards. He would have absolutely rioted if it hadn’t — and to be fair, people probably did. 

His two weeks pass uneventfully (even though he can barely sleep in the apartment even though it’s done, she’s dead, but the squirming the incessant squirming and the smell-)

He stops in front of Jon’s closed office door. He’s gone. He’s supposed to be resting a few more weeks than them, his injuries deeper and greater ( Jon’s face bloody, Tim’s harsh breathing, Sasha’s death grip on Martin’s arm while he extracts the worms ). Martin shivers and paces towards his desk faster. No need to dwell on nasty stuff. 

“Martin, good to see you’re okay.” says Sasha from her desk, smiling faintly. She always does that, hands prim and proper on her lap, expression subdued. 

Martin takes her in. Her blond hair combed carefully, her pearl necklace tasteful against her crisp work shirt. Her narrow shoulders. She’s here, thoroughly unharmed, utterly alive. 

“Sasha! Good to see you!” Without thinking, he comes closer to kiss her on the cheek. Sasha steps back with an alarmed look on her face.

“What are you doing?” She asks, voice cutting but polite as ever.

“Sorry. I thought...” He trails off. What was he doing? Sasha doesn’t do that. British people in general don’t do that , as he learned soon enough when arriving to the country.  God, Prentiss has really shaken him, hasn’t she. “I don’t know, sorry. I’m happy you’re alright.”

Sasha smiles again, shoulders relaxing again. Her short, straight bob brushes against her bare ears with the movement. 

“Likewise, Martin.” She says, then falls silent, eyes already zooming back towards her computer. Silence stretches between them, thick and unbearable, but she remains seemingly unaffected.

Martin changes weight between one foot and the other, still awkwardly standing by her desk. He bites his lip. 

“How-how was your break?” he asks, internally wincing at how high pitched and desperate his voice sounds. Is it obvious that he hasn’t had human contact outside of the supermarket’s cashier in weeks? 

“Calm,” she says, impassive, without even removing her eyes from the screen. Martin waits. Ah, that’s it. 

“Did you, uh, enjoy it at least?” He tries, feeling a bit silly for the way he stutters, clumsily, through the phrase. Sasha doesn’t blink but her mouth curves pleasingly.

“Quite.” She says and turns around in her seat towards him. Martin internally cheers. He’s not that useless at social interactions. He can be an extroverted guy. A make-your-coworkers-gush-about-their-break guy. “I know how to have my fun.”

And then she goes back to her computer.

Well. 

Is it mean if he finds her a little dull? As soon as the thought comes, he feels immediately guilty about it. This is Sasha. Sasha, for fuck’s sake, reliable coworker, not that much of a sharer, not known for excitable outbursts or impulsivity. She’s not a daredevil, she’s polite and practical and she’s Martin’s friend. That doesn’t make her dull (or that dull, at least). She’s just a little bit more distant right now. And busy, since she knows she’ll have to pick up after him until the rest come back to the office. Understable. 

And Martin’s still standing by her desk like an idiot. 

“Right.” he mutters “I’ll… go work.”

And so he does. Sasha doesn’t say anything notable the rest of the day. Some digs at the “strange weather”, some echoes of Martin’s jokes about a wormless workplace (he can’t pretend it’s done and accounted for, no matter what the forms he signed recommend). He itches. Maybe it’s Jon and Tim’s absence — the latter always bounced off well with Sasha and the former’s murmurs and recording were such a present background noise in the basement that the silence now is eerie.

All in all, no worm scares, no supernatural weirdness. Just a normal day at the office. 

Which means: he’s trying his best but, as always, his work is slower than his coworkers. This means that, at six on the dot, Sasha has retired with a pleasant wave and Martin carries on typing away at his computer, seeking the thread that may lead to a statement-giver that was in the Institute ten odd years ago. 

Which means: before he realises, night has fallen and he hasn’t yet finished scouring foster care records. He’s close, though, he doesn’t want to leave it for another day. Specially without Jon here. God knows the poor man deserves to come back to a mildly functioning archive, for fuck’s sake, he was eaten by worms. Martin doesn’t dwell much on the fact that he doesn’t have to do much back in his apartment anyway. Whatever. If he’s going to put in these extra hours, Martin deserves the extra incentive of takeaway. There’s a nice place near the institute that sells empanadas. A bit posh, not the best he’s ever had but they’re still, well, empanadas and he’s shit at making them. Not that he has much chance to. 

Yeah, he thinks as he takes his coat and wallet and exits the institute, he deserves some empanadas.

He doesn’t stay at the bistro, full of people drinking after work. It’s not necessary, specially when he can just go back to the Institute and dine surrounded by peace and quiet. Plus, the joyous ambiance will make him order some overpriced beer and if he’s being charged fifteen pounds already for five empanadas, he better make them count and finish the job he has to do instead of sitting alone like a douche nursing a beer and playing on his phone.

The streets are quiet. It’s not a bad day, all in all. He got to do stuff, for the first time in forever. And it’s over, isn’t it? It’s over, they won. They won. He’s going to do some work, eat some good empanadas, then seize the calm of the last train home. He’s safe. It’s good. He’s good.

He arrives at the Institute, nods to nobody when he passes reception. Rosie’s probably already home. And he should be, too. Will, soon. Just… he doesn’t have to go back to his apartment yet. Martin takes the stairs, humming to himself. It's good to stay. It’s not like he’s Jon, he won’t sleep in the Archives, not again. He’s had enough of sleeping in the Archives to last a decade. He has a perfectly usable home that won’t have any worms now that Prentiss is dead. Martin uses it. Martin will use it. 

Maybe he should make himself some mate. Wake himself up. Mate with empanadas, there’s a thought. A bit weird but he has a strong stomach, he can take it. Anyhow, Martin thinks while walking towards the breakroom, he’ll decide that when he gets there.

Except he doesn’t, because the moment he steps into the office, he’s startled by a piercing yell. 

“Jesus!” He screams, bringing his free hand to his chest and eyes twitching towards whatever new nightmare has decided to corner him now, only to find that it’s just Jon, covered from face to toe in tiny bandages, eyes wide and bloody, tense in a way Martin’s only seen him while they were running in mortal danger. 

“Fuck!” Jon curses, bringing his own bandaged hands to his chest. He breathes more easily, although keeps looking around him with consternation. The contrast between his twitchy, manic look and his crisp shirt and impeccable trousers is startling. “Bloody hell, Martin!” 

“Jon?” He still can’t believe his own eyes and robotically goes towards his desk, leaving the empanadas on the table and slumping on his chair, hyperventilating a bit. What happened to the quiet empty office he’s returned to today? What happened to the eerie calm and the unnerving silence? He’s never noticed until now how much Jon moves, how much noise he makes, fingers tapping on wood, leg bouncing. Martin’s noticed how much space he occupies, of course but it’s extremely relieving to see it, see him alive and a noisy hot mess. 

“What are you doing here? You should be home,” Jon asks him. He tries to sound casual about it, Martin can tell, but it’s too flat, too neutral for someone who wears his feelings on his sleeve half the time he’s known him. Nonetheless, Martin finds himself answering.

“I was working on a —” He starts, then catches himself, brain finally catching up to the context of this whole ridiculous scenario “No, no, no, you have no right to ask me that. What are you doing here Jon? You should be home! Resting!”

Caught. He’s caught him, the little shit. Jon purses his lips into a flat, guilty line. The silence that follows is a beat too long.

“I’m perfectly fine, Martin.” He tries, not even convincing himself. The adrenaline seems to dwindle and he wavers a bit, leaning on Tim’s desk. Martin notices how he puts his weight on one leg over the other and it’s with a wince that he remembers the screwdriver, Sasha and Document Storage. That’s his injured leg, then.

“Yeah, no, that’s a lie.” Jon doesn’t even deign him with an answer and rolls his eyes, slowly walking around the office and towards the breakroom. Martin sighs, follows him and grabs his bag of empanadas while he’s at it. They’re probably cold and they have a microwave for a reason. “What are you doing here, Jon? At this hour?”

Jon rummages through the cabinets. He brings out a cup and a plate. Puts it away again. Then he grabs a glass and fills it with water from the tap. He’s stalling. 

“I have… work to do. Things to finish. I’ve wasted enough time dwindling around.” It sounds reasonable, at least reasonable on what Martin would expect from Jon, of all people. The Jon he’s shared mate with at four in the morning several times because he had decided to pull an all nighter at the Archives. But, still, something’s off. And he might be giving himself too much credit but Martin knows workaholic late night Jon and this isn’t quite it. He narrows his eyes. 

“Well, you won’t do them here.” He says, casually opening the microwave door. 

Jon properly bristles , then immediately winces when the movement falls on his injured leg. 

“You’re not the boss of me.”

“Yeah, and you’re not the boss of me , not when you’re on a literal sick leave.” Martin presses the microwave’s buttons. It makes an agonising noise but to Martin’s approval, starts anyway. The old, faithful thing has been his companion for many similar meals and hasn’t died on him yet. Satisfied, he turns around and looks straight at Jon. “Or you’d rather I take this to Elias?”

A beat. Jon stares, shoulders tense, hackles raised. The picture of his anxious limbs and tired demeanor is more concerning than intimidating. Then, when he speaks, his tone is almost...wondering.

“Has anyone ever told you you can be very stubborn?” He asks dryly. There's no judgement in his voice but Martin still feels eerily pricked by it, uncomfortably seen.

“Has anyone ever told you you can be very silly?” Martin fires back but any bite his voice may have fades when he sees Jon is, impossibly, wonderfully, smiling. “At least sit down, Jon, you’re going to keel over any minute.”

 “Fine.“  Jon grumbles but there’s no bite to it and the smile stays on his face when he slumps over the chair. He suddenly looks infinitely more exhausted, the white gauze standing out against his pale skin. The microwave beeps and Martin recovers his empanadas and a couple plates from the cupboard. He serves himself two empanadas and pushes the remaining towards Jon before he collapses over his own chair.

Jon looks at the food with mild disappointment.

“You don’t have to eat if you don’t like it, Jon.” Martin says with an exaggerated,  long suffering sigh. He keeps smiling, just to let him know it’s just for show. Jon looks up nervously between his plate and Martin’s face. 

“No, no. It 's. It’s not that.'' He breathes in deeply and pointedly looks at the wall behind Martin’s shoulder as he softly asks “Not mate?”

“I can… make some?” The fancy packet that was in the archives had perished with the worm invasion but Martin has the daily, cheaper one on his backpack. It’d be a bad decision. It’s past ten, if he drinks mate it’ll wake him up, it’ll wake both of them up. And yet. One glance at Jon’s embarassed, softly hopeful face (and a spare thought to the amount of work he has to do) convinces him. “I’ll make some.”

It’s no trouble to put on the kettle with one hand while eats his empanada. It's good. Worth the ridiculous central London prices. Well, no, that’s an exaggeration, nothing really is. But, eh, close enough. If Jon won’t eat his, well, his loss. 

He sneaks a glance towards Jon. He seems resigned to the situation but he isn’t relaxed, not really. Still twitchy, still looking around the room like he’s scared of something emerging from the shadows. Which isn’t exactly reproachable considering what happened the last time he was here, Martin himself half expects worms to fall from the ceiling, he’s just better at ignoring it. 

Wait. Jon had the care to sneak into the Archives after hours today. Martin caught him by accident. Does that mean...

“Is this your first time on the Archives… since?” He asks while he puts the cup on the table and prepares the mate. Jon freezes. His tone is subdued, less tired, more alert.

“Why do you want to know?” The question comes out carefully. It’s now Martin who evades eye contact, suddenly embarassed.

“Oh. Um. Because of…” The bag of shit that called herself Jane Prentiss “curiosity, I guess?”

“Curiosity.” Jon repeats, eyebrows raised, clearly not buying it. It’s a strange, softer facsimile of the Jon he first met. This time, it’s just endearing and a little bit frustrating.

The kettle whistles. Martin takes the excuse to stall for what it is and goes to fetch it. They stay silent while he prepares the mate and, in under a minute, he’s sipping his first mate absentmindedly. He puts it down, breathes, refills it and hands it to Jon.

“It can be hard being here after everything that happened.” He says. 

Jon takes the cup. Their hands brush. 

“It’s not quite that. Not for me.” Jon says, staring at the table while he takes a slow sip. His brow furrows and his eyes snap to Martin’s. A pause. “Is it like that for you?”

Martin freezes.

(He can barely sleep in the apartment even though it’s done, she’s dead, but the squirming the incessant squirming and the smell-)

( Jon’s face bloody, Tim’s harsh breathing, Sasha’s death grip on Martin’s arm while he extracts the worms— )

(He’s alone, he left them and he’s alone, Gertrude’s corpse stares blankly and everyone’s dead and he’s alone, he’s alone—)

(Sasha’s harsh ticking while they work, Jon and Tim absent, the damp smell sticking to the Archives, he’s unwilling to stay in Document Storage but more unwilling to go back to his empty home in which he almosts dies, he almosts dies they almost die and Jon’s tape recorder isn’t running and Tim’s voice isn’t laughing — )

He bites the inside of his cheek, face carefully neutral, and smiles.

“I’m not the one who got eaten by worms, am I?” Martin says with a bitter laugh. He just ran and left them. That’s all there is to it “Have you ever had an empanada before? It’s cooling, last chance.”

Jon looks down to his plate, still sipping. 

“Never had South American food, to be honest. Maybe a Brazilian roast sometime in uni? But I tend to cook at home.”

“Ah, yeah, me too. I just never properly learned how to make empanadas, I guess? I don’t have a recipe and the ones online can get a bit confusing…”

“Scrolling through someone’s three paragraphs of sentimental poetics about the time they backpacked through Patagonia does that.” Jon comments dryly and passes the cup back to Martin, who’s just taken a bite from his own food and is now choking. “For lord’s sake, chew , Martin.”

“Yeah, maybe.” He smartly answers once he’s got his air back. Then he refills the mate, drinks and points at Jon’s plate “Well?”

“Yes, yes, yes.” He bites into it but it’s too much and plenty of filling falls down his chin. Jon makes a distressed noise and starts waving his arms up and down like a hen learning to fly for the first time. For Martin, it’s equally as adorable and infinitely more funny. 

“What?” He asks, laughing.

Jon points very exaggeratedly to his full mouth with frustration.  Ah, he can’t speak. Esteemed Archivist of the Magnus Institute now resorts to the undignified art of pointing and waving.

“Chew! Chew! Chew!” Martin repeats, delighted at the sweet, sweet revenge and points at Jon’s mouth too, laughing “And tell me how it tastes!”

Jon rolls his eyes and theatrically takes slow chews. His demeanor changes and he’s raising his eyebrows. Martin will absolutely take the liberty to say he knows Jon, at least just a little bit right this moment, and that he knows he’s impressed. “Good?”

Jon swallows with another impressive show of dramatics in the form of a through eye roll

“Yes. Pass me a tissue or something, will you? Bloody hell.” He cleans up the mess on his chin and lap with put on disgust but Martin can see his smile stretching lightly at the corners of his mouth, the way the tension in his shoulders has lightened at least a little bit.

“You’ve got to bite smaller pieces, Jon.” He teases and earns himself another eye roll.

“Your advice is timely as always, Martin.” 

They spend the evening bickering and - after Martin finishes up his work and Jon recovers  - they walk the steps up the Institute together. Maybe Jon’s reluctant promise that he’ll take care is a lie and Martin’s assurance that he won’t worry definitely is but, at least for a couple moments, they can both pretend otherwise.

Martin’s ten and he’s five seconds away from crying over spilt milk in the middle of the supermarket.

He wishes it wasn’t so literal. It’s stupid, it’s so goddamn stupid. The punchline of an awful, too on the nose joke. He shouldn’t even be stressing over it! He should have been paying attention, remembering milk in England doesn’t come in sachets but in bottles and bottles have lids that sometimes aren’t properly closed. 

It’s not like he’s in the middle of a crowded supermarket. It’s seven on a school night, the aisles are deserted. There’s absolutely no one to look at him and laugh or disapprove, there’s no one here he’s bothering. He’s alone. He could simply put it back, grab a new one and walk away. The cashiers won’t care. He’s alone.

No one’s watching. He’s alone. The thought finally makes him break on a choked sob. This is so stupid. Who the hell is he expecting to be here with him? Mum’s at home resting, that’s the whole reason he’s here. His dad’s gone. His family and friends… away. They’re away. They won’t be here. It’s time Martin catches up to reality and does what he has to do.

He has to do what he has to do. For his mom, who’s making enough sacrifices already. The move took a bigger toll on their finances than they were expecting and there’s only so long they can crash on a distant cousin’s house without being a bother.  Martin has to get himself on check and buy the groceries. He takes a couple shallow breaths. Right. 

Right. Milk again. Then eggs. A couple onions. No spices. A couple apples. Biscuits. Noodles. No tomatoes, cream will do.  

He walks towards the milk aisle. Is he forgetting something? Servilletas. Lavandina. Cleaning products. Martin leaves the bad milk, grabs a new bottle and looks around. Where are the cleaning products? It feels like he’s been in here for ten minutes, toured the whole place and never saw that specific aisle. This is not a small place, it can’t just not have cleaning products. He starts walking towards the biscuit aisle, where he thinks he hears someone. 

He’s right. It’s a white man, mid forties, staring wistfully at a tin of butter cookies. Huh. Martin has never seen that kind of tin with actual cookies before. He approaches him but the man doesn’t look up or make any sign that he notices him. 

Martin balances from one foot to the other. Okay. Up to him, then.

“Hello!”

The man’s eyes flit to him and he raises his eyebrows before looking back to the tin.

“Good evening.”

“Sorry to bother you. I was looking for the…” he doesn’t know and flails for the right word. Servilletas. Lavandina. C’mon, Martin, you know english. Or, well, at least he can read it well. Mum was always proud of him for it and his classmates back home made it a point of teasing “I think it’s to clean things.”

The man furrows his brow. 

“I’ve got no clue what you might mean, lad.” He says, gruffly yet not unkind. Just perplexed.

Lavandina, c’mon, Martín, what the hell is the word for lavandina?

“It’s a bottle, like a drinking bottle but yellow. S-Smells a bit bad?”

“Domestos?” The man inquiries. But no, that’s not it. God, Martin’s being difficult, isn’t he? 

“It’s alright! Sorry for the bother, sir!”

The man nods quietly and goes back to staring at the tin. Martin hates to think it but people feel colder, up here. Stiffer. They don't greet each other with kisses, they glare at him if he expresses too much emotion, say he's too loud and disrespectful. But it's okay, it's not their fault. It's his, he needs to be better. He needs to learn. Martin sighs and, before embarking on his quest once again, quietly grabs some custard creams from the shelf. Those are nice. Custard’s nice.

Martin was an absolute fool to believe Jon and Tim coming back from their weeks off would lessen the awkwardness at the office. If anything, their arrival has thickened the atmosphere into a flinching tension everyone pretends doesn’t exist. 

It puts him on edge. 

They aren’t okay , specially Jon, more obsessed by the day with going into the tunnels — yes he’s heard the goddamn tape, Jon — and ignoring any medical advice over his wounds, Martin’s pointed chiming that he should start therapy or Tim’s lighthearted jokes. 

Only Sasha seems fine. She doesn’t stay long after hours anymore and - against Martin’s hopeful predictions - Tim’s company hasn’t livened her up, not the way it used to. If anything, she’s colder, actively avoiding him. Well, all of them. She’s setting some well-needed boundaries over privacy, she implies, specially after the experience with Prentiss. She’s tired and busy and needs her space. That’s understandable. Martin understands. 

So he hangs with Tim. It’s not like they’re chatting about life or their - their feelings  all day. This is a workplace, not a sleepover.  But Martin tries, although he knows he isn’t Sasha. He tries to be there for Tim and be there for Sasha and be there for Jon because if everyone just would sit down and talk , honestly, things wouldn’t look so ridiculously complicated. 

Martin’s “trying” currently involves making a cup of tea for Jon. He’s never really done that before — not because of any specific grudge but because he genuinely never thought about it, their shared early mornings consisted of passing mate back and forth and their workdays were tentative talk and sweeping through decades of old paper. 

He doesn’t know how Jon takes his tea — he’d have asked, if the man hadn’t been recording statements in his locked office since before Martin came in. He guesses it’s a matter of guessing and failing. He makes it strong and sweet with a dash of milk, like his own, and walks with both cups towards the office, making sure he positions his own safely on his desk before gently opening Jon’s door.

“Are you too busy?” He asks softly, just in case he’s recording, peeping his face through. He’s answered by a hurried scuttering and a curse after Jon hits his knee on something.

“Come on in, Martin,” He says, still wincing. He looks, impossibly, more tired. The bandages are off but - and Martin hates himself for noticing this - his wrists are thinner. He looks worried but also, somehow, if this isn’t Martin’s stupid imagination projecting onto the poor man, somehow happy to see him. “I was meaning to ask, how were you finding your new apartment?”

Martin blinks, taken aback by the question. Has someone asked him this before? Who? Sasha is on her own thing, nodding politely when he mentioned his move, and Tim was more concentrated on the bottom of his glass when he told him at the pub. His mother hadn’t even picked up her phone — and he wasn’t so desperate to share the news with Susan The New Nurse, even in the improbable event she understood the significance of his relief.

Jon’s looking at him expectantly, eyes shuffling around the room in an awkward manner Martin used to think meant disdain. Jon’s looking at him like he said something both very important and not that special. And then, Martin remembers with a halt, this is a question normal adults ask each other all the time.

“It’s good!” He answers a couple moments too late, still a bit startled. “It’s an older building, nothing fancy, but it has a certain charm. And, uh, a gas stove. It’s good, thanks for asking.”

Jon nods.

“That’s... good.” He states, a bit dazed, glasses sliding off his nose and hair slowly falling out of the pencil it was trapped in. Martin can’t help but smile at the sight. Tired, worn and tense and he’s still Jon - awkward, prickly and caring - through and through

“Yes, it is!” He chirps fondly then suddenly remembers the whole motive of his visit “Uh- I brought you tea!”

It’s now Jon’s turn to be taken aback.

“Oh.”

“I didn’t know how you took it so I just guessed but feel free to tell me for next time…” Martin rushes to say but Jon’s shuffling his papers and moving his head from side to side quite emphatically.

“Oh, no, no, I’m sure it’s fine” He shuffles his papers carefully keeping the the files piled on his desk in a tiny tower from crashing down. Then, dryly, he adds “Of course you make tea. Shall I expect hot chocolate next winter?”

Martin, in the process of straightening a tower of files and balancing a teacup, halts to a stop.

“I — what?” He asks. Where did that come from? 

Jon taps his fingers on his desk, suddenly more nervous. 

“Uh, your field seems to be hot beverages. With the mate and now the tea and all…” He trails off. Martin still doesn’t understand .

“I guess?”

“Uh, it was just a… “ Jon shakes his head “Nothing. You can leave the cup here, Martin, thank you.”

Martin does as he’s told, still taking special care to not spill any liquid on the documents. He probably shouldn’t even be doing this, tea on the cluttered desk is a disaster waiting to happen, but Jon hasn’t come out of his office all morning and these files have survived worse things. If Elias didn’t care about the statements when Jane was filling the Archives with gross worms, he won’t care about tea stains. Or maybe he would. In Martin’s experience, managers care more about company property than people and tend to be quite against common sense. 

He doesn’t immediately go, though, just waits for Jon to sit down back again and take a sip so he can get some kind of verdict for next time round. Jon rests on the chair, shuffles some documents and stares at them, without even glancing at the tea. He takes a pen and writes on the margins, searches through a database on his laptop and fetches a box of highlighters from a shelf.  All while Martin’s still there, waiting for him to drink his goddamn tea. 

He clears his throat and Jon’s head snaps towards him, eyebrows furrowed.

“Why are you still here, Martin?”

“Is the tea okay?”

“Yes” Jon says, not sparing it a glance. Martin points at the full cup, still steaming.

“You haven’t even tried it!” He accuses, feeling more frustrated by the second. It’d take Jon only five seconds off the statements, clear the doubt and leave them both free to go on with their lives. “Will you drink your tea?”

“I will!” Jon retorts, exasperated. “I’ll remember to do it later.”

Just like he remembers to go on his lunch break, Martin thinks with no little amount of spite. 

“You can go back to work now,” Jon says in a clear dismissal. Martin hums and turns to leave. The man’s infuriatingly stubborn. He’d feel so much better if he’d just took his goddamn meals and drank his tea. It won’t solve all their problems but at least Martin won’t be worried Jon will keel over any minute. He stops on the doorway and turns back around.

“I was planning to head out to lunch later...” He says, trying to word it as casually as he can. Jon doesn’t let him finish, his eyebrows drawing together in a strange expression.

“Where are you going?” He asks, words cutting, stilted. It leaves room to say nothing but the truth. 

“Just the sandwich shop.” Martin answers then tries again. “As I was saying…”

“Where?” interjects Jon again. Martin rolls his eyes and doesn’t try to hide it. 

“The one on the next street.” 

“Are you meeting up with someone?” Jon asks and okay , what’s that about? Martin likes to think he’s being quite patient with the man but he’s not letting him get a word in. 

“What? No!” He says, louder than he’d intended “Jon! Do you want me to bring you something back or not?”

Jon stares, looking as if he’s solving a particularly complicated riddle. He’s such a smart man and Martin admires him, he does, but he’s also absolutely infuriating. Why the interrogation over Martin’s eating habits? What is he trying to achieve? Is this part of the suspicion he’s started to look at them with lately? Has he found out Martin’s a wretched, awful liar and is trying to catch him off guard? Does he know? What does Jon know? What does Jon want?

“Can I come with?” Jon asks.

Martin blinks, surprised, anxious thoughts fading into a buzzing background. Jon, suddenly standing, looks him straight in the eye. It’s unnerving and - yet - somehow comforting. Martin’s not used to being regarded with such nervous, determined attention. He’s usually on the other side, hitting against a blank, uncaring wall.

“Alright?” He squeaks disbelievingly, then shakes himself into a more dignified response. If this is happening, then Martin won’t fight it. “Sure, I don’t mind having some company.”

And so, they headed out to lunch.

They run out of mate five months in. 

Martin's been careful with it - his mother is too sick and busy to go look for leaves that are exported from the bottom of the world and he’s far too little to go past the supermarket he knows and the blocks between his house and the school. So he’s been careful, so goddamn careful, drinking it only on special occasions. It was, after all, up to him. His mother doesn’t like it. Running out of mate leaves is his responsibility and his alone. 

There’s just a little bit left. Enough for one more. It’s Saturday, he guesses it’s a good day as any. Should he save it for his birthday? Or should he drink it now and ask his mother to get it for his birthday? If there’s even a goddamn packet of mate leaves in the city. It would be irresponsible spending, wouldn’t it? His mom already stresses enough over the doctor visits and the food budget. He doesn’t want to stress her more just because he feels like being selfish.

No, better to decide what to do with what he has left. And.. think of the future in the future. He’s been wasteful enough about it, drinking it so fast, even if he tried to make it last. He’s got no self restraint so this is solely Martin’s responsibility.

He stares at the wooden cup, the straw and the almost empty mate packet he brought in his suitcase. Should he put the kettle on? What if he gets out the water too late? What if he accidentally dumps the leaves on the floor? He’ll ruin his last mate ever, won’t he?

Okay, Martin, breathe. Breathe. 

He puts the kettle on. Everything good ends soon enough, doesn’t it? No hay mal que por bien no venga. Nothing is infinite and this won’t be his last mate ever . He’ll get a job when he grows up and can help out his mom and they’ll have enough to buy some, even if it’s to save for special occasions. 

He slowly pours the leaves on the cups, muttering the steps to himself, sealing it in his memory. It wouldn’t do to go through all the hassle of growing up, getting a job and buying mate just so old Martin forgets how to make this. Forgets how Abuela Susana makes it. Her food was tasteless but her mate and sweets were good. He misses her tight hugs. He misses his Abuelo Gaston’s smell of cologne, smoke and wood. He wishes he’d been old enough to be in his workshop. 

“Bueno,” he says “Ahora hay que esperar.”

He waits by the kettle, talking to himself in Spanish. He feels a bit silly but it’s not like there’s a lot of people around to speak it with — his mother doesn’t anymore. His mother’s cousin speaks only English and so does his wife. He forgets sometimes and trails on in an explanation, saying a word in Spanish to them while he asks for the meaning in English. He only receives blank stares and apologetic pats and he keeps the loop inside his head until he remembers the stupid word he forgot.

The kettle lets out a slight steam and he rushes towards it. 

“Primer hervor nomás,” he proclaims smugly. Victory. It didn’t boil all the way. He takes a little rag and puts it on the table. He doesn’t want to leave a mark on the glass. It’s very nice and he doesn’t want to be the reason they have to move out before they’re ready because he was too stupid to take care of the furniture.

The mate doesn’t taste like heaven. It doesn’t taste like the afternoons playing at his neighbours or the mornings after sleeping over at his grandparents. It doesn’t taste like that Sunday his parents kissed and spinned jokingly besides the kitchen’s table while Martin munched on the medialunas they’d bought. It tastes just like mate.

He takes the last sips with dread, alone. He’s supposed to pass the cup to someone else, not refill it for himself. He's not supposed to drink mate alone. 

The next time Martin goes to the supermarket, he grabs a box of Yorkshire tea. He’s had tea before. Of course he’s had. He’s had tea at home, tea at his grandma’s, tea when he was sick with milk, lemon and honey. They have a jar of tea, stashed amongst onion flavoured crisps in the cousin’s pantry. 

This tea is new, is important, and is Martin’s. He bought it with the change his mom’s cousin gave him for washing his car - which is to say it wasn’t really that fancy. He doesn’t open it until Saturday and lets the kettle boil past the first inklings of steam, lets the bag seat, lets himself take an experimental sip. 

Tea is... different. Absolutely different. But it has to be good enough. There’s so many types, so many prices, so many different ways to brew and prepare it. If he can’t figure it out now, he’s sure old Martin will manage to make it work. Tea is a mature thing, perfect for the man who’ll grow up and help his mother and make them both thrive. Tea is a British thing. Tea is supposed to be shared. Tea is good enough.

Martin’s twenty nine years old and he’s a man raised in England. Therefore, it’s safe to infer he can hold his drink. Except, every single time he follows Tim into the pub, Martin’s confronted with reality: half a beer and he is already fit for a nap. 

Tonight, Wednesday evening drinks after a specially hard day at work, is no exception. 

“I just don’t understand,” Tim says, dipping a chip into his cocktail before Martin’s disgusted eyes. '’She’s never acted like this before, not with me…”

Martin blinks drowsily. Ah, Sasha. He’s talking about how distant Sasha is again. That’s been a recurrent topic of conversation on their weekly outings lately. That, or Jon’s behaviour but the latter heats up their back and forth in a way that makes them deeply uncomfortable. Nonetheless, Tim comes back to the topic again and again, an obsessive streak in his voice that Martin’s only heard him before, when he was ranting about Robert Smirke’s architecture or whatever. 

“She’s probably tired. And in the honeymoon period, new boyfriend and all…” Martin excuses, following his usual script in this situation. Tim doesn’t want advice, not really, and Martin’s too drowsy by the hellish day and his half a pint to give it. Which, as always, weirds him out. He’s a big guy, shouldn’t he have better alcohol tolerance than this? How is he already sleepy?

“But I don’t get it!” Tim complains, taking a swing of his drink with frustration. The liquid goes down the wrong pipe and he chokes, instantly breaking into frantic coughs. Martin sighs and scoots towards Tim’s side of the booth to pat him on the back until it’s over.

“Thank you.” Tim croaks once he can breathe again. “What the fuck was I talking about…?”

“Sasha, for a change” Martin snarks, smiling. Tim smiles and waves him off so he moves back to his seat.

“Wow, okay, Mr. Sarcasm.”

Martin laughs and tampers down the very childish impulse of sticking his tongue out. Tim’s expression smooths from light amusement to genuine concern and taps his fingers against his glass.

“Am I really being so repetitive?” He asks, a faint wisp of desperation in his voice.

Martin sighs, looks into his glass and wishes fervently he could just, vanish, run off this really uncomfortable conversation. But that isn’t his reality, is it? 

“I mean,” He starts carefully “If you could just sit down and talk…”

Tim waves him off again but this time it’s not half as kind, just tired and dismissive in a way that hurts, only a little bit. 

“Not again, Martin,” He says and Martin doesn’t push it. He just raises his eyebrows and stays silent. 

The fact that Martin has to pretend that everything is alright, that they didn’t almost die — it’s driving him crazy. The office is like always, superficially. A good part of the day is spent filing statements, chasing down stories that record perfectly well on the computer and rounding up statement givers. But Martin can see the way Jon’s slowly starting to isolate more and more, the way he comes out to lunch with him but zones off sometimes, jolting into reality with a startling panic. Martin can see how Tim’s blatantly ignoring the stench in the corner of the office, the long breaks Sasha takes at lunchtime,  the way he still can't bring himself to walk into Document Storage alone. Something’s off, something’s off and Martin doesn’t understand why aren’t they talking about it .

“Martin?” Tim calls, drawing him out of his thoughts. He’s got a bitter taste in his mouth. God, Martin hates beer. He’s going to ask for coffee next time or something. Or maybe try whatever cocktail Tim ordered. His alcohol tolerance won’t take it but, well, it’ll probably taste better. “Listen, I know you’re trying to help...”

Martin snorts humorlessly. He’s getting a bit sick of the condescending tone.

“Why don’t you take my advice, then?” He asks. Tim groans and buries his face in his hands.

“Because it’s not that easy! You don’t understand! ” Tim exclaims, a muffled mumbling and Martin lowers his hackles at the sight. This is Tim. This is his friend. The least Martin can do is be kinder to him.  

“Try me, then.” He prods, voice soft. Tim raises his head and pats the table once, two, three times, the way he usually does when he’s turning a very difficult problem on his head. 

“It’s not… that easy.” Tim starts and Martin can’t tell if the glossy quality on his eyes is because of frustrated tears or alcohol “I just… Sasha’s coping so well.  She’s moved on from the shit, from us. She’s out there, having a life, dating or whatever. Better off without us, immune to everything that happened…” He laughs, dry and self deprecating. “And look at me, I’m a mess . Look at Jon. Look at you !”

Martin jumps defensively.

“What the hell did I do?” He protests. He hasn’t made his bad coping mechanisms anyone else’s bullshit. He’s been nice and polite and helpful and...

“Quite a lot, mate!” Tim retorts, punctuating the words with sharp movements. “You’re blubbering about, just offering tea to everyone, wringing your hands!”

“What’s wrong with that?” 

Tim grimaces. 

“It’s… desperate.” He admits. Martin blinks, taken aback. 

“Wow, Tim. Thank you very much for your honesty.” He says, pushing his beer away. He doesn’t feel like drinking anymore. “That’s very flattering. It’s really nice to know your opinion of me.”

Tim shakes his head frantically and reaches around the table to touch Martin’s hand, caressing it sloppily. 

“No, no, no. You don’t understand,” He stops, breathes in and out, composes himself into wording it right “I just— you’re uncomfortable. We're all uncomfortable. And you want to make it better because you want us to be comfortable or whatever but you…” Tim smiles, apologetic, “overcompensate a bit.”

Martin grimaces. Ouch. He’s… probably not wrong but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt a bit. Is he really that pathetic, running around making everyone feel even worse? He’s just trying to help, is that so bad? Is that too much?

Tim caresses his hand again, still uncomfortably bent over the table. He looks a bit guilty. Good. But… still. Martin shouldn’t leave him hanging, the unspoken apology was clear enough. He blinks and, tiredly, he touches back.

“Alright.” He sighs. “You’ve had better social skills and delicacy than this, Stoker, but I won’t make you responsible for it.”

Tim smiles, clearly relieved, and slumps back to his seat, pushing his cocktail glass away playfully. 

“Good. Make my mojito responsible!” He jokes, pointing at the alleged culprit. “I’m sick of this shite.”

Martin relaxes into his seat as well, the storm’s passed. It’s passed. That’s it. They’re okay. They’ll be okay. 

“Why did you order that, by the way?” He asks. 

“I haven’t the faintest idea. Just felt like it, I suppose. Almost ordered a beer on top of it, though. Should have done that, stuck to the usual, even if it was combined with this bomb.” Tim pulls a face and Martin laughs, imagining the consequences of that .

“Thank goodness you didn’t.”

“Right!?” He scoots his face towards the drink and takes a sip at the straw, only to instantly stop to pull a face again“Eugh.”

“Stop drinking it!” 

“But I’m thirsty!” Tim protests “And I don’t want to drink water!”

Martin’s brain lightens up and, filled with an excitement and giddiness that has nothing to do with alcohol, he takes his back from between his legs and starts to rummage through it. With a triumphant  aha!, he takes out his empty metal thermos and deposits it on the table. Tim inspects his sudden burst of eagerness, baffled. 

“Why do you carry a thermos around?” He asks, amused as Martin finally fishes from his bag the mate, bombilla and cup. He pulls the zipper, puts his bag down and smiles at Tim with happy anticipation.

“It’s cheaper than ordering tea and coffee every time I go out.” He answers automatically and then he realises that he basically just sprung the whole thing onto Tim without warning and his resolve falters. Well then, never too late to ask. “Would...would you like some mate?”

Tim smiles. 

“Sure, Marto. I guess I have…”  He stops when Martin jumps from his seat, grabbing the termos and walking out of the booth “Where are you going?”

“To fetch hot water from the bar.”

“Are you telling me you don’t carry around a portable kettle?” Tim jokes and Martin rolls his eyes but doesn’t dignify it with an answer. 

Their drinks may be terrible and their work life may be crumbling into anxious shambles but - right now - Martin’s not alone with his own nightmares and he can share something good with his friend. 

Martin’s eleven and can tell his mother doesn’t like that she’s walking him to school.

On any other day, he’d agree. He can do this on his own, he doesn’t need a chaperone. Although it’d be nice to arrive at the door and say “that was my mamá”, where all his classmates can see, where the teacher can hear. To prove that he’s not lying, to prove he’s there and he has a mom, just like everyone else. But this is not a normal day, his mom isn’t here to drop him off and kiss his cheek soundly like she did back home. 

His mom’s here because the teacher asked to and everyone knows that if Ms Stilton calls your parents it’s because you’ve done something bad. And, no matter how much Martin wrecks his head and how many times his mother asks, he doesn’t know what. He’s done his homework, he’s left his classmates alone — yes, maybe he’s insisted a few times that he can play hide and seek too when they denied him or gave Jenny his water bottle after she lost hers instead of helping her look. But, apart from that, he hasn’t been that annoying. And his classmates seem to like him just fine, even if they don’t come over to each other’s houses or go play at the arcade. Martin likes them just fine.

He’s telling all of this to his mom, to soothe her. She’s tired after a long night shift she pulled to cover the impromptu school visit and wrings her hands anxiously every five seconds. She alternates between taking his hand and squeezing it affectionately and letting it go to scratch her own. So Martin talks, trying to make that tense slope of her back ease and the furrow between her brows dissapear. 

Maybe Ms Stilton just wants to congratulate her, maybe she just wants to catch her up to the things his mamá haven’t been able to attend — nothing big, he insists, just school plays and boring sport matches that were suddenly derailed when a player hit the ball a little to heart and broke a school’s window. That was a bit big but it has nothing to do with Martin.

The howling roar of a motorbike interrupts them and Martin loses track of whatever he was saying. He’s a bit nervous and it’s stupid and it makes no sense but he is so the pause is welcome. 

His mother only stays quiet.

They cross. They’re closer to the school now but it’s early enough that their pace doesn’t need to quicken. 

“Mamá,” he calls.

“Yes?” she says absentmindedly. Her bun is falling apart and some strands are falling over her sweaty forehead. She blows them away. 

“Want me to tell you about the time the boy broke the window?” His mother seems to shake himself off it, only a bit, and her eyes flit to him before clouding again, deep in thought. 

“Not now, Martin,” She calls, taking his hand again. He huffs a bit and repositions his backpack. “You’re being a bit too loud, we’re on the street and I’m trying to think.”

Martin nods, even though he knows she can’t see it. That’s okay. She’s right, he’s been told off a few times at school for being too… rambunctious. Intense. It’s strange because he’s always been told, back home, he was quite quiet in comparison to his classmates. But maybe he’s been too much lately. He’s felt himself wind up, almost spitting whatever acid joke his grandfather would have said to an inappropriate audience. His mom has been saying, lately, that now he’s growing up he’ll need to learn some more manners. That they're important and will be useful to do stuff like befriend other adults or get a job.

They arrive at the door of the school in silence. There’s no kids yet - it’s too early - to show off his mamá to. There’s nobody but the custodian and then just Martin, sitting on the stairs as his mother kisses him on the forehead and is led into the building.

Martin doesn’t see his mom again until after supper. She calls him while he’s watching Doctor Who reruns. It's a funny show and just a little bit weird — he likes the guy and, even though their television’s signal is a little fizzy, he can follow the plot somehow decently. He repeats what they say, sometimes, and half lands the accent with a clumsy pronunciation and no little amusement. There’s no way there exist real people who speak like this.  

When his mom calls him, he’s half following Sarah Jane’s thorough scolding of the Doctor and half thinking about how funny it’d be if his classmates rounded their vowels like that. She doesn’t say a word until he’s sitting down at the table and staring expectantly.

She looks tired, there are bags under her eyes and she’s getting thinner by the day. She’s looked thinner and thinner since they moved out of her cousin’s. It’s okay, they didn’t have much love shared and, now that it’s the two of them, Martin can make sure he’s the one cleaning the dishes and not her. 

“Ms Stilton says you’ve got trouble… adapting.” Her mother says, cutting straight to the point. Oh. So that’s what the reunion was about. But that can’t… that can’t be right. 

“Adapting?” he asks. His mother doesn’t seem to appreciate his confusion.

“She’s spoken to your past teachers, boy, and they can’t sense any improvement,” She spits out. She looks deeply embarassed, like the time he got mud all over his clothes on a neighbour’s birthday back home because he’d played football with the neighbour and fell. It’s the same disappointed grimace, the same twitch on her elegant nose, unlike Martin’s hooked one. “Your grammar is good but you are either too quiet and zoned off or participate in a manner that doesn’t contribute to the class. Reading out loud needs work, too, you’re not pronouncing very well.”

“Oh.”

“What do you have to say for yourself?”

Martin scrunches his nose, flooded with shame, flooded with a fuzz in his veins and before he can rein it down, before he can stop and think and do what’s best for his mum, because he’s a terrible son, he’s already speaking.

“Well, where am I supposed to learn it from?” It’s unfair. It’s unfair and ridiculous and stupid that Ms Stilton judges him behind just because she doesn’t think what he says is useful. He did say important things in class, like when Allan was talking about penguins and Martin explained there were some at the south and his uncle had showed him pictures, like when he said that Eloise, the french kid that was here for a couple months, said “amie” almost the way he said “amigo” and asked the teacher what was that about. That’s participating! That’s interesting! “I’m not doing anything wrong!”

His mother tenses and tenses and tenses and she’s so tired and distant when she coldly says

“You’re not trying ” 

“I am!” Martin snarls because how dare she , how dare them, of course he is, he’s filling his homework every day and going to PE and washing the dishes and sweeping the floors and getting the groceries and tomorrow he was planning on checking out a poetry book because he heard the school’s custodian say poetry had new words, fancy words. This is unfair, this is stupid and, boiling with rage, to underline his point, Martin kicks the foot of the table.

“Martin!” The effect is instant, his mother is coiling like a serpent about to attack and hissing, voice loud, cold and clear through the murmur of the telly next room.  “You’re being a selfish brat and I’m too spent to deal with your tantrums.”

Martin deflates and, suddenly, all the rage is gone and is replaced with a cold, weighed shame. He’s the stupid one, not the teacher or his mom. He’s the one kicking and screaming after his mother barely slept to go to his school and bring food to the table.

“I’m sorry,” He says, meaning it. “I’m sorry, mamá.”

His mom purses her lips in a thin line. 

She did that last week, too, when he started babbling in Spanish about a story his Abuelo Gastón told him once. He’s tried writing them down but he always forgets. And overseas phone calls are too expensive, he can’t exactly call him to ask. They barely speak with his grandparents as it is, every once in a while at most. They said to give him their new landline, next time, but his mother strictly told him to only call them on public phones. Martin is saving for a call and he thinks he’ll reach his goal soon, only a few pounds away.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats. 

She doesn’t answer right away, passing her hand across her face. When she lifts it, her eyes seem far away.  

“We’ll work on that. On top of work and hospital visits, because it seems like I’ll never get a rest, will I?” She doesn’t expect a response but Martin makes himself smaller anyway. He’s so selfish, his mom has too much to do, more important things than doing homework with him or saving money for an overpriced phone call to the other side of the world. “You can do it, Martin, I know you can. You’re English after all.”

The words ring on his ears oddly. Is he? What makes him so? He doesn’t speak like the people on the telly. But, for that matter, neither do his classmates. His mom’s pronunciation maybe comes closer. His dad used to joke about it, said speaking English like her felt like there was a potato stuck in his mouth. The picture is accurate. But Martin… he’s picking stuff up from the telly and classmates, as his teachers said he would when he started school. Does that make him English? Does it even matter, if he can make an effort and make his mom happy?

So he shuffles the thoughts and the confusion out of his head and says, with the best English he can muster.

“I’ll work on it, mamá,” Martin smiles, happy with the result. 

His mom nods silently and gets up, leaving Martin alone on the table, fully resolved to work harder and do better, no matter what it takes.

It’s after all, the least he could do.

Martin stops at the door of Jon’s office, hand suspended above the door without knocking. It’s midday and he was about to go through the - now almost habitual - motions of urging him to come to lunch with him and fill his stomach with something. 

But. Well, Jon had confronted him yesterday, hadn’t he? He had yelled at his face, scared out of his wits, trembling all over, because he was sure Martin was hiding he was a murderer . He doesn’t know the protocol after something like that. Yeah, Martin knew Jon was paranoid and that he probably was somehow a suspect and it’s not like he thought the probing questions during lunch were because Jon was somehow now interested in what jigsaws Martin did in his spare time but, well, at least he had the surety that for whatever reason, Jon was at least going along and eating. 

What, now? He can’t exactly knock on the door and demand him to come to lunch with him. Not after Martin confessed to lying for so long - even though it wasn’t murder, even though Jon sagged into the chair with relief after hearing it, even though they stayed quiet and Martin felt the certainty that, whatever the hell was of their lives now, at least neither of them would be alone.

He shakes himself off it and knocks on the door, maybe harder than needed. For fuck’s sake, idiot, being the least worse news compared to cold blood murder and, and, and literal eldritch worm women hunting them down  doesn’t mean Jon and him are now in some — some friendship bracelets basis. 

“Come in.” says the aforementioned definitely-not-trauma-bonding-buddy from inside. Martin does. The man is hunched over a bunch of statements but, at least, there’s no tape recorder in sight. Small victories, etc, etc.  

No one says anything. 

He stubbornly glances around the room, like it’s not the same nonsensical mess than six months ago, now with more boxes and a whiteboard. He won’t look at him but Martin gets the impression Jon’s doing the same right now. God, fuck it. Martin won’t force him to bear his company but he will make him get some food. He coughs slightly.

“Hi, Jon,” he says softly “I’m heading out for lunch and I was wondering if you wanted me to bring something back for you?”

Silence again. Martin looks at him and he’s staring at the table, hard, lips glued in a thin line. Well, that’s answer enough —-

“I’ll come with you.” Jon says more loudly than necessary, palms hitting the table. Then, before Martin can process what the fuck is happening, the man’s grabbing his jacket, walking across the room in long strides and crossing through the door Martin is still holding open.

For all his determination earlier, Jon doesn’t say anything during the walk from the Institute to the small café where they’ve been taking their lunches lately. Martin alternates between humoring his silence and commenting about inane subjects while they cross the street, stand in the line and wait for their food.

They’re sitting now at the usual table, away from any windows and tucked into the back of the café, biting into their respective sandwiches and Martin really needs Jon to say something because there’s only so much he can comment on the weather. His life isn’t that interesting. 

Also because, due to Jon’s grim expression, he’s started to fear he’s going to be told he’ll get fired. Well, no use dwelling on that. Happy thoughts. 

Martin bites into his sandwich again and doesn’t look at Jon. He’s not going to talk first, not this time. He’s stubborn, he’s… what was the expression his Tia Mariana used when he was a kid? Cabeza dura? 

God. This cafe’s playlist is a little bit depressing, isn’t it?

“Martin.” Jon says, cutting through his thoughts and making him look. His sandwich is half-eaten and his volume is a little too high again but, well, at least he’s talking.

“Yes?”

Jon digs inside of his jacket and takes out something with a blank expression.

“I, uh, I realised I never gave this back to you.” He says and puts the small pack of Spanish cards on the table between them. Martin recognises it - it’s the deck he bought while he was living in the Archives, bored out of his mind, bearing the naive hope he’d get to teach Sasha, Jon and Tim how to play truco. That was before Prentiss burst in, before Jon was paranoid out of his mind, before Tim snapped at every kind word like a personal offense, before Sasha—

 “I forgot I bought that...” He mutters softly, leaning over to inspect it but somehow miffed to touch it. It looks good as new, yet badly closed. Jon must have gone through it.

“You left it behind in the Archives.” 

“And you kept it because…?” Martin asks. Jon looks away bashfully. “Ah. Yeah. Alright.”

They fall in silence.

“How does a pack of cards make me a murderer, though?” He can’t help to ask, somehow feeling they’re in a good enough place to talk  about this. If Martin’s question qualifies as more teasing than earnest, well, Jon has it coming. He went through his things and kept a pack of cards because he decided it was invaluable proof or blah. 

“ Shut up , Martin.” Jon hisses and he sounds resigned but, by the relaxed way he’s leaning on the table, he’s not terribly offended. Martin would take the small bet that he’s even amused .

He holds up his arms innocently.

“I’m asking honestly, here!” He says, even though he’s clearly not. His shit eating grin is probably proof enough. Jon smiles back, a tiny guarded thing, then his face goes blank again.

“Do you, uh, know card tricks?” He asks.

Martin blinks, taking a moment to absorb the change of subject.

“Not really?” He answers. No one ever taught him. 

Jon stands straighter.

“I do.” He says, poking his sandwich with his index finger “I had a phase in my early teens in which I had an interest in illusionism.”

“You wanted to be a magician.” Martin translates for the both of them.

Jon glares but doesn’t dignify an answer.

“Back to my earlier point,“ He says dryly, spelling out each word slowly, “I know card tricks.” 

Then he says nothing and looks down at the pack of cards between them. He’s furrowing his brow and -  a year ago - Martin would have thought he was angry but, somehow, Martin gets the feeling it’s because he wants something and he’s embarassed to say what.

“Jon, do you want…?” He starts asking but realised his voice is way too high and his smile too big. No, that won’t do. He interrupts himself and tries to make himself as small as possible. “I’d like to see it, I’m curious now. Would you like to show me?”

Jon’s eyes brighten, he squares his shoulders and - expression schooled into something serious and solemn - takes the pack of cards like a man on a mission.

“There are tricks that play with the illusion of the spectator. It’s not about tricking them, though, more like redirecting their attention,“  He says, and launches into a lengthy explanation, hands gesticulating wildly. Every time he’s going to exemplify with a trick, he looks to Martin across him, who nods with all encouragement he can muster and steadfastly ignores the pang of fondness in his chest Jon’s expression causes. 

They keep up this rapport for half an hour, Martin asking questions between bites and Jon eagerly providing answers and showing off his card tricks, half-touched sandwich forgotten at his side. A couple times there’s a loud noise in the café and Jon startles and loses his train of thought. The third time this happens, he’s in the middle of mixing and Jon jumps so harshly the whole maze flies off his hands and get everywhere; off the table, up on his hair, on a waitress’s tray and most memorably - what made Jon’s panic disappear in favor of roaring, surprisingly earnest laughter - into Martin’s mouth.

Chapter Text

Martin’s mother has a lot on her plate.

He knows this. He’s aware there’s a lot about their finances he doesn’t know. That they’re barely getting on their feet —the move overseas has been more expensive and complicated than his mom predicted. That the English medical system isn’t in reality all his mamá idealised it’d be, before. 

Martin’s thirteen years old and his overworked, sick mother is coughing in the other room.

The least he can do is help. He takes off the cover and follows the noise

“Mamá!” He exclaims - rushing past his bedroom through their small living room and, finally, arriving to the kitchen where his mom’s doubled over and covering her mouth. There’s frozen pizza waiting on the counter, the oven wide open and waiting. “How can I help, do you want me to fetch the doctor?”

His mother looks up from her handkerchief, face contorted in a disgusted sneer. Martin, against his better judgement, flinches at the sight of it.

“What did I tell you?“ She spits out. “Speak English, stupid boy.”

“I-I am.” It’s a simple sentence. He knows this language. She’s been speaking in English to him since he could barely reach her knees, but he feels himself stumbling over the words that now, somehow, don’t fit quite as well in his mouth. “I-I said all of that in English.”

She glares daggers at him.

“Not all of it.” She grumbles then coughs again. “Just stop calling me names , Martin. I’ve got the patience of a saint to deal with you, sick as I am.”

Martin nods quietly, focusing on the way her eyes are reddened, the blue veins on her hand show with prominence over her knuckles, the way her knobby knees can barely stand. He wants to reach out, help her sit down. But she holds herself up and she won’t let herself be helped, not until she has no other choice.

“I’m sorry.” he quietly says instead. She barely spares his a glance but he needs her to know he’s here, that she can be helped, that she’s not alone — “I’m sorry, mom.”

Mom instead of Mamá. A bit of a hassle but everyone in England manages. Higher sacrifices have been made for his well-being.

His mom puts a hand on the counter to balance and looks at the pizza. When she makes a move to reach it, she’s caught again by a coughing fit that forces her to lean against the counter and press the handkerchief over her mouth.

“I—” Martin instinctively moves to help her, get her out of this badly lit kitchen and down into the sofa, but his mother raises her arm between coughs. And then she’s breathing in, out, collapsed against the counter and staring at the pizza tiredly.

“The food…” She mutters. Martin walks besides her slowly, ready for the moment she takes her hands off their firm grasp on the counter.

“Are you hungry?” He asks her carefully. Her mother shakes her head, eyes still fixed on the pizza. 

“No, god, my stomach is in twists.” She snarls and, proudly, Martin flinches only a bit. “I’ve got to- the food. I’ve got to make you dinner.”  

Something inside him breaks. His mum just wants to cook him dinner. She just wants to do that for him and she can’t. 

Emboldened by this knowledge, he dares to touch her arm and — because she loves him, of course she does, she's just sick — she doesn’t draw it away. She lets herself be held, just for a second, with just a tight press of her lips and a faraway, frustrated look, and so Martin guides her out of the kitchen and onto the sofa. Before he leaves her to make dinner, she doesn’t thank him and he doesn’t dare kiss her forehead goodbye, but there’s no need to. Martin understands.

The office looks the same as always. Except, y'know, Jon’s still wanted for murder and Sasha is… gone. And Melanie’s here. Melanie, with her buzzed head and her ice cream cone earrings and the jean jacket she’s throwing carelessly over the coat hanger. He supposes any other day Martin would be compassionate about the situation she’s landed herself in, but she wouldn’t hear him before so why should he care now? Why?

Melanie coughs. Martin stops from pointedly looking away and turns around. He doesn’t have to bend backwards, but it wouldn’t do to be a total asshole. Not like Elias. 

“Is this my desk?” She asks, pointing towards the aforementioned pile of wood.

“It’s…” Sasha’s. It’s Sasha’s. Who isnt here and who knows what the fuck happened to her. He sighs, suddenly tired down to the very marrow of his bones “Just take it.”

Melanie raises her eyebrows and dramatically flops on the chair.

“Warm welcome, thank you.” She says, sarcasm dripping off her words. Martin winces and passes his hand over his face, a bit ashamed. He leaves the files he was trying to read on his desk and leans towards her.

“It’s… not you.” He explains. “You just shouldn’t have taken the job.”

Melanie doesn’t look very impressed.

“I didn’t take you for a sexist douche, Martin.” She drawls. He straightens, suddenly a bit offended and very, very out of his depth.

“What? No!” He stammers, voice cracking at the end. He coughs, praying whatever the hell killed the old dude with a rusty pipe enters the room and finishes them all off. “No, that’s definitely not it.”

Melanie smiles.

“Ah, yes, that’s surely not what a sexist douche would say.” She says.  She’s gloating , isn’t she? She’s loving his discomfort. God, she doesn’t understand anything, anything at all. And she refuses to listen, refuses to process what he’s already told her. 

Does Martin himself understand, though? What would he want someone to do if they knew more than him? The answer is immediate — he’d like to know, no matter what. And he’d want patience. 

Martin leans against his chair again and sighs. It seems like he’s set himself a task, then, doesn’t it? He’s too useless for anger and too useless for whatever Jon is up to. The least he can do is try and catch Melanie up, as much as he can. 

Within limits. He may have a bleeding heart but he’s also bloody pissed off.

“We just.. this place. It’s fucked up. The, uh, spooky way.” He starts and pauses, waiting for Melanie to laugh him off the room. To his surprise, she nods. Her body’s slumped over the office chair, relaxed, but her face’s serious. Stony. 

“It ties you, er, Tim’s tried to quit several times and he can’t, he just can’t. And Jon is now… well. And Sasha, Sasha was just weird, we thought we saw her but--“ He’s rambling now and, by Melanie’s frown, he’s lost her. “Doesn’t matter. She’s gone. Vanished into thin air.”

There’s a pause in which only the dusty basement clock hung over Jon’s office door can be heard. They’ve kept the room closed. Or, at least, Martin has. Every time he glanced at the empty desk and the leftover blood on the carpet he felt either nauseous, boiling with anger, or both.

“Which Sasha?” asks Melanie, screeching his train of thought to a stop. 

Martin knows he just commanded himself to keep patience, but there’s a limit. They’ve had this discussion already and it’s useless, pointless. He’s not responsible for Melanie’s faulty memory over a woman she saw literally twice. 

“Sasha! I’ve told you! The only Sasha that ever was!” He says, throwing his arms up and deciding that, actually, he really would like a cup of tea. He sits up and walks towards the breakroom, Melanie hot on his heels.

“But that’s not true!” She retorts. Martin puts the kettle on the stove and opens the cupboard to take out a cup. He stares a bit at it before sighing and grabbing another one.  “I’m not crazy, there was another Sasha, before, the first time I came around!”

He deposits both cups on the table and doesn’t answer right away, thinking. Not about what Melanie says, of course, she saw the woman twice and must be confused. Martin just thinks about Sasha, polite and maybe a little cold but who was his friend , someone he felt attached to, someone he admired and felt a kinship to. Someone who he’s already thinking about in past tense. 

Tim insists Jon killed her, that’s the thing. He doesn’t know how or why — has turned a deaf ear every time Martin has stressed there wouldn’t be a motive, that’s not who Jon is and they both know it. Their time in the corridors must have fucked with Tim’s common sense. He’s angry, angrier than before, and Martin knows it’s because he’s also deeply scared. He doesn’t want to coddle him, though, as if he’s the only one who’s suffering and dumping all of that frustration on Jon who — as far as they know — could also be dead. Honestly, Martin’s quite tired of Tim’s bullshit. And Tim must think the same about him because he’s blatantly avoiding him now, stalling on statements and research and skipping work as much as he legally can. Martin tried to reach out a couple times, reluctantly offering to go to the pub, to soothe things between them. He’s lost so many people already and doesn’t even know why or how — very deep down, no matter how pissed he is, he doesn’t want to lose Tim as well. He’s his friend. They’re in this together. 

“Well?”

And so is Melanie now, apparently. He sighs, takes out milk and sugar, puts two tea bags on the cups and looks at the woman, still staring at him.

“That’s the same Sasha.” He says. Melanie groans and brings her hands to her hair, frustrated. 

"No! She wasn’t!” She exclaims then pauses, a hopeful glint in her eye, as if she’s hit jackpot “She was Cuban, remember? Loud? Touchy?" 

Martin can’t help it. He barks a dry, unamused laugh. 

"Cuban? Sasha was as British as they come." Down to the core, polite and distant and cold sometimes. She held himself with calm and poise, sometimes reminding him of models on TV, the mannequins in high end fashion shops. Good posture, quiet hands, amiable conversation.

Melanie suddenly falls really, really quiet. The expression on her face has morphed from frustrated and angry to a slack, bone chilling grimace of fear. 

"No, she wasn't. She made a joke to you in Spanish, remember?" 

The kettle whistles.

His brain’s filled with buzzing, unnerving static.

Martin’s the only one who speaks Spanish in the Archives. He knows that. He knows that. He’s celebrated this fact lately, didn’t he? It’s given him room to curse freely in the last couple days, to chatter away at the printer or his slow desktop without anyone hearing. He’s been doing it before, though. His slow, quiet chatter to himself has been a source of comfort since Prentiss attacked the archives and Tim fell slowly apart and Jon’s back tensed more and more by the day. Sasha never commented because Sasha never understood because Sasha is from… 

Where is Sasha from? Has she ever said? From the beach, isn’t she? Where? Why can’t he remember? He must know this. He must know this. She’s his friend, people know where their friends are from. Sasha’s british. Of course she is.

“You...” Martin starts, mouth dry. “You must be confused."

There’s something off. There’s something off. There’s something off.

Martin pours the tea mechanically, shoves Melanie’s cup into her hand and takes his to his desk. A tape awaits, Jon’s not here and Martin’s going to do his job and record a statement.

The librarian at Martin’s high school is very nice.

She’s not exactly smiley, looks perpetually pissed when the same kids come barrelling into the room yelling and pushing at each other. But that’s okay, he supposes he’d be tired too if he had to handle all that so quickly. He can barely stand in the same room as his classmates without being overwhelmed — it’s not the noise, really, he doesn’t quite mind that. It’s, just, seeing all these people talking so easily to each other and yet keeping their cool distance makes him feel immensely awkward.

The library is nice, sometimes. He doesn’t know what to read, really. But, well, magazines say teenagers should try new things and so, Martin walks up to the librarians and asks for book recommendations. 

“That’s quite an open prompt.” The librarian says, tilting her head slightly. Strangely enough, she doesn’t wear glasses. Martin, now a bit less courageous, adjusts his own. “Is there anything you want?”

He’s halfway through opening his mouth to say  “Anything’s fine, really” when he feels something inside himself screech to a stop. 

There is something he wants. It’s just a bit scary to ask for it.

“I…” He starts, feeling his mouth dry up. “I like poetry.”

The librarian raises her eyebrows, clearly aware that’s not all there is. Martin gulps, takes a deep breath and takes a leap of faith.

“Would you maybe have, uh, argentinian poetry?”

For the first time in the year and a half Martin has spent in this high school - with quite a sizeable amount of hours scooted between the bookshelves of this same room, either using the big box computers, reading or writing thoughts down - he sees the librarian’s mouth quirk up into a pleased smile.

“That’s quite specific, isn’t it?” She says, but she’s already turning to her computer and typing. Martin huffs, a bit flustered.

“Well, you asked!”

“I’m not complaining, kid.” She says and he believes her because she’s always been nice with him, sneaking him sweets now and then, and she’s still smiling “I’m sure we have some, let’s see… Do you speak spanish?”

Martin pauses. He imagines, just for a second, what would happen if he said yes. The librarian would hand him one, two wonderful books of poetry he could read on recess and on the spaces between classes. He can almost see himself, drowning in the pages, thoroughly content in the warm embrace of the comforting lull he just knows down to his bones. He can feel the weight of the books on his backpack following him home, see the reflection of his night lamp over the pages in his room. 

And then, like cold lead down his throat, he imagines what his mother's face would look like if she got a glimpse of the books.

“No.” The lie is heavy in his mouth “No, I don’t speak Spanish, sorry.”

The librarian hums, finishes up her typing and lays back to wait. He’s seen her do that before. State funding isn’t really the best - she’s told him once. It may take a bit.

Martin waits, changing his weight from foot to foot nervously. He has half a mind to bolt, let the librarian discard the embarassing request as a teenager’s one time oddity.

“Have you read Galeano?”

Martin shakes his head.

“I’d probably should give you a Borges or a Cortázar or a Storni, but I don’t think it’s a good start.” She says, raising from her chair and rounding around the desk towards the rows of bookshelves. “Plus we don’t have those, sorry.”

Martin trails behind her merrily.

“It’s fine! Anything!” He insists because he doesn’t care about literary merit, right now all he seeks is the company these words can give him. “I can handle it.”

The librarian stops in front of a (pretty reduced) space on the shelves with a little sign that proclaims “Foreign”. She starts scanning the titles.

“Galeano wrote the Open Veins of Latin America. That one’s more nonfiction though, not poetry. He was a journalist as well as a writer, very political...” She explains, her hands fluttering in front of the books, avid eyes attentive to its names. “It’s quite the book, and it’s a miracle that we have it. I think you’d benefit from reading it...”

Martin opens his mouth to answer but is promptly interrupted by the librarian’s sudden aha!

“Walking Words by Eduardo Galeano!” She proclaims, smugly raising the book in her hand. “And a pretty well preserved copy, if I may add. You’re a lucky one, lad.”

Martin takes the book carefully.

“Thank you.” He says and can’t find it in himself to stop, he repeats it over and over while they walk back to her desk, while she writes down the loan, while the bell rings above them “ Thank you. ”

The book Martin walks out of the library with — as he’ll find out many years later — isn’t poetry nor was it written by an argentinian. It doesn’t matter.

Sasha has been dead for a year. Martin turns it over and over in his mind while he walks out of Elias’s office, while he enters the basement with a new Assistant in tow, while he sits down on his desk. The rest come and go through the rest of the afternoon, scuttle off the pub while Martin stays in the basement, turning the words over and over. 

Sasha has been dead for a year. Sasha has been dead for a year. Except it isn’t right, is it? She’s been alive, puttering around the office, accepting Martin’s cups of coffee and rejecting Tim’s offerings of lunch. She’s helped in meetings, filed paperwork, smiled. Except, Sasha has been dead for a year and Martin has been worrying over the thing that murdered her. 

Jon’s back. That’s not a small comfort — Martin doesn’t have the energy to reconcile with the amount of relief he feels, examine the liquid warmth that flows through him at seeing Jon’s tired, dear face. 

Martin’s missed him. And, apparently, judging by the wound on Jon’s throat he’s currently dressing, he’s also missed a lot. 

“Does it hurt?” He asks, partly to break the silence in the room and to distract himself from his own thoughts. Jon, sitting right in front of him, face close and looking away, nods and hisses as Martin pours disinfectant as gently as he can. Before thinking about it more clearly, he shushes, “It’s okay, you’re okay. I’m sorry.”

Jon smiles, a bit self deprecating, a bit fond, mostly tired.

“Not your fault.” he croaks.

“No, Daisy’s, more like.” Martin grunts. He calms himself down because there’s no point dumping his anger on Jon and says, more softly than he intends, “I’m still sorry.” 

Jon hums. He’s so still, still looking somewhere over Martin’s shoulder, who can feel the quickening pulse with the hand that’s still gently grazing his neck. 

“Thank you, Martin.” Jon says. He pauses as Martin gets up to bin the bloody gauze and takes up the tape, cutting it with his mouth. Then, a bit awkwardly and thoroughly earnest, he Asks, “H-How are you?”

Martin’s speaking before he can think.

“Extremely pissed off my tits.” He says, then frowns. Well, that was the truth, but he wouldn’t have worded it like that. Not to Jon. Not to anyone. Jon himself seems as surprised as him, suddenly covering his mouth to hide the bark of husky laughter that’s spilling off his lips.

“Jon!” Martin scolds without heat. He’s smiling. It’s nice to see the man laugh. And, as soon as he thinks that, Jon stops, stilling into a guilty grimace.

“I’m sorry.” He apologises and points tiredly at the space between them “That was my fault. It all is, really.”

Martin’s impromptu retort can be attributed more to his own impulsivity than to anything weird.

“No, it’s not.” If his voice is more indignant than anything, well, sue him. He’s got quite a list of things to feel indignation about. How is Jon , of all people, who looks run over by a truck, responsible for any of it? “I’m telling the truth!”

Jon smiles without humor and stays still as Martin puts the tape over the new gauze on his neck. He draws his hand back but stays there, face close to Jon’s while they sit knee to knee in front of each other in the middle of the deserted basement. For the first time in the evening, Jon looks at him and Martin can see his wide eyes, as brown and warm and dear as they’ve always been

“That’s kind of you to believe.” Jon says softly. Martin grimaces.

“I… I’m not some saint, Jon.” He says, conscious of that fact down to his bones. He’s angry, so angry. He’s sad. He’s tired. He can feel it, all this conflicting, scarring emotions bubbling under his skin. He can hide them well, he knows, he has hidden them well but sometimes… sometimes he wishes he shouldn’t have to.

He feels a soft touch on his hand. It’s Jon’s unbandaged palm, gently brushing his, forcing Martin to look at him. 

“I know.” Jon says and it feels, just for one moment, that he means way, way more than a simple answer to what Martin just voiced. Then, because he’s an absolute prick, he adds, “Saints wouldn’t misfile as often as you do.”

Against his best judgement, Martin chuckles. 

“Shush.” He leans his hand against Jon’s. It’d take more courage than he can muster to actually grab it, to interlace their fingers.  

“I’m pissed. Really angry.” He admits before Jon’s warm gaze “But you’re… you have nothing to do with it. Yeah, you were an ass for a bit there, but you were as scared as all of us.”

Jon opens his mouth, probably to argue, but Martin doesn’t let him, refuses to let him.

“That doesn’t make this,” he states curtly and points at the wound, “ Your fault. Or Leitner’s death. Or Gertude’s… or Sa…”

He chokes. He can’t even finish saying her fucking name . Is this how it’s going to be? Useless Martin, who couldn’t even notice the hell Jon was going through while he missed his friend’s murderer? Who couldn’t even notice that his friend’s own identity has been stripped ?

“Sasha.” Jon finishes for him, drawing Martin away from his thoughts and into the present. 

“Yes. Not your fault.” He says. And he means it. He means this more than anything. None of them - not Tim, Melanie or Jon - is responsible for this. If anything, Elias has been aware of what was going on for years, had killed Gertrude and Leitner, for fuck’s sake, has led Jon to harm again and again without care or remorse. There are hundreds of horrible things happening to them and Martin will happily pin a good amount of them on Elias.

Jon coughs and Martin realises, with a halt, that he’s dressed the wound quite a bit of time ago and that they’ve been standing face to face for a longer amount of time than he can excuse. He leans back on his seat with a jump, immediately missing Jon’s warmth and he draws back as well. 

They look at each other, silent. It’s not an uncomfortable silence, just heavy. 

“And, uh, I'm done.” Martin says needlessly, desperate to break it. He breathes in and out and forces himself to relax. This is just Jon, who rants about obscure topics and snarks over paperwork and blames himself altogether too much. And about that...

“Look, can we close the matter here? You’re not at fault for this, no matter what you or others think. End of discussion.” He says sternly and gets out of his seat and Jon follows suit, smiling faintly.

“Just like that?” He asks, voice warm.

“Just like that.” He repeats and Martin can’t help but smile. Everything is terrible but, right now, it’s quiet and Jon’s shy grin is a bit contagious.

Shrouded by the cover of the night in his childhood bedroom, fifteen year old Martin reads.

“Utopia lies at the horizon.

When I draw nearer by two steps,

it retreats two steps.

If I proceed ten steps forward, it

swiftly slips ten steps ahead.

No matter how far I go, I can never reach it.

What, then, is the purpose of utopia?

The point is this: to keep walking.”

Inside Martin Blackwood, something he's never named before ignites.

Against his better judgement, Martin finds himself alone with Tim in the breakroom at mid-afternoon. It’s been a few weeks since Jon’s arrival, since Elias’s revelation. It’s been far longer — he remembers with a pang of guilt — since he and Tim really, truly talked.

It’s partly his fault, Martin knows. He should have been more compassionate, he should have paid more attention. But Tim hasn’t been the best, either, has he? He’s been rude and confrontational and Martin’s been so fed up with it…

He’s bone tired now, and can’t find that anger in himself anymore. From the weary look Tim’s shooting at him, he can’t either. Martin should apologise. Well, not for defending Jon, he was right on that. But still, he should extend an olive branch. Maybe crack a joke on the best way to murder Elias with the sandwich he’s making. The Tim he once knew would get a laugh out of it, repeat it to Sasha until she rolled her eyes. 

Or at least, that’s what he thinks. Sasha and Martin talked, didn’t they? Not Martin and… the thing that wasn’t her. Martin and Sasha. They must have talked about something. Melanie said — Melanie mentioned she did, that Sasha made a joke in Spanish for him . And Martin needs to know, every little detail. If that was casual, a once off, if that was usual banter, if they spoke in the office or exchanged slang like outdated stickers. 

Martin opens his mouth and, before he can properly think about it, he’s breaking the silence and talking.

“What did Sasha and I talk about, Tim?" He asks, startling himself with his own question. Tim jumps, similarly miffed, but forces himself to relax. When he speaks next, his voice is painfully neutral and his eyes are glued to the fridge.

"You didn't talk much." He says and his tone says enough about what he’d really like to answer. It's enough, Martin shouldn’t be asking this, not after so long without talking, that he’d appreciate any other approach. It’s enough. It should be. But Martin can’t help himself, he needs to know so he presses.

“But we must have, something, I just can’t remember…” He insists and he’s pushing and pushing and pushing, "I always felt a kinship to her. Why?"

Tim snaps his head towards him.

"I don't know, Martin!" He spits, pained and cutting. And Martin, because he’s a fool, because he’s a selfish creature who’s never fucking satisfied , doesn’t stop, desperate.

"I think… she deleted something.” He confesses, the words tumbling out of his mouth because this is Tim, this is Tim, who he told about his CV first, who brought him out to drinks and made himself Martin’s friend. “The other-other-the one that wasn't her. Sasha — she was and she…"

Tim interrupts him, his back leaning in a relaxed posture against the counter, a direct contrast with the tension in his jaw and his crossed arms.

"Wiped out her whole identity? I think that was rather the point." He says and the sarcasm and disdain from his voice makes Martin scoff.

"Oh, shut up Tim." he fires, softly, cautiously, but Tim’s on a roll and when he’s on a roll - be it about his research, a date or the all encompassing anger he must feel at Martin - Tim doesn’t stop.

"If you're done centering our friend’s murder around yourself…" He starts and now it’s Martin slamming his sandwich against the counter and turning around in blind fury. 

"Oh, shut up, Tim! You're not the only who's hurting!” He snarls. If Tim could just see reason , if he could just understand. “I also lost her, I feel like I lost her — a someone I connected with and I don't even remember why we connected in the first place! I'm trying to figure it out"

Tim laughs humorlessly.

“Why?” He asks. Martin deflates.

“What do you mean, why?”

“You’re trying to figure it out, figure her out.” Tim explains, voice dangerously waving,  and when Martin looks at his crossed arms, he realises his fingers are digging into his arm sharply.  "Except you won't because that's the point! The point of these monsters, the point of all of it!”

Tim’s voice is rising and he’s trembling, trembling all over, leaning against the counter to avoid falling down, falling apart, and this is the moment Martin realises how blind he’s been. Tim’s not just angry. His anger’s a smokescreen, like Jon’s sternness, like Martin’s own stammering. 

 “You'll never separate the shit from her, never! The more you try, the more it hurts, the happier and sated they are!" Tim yells and when he stops, he’s panting, looking at Martin resigned, like he expects him to walk off the door. Like he wants him to. But now Martin knows better: Tim’s anger is a mask for a very hurt, very scared man who’s gotten himself hurt too many times for caring and wants it all to stop.

Martin stays and Tim’s anger seeps out, bit by bit. 

"Don't try, Martin. It's already done.” Tim says softly, staring at the floor. He’s in pain. They all are. “Why does it matter who she was? She's gone."

Martin takes a step towards him carefully, but Tim doesn’t react. So, he makes a decision and leans against the counter too, shoulder to shoulder with the man he doesn’t want to stop calling his friend. It’s a bit cramped, there is only so much counter space in the breakroom, squeezed between the fridge and the wall, but Tim doesn’t move. He’s always been a touchy sort. 

Martin clears his throat and gently bumps Tims’s shoulder with his.

"I think it matters. I think we owe her as much." He declares softly. Tim raises his head but says nothing. "And I think, deep down, you believe it too."

The quiet filters in, only interrupted by Basira’s mumbling in the other room. She’s hit it off with Melanie, they’re probably gossiping upstairs. At least someone in this basement is having a bit of fun.

Martin feels a bump to his shoulder and turns his head towards Tim, who’s stubbornly staring at the wall in front of them.

“You’re right.” He says, voice forced down to neutrality, but Martin can tell he’s honest. “Sorry.”

Martin hums but says nothing. Tim sighs.

“I guess…”  He starts and pauses to pass a hand through his face.“I’m mad. I’m mad, Martin, and sad because I also can’t remember.  What did she like? Did she drink coffee or was that not her, was that the thing? Yes, we know something about her, thanks to Melanie and whatever tapes Jon’s salvaged but…”

He pauses again, biting his lip, and finally, finally looks at Martin in the eye. 

“But Melanie doesn’t know the way she laughed when she was sad, the ice cream flavour she ate in her childhood, if she drank coffee, whatever shit music she liked as a teenager and regretted liking later.” Tim smiles and it’s sad, so sad and Martin painfully understands because he knows he’s wearing the same expression. “All of that, all of her… it’s gone. I don’t even know who I’m mourning.”

Martin nods.

“I—” He starts but stops to clear the tears quietly clouding his eyes. “Melanie says we talked in Spanish to each other, at least once. And I… I don’t know. I try to remember and it’s fuzzy. Did she speak English with an accent? What was she doing here in England? Did she like that I… that I wasn’t... from here?”

Martin can’t finish the phrase, choking on the words, and suddenly Tim’s hugging him, a known old weight, they used to hug so often before, casually and comforting and then everything happened and now Martin’s tears are streaking recklessly down his face and, from the way he’s trembling, Tim’s crying too. 

“She was British, Tim,” Martin babbles into the hug because Tim needs to know, it’s important that he knows. Tim hums, confused, and Martin needs to tell him - 

“She was British, Sasha was British except she wasn’t , she was Cuban. She wasn’t from here, just like me but it made her from here .” He sobs harder and Tim’s shaking in his arms so Martin hugs him harder, trying to keep them both from utterly falling apart, two grown men that don’t even like each other that much anymore, mourning a lost friend. “How can anything do that? How can you take someone, what they’re from, the way they spoke and grew and twist it and shatter it?” 

He breathes shakingly, the horror of Sasha’s fate finally dawning on him in a nauseating awareness. 

“It shouldn’t be able to do that, Tim. No one should be able to do that, ” Martin repeats over and over. On his shoulder, there’s a huff.

“Those are monsters, Martin.” Tim says softly. “That’s what they do.”

“It’s beyond monsters.”

“I know.”

“It shouldn’t be like this.”

“I know.” Tim repeats faintly. He sounds more composed, all out of tears. They’re both a bit more composed now. “But what can we do?”

The words hang in the air as they keep hugging, the intensity of it fading into a companionable holding. Martin slowly untangles, an idea shining on his head like a beacon amongst the fiery sea. He takes Tim by the shoulders and looks at him in the eye. He’s less tense, less closed off, face tired and forlorn but still, somehow, still Tim. He’ll understand, he must understand.

“We should honor her. The way she’d have liked.” Martin says, slowly enunciating the words, processing the concept as he spells it out. 

Tim’s face closes off a bit, not the stony anger from before but something frustrated, disappointed. 

“Martin.” He says, faintly shaking his head. Martin nods and insists. Tim will understand, he must understand.

“We should have a funeral.” He repeats.

“Martin…” Tim starts but no, he must understand. 

“Why not, Tim?” He asks. Tim gets himself off Martin’s and slowly conduces them both towards the chairs besides the table. After making Martin sit down, he positions himself in front of him across the table, then sighs. 

“We don’t know what she’d have liked.” Tim says, fingers tapping on the plastic. “She was Cuban, okay. We know that because Melanie noticed that basic fact about her person. But she didn’t ask her what her whole faith was on the way to leaving a statement, did she?” 

Tim’s voice raises into a falsetto, an unamused impression of Melanie’s voice.

“She didn’t say ‘I’m here to talk about unfathomable monsters. By the way, lady over there, are you perchance a Buddist?”’ 

Martin rolls his eyes and opens his mouth to interrupt, but Tim raises his hand to stop him, still on his roll, maintaining the badly done, quite cheap Melanie impression.

“And in the super hypothetical event of your death, how would you like your friends to honor you?” 

Against his better judgement, Martin huffs a laugh. It’s not even funny. None of this is funny.

“Alright, Tim. I got your point.” He says dryly. Tim leans his elbows on the table and covers his face with his hands, drowns a frustrated yell into it, then looks right at Martin again. He’s so tired but this would be so good, if he’d just gave it a chance. 

“I’m not happy about it.” Tim says with a sad smile. “It would have been nice to honor her properly, instead of being worried about that thing.”

Silence falls between them again. They should really get to work soon.

“Then we should do it.” Martin blurts out.

“We just said…” Tim groans but can’t finish the phrase, Martin jumping to make his point. 

“We can honor her the way we’d like to honor her. She’s already dead, isn’t she? It’s not like she’ll be disappointed because we said an Ave Maria instead of cremating her.” It’s crass, but it’s the truth. They’re going to honor her death, not plan her wedding. Sasha deserves at least something that’s truly, properly hers. They deserve to mourn her, even if it’s bits and crumbs of her memory, even if it’s a year too late. 

Tim stays quiet. He looks conflicted but, when he speaks again, it doesn’t leave room for doubt. 

“Alright.” He says “We’ll do it. For Sasha.”

This is how it’ll always be:

Sasha’s funeral is a quiet event. There’s no body to burn or bury, no family to call to walk forwards. Just them, ragtag group of barely amiable coworkers, standing in sullen silence. Just a picture - the polaroid Jon rescued, with Sasha’s smile frozen for eternity in an unfamiliar face surrounded by the items they’ve collected in her honor. 

This is how it’ll always be:

A couple hazelnut candles brought by Melanie, burning away. A few sticks of incense on porcelain, belonging to Jon’s grandmother. Martin has piled dozens of estampitas, fervently wishing one of its saints, maybe someday, was Sasha’s. Tim, a known atheist, walks toward the makeshift shrine with freshly picked flowers. He doesn’t say whose favourites they were and the rest of them don’t ask. 

With scattered words from his childhood, Martin prays quietly. Basira and Jon don’t, the latter deciding to simply close his eyes and breathe. Melanie stays quiet but, when the faint light hits her so, the tear tracks on his face can be seen. 

This is how it’ll always be:

Tim stares straight at Sasha’s picture, face stony.

Martin’s sixteen and he’s riding the evening bus. He’s exhausted and all he wants to do is lay down and sleep. Between work and school, he’s running ragged — four hours of sleep if he’s lucky, always interrupted because he jumps out of bed remembering his mom’s medicines or the groceries he hadn’t bought or the laundry he hasn’t finished. 

He should catch a couple winks now. Or at least he could, if the two people chatting behind him weren’t speaking so loudly. He’s so tired. He’d love to turn around and shush them, but this is a public space and they’re not being that loud anyway. And because he doesn’t want to be the asshole that gets mad on the bus because other people dare to live besides him. 

“So you lost it, just like that?” One of them says, voice thin and high pitched. They haven’t stopped asking questions for the past five minutes. Martin fondly dubs them Squeaky. It’s a dignified nickname.

Squeaky’s companion sighs. They’re being quite patient, to be honest, although they don’t sound specially annoyed.

“I remember the basics, I guess, but I’m sure I sound like a drunk robot.” Patient says and lets out a dry laugh. “It’s frustrating”

“I can’t believe it just vanished. ” Squeaky chirps. They seem really indignated in their friend’s behalf. “Languages are like bicycles, specially if it’s your mother tongue. You can’t just lose it, you just need to surround yourself with it and bam, it’s back.”

Patient falls silent for a couple seconds and when they speak again, they sound defeated.

“It’s just, it’s not like I can pop on a plane and speak it, can I?’

“But I gathered there was a big community here!”

“Nah, that’s in London. I’m just too busy to make the trip down. And I can’t exactly pop in and spit it out like, i don’t know, a malfunctioning vending machine. It’s embarrassing.” Patient says and the two passengers continue on their chatter, their topics veering into mundane, everyday affairs. Although Martin, who’s overheard everything, turns the exchange on his head over and over and over.

Can you lose your mother language? For real? Just like that?

Martin trembles and thinks about how long it’s been since he’s talked in Spanish outside of his own head, his own quiet, disjointed muttering. He’s gotten so used to English, his accent a patchwork of television words and the slight, cheery lilt that surrounds his classmates and neighbours. Has he talked in Spanish to anyone outside of occasional strangers? Has he read a book or watched a movie? 

He’s scared, he realises as he stares at the front of the bus as it rides on and on and on through the city. He’s deeply afraid because - if he thinks really hard - he’s starting to feel some words slip away from his grasp, the memory of their shape watery and grainy.

It’s his language, isn’t it? Except it isn’t. His language is English, has been English for a long time now. It’s the language he soothes his mother’s aches with, the one he whispers to furtive boyfriends when he has them, the one that feeds him. English’s his and, irrevocably, he’s English too. 

Can he be both? Of course he can. Plenty of people are bilingual, like Yas from the other classroom. There’s no law saying people can’t speak two languages, can’t care equally for them, even if one’s more important for his survival and the other’s become a nostalgic leftover, a childhood memory.

He won’t lose the language, Martin quietly resolves. He doesn’t know how, but he’ll manage — books, strangers, clubs, movies, whatever he can. He’s busy and tired, but he can make time for this, he has to. 

And now he has to jump off his seat, because Martin won’t lose his language, but also he won’t lose his goddamn stop.

Jon arrives at Martin’s flat at six on the dot, awkwardly carrying three tupperwares in front of him the way inexperienced soldiers carry their rifles to war. 

“I made shepherd's pie for us.” He says as soon as Martin opens the door. “Grandmother’s recipe.”

“Oh!” Martin gasps at the generous container, between pleased and amused. “I also made food, though.”

Jon frowns.

“We really should have planned this better, shouldn’t we?”

“We’ll manage.” He moves from the door, a little ta-da wave to let Jon in. “At the very worst, we’ll have leftovers for lunch all week!”

Jon grumbles something about how microwaving home cooked meals over and over isn’t the same but lets himself in with a smile anyway, shedding his coat without taking his eyes off Martin. He’s glad he invited him for supper. It’s comfortable, this. It’s just started and it’s already painfully familiar. 

“Where did you take the time to cook this, though?” He asks, partly to distract himself as he walks them both into his tiny kitchen, where Martin's own pot of locro is quietly steaming on the stove. Because Martin has a gas stove now and he’s very pleased about it. He takes the wooden spoon back to mix the whole thing a little bit more. Yeah, there’ll definitely be leftovers.

“It’s Saturday, Martin.” Jon answers dryly, although the smile stays, tugging the corners of his mouth as he leans his back on the kitchen counter, watching him. 

“You’re not known for staying at home on the weekends, Jon.” Martin fires back. “Did you cook this today, then?”

Jon hums, then looks around.

“Can I use your oven, by chance? I really wasn’t joking about microwaving home cooked meals, specially if we have a perfectly usable oven at our disposal” He looks at the pile of tupperwares he’s stashed beside him. “I’d also need a — the glass thing? To pour the mixture in and then bake in the oven. I’m sorry for the inconvenience, I couldn’t find one at my home”

“Glass thing?” Martin smiles, although he knows perfectly well what Jon’s talking about. Look at the walking encyclopedia, calling a baking dish “the glass thing” without remorse. “I don’t mind. Over there,” Martin says, pointing at the upper cabinet. Jon gets on his tiptoe and opens the wrong one, a bit lower.   

“Here?” He asks. Martin shakes his head.

“No, the other one. Wait, it’ll be too tall…” He says, then steps across the (quite frankly tiny) kitchen to fetch it for him with no effort at all. “There you go.”

Jon receives the baking dish with a smile and he hugs it to his chest.  

“Thank you.” He says, almost shyly. This is when Martin realises he’s gotten quite in his personal space to get to the cabinet and, embarrassed, takes a space back.

“No problem.” It really isn’t. Martin would fetch things from high places for an eternity if it got Jon smiling like this. He chides himself for the cheesy thought for a second. It's true, though. He shouldn’t say it but it’s true.

They fall into a companionable quiet while Jon settles himself next to Martin, fills the dish with the food from the tupperware and turns the oven on. From the small window, they can see the meat slowly bubbling on the bottom. 

“You know…” Martin says teasingly, while fishing for his spoon. “When you’re in need of actual cooking, the microwave really does the trick, most times.”

Jon raises his eyebrows, unimpressed. 

“It does if you want a lukewarm meal, Martin.” 

“Then turn up the time. It heats up just fine, you dork.”

“It doesn’t!” He argues, frustrated. Though Martin can’t help but notice, a little bit smugly, that his shoulders are quite relaxed. “It’s uneven and most of the time you bite into chicken to find a block of ice! If you heat food on the stove, it’s a slow simmer of heat, it just makes sense.”

“Not if you’re in a rush, Jon.”

Jon huffs and grabs a spoon from the counter to fiddle with.

“Well, then. Do you heat up tea in the microwave?” He says and smiles smugly when Martin drops his spoon in horror and sputters.

“That’s different!”

“No, it’s not!” Jon points his spoon up and points to the cup of mate drying next to the sink ”Better yet! Do you heat up the water for mate in the microwave?”

This time, Martin can’t help it and grimaces.

“Of course not!”

“Why not?”

“It’s not the…” He meets Jon’s self satisfied expression, realises his own words and budges “Okay, okay, I get your point . We’re both snobs, whatever.”

Jon hums, still smiling and goes back to his food. 

“I’ve heated up the occasional tea in the microwave though.” Martin adds after a pause. Predictably, Jon’s horror follows through.

“Martin!”

“Well, I wasn’t about to dump it in the sink, was I?” He turns to his food, then dips his spoon in to taste. “This is done, by the way.”

“Yeah, mine too.” Jon says, grabbing the mittens on the counter and taking the baking dish out of the oven with relative ease. Wow, Martin’s jealous, he needs three hand towels when he wants to take out a mere frozen pizza. 

Jon then grabs the bowls Martin set on the counter earlier. They dump half of Jon’s recipe and half of Martin’s in them. Something smells good but the aesthetics are, well, horrendous. It looks like a confused multicultural unicorn decided to vomit on their plates.  But, eh, what’s the difference between Ireland and Argentina, really? They both have very funny political scandals — Martin checks the news. They both play football and hate England. Although, to be fair, everyone hates England. 

Bowls in hand, they head towards the living room sofa, the only surface where they can really sit down. It’s a bit of a squeeze but side by side, they manage.

“What do you have there, by the way?”

“Uh, locro. Not a grandmother’s recipe like yours. My grandmother didn’t really cook well. I just took a recipe from the internet so, whether or not it’s good is beyond me.”

“You never really talked about your grandmother before.” 

“I haven’t?” 

“No. You don’t talk about your family much.” Jon stops, as if suddenly self conscious about the observation, the spoon halfaway to his mouth. “Was she… nice?”

Martin dissolves into giggles.

“What?”

“ ‘Was she nice?’” He mimics teasingly, although the posh accent sounds stilted and fake in his mouth. He laughs harder at the thought “ Jon, really?”

“I don’t know how to ask people about their grandmothers!”

“You were raised by yours!”

“Precisely!”

They both smile. 

“Yes, Jon, she was nice. Both of my grandparents were. At least what I remember. They were, uh, on my father’s side and the last time I saw them was before Mom and I moved.” The memory chokes him a bit, fills him with guilt, with shame. Reminds Martin in all the ways he’s failed. Reminds Martin of all the things he can’t think about, can’t bring himself to share. “Kept contact for a few years but, uh, overseas phone calls were expensive and moving here had really drained our funds so…”

Jon pats his hand.

“I’m good! I’m good!” Martin reassures him, because vulnerability is - frankly - embarrassing. 

“Never said you weren’t.”

“They died a few years ago, both of them.” Martin can share this, of course he can share this. It’s not bad to share this. It’s not too much. “Feels a bit like shit, y'know? I could have contacted them more but we kept moving and it was just so difficult…”

“I can understand that. My, uh, my gran…” Jon trails off, knocking the spoon against his bowl nervously. Martin nods encouragingly. “She was a good woman, but we both kept our distance when I got older, I guess. She died while I was in uni and I kind of wished, still do, I’d taken the time to walk down the stairs and sit with her for an evening. Like when I was a kid. Just, less obnoxious, since I already knew she didn’t like that…”

Jon sniffles a bit and, ashamed, goes back to his food. Martin knocks their knees together softly. I’m here , he wants to say , I understand . He wishes he could hug him and squeeze tight but that’d be too much, isn’t it? Yes, they’re friends, but Martin knows he can become overwhelming really quick, specially if he’s comfortable. 

“This is really good, Jon.” He says instead. 

“Thank you.”

“No, I mean it. I didn’t know you cooked so well!”

“My gran taught me. I… like it.” Jon smiles “When I have the time. Find it a bit useless when it’s just for me, though.”

“Well, then, thank you for considering me worthy of the effort.”

“Of course.” Jon says, without doubt. Martin lowers his head, a bit embarrassed, and focuses on his food instead. “This, um, is good as well.”

He sounds not thoroughly convinced or, at least, like he’s holding something back. Martin raises his head to shoot him an unimpressed look. 

“I mean it!” Jon protests, looking altogether like he doesn’t. He looks so offended at being caught on his very obvious lie. Martin can’t help it but laugh

“Just say it, Jon.” 

“It’s not a bad thing! I do like it! It’s just - quite hearty? Filling” He stammers a bit. “And shepherd's pie — well, it’s meat and potatoes, not much of a salad either. I think we really should have planned this. I’m not done yet, but we won’t finish it all.”

His words hang in the air. Martin looks down at the multicolored mess in his bowl and scrunches up his nose. 

“Yeah, it’s a bit of a shit combination, isn’t it.” He says, bringing out a surprised bark of laughter from Jon.

“Quite”

They erupt into giggles again.

When they both calm down a bit, a silence falls, a silence Martin feels comfortable enough to break with careful softness, a silence he can trust. A silence he can tell that Martin wants Jon to stay here, forever, in this couch laughing beside him or simply declare he’ll take care of the dishes. But before he can say that — or anything, really — Jon leans his head against the armrest and looks at him.

“I think I haven’t thanked you yet.” He says softly, turning Martin’s world upside down.

“For what ?”

“Keeping me sane lately.” At Martin’s baffled look, Jon raises his spoon. “The lunches, the checking up, the texts…”

“Oh. No problem, I guess?” He taps his fingers against his bowl. “You’re giving me too much credit, though. It has kept me sane too. Did you know that?”

Jon frowns, looking like he sincerely can’t believe it.

“How?”

By caring. By always pushing on, trying his best even though they’re in an impossible situation. By being there for Martin, too, even if they don’t talk about anything important at all, even if they’re just bickering about a TV show or the other. Somehow, impossibly, they’ve made a small, safe space together. It may not be huge and it may not change the world but it’s there and it means everything to Martin.

“You’re good company.” He says instead. Jon grins, a self deprecating glimmer on his eye.

“Big praise.”

“I mean it! Not like you're the best company just by comparison, you’re good, inherently, amazing even. But…” Martin stops and breathes, realising he’s babbling. “Things with Tim… aren’t good for me either, Jon. Melanie is nice, but she’s volatile, I just can’t pin her down. Basira does her own thing and Daisy…yeah”

Jon’s looking at him, frozen. Martin looks back, scared. He said too much, didn’t he? And it’s quite insensitive, too, it’s Jon who’s spent the last months constantly threatened, hurt, kidnapped—

Jon interrupts his thoughts by suddenly moving. He deposits his bowl on the coffee table and, after a cautious glance, Martin’s as well. Then he reaches and takes his hands on his, both of them, squeezing tight.

“I… I understand.” He says.

“Sorry for all of that.” Martin tells him quietly and earns just a harder squeeze for his troubles.

“No, no, I understand. Trust me, Martin, I do. I really really do.” Jon laughs bitterly and Martin’s heart breaks when he realises his eyes are wet and he looks so sad but also so earnest , like he’ll shatter if he doesn’t share this with someone. “Everywhere I turn to, everyone I deposit a little bit of trust, they can turn around and hurt me— hurt any of us —  any goddamn second.”

Jon takes a stuttering breath in. Martin so dearly wants to hug him now but instead settles with squeezing his hands. I’m here, he says to the man on whose shoulders lays the world, I’m here for you.

After a pause, when Jon finally speaks again, it’s quieter and infinitely more heartbreaking

“It just feels like everyone has secrets, doesn’t it.” He says, like this is a sad truth he’s gotten used to. Like there’s nothing left for him except secrets and more secrets and manipulation. 

Martin and Jon didn’t always see eye to eye. He’s suddenly reminded of the early days of their acquaintance, where Jon waved his mistakes in his face and Martin argued back, corrected him on inane things like spiders or Polish translations. For all the past pettiness he has wielded, for all his frustration compared to today’s fondness, Martin has never wanted so dearly to correct Jon as in this moment

“Not me.” He says quietly. Jon hears it anyway, of course he does.

“No?” He asks and there’s a delicate hope in his eyes that Martin never wants to see disappear.

“No. No secrets. Not anymore.” He states, then stops, because he really wants to be truthful this time around. “Just things I haven’t told you.”

Jon laughs, startled and suddenly delighted. 

“Well, that’s good. Contrary to public opinion, I don’t have to know everything.” He drawls. Martin rolls his eyes but chuckles anyway.  Jon then quiets and, after a pause, he sheepishly adds. “And, uh, me too.”

“You what?”

“Me too.” Jon grins shyly. “I don’t have secrets, just things I haven’t told you.”

The air feels heavy, just for a moment.

“Oh.” Martin sighs. “That's. That’s good.”

“Yes?”

“Yes. Contrary to public opinion, you too deserve some privacy.”

Jon smiles again, this time wider, amazed. The evening carries on into inane chatter, a very competitive card game and the delicate feeling that, one day, they could have this. The feeling that they really could, without pretending the outside world that bites and maims doesn’t exist. A world of their own, in which they can sit side by side and make leaving too many leftovers their biggest problem. 

Martin sits on his living room’s floor and smiles, filled with the absolute certainty that he loves this man and that he’d do anything to protect him.

Martin’s seventeen and he’s just snuck a very suspicious paper bag into his room without his mom noticing. Not that she would , she’s napping on the living room’s sofa. But he’s… a bit paranoid. He really doesn’t want his mom to see it. He also doesn’t want to examine why.  

He strides across to his room and - as quietly as he can - stores the VHS inside the bag into the unassuming box he’s stored a copy of Neruda and Garcia Lorca’s poems, a couple stacks of various CDs and a flyer that, in big letters, invites everyone who reads to London’s La Linea Latin Music Festival. He probably won’t go, not yet. He’s not of age and London is too far away, but he likes knowing it’s out there. 

Martin collapses on the bed and, just for a moment, he stupidly misses his father. 

The tunnels are dark, confusing and, in Martin’s opinion, a terrible place to hold a secret meeting in. 

More conspiracy than secret meeting, to be honest. Straight out of a noir film, the Assistants (plus Daisy, who Martin still doesn't know if she should be counted in that group or not) pace around in a circle in one of the countless rooms this place has. Somehow, there are chairs but, after an hour of back and forth, only Martin is sitting. 

Jon isn’t here. He’s in America, on a quest planned by the devil, half bandaged and feeling the weight of the world on his shoulders. Martin’s heart hurts to see him like this. Hurts to hear him on the phone, half asleep and yet so fond , so willing to rant about the West Coast’s latest aberration. 

If they play their cards well, the weight will be less for them all. They need to plan their cards well.

“What about sneaking into his office when he’s in one of those interminable meetings?” Melanie proposes. She’s twitchy these days, more than usual.

Tim, leaning against the wall, snorts. It’s not amiable, not gentle and friendly the way he used to laugh, back when Sasha was alive and the worst threat was a pile of neverending files to digitalise. It’s bitter, resigned. 

"It won't work. The fucker's all eyes." He says, then slides himself onto the ground. “And he’ll try whatever he did to you on anyone else that gets in his way.”

Melanie glares, but it’s subdued, wounded. She’s been different - ever since her meeting with Elias went wrong. She swings between calm but hurt and downright murderous. She doesn’t talk about music with Martin much anymore, butts heads with the rest more often, specially Jon. They’ve all noticed.

Tim - because even though he likes to pretend different, Martin knows him, at least a little bit- notices his misstep. He winces and goes back to staring at the dark beyond the tunnels, slightly guilty. Basira, strides from one corner from the room to the other purposefully and fiddles with the cuffs of her jacket, still thinking

"We need to catch his attention, take a page of Gertude's book..." She trails off. Daisy, besides the door and on the lookout, lets out a dry laugh.

“Yeah, sure, let’s just burn down the Archives. That went so well for her.” 

Martin flinches, remembering the room, the corpse and the three shots on her chest...

"We won't burn down the Archives." Basira says, still deep in thought. “We don’t know what that would mean for us, it’s way too unpredictable...”

Everyone falls silent. Distraction. They need a distraction. A plan like Gertrude’s. Martin tries to think, think, think, invoke the couple of statements he’s read about it, the tapes Jon left behind when he went on the run. Gertrude… took risks. Gertrude sacrificed what she needed to sacrifice. Michael comes to mind, clean handwriting on old Archives documents, endless corridors and ear piercing laughter. Michael was a sacrifice. Not because he was important but because he was expendable .

Oh.

"Maybe we don’t have to.”  Martin starts saying, breaking the silence, mouth dry and mind running a mile an hour. “Maybe we just have to make him believe we're starting to. Burn some statements, enough to piss him off..."

"Don't look at me." Melanie quips way too fast. "If I'm alone in a room with the fucker, I'll cut his throat."

"That'll probably distract him," Tim comments dryly.

Martin sits up, starts pacing around. Not Melanie, not after all she went through. Not Tim, who’ll do anything to blow up the Unknowing himself. Not Jon, of course, or Basira, or Daisy...

"I'll do it." Martin stops to say. Michael’s neat, naive handwriting swirls before his eyes. Expendable.

No one answers. Melanie has drifted off, staring into space, Basira and Tim pointedly won’t look him in the eye, and Daisy looks amused by his words, like he’s saying something cute . Rage - something old, indignant, intense - surfaces and burns on his chest. 

"Oh come on, I'm not some innocent lamb." 

They don’t believe in him. After all this time, they don’t believe he has, what, the gut s? The will? Do they think he’s okay, tip toe, dandy , being trapped day after day in this office, knowing there are clowns and rot and corridors out there that he can’t stop? Do they think he doesn’t, what, care or hurt because he’s not running to break Elias’s neck at the minimal inconvenience? 

If the people he sees every single fucking day, the people he considers friends don’t believe in him, then who will?

Who? 

And, then, just like that, his rage becomes something else entirely.

“You guys don’t think I can do it.” He says, feeling the laughter catch in his throat. Corridors, naivete and expendability. Explosives, stone cold murder, statements. Until the very end, Gertrude was an old, seemingly frail, ruthless old woman.

Tim moves a bit where he’s seated, uncomfortable. 

“Don’t take this the wrong way, Martin but…” He starts but Martin cuts him off. 

“No, no, that’s not it.” Martin grins from ear to ear. The burning isn’t rage now, it’s determination and certainty and fear and desperation. It’s all he has. “If you don’t think I can do it, Elias won’t either. And even if he does, he won’t think it’s serious. It’ll be silly Martin, throwing a fit while his friends are away. He doesn’t care about me . Or, or, or Melanie. We’re less than pawns. Can’t you see that? He cares about Jon , the Unknowing, and those who think they are a risk to him. And in his mind, I’m the furthest thing from a risk.”

Tim scoffs.

“He doesn’t care about any of us, Martin, you’re not special.”

“But he does. ” Martin insists. He points to Daisy. “You can kill him and he knows it.”

“You’re his bargaining chip.” He says to Basira, who shrugs, then turns to Tim.

“And you’re a wildcard, Tim.”

Tim crosses his arms and Martin knows, deep to the pitiful marrow of his bones, that he’s right. He’s cracked it. He’s disentangled the threads that bind them, understood them and then used them in their favor. A little web of his own. It’s just a matter of making the others see it too.

“I’m the only one who is utterly, absolutely non-threatening in his eyes. And if it works in our favor, why the fuck not?” He throws his arms up, chest heaving. “When the Unknowing starts, I’ll throw a fucking fit, burn statements and stall him enough so Melanie can safely sneak into his office and get the tapes. He won’t suspect a thing, not from me.”

There’s a silence.

Melanie, who has said nothing for the past five minutes, raises her head and looks at Martin.

“Okay. Let’s do it.” She waits a bit and adds sheepishly. “Thank you, I guess.”

Basira sighs. 

“Alright.”

“Basira—” Tim protests, but she cuts him off.

“He wants to do it, Tim. We need to keep Elias distracted and he wants to burn shit down and face the risks. Or are you telling me you ’ll stay and do it?”

Tim keeps quiet.

“That’s what I thought,” Basira says. “It’s decided then. We have a plan.” 

He remembers a protest, once, back home. It was at the city centre and Martin and his father were walking by. The crowd pushed and pushed and pushed and the police fired, sprayed, hit but the wave was uncontrollable. People all around him spilt cold water on each others eyes, lost their shirts, threw rocks, bottles, and anything they could get on fire to the helmets with a ferocity Martin had never seen before, not even on match days where las barras of opposing clubs slammed against one another outside of the stadium. His father had to tug him away, tug them away from the danger zone, too afraid they’d get wrapped up in the manic frenzy.

Protests in the UK are different. They exist and they push, bite, yell. But there’s something fundamentally distinct in the way the desperation rumbled and shook all those years ago, the willingness to burn everything to the ground. It was the sheer ruthlessness of someone who has nothing else to lose. Someone who has already put everything that mattered on the line.

Everyone Martin cares about, the people he sees every day, the man he loves. All of them are already on the line. Martin has nothing else to lose and so, he chooses.  

This is how it’ll always be:

Martin lies on the floor and sobs. The Archives are quiet, but Elias’s voice still drums inside his head, clear as day, over and over and over.

“You look just like him.” it repeats. “And that’s why she hates you.”

Oh, if it was that simple. A person can wish for a different face, can mold it accordingly, can smudge the mirror until someone else stares back. But that’s not what she didn’t like, wasn’t it? It’s not just Martin’s face his mom was trying to change. It was the way he spoke, the way he walked. It was the way he called for her and the name he called for himself. The accent he spoke English with. The ice cream flavour he ate in his childhood. 

How can anyone do that? How can they take someone, where they’re from, who they are and try to change it?

Martin lies on the floor and laughs, filled with the absolute certainty that his mother had hated the place Martin was born with the same fierceness he had loved it. 

Chapter Text

Sometimes, if Martin closes his eyes, he can see a place.

It’s small and sunlit and every surface on it oozes comfort — shawls and knitwear thrown over couches and cushions. It’s settled , somewhere he knows he can relax in, plant his roots. There’s a windowsill in front of which he can sit when he needs inspiration and a thermos he keeps full for company, the company he knows will come, he knows he’ll receive. 

He can’t trace the shape of it but it doesn’t matter because - if Martin dares to dream - he’s not alone. There’s joy bursting through the cupboards and grumbles coming from the hallway, a constant trickle of mumbled commentary, thoughts out loud. Martin cherises each like a morning kiss. 

The dream sticks, like his name in his mouth, then shatters completely when Martin receives the news of the explosion.

Martin walks into Jon’s hospital room and sits on the chair between his bed and the window. He doesn’t look - it’d be the same closed eyes, the same darling face ashen and pale, the same stillness dominating a once restless figure. Jon’s always been too much for his own body. 

It’s cold. The room smells damp. But Martin won’t leave - he’s made that decision a long time ago - so he just wraps his cardigan against his torso and stays.

The door opens. Martin walks into Jon’s hospital room and sits on the chair beside him, opposite to the window. He doesn’t look, not at Jon and not at Martin, who shivers.

No one says much. Not for a long time. Or maybe for a small millisecond. This is the way of dreams.

“Will you stay here forever?” says Martin, the other one, the one opposite the window.

“No.” Martin answers “He’ll wake up before then.”

“Don’t be a fool.”

“I’m not.” He’s just being hopeful. He’s just holding on. He’s got no choice but “He’ll wake up.”

Other Martin leans back against his chair with a huff. He’s tired. He’s scared. He still won’t look at Jon’s face.

“What, for you?”

Martin keeps quiet and stares down the window. From here, the world is small and endless, yet slowly disappears. That is the way of things.

“I never said that.”

“But you want him to” Other Martin insists “Because you’re hopeless, because you’re at your core a sentimental idiot. You want him to wake up and you want him to wake up for you”

“I just want him to be okay.” 

“You just want someone to love from afar.”

Martin’s head snaps towards Other Martin.

“I just want him to be okay.” He repeats, but it tastes like a lie in his mouth. He’s never been that selfless.

“You want to love him from afar,” Other Martin says “That’s the only way you know how.”

“We were close” Martin argues because they were. They could manage that much. 

“He was traumatised and you were there sometimes, that is not the same.” 

“He liked me, he appreciated me enough to tell me things.”

“But not to stay.”

“He needed to go.”

“He left you.”

“It wasn’t about me.” 

“No, it wasn’t.” Other Martin smiles, and it’s cruel and sad and so very tired  “It never is.”

They stay there, in the quiet, both by Jon’s bedside. When Martin wakes up he’s alone in the hospital room, a crick on his neck from sleeping on the chair and Jon, pulse silent, still slumbering.

Martin’s sixteen when his phone rings.

He’s in the middle of his shift. His manager isn’t the most understanding fellow and he screams at him to turn off the blasted thing and get back to work. Martin doesn’t pay him any mind and fishes the Nokia brick from his pocket. 

“It’s an emergency” He explains quietly because it must be. No one ever calls him. He’d budge, any other time, maybe grovel because he really needs his job and he’s a little bit scared of this big, red faced man thirty years his senior. But no one ever calls him .

Manager huffs, points towards the door that goes to the back alley and walks away, thoroughly pissed off. Better this way.  Martin’s big but not that big and he’s been told many times he can’t throw a decent punch if his life depended on it. Not like he’s tried.

Phone in an ear, he turns tail towards the alley while the call connects.

He’s scared. He’s tired. 

“Mom?” he calls into the phone when he hears breathing. “Mom, is that you? Are you alright?”

Silence answers him. 

“Mom?”

“Stop fretting.” His mother says, after a fizzle of static. She sounds ragged but not in immediate danger “I’m in Saint Patrick’s Hospital. You need to pick me up.”

“Again? Are you okay?” He asks, feeling his heart rate pick up, feeling his hands sweat through the tired fog he’s operating under “Mom? Mom, are you okay? What happened?”

Silence.

“Just pick me up.” His mother says, then hangs up.

God, he’s so very tired.

He leans against the brick wall. It’s supposed to be spring but there’s no a ray of sunshine in sight, nothing to warm up his cold cheeks. It’s almost a cliché to lean here and think that London weather is dreadful. 

Martin sighs a bit, not even mustering the energy to wring his hands, and walks back into the kitchen, where his manager awaits once more, looking like he’s executed a rather impressive fellatio to lemon slices. 

“Well then?” The man presses “Back to work once and for all?”

Martin breathes in, juggling his weight from one feet to the other. This is his second week of double shifts without any day off. This dick has no right to accuse him of slacking off, of all things.

“I need to leave. Family emergency.” He explains instead. 

“And what is it about this time?” The dick presses, because he’s permanently gotten these kitchen’s supplies tattooed up his ass. This time , as if Martin plays hooky  all the time, as if he doesn’t juggle school with the erratic shifts they force on him. 

“My ma-” he cuts himself right on time “My mother is very ill.”

To the defense of whatever inch of humanity he had left, the manager deflates a bit.

“I guess I can’t let you go if you open tomorrow.”

Martin opens his mouth to protest - but he thinks better of it, nods and takes off.

The smell of antiseptic shouldn’t surprise him the way it does but when Martin steps into the emergency room it still makes him wince. 

God. God. God. 

He rushes past the halls towards Emergencies, looking around wildly. Maybe it’s pointless — maybe his mother’s almost dead, succumbed to whatever brought her here after the cryptic phone call. Maybe he’s taken too long and she’s decided to brave the route back home alone. Maybe he’s heard the name of the hospital wrong and she’s somewhere else, still waiting while he traipses around and…

“Martin” He hears and turns around to find, to his immense relief, his mother primly sat on one of the awful plastic chairs A&E puts on the waiting room. She looks pissed. She looks tired. She looks disappointed. 

“Mom!” He rushes to her side. How could he not? “What happened?”

His mother doesn’t answer, just purses her lips and shushes him.

“You’re being too loud. Calm down” She points to the seat next to her “Sit, stop making a fuss. They’re all looking”

Martin nods, closes his mouth firmly and sits behind her on one of those awful plastic chairs. He’s spent much too much time on these — he knows it’s pointless to try and get more comfortable. He doesn’t fit.

“What—” He starts, breathes in, out, lowers his voice “Have you seen a doctor already?”

Quiet.

“Yes” She says, then she’s silent again. 

“What-” Not that loud, Martin “What happened?”

His mother sighs, leaning back against the chair and closing her eyes. She’s tired, so so tired and her face looks more gaunt that it was in their last hospital visit and she’s here and she won’t tell him why and Martin needs to know so he can help her .

“I just didn’t feel well” She says, voice thin. 

“You should have called”

“You were working”

“It doesn’t matter — you should have called” He stutters, thinks of anything he could have done different, anything he could actually help with so he’s not useless as he always is “I could’ve called you a cab”

“I took the bus” She retorts, barely opening an eye.

“You should have taken a cab”

“It’s not luxury I’ll take, Martin”

“It is for this” He quips. Can’t she understand that he wants the best for her? That her health comes first?  God, she looks so tired and he knows he should just leave her be but he can’t he can’t he can’t, she needs to understand “Next time, if you don’t want to call me can you at least take a cab, Mom? Please?”

She opens her eyes but doesn’t look at him — eyes fixed on the Blood Donation Awareness posters on the wall in front of them. When she speaks, her voice has a sibilant, exhausted edge to it.

“I don’t work just to give all the money to someone who drives a cab, Martin” She says and her jaw is tense tense tense “I do it so we can eat”

She doesn’t await an answer, just leans her head back and closes her eyes again.

“Right”  Martin breathes in, out. He shouldn’t have insisted. She’s in pain. This just made it worse, this doesn’t help “Right”

He decides, then, to make himself useful for once and stands up.

“I’ll go ask the receptionist or-or a doctor about it, okay?” He says and walks away “Just-just so you don’t tire yourself more”

His mother doesn’t answer.

The diagnosis is clear.  Now Martin understands why his mother refused to tell him anything. She’s prideful, too goddamn prideful to tell her own son her body won’t let her pull twelve hour shifts anymore. That her visits to the hospital have to be under a strict schedule. That they have to pull up a plan and follow it sternly. 

He calls a cab. His mother doesn’t comment and neither does he. They’re not in the mood.

He promises himself — as they wait, as they climb onto the car, as the first minutes of the ride pass — that he won’t bring it up. She’s tired, he can’t just be a brat right now and, what, cry for his mom? Insist they solve this now, reorganise their plans while the cabbie listens to Radio 4 and the forecast turns from cloudy to sunny to cloudy again?

And because he’s a child, he can’t hold his own impulses and because he needs to solve this now, he doesn’t hold for more than ten minutes.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” He asks. His mother stares out the window and says nothing “We have to plan on what to do - we can ask”

“I don’t want to talk about it” 

He bites his lip.

“We have to” 

“I said I don’t want to , Martin”

“Mom-” He starts but, what’s the use? He’d just be a nuisance. It’s not her responsibility to take care of this. He needs to stop interrogating or - good god - nagging her. She deserves better than this “I’ll… I’ll solve this, okay?”

She doesn’t answer.

“You need rest” He continues, just to make it clear to them both, looks at her profile half lit by the streetlights that spill through the glass “You need rest.. and care.. and help . So, yeah, I guess it’s no more work for you but it’s not like you liked it there” 

“It’s a shithole” She laughs and it’s as tired and it’s brittle and it’s acid in the specific way that makes Martin laugh. 

“Yeah” He smiles “It kind of is, isn’t it?”

“You’ll be alright. You’ll be alright mom”

She doesn’t answer, just keeps staring out of the window in icy silence. He repeats it - though - because he needs her to believe it. He repeats it because it’s true, it’s a flag he needs to wave, they need to make it true. So he repeats it all the way home, while they walk into the lift — her arm in his and her eyes staring firmly ahead — and while he hands her a tea before she finally, finally, finally concedes to lay down and rest.

It’s when he’s walking out of the room that she finally speaks, soft and sharp amongst the quet.

“I can’t do this anymore”

Martin stops in the threshold of her bedroom and turns around. The shape of his mother in the darkness stares right past him but he can see her, taller than he once was and urging him to dance in a different, sunlit room a long time ago.

“What do you mean?” He asks. There’s a sigh. She’s tired. He 's tired. She needs to rest. Martin needs to make it work.

“The talking, the people, the work...”  She carries on, voice neutral and dispassionate. She doesn’t sound like she’s mourning it. She sounds like she’s just stating a simple, clear fact. The decision is made, assumed, accounted for “I can’t do it anymore”

Martin loves her so much.

“You don’t have to” He answers, feeling the desperate affection bubble and spill across the cheap lino of his mother’s bedroom floor “I’ll take more shifts, I can solve this, mom” 

He can. He can. He can. He’ll need to drop out of school for that. But it doesn’t matter, it’s not like he can, what, tell his mom to hold on there for a few years until Martin graduates? 

He can take care of her. She’s done so much already, sought a better life for them both across the sea — it’s now Martin’s turn to step up. What would school help with, anyway? It doesn’t pay the bills. Plenty of people drop off and finish later. Maybe, in the future, when they’re both more stable, he can just go back and try again. 

He can do it. He’ll solve this. He just has to try harder.

The world didn’t end. 

The world ended. 

In the depths of the Archives, three Archival Assistants sit around the breakroom table. The world’s saved. There’s no Archivist.  The world ended.

“What now?” Melanie speaks first. She’s leaning back against her chair, a fake  nonchalance to her posture that her voice betrays. Basira, hands against her glass of water, raises her head with only a slight wince. The aspirin she takes for her headaches lately must be making effect.

“I don’t know” She just says, voice raspy, bags under her eyes. The world’s saved. The world’s ended. And here they are, unlikely survivors adrift over the pile of wood they cursed the whole journey.

“But it’s done” Melanie insists, voice raising to a desperate pitch. Martin besides her says nothing and stares into the cup of tea she made him. It’s got too much milk. “Elias was arrested , the goddamn clow apocalypse was prevented. It should be over…  We should…”

She trails off and finally stops her babbling. Basira sighs and slumps further into the table.

“I don’t know” She repeats. “I’m sorry”

There’s a silence. Martin raises her head to peer wistfully at the cupboards. He’s too tired to do anything, though. He doesn’t want to get up. He doesn’t want to think . He doesn’t want to close his eyes and see Tim blowing into pieces, Jon’s ashen face…

Melanie hits the table.

“Goddammit!” She yells “We should be doing something!” 

Martin finally snaps.

“Like what , Melanie?” He snarls, tiredness bubbling into hot anger. He laughs without humor, even though the gesture reminds him of Tim, just a little bit  “It’s done. You just said so. We’ve done all we had to do, lost everyone we could have lost. What else do you reckon we should do?”

“We’re still here! Still trapped!” She yells “C’mon, Martin. Just because Jon…”

And oh, Martin hates her.

“Don’t you dare ” He hisses. Basira raises her head

“Melanie” She warns. Melanie’s shoulders relax, admonished, but she doesn’t let it go. Just changes aim, turning towards the woman with a plea.

“Basira, please, I know you can do this. We should...” And she trails off, deflated, everything seeping out of her. She doesn’t know what they should be doing, no more than the rest does. She’s trapped and she’s desperate but, this time, there’s no room in Martin for compassion. So he ignores her. 

“I…” Basira starts, then passes her hand against her face “I need to think. I need to...”

Mourn. She needs to mourn. And yet, just like Martin, she sits at a half empty workplace staring at a badly made cup of tea, tiredness holding her limbs down in this nebulous state of limbo. 

Martin touches her hand. It’s a small touch, an almost awkward pat that reminds him of Jon — how many times has the man extended his hand shyly, convinced no one would want his comfort? how many times has Martin sighed over the gesture, scared of reaching out himself and committing to the gesture, interlacing their fingers?

When Basira looks at him and nods, eyes glossy, he can tell she, too, remembers.

But why is he thinking of Jon as if he’s gone already? He’s still there, breathing, alone in a hospital room Martin can visit as soon  as he gets off work today. Jon’s not gone. Not yet. He’s just quiet, in a way Jon - with his mumbled thoughts under his breath while he searched for a file, while he tried to solve a problem, while he cooked - never really was. 

But he hasn’t lost Jon yet. Not like they lost Tim. Not like Basira lost Daisy.

“I’m sorry” he tells her. Sorry you lost someone you cared about too. Sorry you woke up to be the only one left. Sorry we weren’t there with you.

Basira smiles, a quiet and sad thing. 

“Me too” she takes a deep breath, recovers his hand to brush away the tear tracks down her cheeks, stands straighter “Thank you, Martin”

And he doesn’t fully like her, nor Melanie and they probably wouldn’t choose to spend their time with him if they had a choice neither but they’re all each other have left now. The last ones from the Archives, holding the fort. Until Jon wakes up because — and he repeats to himself fiercely, no other choice but to believe — he will wake up.

So Martin nods, then gets up to dump his cold, milky tea on the sink and put the kettle on. The world is saved. They lost Tim and Daisy. Jon isn’t dead. They got rid of Elias. 

Una de cal, una de arena.

“We’ll do something” He says, ignoring the tremble in his hands as he picks up the cups, as he turns to Melanie “We’ll sort it out, okay? It’s… it’ll be solved. Just, not now”

Melanie breathes in, out. 

“We’ll…” She starts, voice raspy, then buries her face in her hand and groans. When she comes up for air again, she gets up and walks towards the doorway.  “Right. I just--I just hate this”

Then she leaves.

“Right” Martin repeats “Okay”

He looks at Basira, still staring down at her cold cup.

“Tea?”

The world didn’t end. 

The world ended. 

Martin makes tea.

London is a foggy, dirty mess. London is where Martin can get a half decent salary and where the good, big hospitals can help his mum. London is where they move — boxes upon boxes upon boxes this time solely on Martin’s shoulders. 

His mom says she doesn’t care what stays, what moves with them, what they donate. It’s okay. It’s okay. It’s okay. But he knows, by the downturned press of her lips that he shouldn’t get rid of the salt lamp, her favourite mirror or the picture frames that belonged to her grandparents. His (admittedly few) things, on the other hand, are his responsibility and what stays or leaves is completely under his scope of decision. But all of it — it’s his responsibility. 

It’s nerve wracking. He’s managing movers, packing boxes and calling landlords in search of a cramped apartment that will be just possible . While looking for a better paying job, he’s treated as “sir” on the phone by the receptionist. He’s not a sir - he’s not a --a- a adult , for fuck’s sake. He’s just an idiot child playing grown up. A fake who has to keep up the act or otherwise everything would fall apart

He barely manages but finally, finally London becomes a reality and before Martin can realise - so caught up in the moving whirwhild as he is -  he’s in the middle of their new apartment at early morning, quietly unpacking mugs, sweaters and bedsheets.

Everything has a place in this new home he and his mom are building — a home, he hopes, will make her happier. It’s a little joy to set the plates on their new cabinet, to check the new (electrical!) stove the landlord installed, to finally finish with his mother’s things and be able to unpack his own. It’s not that he owns much but what he has he likes: some books, supplies for different crafts he’s taken up while in waiting rooms, a toy from his childhood…

He stops. Where is the toy? He makes a double take.  It’s not small, an elephant plushie his Tia Mariana gifted him, he should be able to spot it in his box.  But it’s not there. There’s only a couple markers left.

No, no, no, this can’t be possible. He rises to his feet and starts his search through the apartment. Maybe he just put it in the wrong box. That happens — he’s been so busy and so tired, it’s a reasonable mistake to make. Martin ignores the fact that his box was the last he unpacked and looks through the clothes, the plates and the toiletries anyway. He just…

He didn’t just… lose it. Not after carrying it in his backpack on that long plane ride when he was ten, not after hugging it to sleep all through his teenage years, not after holding it close the night after he dropped out of school. He can’t lose it, not after everything.

God. God. God. It must be somewhere — and he searches and searches and searches and it’s not, it’s not, it’s not and it shouldn’t matter because it’s just a toy, just a worthless toy his mother believes he threw out ages ago, something he shouldn’t be having because he’s a goddamn adult —

It’s three am. Martin has work tomorrow, work he can’t afford sleeping in for because it’s what gets them to live . And yet here he stands — the middle of the small living room of their new apartment in a strange new city — mourning a toy. 

He breathes in, out, and goes to bed. It’s just a worthless toy, it doesn’t matter. 

It does.

It’s Saturday and he has a visit to make. 

Martin stares at his mug. He should finish it and go. And yet, he’s still half dressed, too tired to actually rush out and too eager to see Jon, to touch him and reassure himself that he’s still  - in some cruel way - alive, that he’s not the mirage of a grieving man, bound to disappear the moment he looks away. 

He should finish the mug and go but instead, he stalls. He should probably bring something. Jon’s room is so cold, so bare. And flowers are so ephemeral, they’d wilt and die the moment Martin doesn’t visit. Jon deserves so much better - pretty rocks like the ones he used to rant about, letters upon letters of loved ones who wish him their best, company that isn’t quiet and melancholic like Martin’s tiny, pathetic present. 

He looks around for — something. There must be something he can bring. His apartment’s a mess but there must be something amongst the unmade bed, the half empty water bottles, the piles of clutter. Martin has never been a hoarder — he likes practical and easy, ready to pack when he needs to move away. Martin must have something important, personal, nice to gift to Jon’s bedside. His cat-shaped mug, the box of old CDs, the poetry books in spanish… they won’t cover it. Maybe they’re somehow pretty on Martin's shelf but they won’t be enough. 

He searches his own bedside and finds only a pack of stale gum amongst the hundreds of receipts he’s saved in hopes to keep a firmer track on his finances. Then, he moves towards the bed, pulls away the unwashed laundry to a chair. It already has an ever growing pile of unsorted clothes  but it doesn’t matter. Maybe one of the plush bears. But… it’s childish and it’s kinda weird, who gives a used plushie to a grown man?

His desk - a cheap plastic thing he bought off Ikea - doesn’t bear any results either. It’s ridiculous, he thinks as he scours through statements and research files he brought from the Institute in hopes of occupying his mind with something useful, it’s not as if he has anything of importance to give. It’s not as if he has a rich private life, full of mementos of better times past. 

And then Martin’s hand hits the mate cup. 

It’s so fucking stupid to get angry at a piece of wood but suddenly, he can feel the rage bubbling inside himself as he takes it in his hands, as he remembers the times he shared it with someone (Sasha in the breakroom, Tim on the pub, Jon on his office floor the night before the Unknowing, both of them cooped against the desk passing the cup back and forth, sipping it as if they don’t notice it could very well be a last meal), as he chucks it across the room.

It makes a dull thud against the wall and falls quietly on a  towel strewn across the floor.

Martin does his best to ignore it. Instead, he puts on jeans and a hoodie and stashes some files on his bag. Why does he keep the damn thing anyway? He’s run out of yerba mate awhile ago — what little left there is stays back at the Institute’s cupboard. Nonetheless, the thought of making himself some turns his stomach. He can barely get a bite down these days, he doubts he’ll handle mate well. Who knows if it’s even healthy to keep drinking it? For all he knows, the wikipedia pages he’s read on it could be a lie and it could be slowly fucking with his digestive system. Didn’t his mother always say he couldn’t handle strong food? Does mate even count as a strong drink anyway?

Martin should just stick to tea from now on. It’s not like he hasn’t already.  He should just get rid of the mate and straw, chuck them in the bin and be done with the stupid thing once and for all.

Backpack filled and shoes on, he glances guiltily toward the cup on the floor. It followed him all the way through the big move, that first time, across the ocean. It’s not like it matters and he should just get rid of it, at least to put some semblance of order in this cluttered place. 

Before he can convince himself otherwise, Martin grabs the wooden cup off the floor and throws it in the backpack. On his way out the door, he opens the cutlery drawer and does the same with the straw. He won’t find any use for either of them anymore but they’ll look pretty, waiting by Jon’s bed. 

Martin can’t bring himself to make Tim an altar.

His death has nothing to do with Sasha’s. He has a neat plaque on a cemetery, a family to rest flowers on his tomb, a full memory to fall back on. Tim’s a neat death - no messy edges to clean, no questions to ask.

Still, Martin should honor him. Martin should grab Basira and Melanie, should take them to the spot by the Thames Tim and him walked in sometimes, before. He should say a couple nice words, slip a prayer or light a candle in the man’s respect. 

And yet, he doesn’t.

He thinks about it when he wakes up. He turns the concept around on his commute, on the road to the hospital, by Jon’s bedside. He stares out at the window and wonders what Tim would have liked. 

(The answer’s nothing — by the end, he cared only about going out and going out in a blaze of glory. He was tired, deeply exhausted, of everything else. Sometimes Martin even thinks, bitterly and a little jealous, that Tim took the easy way out.)

He lays down on the bed, smelling of antiseptic and old paper, still without a made decision. Stupidly, he wishes he could ask Sasha. 

Martin’s nineteen years old and he’s exiting the metro when it happens. 

There’s an old woman on the metro exit, waving her oyster card and mumbling under her breath. She doesn’t seem to figure out that she should press the card in the reader to pass through and the crowd pushes around and past her with a collective, polite indifference. Martin watches for a couple seconds as she swirls around, backpack on her front, getting more tired by the minute as she looks around, as she searches for help-

Before he can realise it, Martin’s stepping up to her.

“Can I help you, Ma’am?” He says, as reassuring as he can. She turns around, looking puzzled, but points to the gate, its doors still closed “Here, let me help” 

He extends his hand and, without missing a beat, the lady gives him the card. He presses and lo and behold, the gate opens. He motions and the woman crosses. Before the door can close again, he presses his own card and crosses too.

“There you go” He gives the lady back his card.  She smiles warmly

“Gracias, gracias” She says and he does a double take. Pale angular face, with only the faintest splatter of freckles. Short and lean, looking up to him thankful, although resigned to not be understood.

He laughs in disbelief.

“No... es nada?” He tells her, feeling the words come through his mouth like used cotton. It’s been so, so, so long since he’s talked Spanish to another human being. It’s been such a long time of speaking at the mirror, clinging desperately to the books and the songs and the movies and the tidbits he pretended he couldn’t hear from strangers — 

“Ah!” The woman smiles widely “De donde sos?”

“I’m-” What a question that is. He goes for the easy answer, he might be from here now but that wasn’t always the truth “Nací en Argentina, señora. La Boca”

“Porteño!” She huffs a little amused laugh and extends her arm. He takes it and, like that, she walks them both outside. “Y qué hacés acá, hablando tan inglés, nene?”

He bites his lip. He does sound quite English, doesn’t he? He’s taken great pains to achieve that.

“Vivo acá, soy de aca, me mude de chiquito con mi mamá”

“Me parece muy bien, me parece muy bien” She nods her approval. They walk out of the station and she turns to him “Comiste?”

Martin blinks.

“Disculpe?” He’s probably much too tired from his morning shift because he really doesn’t understand where the question comes from. 

“Comiste?” She repeats without missing a beat “Hace un calor bárbaro y lo mínimo que puedo hacer es invitarte un café y una factura. Bueno, un scon, porque este país de ridículos no conoce las facturas”

Martin blinks again and nods slowly, feeling a joy bloom inside his chest at the kind offer.

“Me encantaría, gracias”

Her name is Beatriz (“Bea, por favor”), she’s lived in Spain for the last twenty years and although her wrists are thin and her back hurts she stands tall and walks forward with effortless determination, cane on her hand and thin rimmed glasses over her sharp eyes. She’s a widow, doesn’t have any children and hasn’t seen her family since she left the country. Martin grows quiet at that — he knows the feeling but doesn’t dare share so.

They sit in a nice café on a forgotten corner, sipping coffee with a dash of milk and staring out the window in companionable silence, an old woman and a young man. To any passerby, she could very well be his grandmother. Martin munches on his scone and lets himself, just for a second, believe so as well.

The care home looks the same as it always has.

It’s a pretty one - Martin supposes that’s why his mother chose it. The lobby is white and sterile yet brimming with plants and pictures of happy residents. The door that leads to the common rooms is pure glass and is framed on the sides by (faux) decorative columns. Past it, he can peek into the people calmly walking around, many towards the garden in the back.

Martin only hopes his mother was happy here. 

“Mr Blackwood?” A calm voice says, jolting him out of his thoughts. 

“Yes?” He asks and turns towards Susan, the receptionist. He knows her the best, she’s the one who picks up his calls and tells him - after a polite waiting time - that his mother is too indisposed to talk. She’s always been kind about it and Martin - although mortified every time he sees her face to face - appreciates the white lie.

“You can come in now, luv” Susan tells him quietly. Martin nods and walks towards the glass door, holding it open to let her pass first. She answers him with a small, sad smile “Thank you, luv, how polite. I’m sure your mom was very proud”

He just nods again, a knot in his throat. He knows for a fact she wasn’t. She taught him manners and hoped for the worst.

Susan leads him through the common room (wide, spacious, wooden floors and sofas and chairs and a small radio chanting away on the corner) and up the stairs towards the first floor. They walk down the hall towards the very end, where his mother’s bedroom door sits next to a charcoal portrait of Marilyn Monroe. 

Martin stops and stares at it, brain somehow fixating on the smudges across the woman’s face and cheekbones. Marylin stares back, sultry smile unmoved by the scrutiny. 

From behind his back, Susan clears her throat.

“Everything alright there, Mr Blackwood?”

“I—” Martin shakes his head, both flooded by the cowardly wish of running and hiding under his bed, between someone’s arms and a foggy, exhausting nothingness “Did--” He starts, then quiets. Susan behind him doesn’t pat his arm, doesn’t hug him or tell him it’s okay but she does hug encouragingly, politely nice as always  “Did she like it? The- the picture”

“Oh” Susan says, sounding thoroughly stunned. “I wouldn’t know, luv. She never brought up her décor tastes to me” 

Martin nods, feeling intensely foolish.

“Right”

“Let’s come on in, okay?” Susan proposes gently. God. He’s probably wasting her time, musing about the décor, wondering if - what? If his mom liked Marylin Monroe or not? 

“Of course” Martin replies, because they should get on with it. His mother’s dead and he’s here questioning his mother’s taste on Hollywood actors. Typical of him to fixate on the most pointless things.

They open the door - the bedroom’s clean, at least. Not like Martin’s right now, back at his apartment. There’s no towels thrown across the furniture and the bed is bare. There’s a mug and some books on the bedside table and an old time TV connected to a dvd player by the door.  

It speaks worlds of how nonexistent his presence in this room has been, that Martin is so surprised to see the wide window. It shows the garden at the back and the nice rows of houses behind it, trees upon trees upon trees until they muddle on each other and blur in the horizon line. 

Martin knew, rationally, that there would be a window. He’s seen the pictures, he’s noted down the characteristics over and over again, he’s hired the place. Though, now can he sees the way the mid morning light falls gently over the bed and breathe in the air and he can’t help it — he  wonders if his mother ever truly looked out, if she read contently with the last rays of dawn or if she just never truly looked. Martin looks at the window in this nice room and sees the hours of extra shifts he took, the overtime in the library, the shallow pangs of guilt over his budget when he bought a nice meal. And he did it all willingly, he did it all because she wanted to be here and he wanted to make her happy.

Susan softly brushes his shoulder with her hand. 

“It’s normal to be overwhelmed” she says “It’s hard for family, to see the space after a loved one leaves it empty”

Martin doesn’t mention his mother has left an empty space all his life, the two of them the negative film of a picture perfect family.

“Thank you” he says instead. Then he walks into the room, perusing the small porcelain figures on one of the shelves, the pretty wooden box where she kept her jewelry under key, the couple framed pictures of the English grandparents Martin never met.

He opens the wardrobe — there’s not many clothes here, she never kept much after getting sicker and sicker, no matter how much Martin insisted he could help her dress up if it’d make her feel better.  He looks but doesn’t dare touch the dresses, chemises and dress pants amongst the pajamas and sweatpants. His eyes are drawn towards the small metal box at the bottom of the drawer, by the shows, and he peers curiously at Susan.

“Oh, it’s still under the code she used” She answers nonchalantly, as if it’s normal that his mother would keep anything in a safebox. They never exactly owned diamonds or gold or wads of cash they could save for a rainy day. Most times, on rainy days they just flooded and hoped for the best. 

“What’s in there?” He asks and kneels in front of it, suddenly curious. Susan shrugs, although she looks somewhat excited herself.

“We can restart it and find out” She says, walking besides him to show him how “It’s yours now anyway”

She kneels  in front of the box, too. Martin coughs when a bit of the woman’s grey hair swings past his mouth. The lady pays no mind to it, clicking her tongue while she presses the right buttons and finally opens the safe, only to reveal nothing else but a small key inside it.

Martin shakily takes it.

“A little bit of a quest left by your mother, eh, Mr Blackwood?” 

He chuckles a bit, feeling the start of a dull hope twisting inside him.

“I guess so, yeah” He croaks around the sob rising through his throat. With great effort, he shakes it off and smiles politely at Susan’s encouraging grin “Al-Although I think it’s not that difficult. She- she had a” He rises to his feet and walks towards the bedside table “A jewelry box, see?”

His mother didn’t like dressing up — resorted bitterly to comfortable clothes the sicker she got. But she did like make-up, she liked putting on her earrings and brushing her hair and peering at the mirror with a satisfied smile. It was one of the few times she let Martin pamper her without protest, handing her perfume and braiding the knotted, wavy strands with the help of a comb.  He’s always thought it was where they could connect, where they could understand each other, this small happy bubble in which love was given and received without reproach.

How many times had he handed his mother this same key — Martin thinks as he brushes his fingers over the dips and valleys of the box? How many times has he watched her delicate yet steady hands do the same motions he does now, key in lock, the click from inside, the gentleness to open for the treasure within?

Martin holds his breath.

It’s his mother’s jewelry box. There’s her earrings, a pearl necklace, a silver ring. There’s a lot of bijouterie — small and restrained, nothing colorful or beaded. Some mascara and lipstick, too, sitting besides a pocket mirror. Their brush isn’t here — it shouldn’t even matter, it wasn’t anything special and Martin knows they care home supplies their elders with plenty of toiletries. She probably threw it away at some point. 

“All okay?” Susan asks

He doesn’t turn to look at her, he keeps his eyes down, stares into the box, ignores the way his vision blurs.

“Everything’s just as always” He says.

It’s just his mother’s jewelry box, key locked in the safe because she didn’t trust the employees and thought they’d steal something.

What did he expect? A letter addressed to him, apologising for her coldness and distance? His baby teeth, alongside a picture of his toddler days? Her old wedding ring, implicitly left to her beloved son, the bright spot of a marriage that failed?

How laughably naive of him, after all he’s learnt and seen, to expect anything in this room to signal him as his mother’s son.

—-

Martin’s nineteen and - for the first time in his life - he’s in a London nightclub.

He’s supposed to go out, at his age, get absolutely plastered and pull shenanigans out of a story his friends will tell for months. He hasn’t really tried alcohol much and he doesn't have any friends to hang in a nightclub with but — well. He can try. He can try. He is trying.

The lights swarm around him, enveloping him while he shyly treks through the sea of people, taking it all in. So this is where the London Latinx community meets, this is where they mingle, where they dance. It’s obnoxiously normal - a fact that’s shocking after getting his courage to come here for months - except from the fact he can hear bits of Spanish everywhere he goes. That certainly is… dizzyingly surreal. Like a mirage of a life he could have had if he cared more, if he tried more, if he was allowed…

He shakes his head. He’s here to have fun. And.. he probably needs a drink.

The bartender - sporting a beard and a neon shirt- spots him as soon as he walks towards the bar and smiles his way.

“What can I get you, kid?” He asks, drumming his fingers against the bottles before him. Martin jolts to a stop and stutters, uncomfortable with being so suddenly perceived after blending in for so long.

“Uh, I don’t—” God, you can’t tell him you don’t know , Martin, he’s working, you’ll only bother. He scans the blackboard besides the bar, littered with chalk doodles and stickers “A rum and coke?”

“Ron con cola, done”  The bartender nods, and the little clip on on his right ear bounces with the movement. His lashes are long and the dark freckles on his cheeks contrast nicely with his pale skin. He’s quite handsome, isn’t he? Martin immediately chimes himself for the thought — the man is working and he’s not here to-to-to

A jostle besides him interrupts his train of thought. A woman with ….. barrels into the bar smiling. 

“Ey, Manuel!” She shouts and leans over the bar, without paying attention at the crowd of people squished around her who - to be fair - don’t bat an eye either. 

Manuel keeps making Martin’s drink but turns his head slightly to greet her with a (louder) shout and a big grin.

“Quiubo, parce?“

“I’m fucking starving!” The woman whines, elbows on the bar table and cheek over her hands. She’s got her hair in twists, dyed bright blue, and she’s wearing a band across her chest that says something in Portuguese “I need chips!” 

“I’m making a rum and coke for this one” Manuel says and points to Martin ’Paciencia, Lou, ahorita lo hago” 

Lou sticks out his tongue at him playfully. He adds a litany of curses, then, one that Martin can’t quite discern but he can certainly sense

“Vai tomar no cu, Manu!” She exclaims, but there’s no ferocity in her tone, only fondness. Then, to Martin’s surprise, she turns to him and smiles warmly “Forgive him” 

“Um, what?”

“Forgive him!” Lou repeats, pointing at the bartender  “He haven’t got a clue”  

Martin blinks. He’s sure she means well but he feels rather caught in a spotlight, now — part of an internal joke he won’t ever get.

“A clue of what?” He asks carefully. Lou’s smile gets wider.

“Of anything, love, the man’s Colombian” 

Manu, still working on the rum and coke, curses some more. Lou turns around to him.

“You can’t even insult properly!” She teases “Did you ma teach you that or was it public school?”

Martin’s jaw hits the floor - his heart stops and he feels himself blush with something very akin to jealousy.

“You went to public school?” He asks Manu then immediately blushes some more because — this man isn’t his friend , these people are just joking around, they’re not seeking Martin’s opinion, interest or judgement

“Right!?” Lou says, delighted, as the other man walks over with the rum and coke. Martin rushes to take it from him and sip, desperate to do something  “Born and raised here, our Manu. Proper English citizen.”

Manu rolls his eyes.

“It was paid for by my parent's employers as compensation for their move, stop trying to make me sound posh” He says, then directly to Martin he asks “Do you think I’d be serving rum and coke if I were that well off?”

Martin’s suddenly aware of how he thrifted the shirt he’s wearing, how he’s rushed to the nightbar from one of his three jobs, how little he knows of the music blasting through the club’s speakers.

“Right” He says, and quickly tries to divert the attention off himself and onto Lou  “Uh, what do you do?”

“I’m a teacher!” The woman says with a smile, and bites one chip off the plate Manu has summoned to her  “Bah, I was one back home. I’m a custodian now. I’m trying to get my certifications to count here sometimes but it’s a bit of a nightmare”

“Home?”

“I’m Brazilian.” She says  “What about you?”

What even is he? A patchwork of places he’s seen and wishes he’s had and things he’s missed, that he’ll always miss. He’s not in the soil he was born in and - if you look within - he doesn’t even have the roots to prove that where he comes from, if it was real, that he’s proud.

“I, uh” He’s got nothing to be proud of. Who is he kidding, invading these people’s space like he has any right? They know who they are, they know where they come from, they know what they want. Not like him. Never like him  “I need to go” 

Martin doesn’t belong here. 

He leaves. 

Peter Lukas lies. Martin knows this, rationally.

But the thing is — what Elias couldn’t understand, couldn’t put into words, Peter Lukas can. It’s like he took one look at Martin and broke him down to his bare, most pathetic essentials. 

He catches Martin  on Jon’s bedside mid-lullaby because of course he does . There’s no time to raise from his chair, bristle and tell him to fuck right off. He’s too drained, too tired, too surprised.

“ Oh, Martin ” Peter Lukas says and maybe that’s what cuts him the most after, that he didn’t even try to express disdain or cruel amusement, not the way Elias would. When Peter addresses him, it’s with pure, unattached pity.

Martin ignores him. Breathes in. Out. Looks at Jon’s dear darling face and wishes fervently, not for the first time, for its eyes to open. Martin doesn’t even have to see it - he can go blind, he can stay with his back turned like some talentless Orpheus. Martin would renounce to see that face ever again if it meant Jon would wake up.

But Jon doesn't. And so, Martin sings. 

It’s stilted and raw and his voice wavers around the words, self conscious of Peter Lukas’s quiet presence. The man says nothing, just watches him dispassionately, sits down on the chair with a stiff, uncomfortable motion. Martin watches him from the corner of his eye, mildly suspicious and mildly resigned. It’s not about him, anyway. 

It’s about Jon and it’s about the words. It’s the melody he’s half forgotten, rescued from the deserted halls of his memory. Who sang this to him? Did they hold his hand the way Martin holds Jon’s? Did they try to warm him up as well? Who cared like this, for him? The memory is fuzzy. Does he even remember? Did it even exist or was it just a dream, something he sang to himself to sleep on cold nights?

“Poor little Martin” Peter whispers. He ignores him and stares straight ahead, Jon’s limp hands between his “Singing a dead man lullabies in an a dead tongue”

Martin stops. Within himself, he finds the fury to bristle.

“That’s latin. You’re head of a research institute, you should know better”

Peter laughs at the pathetic attempt of snark. It’s dry, the laugh of someone who’s doing it just for a social script he doesn’t really care about.

“I didn’t say it was dead to everyone, though. Just dead to you. Are you even saying the words the way you should?”

Is he? Or is he consoling himself on the memory of he once had, holding it up in an mismatched altar of nostalgia and desperation?

“Does it really matter?” Martin answers, both to Peter and himself. 

The other man smiles sadly.

“No, I suppose it doesn’t” He then says nothing else. And he stays.

Martin just looks at him, his nonchalant posture, his presence greying the room further. He’s much too tired to play mind games, to politely circle around the questions he wants to ask, offer a drink and a handshake, the British way. He’s tired and Peter Lukas is intruding anyway  — what does a Avatar of The Lonely like him want with a half dead Archivist and the man hopelessly hoping by his bedside?

“What are you doing here?” He asks. 

“Oh. I can wait until you’re done”

“I am” There’s no room for Peter Lukas in Martin’s sentimental raptures. This is not for him. “What do you want?”

Peter doesn’t raise from his chair but he does lean in.

“I want to make you an offer”

If Tim was alive — if Tim was like before — he’d crack a joke at the phrase. But he isn’t and Martin doesn’t. 

“What do you want?”

“That’s the thing, isn’t it, Martin? It’s not about what I want” Peter points at the bed  “Aren’t you tired of lying around, wasting away while the Archivist slumbers on?”

“That’s none of your business”

Peter falls silent, then looks straight at him. 

“He won’t wake up, you know” He says and there’s no cruelty in it, no intention whatsoever. He states it because it’s a fact. 

Martin tenses his jaw, looks away.

“What are you even hoping for?” Peter asks “The Archivist — he’s dreams , Martin. I want to offer you reality ”

Martin huffs out an icy laugh.

“Yeah, sure . You’re not just looking for an easy meal, you — the avatar of the fear that thrives on loneliness and known recluse —  just want to help me ” It’s easy to say the first thing he thinks of when he’s this tired. It’s easy to not care about the consequences, no need to watch his own words. He doesn’t care.

Peter doesn’t get offended, doesn’t bristle. He smiles and it’s every inch as unsettling as if he’d threatened murder. 

“No, I don’t” He says slowly “I want you to help me ’

Martin swallows.

“And what do I get?” 

“What do you want?” Peter retorts. Unthinkingly, Martin looks at Jon. “Not that. I’m sorry. That’s out of my control”

Martin bites his lip. What does he want? He’s tired. He wants a nap. He wants Jon to wake up. He wants mate to taste like something comforting again. He wants his mother’s love — find a letter, a posthumous message that proves everything Elias showed him was a lie. Martin wants a shower, wants to sleep and never wake up and he wants — because at the bottom of his heart, he’s still a fool— everyone to be okay. 

“Protection” He says slowly, savouring the words, the way Peter’s eyes shine with something .

“If everything goes alright, you’ll be protected” 

“Not for me” Martin says, finding that notion a little bit funny. He doesn’t give a shit about himself, doesn’t Peter realise? “ The Archives. Melanie and Basira — when the Flesh attacked us you did nothing ” 

“Neither did you” Peter adds calmly.

“But I can do something now, can’t I?” Martin ignores the sting and carries on “You want something from me, Peter? You protect the Institute, you stop taking employees, you protect Basira and Melanie. If Jon doesn’t wake up…”

“Oh, Martin”

“ If Jon doesn’t wake up , we’ll need it. They’ll need it. Protection.” Martin finishes, feeling the dull thud of his own heart hammering against his ears. He doesn’t want to make a deal. He wants to do something. He doesn’t care about Peter Lukas. He wants Jon to wake up, he wants Basira and Melanie to be okay, he wants to sleep for a thousand years, he wants quiet .

Peter stares. Then, slowly, he raises from his seat and extends his hand.

“You’ve got yourself a deal, Martin”

Martin doesn’t move his hands, keep clutching onto Jon’s.

“Not yet, no”

Peter — for the first time since he’s met him — glares . It’s got no passion in it, just frustration and put upon pity, like he’s staring to a toddler holding onto his favourite, half shredded toy.

Martin finds it in himself to fear. 

“If Jon doesn’t wake up” He promises and wants wants wants “I won’t — three weeks. I won’t wait forever. Give me three weeks'’

Peter’s demeanor shifts back to cold, wholly and thoroughly disinterested. He walks towards the door without a word then turns around. The fog at his feet raises, the hum Martin didn’t notice before shrilling louder and louder. 

“Ten days, Martin.” Peter fixes his coat before walking off “Unfortunately, it is a time sensible matter”

The fog leaves with him. 

Martin stays behind, looking wistfully at the last tendrils waltzing through the chair’s feet, grazing the doorway before finally leaving. He stares at that spot for a long time, Jon’s limp hand between his and his mind much too far away.

“Ten days” His voice is hushed like a prayer amongst the deafening silence “I know you can do this, Jon”

“Peter Lukas lies” Martin says out loud. And yet, he can’t find it in himself to care.

The Magnus Institute looks more imposing than Martin feared.

The feeling doesn’t diminish when he walks through its lobby, a steady crescendo as he’s led through the hallways towards Mr Bouchard’s office. This is ridiculous - this is not the first job interview he’s been in, he knows how to go through the motions, knows the smiles and the careful steps caged in ever-present british politeness, knows his mother’s voice in his heard urging him to modulate your vocals so the accent is not only more indisputably english but also, more respectable .

Although this is certainly the first time his first interviewed under his ,uh, inaccurate CV. He’s made all the efforts possible on his appearance - he’s clean shaven, he’s ironed his dress shirt and his trousers and he’s tamed his hair as much as he could although it’s only made it frizzier.

God how do parapsychology majors even speak?

“Just in here, Mr. Blackwood” Rosie, Mr Bouchard’s assistant, says. She looks at him kindly but something in her eyes is way too inquisitive. For a brief moment, Martin stresses the possibility that she knows he’s lying about his age and his major and his everything—

“Thank you, Rosie” He smiles, forcing that specific train of thought to a stop. How could she know? She’s just the kind lady managing the reception. 

“Good luck” She says and leaves. He doesn’t even have time to thank her, as she quickly turns the corner. He sighs. Okay, nothing to it. He raises his hand to knock and before he can do so, a voice answers from inside.

“Come on in”

Martin knows the motions and - between the pleasantries and the dull, standard questions - the interview with Mr Bouchard passes by in a blur. 

He’s laying back on the (quite ugly and uncomfortable) chair, more relaxed. He likes the groove they’ve got going and Mr Bouchard (“Call me Elias”) is polite and amiable. He’s not out to get him, his mannerisms aren’t vicious and he doesn’t look to catch Martin off guard with tricky questions. All in all, the experience is far more pleasant than anything Martin has lived in retail.

They’re nearing the end of the interview when Elias, who has been following word for word Martin’s mental scrip - raises his head from the paperwork, looks straight and him and asks with a smile

“Taking a look at your application, I see you’ve marked your race as “Other”’ Martin’s blood runs cold but he nods “Middle Eastern?”

He shakes his head with a humorless laugh. 

“No, sorry” He smiles as politely as he can. He needs this job. He needs this job. He needs this job “Uh, my mother is English. My father is Argentinian. Hence...”

He motions awkwardly to his face. 

“I understand, my apologies” Elias joins his hands on his lap, still smiling amiably. Martin nods again “As we receive public funding, I have to make one more question, if you don’t mind”

 This is the point where he asks some bullshit, made-up scenario to test how Martin will solve it or inquire his intentions with the Institute aside of “i need money to eat”. This is the point where Martin exaggerates his academic curiosity, where he shines as a diligent worker who won’t step on any toes, won’t take the spotlight. This is the point of the interview that - if he does everything well - will get him this job.

Elias lays back and looks straight at him. 

“Where are you from, Martin?”

I’m from here - he wants to say. Regular English man, who drinks tea and complains at long queues. Nothing much here to see. But he’s plagued by the sudden, panicked sensation that Elias will know , he’ll know if it’s a lie. He knows he doesn’t belong - not the way he , with his prim suit and tie, does -  he can see it in his face and in his paperwork and in every public record littered across the bloody country.

“I was born in Argentina” The truth spills from his lips and he does his best to smooth the painful edges, to make it professional, respectable, brilliant “But I moved here when I was a child. It doesn’t — it won’t impact my performance in any way.  It hasn’t. I was raised and educated through and through by the British system and -  I’m really interested in the work the Magnus Institute does as both an English citizen and a professional”

He finishes his tirade and holds his breath, back straight, chin up. Not so loud, Martin . He lowers his shoulders a bit and smiles at Elias, who is watching him unblinkingly.

“Must have been hard, moving here so soon after the war” He comments so low it’s almost a whisper. 

“Excuse me?” Martin asks, taken aback.

“The Falklands war?” Oh, he thinks — that’s right , he thinks Martin is ten years older than he actually is. He wasn’t even alive during the war, moved to the UK almost two decades after it happened. Elias doesn’t seem to notice Martin’s slip and stands up, moving around the desk to extend his hand. “It’s been a pleasure, Mr Blackwood. Rosie’ll will be touch with you soon for the paperwork”

Martin stands up after him., feeling breath slowly return to his lungs. He smiles earnestly.

“Likewise.”

A week later, Martin starts working as an Assistant Librarian at the Magnus Institute.

If it wasn’t for the tick of the clock, Martin would say the Archives are completely silent.

It’s not for lack of people — he’s checked — since Melanie mutters away in Document Storage still, kicking away at boxes. It’s better that way.  She’s a switchblade these days — pushing and pushing and pushing at Martin’s buttons like she wants him to hurt, rip his stomach apart and slash at his guts. She was never specially tactful but she’s become more vicious lately, her company a sharp edge he’d rather avoid. Frankly, she’s being an arsehole, it’s tiring and he’d much rather be alone.

Tick. Tack. Tick. Tack.

Martin passes a hand through his face. This fucking clock. He hates it — it’s too loud, too distracting and reminds him way too much of the time that’s running out.

Time 's running out.

He should probably tell someone. He doesn’t want to — for what, to be judged, looked down? To be hit with cruel disdain, to be stared down with an ungrateful stare? Basira and Melanie — they’re new. They don’t understand. They haven’t lost what he lost.  They keep dividing the world in monsters and good guys like there’s any fucking difference, like it can fucking matter. 

With a sigh, he stands up and walks towards the breakroom. Why should he tell them? Melanie and Basira don’t give a shit if Jon lies still — where the weight of the world finally crushed him. They think he’s already a monster. They think they’re an exception because they’re still human or whatever

He opens the fridge and gets out the jug of water he’s left earlier. Maybe they’d just be glad to get rid of him. It’s not like he’s been useful on their monster-slashing or whatever the hell Basira is off doing. 

Martin downs the water in one go. Honestly, he makes many excuses but, the truth of it all is that he just doesn’t want to talk to them.

Before he can even feel something about the thought, he’s interrupted by a cough. 

“Oh” He says, upon registering the site before him, quietly sitting in the breakroom table and nursing a paper cup “Hello, Basira.”

“Hi, Martin” 

“Have you been here for long?”

She shakes her head.

“May I ask…”

“Busy” She cuts him, going straight to the point and, as always, saying nothing “Gathering intel, the like”

“Yeah” Tick. Tack. Tick. Tack. Tell her. Why should you tell her? What can it change? Look at her, sitting on her chair sipping on crappy coffee and with bags under her eyes, running herself ragged because she can’t fathom the chance to trust the only people she has. He’d pity her, he’d reach out, he’d try to befriend her but, honestly, Martin’s too tired to give a crap. “I can imagine”

Basira’s hands on the cup tighten.

“Listen, Martin, it’s not personal -”  

“No, I know. You’re just away from the Institute for days and tell us nothing” Why does he even care? Let Miss Ex Cop crash against the ground with her plans and hide herself from the world because she’s way too busy to grieve properly. That weight on her shoulders doesn’t belong to her and they both know it.

“I’ve got it covered, I can do this, we need the protection this intel gives us” 

Automatically, he’s opening to argue that they’ve got Jon, they’ll have Jon but as soon as the thought appears, he can feel his own disbelief towards the thought, clouded and bitter.

“Yes”  he says instead and it sounds very far away to his ears “I understand”

They both fall silent and Martin turns towards the kettle, turns it on out of habit. Turns it off. 

Jon won’t wake up, will he? He’s dead. Martin has to take the deal. He has no other choice — not if he wants to make himself into something useful, not if he wants to protect the others, not if the only other choice is to wait for doom to come to his doorstep and laugh at the lonely, pathetic man waiting.

Tick. Tack. Tick. Tack. 

He wishes he could get a drink — go out to the pubs, do enough shots to spill his guts and tell his pathetic, unresolved issues to a friend. One spare glance at Basira from the corner of his eye makes him laugh bitterly at the dumb, naive desire. Who would he even speak with?

God , he wants to see Jon smile. 

He wants to listen to Tim’s ridiculous rambling.

He wants to be seven, run through the neighbourhood without a care in the world. He wants to eat medialunas and play truco on the grass under sunny weather that stays sunny . He wants to listen to people fire Spanish back and forth and he wants to understand every bit of it. He wants to be Martín, that little boy he murdered because he couldn’t do enough, couldn’t be enough. 

The sob catches in his throat, spills half heartedly through his mouth like a quiet procession— he lets it. he’s mourning everyone lately, so who cares? Let’s mourn them all. 

Let’s mourn Martin’s grandparents who never got more than a call per year from their grandson past the age of eleven. Let’s mourn the kids whose faces he forgot, whose names are scratched off his brain like unspooled tape. Let’s mourn the country he left good for dead and didn’t care enough to even keep in his memory like a faithful widow. 

Martin’s let them all down. His mother — who he could never be english enough for, who couldn’t even listen to her own son without being stung by venom. Sasha — who Martin doesn’t even remember enough to fucking honor , lazily thrown altar everything he could offer. Tim — martyr in a burning cross, who deep down Martin still resents.

And Jon.

Jon who marched to his death. And Martin just watched him go quietly, the same way the god that tortured and bound him still does. Jon, loved and so dear and still not thoroughly gone yet.

Jon, who Martin can’t even help wake up. Jon, who’ll never wake up. 

From behind him, Basira clears her throat half heartedly. Martin turns. She’s still sipping her cup, deep in thought and it’s looking straight at him. He’s got the distinct impression that she doesn’t even see him — just the shell of the pathetic useless man she doesn’t deem important enough to share her plans with. 

“And what about you? Any news?” Basira asks.

Martin thinks about Jon’s bedside, quiet and still. He thinks about his empty apartment, impersonal and not home in that same empty  way every place he lives in is. He thinks about Peter Lukas’s deal, a clock ticking, and the loneliness right at the center of his core, cold heart in his hard fist.

“No”  He says, his voice neutral and dispassionate “No, everything’s the same”

This feeling? It’s how he’s always felt. He’s just fought against it, tried his best. But it was never a fight he could win. It’s the same as always but Martin’s just got himself a new perspective: one in which he doesn’t care, not really, on what happens to him.

From the corner of his eyes, he sees a yellow door. He doesn’t turn around, lets Melanie deal with it while Michael Shellew’s clean handwriting swirls in his mind’s eye. Expendable .

He cares about the rest of them, of course he does. Of course he still loves Jon, of course he wants Basira and Melanie safe. But they don’t need him , not safe, not there. Jon’s bedsite doesn’t need him, broad and anxious and cold, fretting besides it. The Archives don’t need five cups of tea a day and his high pitched complaints. He’s okay with that. He can use that. He could knit a good plan, once, take all the weaknesses in his character and make them useful.

He can do it again. He can use those delicate bones of his body for a better cause. He can grab the feelings - every miserable reality - of his existence and twist them into power, a power that changes things. Peter Lukas is a liar but Martin is, too, and he can recognise a good deal when he sees one. Peter won’t be his salvation. Martin won’t be anyone’s hero. But he’ll be useful and that can change everything.

After three years of procrastinating the chore, Martin finally gets around to unpack some of the boxes they had kept laying around.

It’s not that he doesn’t know what’s in them. He’s taken a look when they first moved - just enough of a glance to realise it’s miscellaneous knick knacks that weren’t a priority and that, to be honest, he didn’t know where he could put them.

Good thing is he can take a proper, thorough look today and - well - probably bin half of its contents. But today is a good day. He sent his resignation to both the café and the fast food, he’s taken the liberty to buy cherry tomatoes from the groceries and his mother smiled at one of his jokes onn dinner then went to sleep without many complications.

He makes himself a cup of tea and lays on the floor quietly sipping at it while he slowly takes things out of the box. There’s a couple paints they’ve never used, a tacky venetian mask, a ship in a bottle (that hasn’t broken by some miracle), his mother’s cousin spare Christmas tree he gifted them ages ago and some Pepsi bottles from 2008 that they saved for recycling and never threw away. It’s nice . There’s nothing trascendental here. 

He spares just a second of disappointment when he realises - even though he’s checked here before - that his old elephant plush isn’t here either. 

Well, that was a nice little adventure. They’ll probably donate and dump most of it — except the ship in a bottle. He wants to have some decorations in this house.  He takes the boxes, puts them face down and shakes to get out any crumbs or dirt they may have inside. Instead, what falls down to the floor is a yellowed, thin sheet of paper. 

Martin stares at it, brow furrowed. The small postcard of La Boca — with El Caminito front and center — stares back, unphased.

This is the thing — for all he’s sought and clawed desperately to the bits and pieces of the home he left behind, Martin never wanted the impersonal, touristic content. Every time he googles Argentinian news or even pictures he actively scrolls, ashamed, by the ads proclaiming “5 Best Places In Buenos Aires to Visit” or the youtube videos that promised “Here’s to talk Spanish Like A Real Argentinian”. He’s embarrassed enough about how much he’s googled recipes — not that he has the time to properly try them. But most of what he can find online (apparel, kitschy caricatures of gauchos, Hollywood movies that falsely proclaim there are millions of Germans in Argentina somehow) makes him cringe, every time. 

This is how he knows the postcard laying on the floor isn’t his. 

Did his mother…? For an impulsive second, he opens his mouth to ask her. And then he closes it again. No. No. Of course not. Why would she? And if she were, it’s better to not interrupt her slumber. He can just… pick it up and find out.

He doesn’t right away. He’s frozen, stunned, taken aback. He’s afraid. He doesn’t know why..

Slowly, very very slowly, he kneels and delicately picks it up. He takes a second to admire the picture on the front — pretty, good ol’ and crowded Caminito, with tango dancers and watercolor painters posing and preening for the tourists. Then he turns the postcard around.

Buenos Aires, 20 de septiembre del 2006

Querido Martín:

¡Feliz cumpleaños, Chucho! ¡Ya tenés 18! Bueno, aun no, pero espero que esta postal te llegue en tu cumple ¡Debés estar de alto! Seguro que estás ocupado pero cuando puedas, llamanos. Seguimos teniendo el mismo número de siempre, el de línea. Se te extraña. Mandale un beso a tu vieja, también, y portate bien por ella. 

Te amamos mucho, nene. 

Tus Abues

Su y Hugo

He didn’t even know his grandparents sent him postcards. 

He didn’t even —

God, when was this? Why didn’t he see it? Why is it here, buried amongst useless shit?

He’s standing up, walking across the flat and opening his mother’s bedroom door before the reality of the situation dwells in. He stops.

His mom probably just forgot about it. 2006 was a hell of a year, with him working full time and preparing to move to London and his mother going to treatment after treatment. She probably saw it and forgot after he, tired as he was, never even noticed. 

He had spent his eighteenth birthday on a fourteen hour shift. 

Martin breathes in, out, and goes to prepare another cup of tea with the postcard still clutched to his chest. He has this. He has this. He has this. 

The water is already lukewarm so he turns on the kettle. Why does it even matter? It’s not like he can answer. His grandparents are dead, both of them, he got as much on one of his sporadic calls back home. Martin’s struck by a sudden pang of guilt and grief. Maybe, if he’d called more…

This is it. This is what he has, this is what it is. This is how it’s always been. He reads the postcard again. The words are crammed against the tight space on the back, blue ink scrawled over the credits and date of print. He takes it all in. It’s his after all. The proof that someone fiercely loved and remembered him.

The kettle whistles and he makes himself a cuppa. 

If this was a story and not reality, Martin would’ve felt something different in the air that morning.

Reality is quite different — there are no signs when he wakes up, chugs down a cup of plain tea, dresses quickly on his way to the Institute. People walk around him, barely touch his elbows, barely step on his feet as sways in his quiet, airy pace to the Institute. Maybe his own steps remind him when he was careful with the creaky floorboards, scared of waking his mother up. The little flash of memory isn’t a sign, though, just a painful reminder of what he is, what it’s always been.

He scurries into the Institute and up to his office unnoticed, paying no mind to the tendrils of fog swirling denser than ever around his ankles. 

“Hello, Martin” Peter says as soon as he steps into the room. He’s standing - a bit menacingly, a bit awkwardly - besides Martin’s desk. He’s not sitting on the chair, never has, even though he’s technically the Institute director now. He’s not even situated on Elias’s weird Victorian walnut chair although that’s probably a smarter decision. The thing is awful.

“Peter” He says, sitting beside his desk and not looking at the man beside him. If he’s gone through the bother of coming here and bringing his bloody staticky chill with himself, he’ll tell him whatever he wants to tell him in his own time. Martin’s not here to babysit him through it.

He takes out his laptop instead and turns it on, mind already drifting to excel sheets and admin work someone feels too good for doing lately.

“I’ve got some… interesting news” Peter says and pauses, as if waiting for Martin to inquire, to insist, to care . The thought is amusing — he’s long past caring about what Peter wants to say when it’s not statements or explanations. This is clearly neither. “I expect you’ll be… happy about it”

This does pique Martin’s attention, just as his heart flutters with a whisper of hope he rushes to smother. He raises his eyes and Peter’s looking straight at him with the same dispassionate indifference but there’s something, a flicker of grit behind the fog of his gaze.

“It seems like the Archivist finally decided to wake up from his nap”

The Lonely doesn’t stop time. It just shushes it, cradles and stretches it like the old pieces of taffy Martin chewed on his childhood. It tastes sweet at first, but soon enough the pleasure of the repetitive motion becomes automatic and then it’s nothing , a dull empty flavour stuck like cotton ball into his mouth. The Lonely, for Martin, is about the comfort of chewing, keeping him busy until he either spits it out or chokes on it.

Needless to say,  piercing through the fog and the chill and the emptiness, Martin feels something stuck on his throat.

“Ah-” He just says, raspy and tired and altogether more emotional than it ever should. Peter stares. What reaction does he expect? Does he think Martin will drop down in sobs, that  he’ll rebel in a sudden blur of curses and kicks, that he’ll run to the hospital to see Jon’s dear face blink awake? “I-”

Maybe something inside him wants to do that, maybe it’s actually happening deep within a corner of his chest, maybe the part of him that remained hopeful is capable of that. 

“Alright” Whatever reaction Peter expects, Martin doesn’t - Martin won’t . “Is that all?”

Peter narrows his eyes. 

“Surely you want to know more…”

“Not really” That, at least, is true. It stings, to be painfully aware of the lifeline that tugs him towards Jon’s bed. Knowing the man himself is up and about, the cord becomes a wretched, desperate purpose “Our deal is still up. Jon will return to the Archives, I guess, and you’ll … take care of him the way you had with the others”

“Oh, I don’t believe Elias will be too happy if I take care of your Archivist”

Martin looks sharply up at him, unamused

“You’ll protect him”  stumbles out of his mouth even though Peter already knows, there’s no need to underline it, there’s no need of — “You’ll let no harm come to him”

Peter smiles.

“Oh, there it is” He chimes pleasantly, as if he’s correcting the attitude of an impatient toddler “This impulsiveness… it’s no good for your progress, Martin. We have a deal, remember? The Archivist waking up doesn’t change that”

Breathe in, out, chew on it until your face is neutral and the harshest of your emotions are soothed.

“Then keep your part of the deal” Martin says. “And I’ll do what I have to”

Peter doesn’t answer, just tilts his head curiously.

“You know he won’t come to you, don’t you?” He tells him and there’s no malice at all in his voice, just the cheerful certainty of those who comment on the obvious “Not truthfully. Maybe the curiosity, the morbo, the loneliness will drive him, maybe he’ll even insist but… he won’t come to you ”

Martin turns to his computer. Okay, they’re probably done if the man wants to play the game of unamusing observations.

“That’s none of your business , Peter” He tells him. From the corner of his eye, as he types absentmindedly, he can see the man adjust his coat 

“Maybe not” He says, fog kissing his knees “I just thought you’d appreciate the reminder” 

“Is that all?” Martin asks but only silence answers. He says nothing, waits for the other shoe to drop with tense shoulders and stares at his computer until the screen goes dark, until the chill climbs through his throat back into his mouth, until there’s nothing else but him and the boring calm of his office.

Then, when he’s finally sure he’s thoroughly, comfortingly alone, he lets his head collapse on his hands.

Fuck.

The Library is certainly quieter than retail. 

It’s not like it’s not work — Martin thinks the Institute should get around to paying overtime with the amount of extra hours everyone has to pull. But, in a sense, it’s also quieter. Stable. He can have a routine that makes sense, can keep his lunch on a tupperware on the fridge, can chatter with Rosie or Hannah in the breakroom knowing that - if he forgets something- he can tell them tomorrow. Honestly, he feels like an adult.

He’s on his feet most of the day and yet — he likes it. There are no customers, just shelves upon shelves upon shelves and the occasional Institute patron or researcher who needs help. It’s peaceful. He can come home to his mother and help her out with a smile and go to bed knowing tomorrow he’ll do it over and over again, that he’s stable . 

It’s a slow day today. He’s navigating the shelves — musing over what he needs to pick up at the grocer’s for dinner — when the quiet in the Library is promptly disrupted by a firm, yet enthusiastic greeting.

“Hi!” The woman speaking has light brown skin and dark curly hair. She’s holding folders up to her chin but, even half hidden by the plastic, Martin can see she’s smiling. “Sorry to bother you, I’m from Research and I was sent with…” She points to her cargo “This. I don’t know what for, though”

Automatically, Martin smiles.

“I can receive it, it’s no problem” Martin has no clue either but he can just hand it to Edith, who is a pro at cat-herding researchers. She probably knows what’s up. He extends his arms “We’ll just go over to the helpdesk with it. Can I help with…?”

He points to the top of the point of the pile, balancing quite precariously on the researcher’s arms. She’s tall and seems to be able to handle it but, well, she probably can’t barely see over the pile of folders. The least he can do is help lighten the load.

“Yeah, sure”  She hands a bit to him and he’s on the process of taking it when, offhandedly, she speaks again “Gracias”

He’s barely registering what she’s said when he automatically answers

“De nada” Martin freezes at his own words. Is she…?

The researcher’s smile went from polite to bright 

“Ey! I knew it!” She cheers, switches her now small pile under an arm to use her free hand to clap him on the shoulder “I knew it had to be you!” 

“Uh—” Martin blinks slowly “What?”

“Rosie did tell me but she never really clarified”  The woman carries on, even though her words make no sense . Martin’s brain is restarting “She said it was about privacy or whatever but eh, it’s just because she’s a gossip and she doesn’t anyone else to know what she does”

What?

The woman finally stops and properly looks at him. She must notice his confusion because her intensity lightens a little, something gentler and careful in her eyes.

“Ah, sorry, I did accost you mid-workday, didn’t I?” She says “I was just excited. Rosie mentioned they’ve hired an Argentinian but she never told me who is was” 

“I— I’m”  God, why does he feel so seen. Pull it together, Martin . He awkwardly extends a hand to shake hers “Yes. Uh. I’m Martin!”

“Sasha!” The woman smiles “It’s really nice to meet you!”

“Y-Yeah, likewise. I didn’t know there was someone else here from…?”

“Latin america? I know ! ’Even if it’s a different department, it’s still so exciting!”

“Yeah” Once the shock has passed, it kind of really is. Someone just… knows . “Where are you, uh…?” He flinches at his own words “ I never know how to ask this question, sorry,  It sucks when they ask me ”

Sasha waves it off.

“Trust me, I know ” She says, then points to her chest proudly “Cuba, baby. I’v been amongst the Brits for awhile.”

“Well, I’m..” God, can he say it? He can. He can try. “I’m Argentinian. Although you knew that. Been here for a longer time than you, probably. Not like, uh, it’s a competition or anything...”

Sasha’s eyes twinkle with humor.

“You’ll have to tell me about it sometimes. Do you think I should ask for a transfer to the library?” Martin gapes and she laughs it off “I’m just kidding! I love my job. Which, reminds me...” She shifts guiltily, then looking at the folder of her arms “I should probably get these back to my place. They’re not really for the Library, sorry. I sort of used them as an excuse to find you?”

She looks so unashamed and yet so ridiculous , standing there with a pile that she brought as an excuse of all things that Martin can’t help — he laughs, suddenly warm and light .

“What—” He can’t even finish the phrase, another giggle coming out. He pulls himself together  “What did you expect to do if I wasn’t who you thought?” 

Sasha smiles smugly.

“There was little chance of that, to be honest. And, if I failed, then the Library would just have some spare folders about Vampirism and the nineteenth century…” She makes an oopsi face “... that’s why I didn’t tell you my name upfront, actually.”  

Martin has to give it to her, the woman’s strategic .

“Ah, that’s smart” 

“Yes, it is!” Sasha raises her chin, then leans to take the folders Martin is still carrying even though he shouldn’t. Oh lord. He can’t stop grinning “Con permiso…”

“All yours” He hands them to her and, once again, she’s got her face half hidden by plastic. Even then, he can tell she’s smiling proudly.

“It was very nice to meet you, Martin” She repeats, then turns around to navigate the shelves back to where she belongs. Martin watches her duck around the corner and hears her cheerfully add “Welcome to the Institute!”

“Gracias, Sasha” He answers softly. She can’t hear him but it’s alright.

They won’t meet much through their years in the Institute — different departments, strange schedules and Martin is much too busy off-work to suggest drinks or anything — but every time he passes Sasha on the halls, she smiles in a warm, conspiratorial way that says I see you.

Jon wakes up. Jon speaks to Martin. Jon tells him he misses him.

It means nothing.

Martin walks into his office, rapidly cooling mug of plain tea in hand and sits on his chair to work. He turns off his computer.

Martín walks into his office, hands in his pockets and sits on Elias’s horrible chair. Martin, still typing, pays him no mind as he adjusts himself, over and over, with a scowl.

“There’s no way of being comfortable here, is it?” Martín protests, changing position. He stops with a sigh when he receives no response and looks at the Martin who is still typing with frustration “Eh! Can you look at me, please?”

“I don’t really want to”

Martin snorts softly.

“Yeah, we both look like shit, don’t we?”

“Jt doesn’t matter”

’Oh” Martín falls quiet, leans on the chair with a sad expression on his face. When he speaks again, it’s less amused, his voice mournful and forlorn “You’ve lost hope, haven’t you”

It’s not a question.

“I-” There’s no need to lie, not here. There’s no need to make sense of the fog and static swirling inside Martin’s head  “I just don’t care . I need to keep busy. There won’t be a happy, hopeful ending for me. Just a purpose to fill. I need to do what I need to do.”

“You always managed to dream for both.” 

“Don’t kid yourself” Martin retorts and points around his office “This is how it’s always been. This is how it’ll always be. I was just… avoiding the truth” 

Martín burrows into his chair, stares and says nothing. The silence stretches itself and sticks itself on Martin’s throat, cold and finite like the end of a paragraph. Full stop. Close the book. Let fantasy vanish. 

Martin looks at the still figure before him then to his statements. This is reality. 

“Right” He nods. “Right. Nothing’s changed, really. I just got tired of pretending”

They stay there, in the quiet, one in front of the other, while Martin works away paperwork after paperwork and the fog swims around their ankles.

Martin finds the old wooden mate cup on a “decorations” box he never got around to unpack.

He looks at it for a long time. It’s unbelievable — the fact that it’s here, a bit scratched and wonky but still whole, still useful . God. 

It’s so dumb. He’s emotional over a piece of wood.

Martin gets to his feet, cup in hand. He couldn’t find the bombilla anywhere so he guesses that is lost. He hasn’t the faintest idea on where he can find one — he barely knows any place in London that sells yerba mate but, well, it’s a big city and hipsters are all the rage. He’s sure some white guy with black frames has found out about the South American drink and decided it was “cleansing” or something like that.

A quick google search tells him that, indeed, several hipster tea shops also sell yerba mate. But, also, it tells him there are like, so many different brands and people - specially argentinians and uruguayans - are very touchy on which is better. He sighs. Eh, well, he guesses he has a bit of money to set aside for experiments with different types.

The bombilla is trickier but he finds an uruguayan online shop soon enough. He’ll try his hand at ordering yerba from there someday, probably, but Martin has to admit there’s some thrill in setting aside a sunday morning to go out to the shops and buy himself mate.

He’s excited. He’s scared shitless. What if he hates it? What if it turns out he’s intolerant to the drink because of age or something? It happens with lactose intolerants — one day they wake up and bam, no more dairy. It could happen with… what do mate leaves have anyway?

Focus. This is not going to happen. He’s fine. He’s just fine.

He hears some coughs from the bedroom and his panic soon vanishes in stead of going in aid of his mother. Nonetheless, the hope warming his heart never leaves. Martin will drink mate again. It may not be much, it may not be special and it’s a small thing but — it means something.

The Archives are quiet.

Half lit by the office’s lightbulb, Martin stands silently. Through the ajar door of his office, Jon sleeps, hunched on his desk, a troubled expression on his dear face and it moves and twitches. He’s not still on a hospital bed or shrouded by tons and tons of dirt.

He’s alive. He’s alive. He’s alive.

Shrouded by fog, Martin watches. 

You just want to love him from afar . And what if he does? What’s the cost of this love, that keeps him breathing, that keeps him useful, that keeps Jon protected? What else could Martin expect from all of this — the world falling and maybe ending and always moving on as normal. The streets outside are bustling with activity — rush hour, people coming back home. Jon sleeps in the Archives and here he’ll stay. Martin will watch over him and resist the urge to see him.

He’s no hero — he’s resigned to that, long ago. There’s no expectations, no future awaiting for him. The fog is quiet and it’s heavy but, truly, this is how it’s always been. Martin on the sidelines, learning to let go. Loss is funny like that.

Jon snores a bit when he sleeps - it’s a quiet whistle yet it conquers the quiet room, makes it his. This is where Jon belongs, where he’s made a nest for himself, a home of paper and responsibility and pilfered fear. Martin’s heart aches a bit — cries that he deserves so much better, deserves warm sunlight instead of neon bulbs, deserves a little less weight — but Jon’s loneliness isn’t his business. It never was. 

He walks out of the Archives, towards his office.

Martin had a home, once. 

“I had a home, once” He repeats to the mirror one morning. It’s a very dramatic sentence. But it’s the truth. His reflection - the face that lies about his age at work and tries to stay strong for his mother at home - returns a desperate smile.  “I had a home once, I can have it again”

This, he doesn’t believe quite as much. But he tries. He’ll try.

Years later, into the depths of the Lonely, hands trembling as Jon’s steps fade through his office threshold until they disappear, Martin understands that the best way to make someone feel like they don’t have a home is if the memory of having one slips through their fingers.

We could go away, together. 

Sometimes, if Martin closes his eyes, he can see a place. 

It’s only a dream.

Chapter Text

The cottage is dark and quiet.

Martin isn’t scared of the silence anymore: he’s learned better - its hands, those that once spread out to empty unaware crevices of his body, will only touch him if he keeps still. 

And so he moves and so he keeps busy. He dances around the kitchen while he waits for the kettle to boil, pours the water into the cup, chases the tea until he can pour it into the water. Then, without losing movement, he walks the long, unassuming hallway of the place they’ve causally called home until finally, finally he reaches Jon — the only home Martin will point to and fully mean it.

“Jon?” he calls before opening the door ajar “I’ve brought you tea.”

In the center of their bedroom, his beloved lays. He’s tired. He’s had a tiring day. He can barely raise his head towards Martin’s greeting.

“Martin?”

“ Oh, Jon… ” it comes out barely as a whisper, heart aching for him. “It’s okay, I’m here.”

Jon’s brow furrows. He looks pained. He's so tired. Martin wants to comfort him, wants to make it better. 

He comes closer, puts the cup on their bedside table and leans over to embrace him. Jon burrows into his arms like a drowning man seeking air. Martin wishes it wouldn’t be this way, that the gesture would come to them as easily as sharing an evening instead of pain and desperation.

He kisses the crown of Jon’s head. 

“We’re here, Jon. We’re here” He reassures him, feeling the words raspy and secretive against the enormity of their watchful house. “We’ll be okay”

They can’t stay here - Martin knows it as he watches the tea jump from the cup and run back towards the kitchen in a blurry dark shape - they need to start walking soon. They need to solve this - because there must be a solution amongst whatever’s left of this ruined world. And even then, maybe there’s nothing else but hope.

It’s enough.

It’s when the cold rush of the autumn air hits his ears that Martin realizes he’s, in fact, alive. 

His first reaction is a faint, pathetic shiver.

Jon at his side turns around, quiet eyes attentive and caring as he looks him up and down, as he steps into Martin’s personal bubble like it’s nothing, as he fixes Martin’s scarf with a faint, imperceptible touch. 

He’s a bit ashamed to voice - or not, because he says nothing, because he hasn’t said anything for quite awhile so what’s different now - that he wants nothing more than to feel the touch. And at the same time, he wants nothing to do with it, wants to step back from wherever he came and disappear, vanish from existence so everything can just stop .

Jon steps aside, scarf fixed. 

It’s not that cold anymore. 

Consciousness comes in bits and pieces. He navigates the London streets, steps into his own apartment, runs into a station and then onto a train and he doesn’t understand what’s going on. He should be dead. He should be dead. He should be dead .

But he isn’t. And - amongst it all - Jon holds his hand firmly and tugs him forward. 

Like an anchor - something whispers and it could be Beholding. It could be the Lonely, reminding him of what he can’t have and shouldn’t. It could be Martin himself. 

It doesn’t matter. 

Everything feels fuzzy, a half dream intertwined with a padded reality (duermevela, the poet within him would whisper if there was anything left, anything at all).  If Martin believed there were any gods left, he’d think them cruel for the harsh knock that jolts him into full awareness. 

He jumps up and out of the bed automatically, ready to stuff the door with a towel or the sheet or his clothes - anything would do, to keep the worms out. 

Then he realises.

This is not his room. This is not his bed. There’s no Prentiss waiting behind the door and if it were the case, Jon would have -

Jon.

He sprints across a foreign hall, takes in a strange, cushy sofa and wooden furniture, peers into a kitchen with plenty - if a bit dated - appliances. Jon isn’t here. Jon is supposed to be here, he got him out of the Lonely, for god’s sake, held his hand the whole way out and led him here. He can’t be gone.

“Jon?” He calls out, the sound raspy and wobbly. 

Martin braces for the worst.

A beat later, the front door of the cottage swings open and there he is - tired and in his pajamas and yet safe . Jon’s eyes sweep around the room wildly.

“Are you alright?”

“I was about to-” Martin takes a deep breath. Safe. Safe. Safe “Ask you that. There was a knock - a thud - and I thought -”

Jon’s face reddens.

“I, uh, I knocked over one of the potted plants outside” He signals to his hand, where a cigarette hangs half smoked from his fingers. “I was, uh—”

“Oh” Martin reddens, too, at this. He wakes up and his first impulse is to be clingy when Jon just went out to have a smoke. Good one. “Are you alright, then?”

Jon’s answer is instant, eyes wide and mouth open, half breathless.

“Yes” He says, softly. He doesn’t stop looking , it’s so heartfelt and so much “Yes, Martin, definitely” He repeats himself, sounding more composed. Then he lets out a dry, bitter laugh “In the sense there’s no immediate danger. I’m a bit wound up and tired at the same time.”

Martin nods. It’s all a lot, isn’t it?

“I can get that” He says.

Jon keeps looking

“Could you get some sleep?” He asks and there’s a familiar worried edge to his nonchalant tone.

“I—I don’t know?” He says, tries to move a bit in place, trying to pin down the feeling, trying to realize what the hell he needs. “Fuzzy”

Jon nods, like he understands. Then he balances from foot to foot and awkwardly points to the porch.

“I was- I am - trying not to get the smoke smell inside” Martin nods. Jon keeps his nervous juggle. “If you’re not too tired. Would you— would you come with?”

He doesn’t doubt for a second. 

“Yes”

Jon smiles.

The porch of Daisy’s Scotland Safehouse isn’t much. Except it is , modest furniture giving way to the wide, dark expanse of hills upon hills upon hills. If it weren’t for the faint, solid hint of mountains against the stars, Martin would think sky and land had melted together all around them.

Jon sits besides him. They’re grazing each other but barely touching — Martin doesn’t know whether or not to be disappointed about that. Everything is too much. He’s awake. He’s asleep. He’s not dead. 

Jon smokes, staring ahead. The smell of tobacco is sweet and clings but it’s the sharpest sensation Martin has right now. So he watches and watches and feels and doesn’t realize he’s speaking before the words are out of his mouth.

“Can I?” He asks. Jon looks towards him, surprised. Martin points to the cigarette in his hand. Jon furrows his brow.

“You don’t smoke” He says. It’s neither a question or an accusation. He’s simply stating a fact. The passing remark sparks the small, furious feeling that Martin exists .

“No, I don’t. It’s bloody awful” He confirms. Then he grins. “Give it over, please?”

Jon does, a puzzled expression still on his face. When their fingers brush, his eyes flutter briefly and something inside Martin wakes up at the sight.

He draws the cigarette to his lips and takes a hit. 

The coughs afterwards force him to breathe, force him to feel. It’s good. It’s painful. It’s quiet. 

Martin’s alive.

“Jon” 

“Yes?”

“Where are we?” And isn’t it strange, that he hasn’t cared about this before this very moment? That even now, the only reason the question pushes forward is because of the stars and the sky and the fresh chilly air the smoke clings to?

Jon takes a moment to answer. 

“Daisy’s safehouse” He says, finally. Then he wets his lips anxiously  “We’ll be here for awhile - Basira wants us to lay low”

Lay low. Like criminals. Martin can’t find it in himself to be surprised or upset except —

“Fuck, I don’t have any clothes” He realises. 

Jon takes in a sharp breath and raises a hand anxiously. 

“I, uh” He stops and hunch on himself. “I packed for you”

“Oh”

“Yes, sorry, I hope I wasn’t intruding -” Jon hides on himself further and further, flooded by the guilt of, what, caring about Martin’s well-being even when he didn’t care about himself? Being unwaveringly kind to someone who hasn’t looked him in the eye for months? 

Martin doesn’t know many things right now but he knows he can’t stand this, the way Jon’s already small frame shrinks and shrinks like he deserves to reduce himself to nothing.

“ Jon” He interrupts and the man looks up just when Martin says. “Thank you” 

Jon’s expression turns serious, yet it’s earnest when he speaks.

“Anything, Martin” He smiles then, eyes slightly teary and before Martin can respond he’s looking away, pointing at the scenery around them. “It’s- it’s quiet out here. I think you’ll like it. For the poetry”

Martin laughs softly.

“That’s where your mind goes?”

“I mean — with the stars and-and-the nature…”

“Sure, Jon” He smiles.

“It just sounds like material for a poem, that’s it”

“You’re not wrong” He agrees, admiring the way Jon’s flustered expression scrunches his nose and furrows his brow. One day, maybe, Martin would have described it thoroughly “I don’t know how much poetry I have in me, though”

Jon looks at him, face now serious. Martin smiles sadly.

“It really is beautiful out here, though” He comments and means it “I don’t think I’ve ever seen that many stars”

Jon smiles back, equally tired, infinitely more mournful.

“Me neither” 

They stay quiet. Silence drags heavy and tired like boxes yet to unpack. Adrenaline has thoroughly run out and in its place there’s grief, there’s guilt, there’s exhaustion. Time stretches and the cigarette passes back and forth until it’s the last hit and Jon turns to him when their fingers brush yet again.

“Martin” He calls gently “Do you — want to talk-”

“No”

“That’s alright”

Silence stretches once again, slightly more awkward and there’s a itch inside Martin that needs needs need s so he speaks, softly. 

“Thank you, Jon”

Jon doesn’t answer. He reaches - carefully, like he’s scared Martin will vanish or draw away - and takes his hand. And so they stay, watching the expanse of the endless sky above them, the quiet company ringing between them like a rusty old bell.

The moment Martin steps out of the chrysalis, consciousness cuts sharply through his senses. He knows there’s grass under his feet and also knows grass wasn’t always this, putrid, pungent crimson tint. He can tell - by the way Jon’s eyes unfocus - there’s far more sinister things lurking, squirming, devouring under the wet ground they walk. Martin squeezes his hand and so they trot forward, shoulder to shoulder. They navigate the hills, step through warehouses and warfare, run through the dampness and the dryness - should they even coexist this way, he ignores - and cross a distance that shouldn’t be possible under an Eye in the sky that does nothing but watch. 

They encounter no person. Jon takes statements from thin air and Martin watches the light dim in his eyes, every time, and tugs them forward nonetheless. 

They should be dead. They should be dead. They should be dead .

Mentally, he tries to describe the sensation. If the world after the Lonely felt fuzzy - glows and shapes bleeding into each other, no clear outlines - the world after the Eye feels detailed and present in a way that makes Martin itch. The landscape stretches before him like a hyper realistic painting, where everything looks real but slightly to the left. And then, suddenly, it assaults his senses: a jolt from the wilderness, a brush of a domain spreading towards them, the furrow between Jon’s brow - they trigger a feeling akin to turning on the brightness of a screen suddenly. It’s too much. It’s just reality before his eyes.

Martin forces himself to not ask how it must feel for Jon.

It’s not the first time Martin has the privilege of watching Jon sleepily sip his tea first thing in the morning. It’s the first time he’s had the freedom to just look - if only because he can feel Jon’s eyes on his, steadily looking back. 

The tea is a little bit shit, all in all. Old and cheap, found stashed on the bottom of Jon’s borrowed coat. They’ve got to get groceries at the little shop down in town later. Jon mentions the chore in passing, as if this is an everyday affair, another tidbit to sew on the patchwork quilt of their daily routine and cover themselves with. Martin can’t stop thinking about how wrong all of it feels. He doesn’t belong here, not at a calm cottage at Jon’s side, sun warming their faces through the windowsill while they calmly take breakfast. He should be dead. He should leave Jon alone - spare him the misery of Martin’s half baked presence. He should—

“ Martin ” Jon calls, loudly, startling him out of his thoughts.

“Yes?”

“I was asking if you’d be alright with taking a walk later” He says, eyes quiet and searching. He’s holding his mug on his left hand, the one that Jude Perry didn’t burn, and when he speaks, it wobbles slightly. 

“Oh” Martin nods. It doesn’t sound bad. It sounds like another liberty he shouldn’t take “Yeah. Sure”

Jon peers at him worriedly. He bites his lip, looks around nervously before quietly speaking again.

“Something on your mind?” he asks slowly. 

Martin freezes. 

“No”

Jon doesn’t look like he believes him. Maybe it’s because he Knows. Maybe it’s just because he knows Martin. 

“Are - are you sure you don’t want to-?” He insists and it’s the care on his face that does it, that delicate look on his eyes as he stares at Martin like he’s worth a damn. Anger bubbles on his throat

“ I said no”

Jon doesn’t bite back. He just looks and it’s only caring and mournful and tender.

“Alright” He simply says and Martin can’t deal with this, he can’t, he cant, he can’t

“Why are you being so mellow with me?” He cries out, standing from his seat and throwing his hands to the ceiling. Jon doesn’t flinch, doesn’t startle, just furrows his brow bewildered and that’s even more infuriating.

“Excuse me?” 

“Why-?” The words choke in Martin’s throat. “Is this some kind of pity move, Jon?”

“ What? ” He can hear Jon say but it’s too much, the words are rolling out of his mouth and he can feel the tears start to well up on his face and he’s angry — so so angry and so tired and — 

“I don’t know why you’re still here or-or- why you’ve decided it’s somehow okay to be here with me, drinking tea and making plans for later” Like everything is okay. Like Jon wants it. Like Martin deserves it.

Jon doesn’t answer for a bit, looks down to his mug, takes a deep breath.

“Do you want me to give you space?” He asks quietly. 

“No!” Martin cries out “Yes! I don’t know! I just…”

Jon sits in silence. And Martin is on the tightrope, balancing between the right and wrong of his past actions, one feet in front on the other and trying to avoid looking down and confronting that maybe — maybe — he deserves to fall into his demise. Maybe he deserves comeuppance. Maybe he wants Jon to deliver it. 

“What do you want from me, Jon?”

Jon’s head shoots up and finally, finally, he reacts, shoulders tense and mouth in a straight line. He refuses to answer.

When the laughter comes out of Martin’s mouth, it’s dry and shallow. 

“Oh. Okay. Nothing” He says “I get it”

“No, Martin-” 

“Okay! Okay! I get it!” And he does. He really, really does “You’re a good man, Jon, and this is one of your-your- guilt driven moves” He smiles, trying to reassure him, trying to ignore the tears he can feel welling up in his eyes “Although I have zero idea what help keeping me company in a safehouse in-in- bloody Scotland can make but…” He laughs again “Maybe something against the Lonely? Is that what it’s about?”

Jon shakes his head but he’s coiled and tense and isn’t that a comforting sight? Isn’t that more familiar than the off-putting tenderness Martin definitely doesn’t deserve?

“I’ve told you Basira…” Jon starts but Martin interrupts before he can finish.

“Yes, she told us to fuck off from London but she didn’t tell us to fuck off togheter, did she?” He spits out. Jon crosses his arms, stubbornly defensive.

“You weren’t exactly—” He says. Then he stops to huff. When he speaks again, his voice is clinical and neutral “You were out of it, Martin. It’s just logical we stay…”

Martin laughs. 

“Oh, yes. Well. There’s no logical reason anymore. Now I am- I’m me. No eldritch interference. Fully me.” He looks down at his own mug, half full and probably cold by now “Or as much as I could be me, as much as there’s left but it isn’t much…” 

“Give yourself time…”

“That’s rich, Jon, that’s very rich.” He snarls, throwing his arms up in the air “And you still haven’t answered !”

“Because it doesn’t matter—”

“It does!”

“It doesn’t, Martin!” Jon is standing now, he’s raising his voice while his hands, palm up on the table, shaking “ You weren’t well! You aren’t well - and don’t start, it takes time to just - and I-” He breathes in and out, slowly, trying to calm himself. When he speaks again, his voice is calmer, more leveled “You’re the priority here. Do you want me to give you space? Do you want me to-to-” 

He stops. Swallows. Closes his eyes. He’s totally, utterly defeated and Martin feels worn out and disorientated. The world has lost its sense and understanding and he needs to push, to seek the edges, map them out with his hands until they cut.

And so, quietly, Martin presses.  

“What if I say I want you to leave?”

Jon blanches. 

“Do you really want me to…?” He asks and he can’t even finish the phrase, choosing to collapse on his chair instead. He looks horrified. Martin regrets everything, instantly. “I can’t do that, Martin. I can— I’ll do anything but please don’t ask me to leave you alone, not like this.”

“Why?” 

“It’s for the best-”

“Why?” He repeats but Jon stays quiet. Then, louder “ Why?”

Jon’s still, so still . He looks like caught prey and there’s nothing but steely resignation when he stares straight at Martin, who can’t help but look away. It’s too much.

“Don’t make me say it” Jon says softly “Not when you can barely stand to look at me”

It’s all too much.

Martin breaks. 

“I-” He collapses onto the table, elbows kicking against the ceramic and hands hiding his face. “ I left you, Jon ”

“You came back” Jon replies and Martin doesn’t deserve the way he tentatively reaches across the table to caress his elbow. Against himself, he leans onto the touch. 

“ I left you ” He yells and now he’s crying and the truth of the statement makes him ache, makes him want to disappear “Why would you—”

And suddenly, Jon is here, has made his way off his chair and around the table to drape himself over Martin’s back tightly. He holds on and holds on and holds on and Martin doesn’t deserve this— 

“You’re here. You’re with me. It's alright” 

Why does he care? Why does he keep looking at him tenderly, why does he bury his face against the crook of Martin’s neck, like he has to hug him lest he drowns?

He doesn’t understand. Martin needs him to understand - for his own well-being.

“You needed me”

Jon presses closer.

“It doesn’t matter”

“I treated you like shit — I pushed you away”  

“And yet you cared” Jon removes himself but doesn’t scoot away - simply readjusts his position besides Martin. Then, softly, he takes his face between his hands and directs it so they’re facing each other. Against all possibility, he’s smiling “You— you saved me, Martin. So many times. In so many ways”

“I didn’t, though” Martin retorts “You had to— to come get me out of the shit I made for myself, Jon. That doesn’t exactly count as saving you”

Jon honest to god rolls his eyes . It’s such a surprising expression to see back on his face - a reminder of another time, another life - that it hiccups a startled huff out of him.

“Goodness, Martin” He says, fingers absentmindedly drying the tear tracks on his face “Stop sounding like I did that out of the—goodness of my heart or something” 

And then, suddenly, the fond amusement in Jon’s expression becomes serious determination. 

‘‘I— I will say something. And I want you to know there’s no - no expectations out of it. I won’t say it ever again if you don’t want me to. I just— I need you to understand, I need to explain—” He cuts himself off and closes his eyes. When he opens them, his brow is furrowed and he proceeds to let go of Martin’s face, hands dropping onto his lap instead “Alright?”

Martin nods, face still wet.

“I— Alright.” Jon takes a deep breath “There was no chance I would have let you disappear into the Lonely, Martin. I just — I can’t, alright? I couldn’t.” He stops, peers into Martin’s face as in for approval. When Martin nods, he wrangles his hands together and proceeds.

“I just. I want you to be okay, Martin. I just want you to be okay — more than okay. Always. And it’s- it’s selfish. It’s not guilt and it’s not— pity or compassion” Jon smiles “I just love you, Martin. I’ve loved you for a long time. Just like that.”

The silence stretches then, sticks on every surface of this small house they share like a dream Martin’s mouth has never confessed aloud.

Jon - eyes calm and expression oh so fond - simply watches him.

When Martin speaks, his voice is raspy.

“Just like that” 

“Just like that” Jon repeats solemnly.

The sun warms their faces. Martin wants to run. Martin wants to embrace Jon and never let him go. He does neither.

Instead, he rises to his feet and makes a point of helping Jon up from where he’s crouching on the floor. He ignores the grateful look he receives for the simple gesture and picks up their cups and plates instead. He puts them on the sink and turns down the water.  Jon follows him quietly, taking the cloth rag to dry as he washes. Their hands brush when Martin hands him the clean cups. 

It’s quiet. It’s comfortable. It’s utterly terrifying. 

Amongst the quiet hum of the tap and Jon’s pensive humming, the words feel safe enough to claw out of Martin’s throat. 

“I’m not sure how much there’s left of who I was anymore” He says quietly. There’s nothing of the early desperation in his body, just a quiet resignation. Exhaustion. 

Jon smiles sadly.

“I can relate to the feeling”

Martin bites his lip. 

“I might— you’re attached to a concept, a person that doesn’t-” He starts saying but Jon cuts him off, brow furrowed.

“I’m bloody well not. I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t explain how I feel, Martin”

“Right. Sorry.”  Martin crouches his shoulder and fixes his eyes on the plate he’s quite forcefully brushing against the sponge. From beside him, he hears Jon sigh.

“Is it so difficult to understand that I just do?” He murmurs. He sounds tired and Martin’s heart aches “I’ve— I understand if it’s not— reciprocated. And I’m sure it’s difficult to… live with someone like me. I know what you’ve heard. I know what I’ve done but…”

Martin snaps his head towards him. 

“Really, Jon? You think that’s the problem— that I just find you repulsive?” He asks disbelievingly. He’s met with silence - Jon’s eyes open wide and earnestly. Bloody hell. Martin can’t help the wet laugh that comes out of him “Jon, it feels like I’ve loved you forever”

Silence. Martin looks back at the plate in his hand and scrubs it more than necessary before handing it to Jon. Their hands brush again. Martin’s face burns. He takes the last mug to wash.

From beside him, he hears Jon cough. 

“Oh” He says. He seems to have suddenly lost his speech “You, um. You do.”

“Yeah” Martin turns off the tap, cradles the cup on both his hands and turns around. And there is Jon - bun half undone and flyaway strands of his dark hair falling over his face. Glasses sliding off his face even though he doesn’t need them anymore. Small, dazzled smile as he stares straight at Martin’s face with something akin to wonder.  “Of course I do”

Martin hands him the cup awkwardly. Jon takes it. Neither let go.

“Well” Jon says, a dry chuckle slipping past his lips “I’m sorry”

Martin rolls his eyes.

“Yeah, it’s not sunshine and roses” He snarks. Jon doesn’t miss a beat, eyebrow raised. 

“Well, I apologise for the chore” He retorts.

“You’re ridiculous” Martin pushes the cup towards him, biting his lip. Jon scrubs it absently.

“And you’re being oddly confrontational for someone declaring their—uh” He looks down then peers up hopefully at Martin again “affection”

“Yes, well” Martin looks at him, breathes deeply. If he gazes out of the window, he’ll find an endless expanse of green hills. If he stands here, there will be calm. There will be sunlight. There will be warmth. He isn’t alone. “You’re the one who decided to run to Scotland with me, apparently”

“And I don’t regret it for a second” Jon says, leaving the cup on the counter and taking Martin’s hand instead. Yeah, he isn’t alone. Even if he deserves it. “I really don’t regret it. Alright? Just like that.”

Martin swallows. He could stay here. He could stay - if he wanted to.

He doesn’t think he’s wished for anything more.

“Just like that” He agrees.

The thing that was Sasha dies.

Martin doesn’t feel better. He doesn’t suddenly have a revelation about it, about her, about his own past. 

Jon’s eyes are glossy.

They should talk about this.

They should talk about this.

“How did it feel?”

Martin doesn’t want to talk about this. But, for the way Jon’s shoulders still, for how much more tighter his grip becomes, they need to. 

“Cathartic” He admits. There’s something harsh and guarded in his voice. “And then very, very bad”

“It deserved it” Martin hisses. He can’t help it. This is terrible. This shouldn’t happen ever again. Jon shouldn’t go through this ever again. And yet - the disjointed memory of the Sasha they should have known, the pang Tim’s words over her loss left… Martin doubts he’ll ever get over it. 

“So it did” Jon echoes. Then his face turns cautiously  neutral “Are you… scared?”

“Of what?”

“Me”

Martin stops. Thinks about it, truly does it. Jon trusts him to be honest, after all.

“No” He says and he means it wholeheartedly “Not at all”

Jon nods.

“What about you?”

“What about me, Martin?”

“Are you scared?”

“Does it even matter?”

Of course it does. 

Of course it does. 

Routine is a strange thing. 

Martin has lived the same life for the past ten years. Yes, it has been interrupted several times by his mother leaving or a worm woman attacking him or supernatural bullshit invading his workplace nonstop. And yet, no matter what happened in its content, the shape of his routine has been the same. Wake up alone in his bed. Make breakfast - just plain tea and toast if it’s him, something nicer if there’s someone else. Do dishes. Rush to work. Work hours. Maybe unpaid overtime, maybe it includes distracting himself doing the office’s dishes. Go back home. Eat dinner if he hasn’t. Do dishes. Sleep. Rinse and repeat.

Maybe Martin has a bit of a fixation with dishes. Anyway . The point is — Martin’s routine has made a home in himself as easily as a wasp’s - no . He’s got routines. Routines strong enough to keep up through his stay at the Archives, through the worst stints of Jon’s paranoia (he must have been really boring to stalk), through his time becoming a bloody Lonely husk, for fuck’s sake.

And now, after meticulously and mindlessly preserving the same structure in his life for ten years, a couple days at Scotland with Jon are not only enough to wreck it but also to absolutely make it miserable by comparison to his current life.

He wakes up and Jon is there. That already is crazy. Incredible. Bonkers. Bananas. He gets to watch Jon wake up - slowly and arduously, the man slumbers - eyes fluttering open and staying closed as he yawns, as he cuddles closer to Martin, as he puts one foot in front of the other towards the promise of tea in the kitchen. He’s bumped into a lot of furniture this way, Martin cracking the hell up as Jon grumbles in a plea to be steered the right way (and not soothed until he gets another hug and the chance of a quick thirty second nap on Martin’s shoulder. The man is not sneaky).

They make breakfast — if it’s still early they bite through something easy while they sip from their mugs. Martin does dishes, because he likes this part. Jon dries, because he somehow likes that part. They take turns between showering and dozing off on the couch while they pretend to read. Maybe they go for a walk and pick up groceries, maybe they clean the house, maybe they play a dusty, old board game and bicker all the way through. 

It’s routine in the way routine is routine is routine. It’s mundane- they aren’t taking luxury vacations or jumping from airplanes or-or-or whatever source of serotonin rich people try on tv. There’s nothing crazy or special about it except for the fact there is .

This morning, for example, they’re simply walking through the hills.

Or rather, Martin walks while Jon speedwalks and tugs their shared hands along .  

“Oi!” Martin calls for what probably is the fiftieth time “Slow down!”

Jon stops, blinks confusedly. Out of breath, Martin takes the chance to disentangle himself and try to inhale as much air as his poor lungs can hold. 

Jon, bless him, pats him in the back.

“Alright?” he asks because he’s a sweetheart even though he’s got a wide step a person his stature shouldn’t possess. Martin, still doubled over, gives him a thumbs up. Then, he adds ’I thought I was going slowly, sorry”

“You’re good” Martin answers, rejoicing in his lung capacity to talk and stand straight once again. He grins, half teasing and half proud “Dammit, Jon, you’re fast ”

“Sorry?” Jon says, not sounding the least apologetic about it. Martin rolls his eyes, still smiling. “I was very outdoorsy as a kid, if it helps for something. I’m just… happy and free to trot around again, I guess”

That’s adorable. 

“That’s adorable ” Martin says. Jon ducks his head and laughs.

“That’s certainly a word for it” 

“Trust me, I say nothing but the truth” Martin assures, taking the chance to knock their shoulders together. Jon grins but when he speaks, his voice is dry as a desert.

“Sure you do, Martin” 

They keep quiet for a couple seconds and Martin takes his newfound breath to say the first dumb thought that comes to his mind.

“I’m glad you feel free to, um, roam? Here?” He stops, decides he means it ,actually, and signals around them “The scenery lends itself to it”

Jon doesn’t miss a beat.

“Well, the company doesn’t hurt”

Martin grins.

“You’re being adorable again”

Jon rolls his eyes but doesn’t deign to answer that statement, choosing instead to reach for Martin’s hand and lead them forward, now at a more reasonable pace. After they pass a specially cute herd of cows and coo at them from the distance, he speaks up again.

“I’m also glad” He says. Martin looks over at him, he’s bashful yet serious. 

“Mh?”

“About you feeling free to — indulge in the company, as one could say” 

“Oh”

“Should I have not brought it up?” Yes , Martin’s brain instinctively yells. Yes , why did you decide to prod and press right where it hurts. Do you care, do you think you know best, are you hungry ?

Something must show in his face because Jon flinches. Martin wants to take it back — even though he’s said nothing at all, even though the ugly side of things will always rear its head, nasty and yearning to hurt until it’s left alone.

“I kind of wish you hadn’t” He says instead. Jon doesn’t comment, looks forward, but acknowledges his response with a silent nod “But I’m glad, too.”

He squeezes Jon’s hand until he turns his head and they’re staring at each other quietly.

Martin takes a breath. All around them, the morning air is fresh as ever. In front of him, Jon’s gaze is painfully warm and welcoming.

“I’m glad I’m here with you” He confesses. Jon’s expression softens into a smile. It’s easy, so easy to tell him things. If he didn’t have freaky Archivist powers and everything was exactly the same, people dumping their heart out to Jon would be equally as plausible “That much is true.”

He wishes he could say more. He wishes he could ask more, give away the scared pieces of himself the way Jon does under the cover of the night — quiet confessions of the worst of himself, half truths coated in trauma and meant wholeheartedly, shared with no expectation of forgiveness or consolation. Martin holds him through it and listens, every time. 

Right now, amidst the quiet and the welcoming warmth, it could be the perfect moment to pour his heart out to Jon. Quick and to the point. As simple as unpacking a box. 

Do you miss me when I’m gone — Martin wants to ask —when in the middle of our routines something inside me unfocuses and I disappear? Aren’t you tired of herding after my well being - tiptoeing around my worst fears and closed off responses? Are you as scared as I am - of meeting the worst of me, the beast that wants to maul and bite and crawl until it can lick its wounds on its own? 

What do you even see? Why do you stay? Why am I worth it? 

Do you know who I’ve killed to be myself?

“I’m glad I’m here with you, too, Martin” Jon says, smiling, before standing on his tiptoes and putting his arms around him.

Martin stays quiet, hugs him back and revels in his warmth. 

For now, it’s enough.

Today, they’re having a lazy morning.

Sunlight streams through the windowsill of their shared bedroom. Everything is quiet, still in a comforting, sleepy way. They spent the previous night bickering until late over a heated game of Scrabble (that Jon definitely won, but Martin wasn’t that far behind) and Martin - usually a morning person - feels absurdly languid as he stretches on the bed and tells himself he’ll get to breakfast in a few minutes.

Jon, dozing on and off between slow wakefulness and surprisingly loud snoring, doesn’t seem to have such qualms. He looks peaceful, brow relaxed and long dark lashes fluttering against his eyelids. The scars on his face and neck - and doesn’t Martin’s heart pang at the sight, this tangible reminder that Jon’s endured pain and hurt beyond belief - seem duller, faded like an old dream. Bloody hell, Martin wants to keep him like this, safe and peaceful, the rest of their lives. It’s not a new feeling.

And then, Jon wakes.

It’s slow and could very well be another attempt before falling back into slumber but Martin believes in him. The way he yawns, big and unbothered, and stretches down to his toes with a loud mewling sound. When he collapses back on the pillow to look at Martin, his small smile is pure sunshine.

“Good morning” Martin tells him, smiling back. He takes the chance to lightly tap him on the nose. “Did you sleep well?”

Jon nods and when he speaks, his voice comes out in a raspy grumble of “‘orning”. 

Bloody hell . This isn’t even the first time Martin gets to see this but he doesn’t think the thrill will ever fade away. 

“What would you like to do today?” He asks, partly to distract his sappy, besotted brain and partly because the experience of witnessing Jon attempt conversation this early in the morning is downright adorable. “We did groceries yesterday and cleaning the other day so you can pick between, um”  He holds up his fingers to count “Hiking to see the cows, Board games, more cleaning because Daisy’s place is a pigsty and…uh. That’s about it”

Jon smiles.

“We did board games yesterday, Martin, remember?” He tells him, still blinking slowly “I destroyed you at Scrabble”’

“What? You didn’t!” Martin sputters and puts on a fake shrug.“Nope. I don’t. I seem to have developed short term amnesia.”

Jon laughs. 

“What else was it…?”

“Cleaning and seeing the cows”

Jon lets out a long groan and buries his face in the pillow.

“Oi, what’s the matter?” Martin protests “They’re very good cows, have some respect”

Jon raises his head and, yup, he’s got one eyebrow raised.

“Good cows?” He asks, amusement and fondness laced around his beautiful, stuffy, pretentious voice.

“Yes”

“Really, Martin?”

“That’s what I said, Jon” He retorts. After a few moments, he lets go of his put upon indignation and grins, opening his arms up in invitation. Jon sighs and basically dives into it. “What’s going on?”

“It’s not important -” He starts but Martin interrupts him

“ Jon ”

“It’s dumb” He says, muffled against the front of Martin’s sleep shirt, Then, after a kiss on the head for encouragement, he sighs and speaks ‘“I’m bored” He admits guiltily

Martin can’t help it. He dissolves into sudden, hysterical giggles.

“Martin!” Jon calls, although he doesn’t look truly angry. He hasn’t let go of the cuddling, at least “Martin, don’t laugh!”

“ Martin, don’t laugh ” Martin mimics, “Sorry this, uh, break from the horrors that have been surrounding us, a break that affords us living in the pretty countryside, surrounded by hills and - and - cows, very good cows” 

Jon snorts.

“ Very good cows”

“Shut up!” Martin groans, then kisses him on the forehead for good measure “I just mean, only you, Jon! Only you complain about being bored in this situation!”

“Listen, I’m not someone who is prone to idle life —” He starts, but cuts himself off with a yelp when Martin rolls them over and changes their positions — now it’s him that has an octopus hold on Jon, that’ll make him see. From his newfound position, he grins up at Jon and dramatically wags his finger. 

“Oh, no, Jonathan Sims, no excuses” He scolds. “You’re looking down on, like, the poetic dream of like a thousand authors — life in the countryside, cut off from society, they loved that shit and you… you dare to be bored?”

Jon doesn’t miss a beat.

“Beatus ille” He says, making Martin dissolve his snark in favour of genuine puzzlement.

“Uh, what?”

Jon smiles. 

“Beatus ille. That’s the trope” He explains “The one you were talking about — Martin don’t laugh!”

“Right, right, right” Martin answers, because he isn’t laughing as much as he’s being incandescently happy over this smart, ridiculous man “Tell me about it?”

Jon arches an eyebrow.

“I mean it!” 

“If you dare to complain —” He threatens and Martin knows he’s one hundred percent serious. It bewilders him. As if he didn’t find Jon ranting about some specific fact he’s fiercely knowledgeable about charming as hell.

“Please? For me?” He pleads. Jon sighs.

“Alright…” He concedes. Before starting, he repositions more comfortably on his pillow, not before sneaking a fond peck on Martin’s cheek “So, beatus ille is a literary trope that appeals to the dream of living a simple life in the countryside, living from the earth, cut off from modern society. It’s quite interesting, actually, because it can be traced back to the Romans — Horatio, specifically — who criticised this idealisation of the hard peasant life as a rich person’s dream” 

Martin frowns.

“So, like cottagecore.” 

“Excuse me?”

“You know, the aesthetic —” He stops when he sees the perplexed look on Jon’s face “No?”

“No” Jon repeats, huffing out a laugh. He looks fondly down at him “Would you like to share with me?”

Such small the request and so big the feeling he inspires. How could Martin ever say no?

“It’s, uh, an aesthetic. Nothing cohesive,mostly imagery of people baking and having their own house in the woods or the country with their beloved. It’s a bit of an unrealistic, selfish middle class fantasy but, uh, I really liked it? It was like — this daydream of a peaceful getaway with a beloved-.” He cuts himself off, realising he’s kind of living exactly what he’s describing. Except reality means they’re genuinely cut off from society for their own well being. And that plumbing and signal and stocking food in the middle of buttfuck nowhere sucks. Well. Something to think about later. He smiles at Jon, who is nodding attentively, and tries to round up the explanation.“It’s, uh, just an internet thing, Jon. You do know what the internet is” 

Jon rolls his eyes and starfishes onto the bed. 

Alright, bad joke, no cuddles for him. 

Time for breakfast. Martin sits up on the bed and pats Jon’s hand as an apology. He’s picked up on the gesture lately.

“That was very interesting, actually. Thank you” He says then pauses when he sees Jon’s fond, yet slightly disgruntled face “Did it make you any less bored?”

Jon buries his face on Martin’s stomach and groans.

“Guess not”

He pats his head in a way he hopes comes across as loving and comforting instead of amused and trying not to laugh again .

The Apocalypse is boring. 

Okay. Martin’s being unfair. The apocalypse is terrifying. It’s catastrophic. Horrible. He’s seen more mangled bodies than he cares for. He’s never heard screams quite so bone chilling.

But that’s the thing about evil, about cruelty and devastation. After a while, after your brain has barely wrapped around it, it becomes mediocre. 

And - in Martin’s experience - there’s a lot of walking. Like, a lot. He’s on a hike through the wastelands holding hands with his boyfriend. 

They mostly talk.

“What’s your favourite movie?” Jon asks. They’ve just bypassed a particularly gruesome Buried domain in what would have been Torbothie (or so the Eye says).

Martin, still dragging his feet to get the mud out of his sneakers, snorts.

“What, we’re playing first date questions now?” He still feels something so proceeds to hold down all of his weight in one foot, making him almost topple over “I thought we’ve gone past this on our first week together”

“I just…Hold on” Jon gets close so Martin can lean on him while cleaning. It’s certainly easier and - when it’s done - he gets a fond smile in response.

“Thanks” 

Jon hums, accepts the peck on the cheek and takes Martin’s hand so they can keep walking.

“As I was saying, I just… realised we’ve never done that”

“We’ve watched movies” 

“I meant mundane knowledge, Martin”

“Oh, okay” He trails off, thinking “I don’t know? I guess… something I’ve watched while young like The Breakfast Club or The Grinch or something like that”

“Huh”

“What about you?” It’s probably something obscure, Martin gathers, an Agnes Varda film or 40s film noir.

“Oh, Lilo and Stitch. Probably.” Jon frowns “I like TV but I always struggle sitting still through a whole movie”

Martin splutters. 

“Lilo and Stitch? Really?”

Jon raises an eyebrow.

“I’m not judging you, promise”

“Sure”

“I’m not!” He insists. Jon doesn’t look convinced “Just… Disney? You?”

“It’s… entertaining. Sometimes. Sometimes it’s just ridiculous.” He sighs “I don’t know, Martin. I watched it at a time in a weird time in my life, it was entertaining enough to sit through the whole screening and maybe some of the themes called to me.”

“Alright.” He says. And it is alright. He can take that. Although… “I can’t believe I’ve got a Disney boyfriend”

Jon scrunches his nose in distaste. 

“Good lord”

“Too much?”

“Definitely” He says. After a beat, he pipes up again “So… what’s your favourite band?”

Martin groans.

“Oh, come on, Martin. You ’re the one who told me to trust and open up.”

“I don’t have issues with trust.” Martin responds automatically. 

“No, just vulnerability.” Jon says, without missing a beat. After a couple seconds, he winces at his own words and raises their joint hands to kiss Martin apologetically.

Martin frowns.

“Did you Know that?”

“No” Jon shakes his head and smiles fondly. Martin’s heart stutters just a bit at the sight. “I just know you”

“Right” He rolls his eyes but can’t help but smile back. “I guess that’s acceptable”

Their hands swing back and forth playfully for longer thand be socially acceptable. It’s fine. It’s not - Martin thinks hysterically - like there’s anyone to see.

The thing about living in a hectic pace for so long and then just stopping is: boredom is way more easy to achieve. Martin doesn’t notice it as much first - he keeps zoning out, getting lost in the nothingness of his thoughts, trying to enjoy the here and now of his thoughts. Jon, on the other hand, becomes obviously fidgety.

First it was the cleaning. And, listen, Martin isn’t a dirty person. He likes to think of himself as neat - generally. Organised. He had to - between a house that nobody else would keep, the precautions he’d take to avoid his mother tripping or getting sicker over something and the fact that he moved a lot. An organised, clean house is someone he’s used to. And yes, maybe his bedroom kept getting messier and messier when he just couldn’t bring himself to work on it but it made sense, didn’t it, it wasn’t important . But aside from that, he’s not a slob .

But Jon. Jon makes it obvious he can be an absolute clean freak when he’s bored. 

Daisy’s old dusty house blings .

Soon enough, though, Jon ran out of things to tidy. He proceeded to get his hands on every book in the house - which means, an impressive amount of bodice rippers and stream-of-consciousness, confusing nonfiction biographies. Those were ridiculous. Jon sure voiced so, reading specially infuriating, pedant paragraphs out loud that sent Martin into stitches.

After a couple days, it turns out that terrible literature is also finite. Figures. And since rereading is pointless, Martin, Jon has been running around all morning like a caged lion, bored out of his mind. He followed Martin around the kitchen during supper, jumping at the opportunity of chopping two carrots and one onion. He tried to take over the dishes after, too, but he got promptly chased off towards the living room with a playful splash.

That’s where Martin finds him, crouching on the floor filled with spare paper sheets, calmly folding them.

“What are you doing?”

“Paper planes” 

“Oh my god” 

“Any snarky opinions?”

“None”  Nonetheless, he stands there with his mouth agape “Bloody hell, they really do fly”

“Of course they fly, Martin, they’re paper planes ”

“Right, Mr. Condescension, tone it down” Jon’s mouth quirks smugly at the nickname and Martin gives him a fleeting peck on the cheek. God, he’s adorable “I guess I always thought it was a movie thing — paper planes flying around and the such” 

“Martin”

“What?”

“Are you telling me you’ve never made a paper plane before?”

“Stop making it sound as some sort of failing —” He squirms “I didn’t exactly have many friends to teach me, growing up. And I played other games, games you still don’t know— ”

“No, no, no” Jon shakes his head, a faint smile on his lips. He’s still balanced on the arm of the couch and Martin shuffles to help him down. At the end, Jon stands on the cushions instead “I just — I picked up lots of hobbies as a kid and paper planes were sort of my introduction to origami.” 

“They’re not origami, though.” 

“No, but— I was really excited about paper planes. Explored what made them fly higher and lower, the dynamics of it — i made so many, all the time, threw them around the house at all hours. My grandmother eventually got tired of finding them stuck in odd places and handed me an origami book, thinking it’d be quieter.”

“And was it?”

Jon smiles, wide, toothy and proud. God, Martin adores him.

“For a bit. Then she started to find paper frogs in the kitchen”

Martin thinks of that house, the bits and pieces Jon has shared that make a picture that still fits sideways, like a cracked mirror haphazardly glued together.

“Would you teach me?”

Jon scoots closer.

It’s after the Stranger domain - after the hospital and the screams and the creepiness of Doctor David — that Martin remembers he’s got a thermos and some tea bags on his backpack.

Quietly, he offers to prepare some for Jon and Basira. 

“I’m good, Martin” she says, something distant in her eyes as she looks at the path forwards, a bloody trail that has ‘Daisy’ written all over it. Jon awkwardly pats her shoulder and, with a jolt, the woman comes back from her own head and smiles politely at them both “Feel free to go without me, though”

“Are you sure?” Martin insists “There’s not much left. You could very well have the only tea in the apocalypse” He forces a grin “So, heh, special offer?”

Basira shakes her head. Jon takes Martin’s arm and smiles quietly up at him.

“I’d love some” He says. Let her be, he doesn’t say but Martin understands the plea in the forced crinkle on his eyes, in the tired lines of his body. She needs one thing only and it isn’t us. Squeezing his bicep, he chimes cheekily “Or has my coupon expired?”

Martin rolls his eyes and lets out an obviously fake, long suffering sigh.

“Are you asking for special treatment, sir?” He says but fetches his backpack and  starts digging its contents nonetheless. Amused and without complaint, Jon receives the various items he hands it while he searches and when Martin looks up, he can see five mugs, rope, a notebook, three plushies and a plastic gun in his arms.  

“Woah” He comments “I didn’t think I had packed, uh…”

“Garbage?” Basira supplies, taking a specific duckie plushie from Jon and helping in no other way whatsoever. “Quak Quak” She adds, deadpan, making Jon crack a smile at the ridiculously bright orange duck waving on his face.

“Yeah” Martin agrees, looking down on his backpack “And…”

He narrows his eyes. It can’t be, can it? 

He fishes the wooden object and… yes. Somehow, the mate cup he thought he’d completely got rid of back in London is hanging around in his Apocalypse Luggage. The one he packed in Scotland.

“What the hell is this doing here?”

Can Apocalypse magic even bring back lost objects? Even the straw is here! What’s this, Peter Pan?

“Ah” Jon then says, his voice absolutely unsurprised and face way too composed. Martin arches an eyebrow “Yes, well-”

He doesn’t finish the sentence but the way he’s biting his lip says enough.

No terrifying eldritch powers involved, then, just his endearing, just-a-little-bit-supernatural boyfriend.

“Oh, Jon ” He says, breathless, feeling his eyes well up.

“Um” Basira looks back and forth between them. “What’s happening?” 

Jon opens his mouth to explain but before he can say anything, Basira shakes her head and raises her hand to stop him.

“You know what? I don’t — I’ll wait there” She says, sounding very awkward about it. “I’ll leave you - uh - to your moment ” 

And so, she promptly walks towards the trail, hugging the plush duckie to her chest.

They watch her go and, once she’s away and staring into the purple clouds in the distance (the apocalypse is so weird ), they look back at each other. It startles Martin to find that - even after all - Jon’s eyes are open and soft as he looks up at him. 

“Let me get that for you” He says, signalling to the pile on Jon’s hands.  

“Thank you” The smaller man says as he watches him stash the knicknacks back in the bag “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. That I kept it, I mean”

Martin hums

“Or that I brought it along. Twice.” He winces ‘“I just- I didn’t want you to leave it behind. I know I wouldn’t.”

Martin smiles, a little bit teary, remembering all the treasures from Jon’s childhood that these years, multiple moves and chases have stolen from him. Of course he’d try to avoid that fate for someone else’s belongings. Ridiculous, wonderful man.

“Why are you apologising? I gave it to you” He says. Jon shrugs, still self conscious and oh— “Come here, let me hug you”

It’s nice, isn’t it, to see how easily Jon handles himself around him, how trusting he is as he buries his face in Martin’s chest and squeezes hard. Martin’s arms come around him and hold, trying to avoid Jon the annoyance of having the mate cup digging on his back. 

“It was nice, to have it while you were gone” Jon confesses, voice muffled into Martin’s neck. “It hurt to see it there when I woke up — it’s like, you were there, of course you were. But also, you weren’t anymore. Made me feel you’ve given up”

“I’m sorry” Martin apologises. He doesn’t think he’ll ever stop apologising “I’m here, Jon. I’m here now”

“I know” 

They stay just like this for a while, enjoying the closeness. Then, a thought crosses Martin’s mind.

“I can’t make you some now, though” He says into Jon’s hair. The eyeroll he gets in response is audible.

“Well, of course, Martin. I sincerely doubt we can find yerba mate in the middle of the apocalypse”

Martin clicks his tongue.

“Maybe if you use the Eye to see if there’s a hippie teashop left…?” He starts hopefully but Jon interrupts him by squeezing him harder. 

“No”

“But-”

“You really don’t want to know what’s going on in there, Martin” He deadpans. Martin drops the subject with a put upon sigh.

“Well, here goes to trying” 

Martin is searching for a fresh sweater in their shared duffle bag when he finds it. A familiar pack of cards - spaniard deck, to be exact, slightly battered yet still ready to use. He knows these cards. He bought these cards. He doesn’t remember packing them in their going-away bag.

“Jon?” He calls before he can think twice about it.

The man himself runs immediately into the bedroom, bun disheveled on the top of his head and still on the soft t-shirt and pajama bottoms he wore to sleep. He’s so adorable Martin’s heart hurts. Jon’s shoulders lower slightly when he surveys the room and finds no visible harm. Then his eyes rest on the small box Martin’s holding up.

“Oh” He says, then immediately looks bashful.

“Yeah” Martin laughs awkwardly “I, uh, didn’t know I had this?”

Jon looks even more embarassed, if such thing was possible.

“Oh. Oh. Um. I grabbed it” Martin looks at him funny, a half smile on his lips and brow furrowed.  “I just thought, uh. I remember when we were in the Archives and you brought it and tried to teach me, Tim and Sasha. And, then, uh, when I gave it to you on our lunches” he winces a bit, guilt washing over his spine like an old shore. Martin itches to reach out and softly clear it away with a brush of his fingers “You seemed so excited about it - when you explained the rules at the café. And, well, given we never really had a chance to play…”

He trails off. Against his best interest, Martin finds himself drawn into his orbit.

“You taught me card tricks” He quips, taking Jon’s hand in his. He cheekily shakes the deck of cards in his other hand. Jon rolls his eyes.

“You humoured me in my frail state of mind” He states dryly. Martin shakes his head. 

“I really didn’t” He swings their joint hands side to side “You were very cute”

“I-” Jon opens his mouth to protest but Martin won’t have this. 

“Adorable, even” He adds. Jon puts upon a very frustrated, very fake sigh. 

“ Good lord , Martin” The admonishment doesn’t even come to fruition, for it is way too flooded by fondness. If Martin had any doubts left on how much Jon cared about him… well, both his actions and the freedom of his affection would immediately dispel them. 

“Don’t argue, it’s futile” He tells him and then, for extra maximum adorableness, he boops Jon’s nose, enjoying the simple, comfortable way the other man’s feigned frown softens and closes his eyes at the gesture. 

They bask in it for a couple seconds, the simple easiness of being together, the afternoon a kaleidoscope of possibilities ahead, comfort and affection being freely given and accepted. 

“Jon” Martin whispers. The man’s eyelids flutter but he doesn’t open his eyes.

“Yes”

Martin lets a moment of silence drag out. Y’know, for the dramatics.

“Do you even remember how to play?” He asks. Jon’s eyes open at once and they stare at each other in twin amusement. 

“Not a clue” 

Martin smiles and enjoys the warmth of Jon’s hands, gaze, and presence before tugging them both towards the kitchen.

“Let me make us some tea and I’ll… I’ll try”

They play truco for a bit but - after a couple rounds - it’s obvious Jon likes Chin the best. 

If it wouldn’t mean his loss, Martin would spend the day watching him play. He’s ruthless once he caught the rules, holding his stack with his burnt hand and swiping his eyes through the cards on the table, ready to smash his own when needed. He’s got better reflexes than Martin - who instead can lie his ass off and read Jon’s obvious lies in every crease of his adorably expressive face.

It doesn’t help Martin's concentration that Jon multitasks between slamming cards onto the table with wretched speed and humming under his breath. It’s just too good. He lags behind without any hope of turning things around and when Jon declares his win with a smug smile and showing his empty hands, Martin’s response is a besotted roll of his eyes. 

“Yes, yes, you crushed me” He waves his hand and leans to collect the cards. Jon’s smile gets wider as he disentangles his crossed legs and stretches up.

“And on my first time playing!”

“You’re very crafty”

“You know I can hear your sarcasm, right Martin?” Jon quips, his dry tone contrasted with the warmth of his palm as he pats Martin’s hand for attention. 

He can’t help it, he abandons the cards and scoots closer to his boyfriend instead.

“Mh” He hums, kissing his cheek “Congratulations, love”

Jon takes the chance to snake his arms around Martin’s neck and kiss him softly on the lips before parting and choosing to cuddle instead. Martin readjusts their position just a bit (otherwise it’s going to destroy their backs). And - just to argue - he can’t help but add.

“I’m not sure you can boast much, though. It’s been ages since I last played” Jon’s response comes immediately in the form of huffed laughter muffled against his collarbone. 

“Who taught you?” He asks softly. Martin swallows. Such an innocuous question, such love in someone who wants to know him in the most innocent ways.

“A kid in our old neighbourhood, I think. Can’t remember his full name.” Martin answers. Barely remembers his name either. 

Jon hums, cuddles closer.

“How old were you when you moved?”

Martin opens his mouth to answer, then stops himself. He disengages from the embrace to squint at Jon “Are you…?”

The man frowns, body suddenly still.

“Oh… oh no, I think I’m not. Do you think I’m…?”

Martin shakes his head, mouth dry. 

“No. But you should have, shouldn’t you?” He says, taking Jon’s face between his hands “Because I want to tell you. I’m going to tell you. And I haven’t the faintest idea why”

Jon squeezes him closer. 

“I was like ten. Spoke English at home and yet everything was — wrong. Upside down.” He says. Quick as a breath, chaotic in the way a Statement could never be “It was like I suddenly had nothing to hold me up. But at the same time, I was drifting. Nothing to ground me.” 

The feeling never quite went away , he doesn’t say.

Jon hums.

“I know it’s not the same but —” Martin pinches his side in admonishment. They’ve talked about Jon putting his own experiences down before “ Alright, alright. I was about to say, I could relate to the feeling from where I moved to uni as a teenager”

Martin caresses his back. Neither breaks their embrace.

“It’s not like my grandmother was the most present or that I wasn’t, huh, independent” Jon muses “But I couldn’t stop feeling like I was adrift. I couldn’t click with my classmates and their stories and their backgrounds and I felt bad for this. For-for lacking a community , as maybe my grandmother would put it.”

“Was she social?”

“Irish old ladies? They’re gossip powerhouses”

“Something in common with Argentinian old ladies, then”

“Mh. Quite” When Jon nods, Martin can feel the soft kiss laid on his neck “But yes, my point is. It’s a dreadful feeling, inadequacy, isn’t it? Even as you grow, it never fully leaves”

“ Oh, Jon ”

“I’m in over my head in so many things, Martin” He says “Absolutely unprepared. Maybe I could lay the blame on my grandmother — but it wasn’t her fault she got a five year old that spoke like a southern gentleman caricature. University, the Institute, being the Archivist… I’ll never do things as I should.”

“You weren’t — you didn’t—” And Martin hates this language, all of the sudden, for not letting him express himself the way he wants to, for letting the man he loves flog himself with such words “ Goddammit, Jon! You know what I mean”

They part. Jon’s gaze is mournful and serious when he nods.

“I know what you believe”

Martin cups his cheek, smiles when Jon learns into it. Then, with as much affection he can infuse into the gesture, he flicks his nose.

“Very polite” Jon protests, even though his smile says the opposite. Martin harrumps.

“Would you blame me for my circumstances? I lied on my CV, I speak my native language terribly , I don’t know how to dance. Would you blame me for that, Jon?”

The man rolls his eyes.

“It’s not the same” He decides, with a very prim and dignified tone for someone who’s currently half-cuddling his boyfriend and rubbing his cheek onto said boyfriend’s hand like a cat. Martin can’t help but laugh at the hypocrisy - at how ridiculous he is, they both are. He’s pretty sure normal couples have serious self-esteem conversations at the dinner table.

“It is! And anyway” Martin leans until he’s hiding his face on Jon’s neck, where he promptly blows a raspberry “If there’s an “underqualified” olympics, I think I would win”

Jon laughs - maybe from the tickles, maybe for the conversation. No matter what, it’s delightful. He’ll never tire of the sound - joyous and bright and totally, utterly safe

“Oh, c’mon now, Martin” He drawls “I never took you for a sore loser”

“Oh, I’ll show you sore loser !”

The house is calm. The house is beautiful. The house is running water, food in their bellies and staying in bed — simply staring at each other across the sheets. 

It’s nothing like the last times they’ve done this. The wonder in Jon’s eyes has diminished - for one. He looks at Martin with a desperate gaze, like he could vanish in a couple beats. 

“What’s on your mind?” Martin asks. He wants to probe. He wants to insist. He wants to comfort him: give Jon baths and food and - most importantly - the knowledge that everything he cares about won’t go away. 

Jon smiles sadly.

“It’s quiet.” He says. Some flyaway hairs land on his cheek as he speaks “This is what it must feel to be human”

Martin frowns and reaches to cup his cheek. 

“That’s what’s you’ve been thinking about?” He asks softly. 

Jon hums. 

“Just for a bit” It’s a sweet, white little lie. Martin can read that plain on his face.

“ Jon ”

“Alright. Quite a bit” Jon grins, tired and defeated. He sighs, burrows his face into Martin’s hand “I just… I wish I could always have this.”

Martin frowns. 

“I’m right here” He taps Jon’s nose “I’m not going anywhere”

Jon smiles. 

“I know. I just…” He sighs “ I wish everyone could have it. Peace. A reprieve. Not eternal torture.”

“That’s not…” Not your fault. Not your responsibility. Not your choice. Martin bites his tongue “We’ll try, Jon. We’ll try, okay?”

“I want to believe that”

“But you don’t”

“I want to believe that” Jon closes his eyes. He’s dozing off. He’s so tired. 

Something inside Martin wants to yell. Wants to set everything on fire, throw every single piece of nice furniture in the room at the wall. He doesn’t though. Instead, the powerless feeling comes out in the form of a petulant, capricious whine. 

“It’s so unfair” He says. “This shouldn’t be your responsibility”

Jon cuddles closer. Draws smaller into himself. Doesn’t even open his eyes when he speaks.

“This is how it’s always been, Martin” He says, matter of factly “The choices I’ve taken — I’m just reaping the consequences. That’s it.”

No, you’re not - Martin wants to say. You’re so much more than this mangled, beastly image you have of yourself .

Instead, he keeps quiet, hugs Jon tight and wishes fiercely that he never has to let go.

Martin really should have paid more attention to the signs that the end of their mindless bliss was near but, in his defense, Jon was being way too cute. 

“I’m sorry but-” He starts, watching the canvas bag that he somehow missed being slipped in stand proudly on their kitchen counter “How?”

Jon, back to his lounging clothes after a morning outside, balances his weight from feet to feet, bashful.

“It really wasn’t that hard, Martin.” He says, shrugging. The blazer he’s put on is enormous on his shoulders. It must be Martin’s “You were really busy chatting with the cashier”.

Not that hard, he says. Martin laughs, breathless and still shellshocked.

“It kind of really is.” 

Jon’s face falls with doubt. 

“Have- have I overstepped?” He asks. 

Martin turns sharply towards him and takes his hand.

“No” He rushes to say. Jon’s face relaxes again, now into understanding “Not at all. I just…” He opens it again, looks at the small transparent package of empanadas dough sitting innocently at the bottom of the bag then back at Jon’s earnest expression “This is a really nice gesture, Jon”

He has the gallow to shrug again, like it’s not a big deal, like he hasn’t made Martin’s world in the last five minutes and every day before that.

“You mentioned missing them a lot” He explains “I just thought, now that we have free time…” 

Martin squeezes his hand. 

“Yes, alright, whatever you want, Jon.” He says and looks back at the bloody bag again. Hell, it’s like he’s hypnotised. Suddenly, he remembers “The only problem is — I don’t really remember the recipe? I was like, eight and I was more concerned with eating them”

Jon’s brow furrows. 

“You’ve never googled…?”

“Of course I have googled it, Jon, but — doesn’t taste the same.”

“Ah, yes. You’ve mentioned that”

Martin smiles, pats the bag and leaves it be. He takes Jon’s hands instead, both of them, relishing in the way the other man swings them around mindlessly.

“So yes, no empanadas for us” He concludes. 

Jon’s face contorts in what is undoubtedly a guilty expression. Martin should know. In his years in the Archives, he’s seen it enough.

“Ah” He simply says. 

Martin narrows his eyes. 

“Jon?” He calls “What’s that face?”

“I’m not doing any face , Martin” Jon says, definitely making a face.

“Oh, you are. You’re hiding something.” He looks closer, at the little blush on the top of his ears and the way his boyfriend won’t meet his eyes. Then, he realises “That’s your hiding face”

Jon blanches.

“It’s absolutely not ”  He sputters, put on indignation and a stuffiness belonging by a long gone mean boss shining in his eyes “This is just my face!”

And, then, it clicks. 

Oh, fuck off .

“Jon-” Martin says carefully  ''You're telling me the Eye told you how to make empanadas?''

The facade is over as soon as it’s started and Jon’s face falls into guilty resignation. But before Martin can gloat about his proud victory, his boyfriend disentangles his hands to put his arms around each other. He doesn’t look caught — he looks downright sad.

“I’m so sorry.” He says. 

“Woah-” Martin makes a move to comfort him, to appease whatever worry that clouded over him but he’s stopped by Jon’s raised hand. 

“I -” He starts, then takes a shaky exhale before continuing “I’m really sorry, Martin. I promise I didn’t mean to. It just - I was wondering how to help make it exactly the way it tasted in your childhood and then -” 

Martin can’t take it anymore: he moves to hug him. Jon lets him. The moment he’s in his arms, Martin realises he’s shaking a bit.

“ Hey , hey, hey. It’s alright” He repeats over and over until the shaking stops and they’re just hugging. Then, just to soothe the ache over, to give it a nice close, he repeats “It’s alright, Jon”

Jon, face still buried in his neck but sounding way more composed, huffs.

“It’s not ”

Way to go, Martin. Nothing in the world is alright , not really, especially for them. It doesn’t escape his conscience that they’re still on the run. He laughs nervously.

“I mean, no, of course not. But I’m not upset? In fact-” He stops and blushes. Ah, dammit. In for a penny…“I kind of find that romantic?”

Jon stills. 

“You-” He removes himself from the embrace to stare directly at him. He looks thoroughly appalled, although - Martin notes smugly - a little bit amused. “Good lord, Martin”

He opens his mouth to defend himself. Then he closes it when his brain makes a balloon deflating sound. No excuse available, kid. Try again later. Martin opts to cut to the chase and say the truth. 

“Listen, my boyfriend who I love very much used his fear eldritch knowledge to figure out a recipe from my dearest childhood memories. It’s a bit romantic, alright?” He smiles against himself, attempting to invoke whatever charm has been winning Jon over all along. 

Jon keeps staring, brow furrowed. 

“I-” Jon seems to be questioning every choice that brought him here. Then, his expression melts into fondness so Martin’s probably not that bad to have around. If Jon’s experience is like his — he’s probably equally as infuriating as he’s endearing. He can live with that  “I guess?”

They fall silent.

“So” Jon starts “Would you like the recipe?”

“Absolutely.” 

“Let’s hope it doesn’t taste like fear”

“That’s grim , Jon”

Turns out, Martin absolutely sucks at folding empanadas. Unlike Jon - who handles the dough with precise attention and gentle touch despite his usually shaky hands - he spills the filling everywhere and breaks the empanada easily after it’s bundled up.  One memorable time, he moves the empanada he’s working just so and the juicy filling spills over his nose and - what made him dissolve into a litany of curses and Jon into earnest laughter - eyes.

Martin wouldn’t have it any other way.

(They don’t taste like fear - just a little bit burnt. It’s alright, they can always try again).

They leave Upton. 

Something inside Jon twists and turns. Martin peers from the sidelines.

He doesn’t have to talk about it.

They don’t have to talk about it.

He wishes it could be something ominous — hunger in his eyes, a dangerous glint of his teeth, a violence he can pinpoint and say “this isn’t who I know, I don’t recognise this”. 

But it isn’t that. It’s tangled, more human. A deep seated despair, a resignation Martin recognises in himself from the last few months in the Lonely.

It scares him.

They’re cooking together again. It’s nice - how many of their conversations flow like this, hip bumping against hip while they chop carrots on the counter and the oil sizzles in the pan.

Jon stands on his tiptoes to reach the rice in the upper cabinet. He’s failing and groans miserably to make the fact known. Martin - after admiring his determination for a couple moments with a besotted smile - finally steps in and takes the bag for him.

Their fingers brush and Jon smiles.

“Thank you, Martin” The words come out of his lips so comfortably, so softly, so utterly delighted, that Martin can’t help to blurt out the first thought out of his head. 

“I like how you say my name”

Silence. Jon blinks, confused. 

“Am I… saying it wrong?” He asks. Martin taps his hands (still holding the rice) in reassurance and shakes his head. 

“No, not really. It’s just -” He cuts himself off. Jon nods attentively. His eyes are twinkling with fondness. That shouldn’t be possible. This must be some supernatural fuckery. And yet, it isn’t and so Martin continues “They chose it for that reason, I think. My parents. Back when everything was okay. It can be said in both English and Spanish. Mar tín , Mar tin, flexible name.“

Jon just looks at him, a soft smile on his face, and squeezes his hands in encouragement. He continues with renewed confidence.

“Before coming here, though, I was Martín for everyone. Almost even for my mother. And she was- mamá, not mother” He feels a knot in his throat and shakes his head “Sorry, it’s stupid to get emotional over semantics”

Jon huffs. 

“Don’t apologise for that, please” He kisses Martin’s hand and moves away to cook the rice. High emotions or not, they still need to eat. When he speaks away, he takes the particular tone he adopts when he’s going to trail off into a lecture “And for the record, I don’t think it’s semantics . If words from different languages meant the same, we would have all diluted into an homogenous boring language long ago.”

“Ah, you hoped Esperanto could have gone somewhere then” Martin jokes weakly.

 Jon raises the wooden spoon from where he’s stirring the vegetables in the pan to point it straight at him. Multitasker.

“I did not. Stop changing the subject. As I was saying , words hold a very unique weight. It’s not only the sociocultural context, you can feel it. Bilinguals struggle with this distinction a lot. As fascinating as the concept of an universal language is-”

“Will your conclusion be that we all need to learn esperanto? Because I’m getting a feeling...”

Jon rolls his eyes but grins.

“Oh, shut up, Martin”

“Never, you like it” He grins back “And there it is again. Mahtin. No one has said my name like that before”

They face each other across the small kitchen. If Martin wanted to write down what home means, he'd describe this exact moment.

All snark and put-upon indignation vanishes. Jon’s smile crinkles the corner of his eyes - tender and true.

“Like what?”

“Like a gift. Like it matters”

London looms on the horizon.

Funnily enough, it doesn’t feel like something positive. Martin wishes, just for a second, that the yawning fangs of the city landscape would recede the closer they get. He doesn’t want to step into it, doesn’t want to see the remnants of the city he once called his, doesn’t want to see Jon’s expression at the sight of it. He’s gone through enough.

Speaking of which, he’s been… quiet. Since. 

They haven’t talked about it.

There’s nothing to talk about — a flash of the Other Martin says in the corner of his mind. Martin ignores it. They need to talk about it.

“Jon?” 

The man doesn’t say much. Just hums, a faraway look on his eyes. 

“ Jon ” Martin squeezes his hand. Finally, he gets a response, although in the form of an inquisitive expression. “I just wanted to say- I’m sorry about Helen.”

Jon frowns. 

“Why?”

“You cared about her”

They stop walking. 

Jon laughs, dry and humorlessly, and lets go of their joint hands.

“That wasn’t quite it.” 

Martin presses on. Tries to look him in the eye, make him understand.

“It’s not your fault — what happened to her”

Jon keeps quiet.

“It’s not your fault she turned into a monster you had to—” Kill. He doesn’t say. “You did what you could, every time”

“Even if it’s playing God and deciding who lives and who dies?” Jon bristles. Martin opens his mouth to ask but — before he can say anything — Jon cuts him off “No, Martin. I don’t regret it, trust me. But… why did I do that?”

“She-”

“She was a monster. Yes. So I decided she should die. How hypocritical of me”

Silence.

Martin swallows the knot on his throat, holds to Jon’s hand like he could be swept away any moment and gathers his courage.

“What are you trying to say?”

Quiet.

“I’m not human anymore, Martin” Jon says softly, the words delicate and pained through lips chapped by the harsh weather.

Martin’s heart breaks.

“You’re still a person” He retorts without missing a beat. How can’t he see? How can’t he not know?

“I don’t have the right to-” And suddenly, Martin understands. Sees - maybe for the first time- what he should have noticed all along. Jon, beloved Jon, uprooted and torn apart in a whole different, unique way “I don’t have the right to claim any personhood”

“It’s still yours” 

Jon smiles sadly. 

“That’s not how it works” He says. The sweetness of his tone means well, Martin’s sure, but feels condescending nonetheless. He bristles.

“Alright then” If Jon’s stubborn, Martin is even more so. He frowns, looks him straight in the eye “Then tell me, Archivist , how does it work?”

Jon winces. Meets Martin’s gaze, determination and exhaustion marking equally the lines on his scrunched face.

“I’ve hurt people, Martin!” He raises his voice “I’m hurtin g people”

“Yes. And?” Martin retorts “People hurt other people all the time, Jon”

“This is not the same. I’m feeding-”

“Yes, I am too.” He huffs “Do-do you think I’m not a person, then? I’ve got a whole domain out there, I’m walking and talking because I’m feeding on people right now, I’m making a level of-of-of harm I’ll never fully know about. Is my personhood revoked?”

“You didn’t choose this” Jon spits out.

“Nor did you” Martin fires back. He looks at Jon, truly looks at him. The defensive crossed arms and the hunched shoulders. The tired way he holds himself, contained, as if afraid of reaching out. Martin does it for both of them, softly tapping his fingers against Jon’s hand. “Just- listen to me okay?” He asks softly. Jon doesn’t say anything but he doesn’t look away “Sometimes. Sometimes it’s shit. All options are shit. Sometimes we have to do things we really don’t want because the circumstances push us. Sometimes we have to become someone we never imagined becoming. And it’s painful. And it’s shit ” 

He sighs. 

“And like it or not — it’s still part of being a person. You may want to escape any claim over humanity because you feel too guilty to deserve it or whatever but Jon—” He steps closer, smiles “But don’t you dare, no matter how much refuge or respite you think gives you, claim you don’t have a claim to personhood anymore. It’s still yours. It’s still ours.”

Jon trembles, then crumbles. His face falls and suddenly he’s reaching out, letting himself into Martin’s open arms, burrowing himself closer and closer.

Martin holds him, pretends he can’t hear the quiet sniffles muffled against his neck.

“It’s still yours, Jon” He says softly “Creepy Antichrist powers or whatever”

Jon laughs, small and wet.

“Archivist” He corrects. Martin plants a fond kiss on the side of his head.

“Yeah, well, fuck that.” He snarks, full well meaning it “You’re more than your job title”

“Quite a crappy job,eh?”

“Awful.” Martin kisses him again, now on his cheeks. Then, he disentangles them slightly to take Jon’s hand “Now, c’mon. Let’s go kill our boss”

And so, they keep walking.

Much to Martin’s despair, he knows how hunger sets on Jon’s face.

Awareness comes slowly — just an itch, at first, a voice in the back of his head asking why is Jon so curious about him, what part of his care, his attention to every word and every story he warily shares comes from Jon and what part from the Archivist on the hunt for a quick meal. 

Once he's looking looking for it, it isn't difficult to pinpoint. Back in the Archives, where Jon’s cravings were mundane, he stumbled into him raiding the breakroom more than once - unaware of the early hour after nonstop working. Martin, who subsisted on takeout he tried very hard not to eat on his cot, simply made them both tea and accepted a part of the leftovers Jon scooted towards him. It was a nice gesture. 

Nowadays, although the appetite is more fucked up, the furrow between his brows is the same.

“So” Martin starts nonchalantly between the milk and rice aisles on their bi-weekly trip to the grocery store “When do you think Basira’s statements will come?”

Jon, absentmindedly as if he’s not scanning the store for the clearly wounded old man who passed them by earlier. And maybe he doesn’t notice. 

“What?”

“Basira’s statements. The ones you said she’ll send”

“I -” He shakes his head. Is he thinner these days? Is he eating enough of food - real food, the one with nutrients and proteins? Does it even matter? “I don’t know, Martin” 

He bites his lips, holding back.

“Alright” He says. Jon nods, looks around, pretends he isn’t shaking like a leaf. 

“It doesn’t matter” He states. As if it’s an obvious truth, as if he deserves it.

“Doesn’t it?”  Martin insists, can’t help insisting. Because he sees the way Jon punishes himself, hears the words he describes himself with, feels the pang inside his own ribcage every time “Aren’t you — hungry?”

I love you . He doesn’t say. I want you to be well. 

“It doesn’t matter” 

Another pang. Maybe it could be called a stab - clean and deep through Martin’s heart. It aches. He’s going to lose this, isn’t he? One way or another.

They walk through the milk aisle in silence. When they reach the canned meals, Martin speaks up.

“You can’t starve yourself forever, Jon” Maybe it’s too quiet. Maybe it’s too demanding. He’s going to lose this.

Jon walks ahead. He’s always been a faster walker - Martin has found - but right now he wishes he wouldn't only see his back. 

“I don’t want to talk about this” He eventually answers, clipped and cold. 

“You have to talk about it eventually” Martin pushes. He knows the anxious, insufferable edge his voice is gaining. He can’t stop it, he’s going to lose him “I can’t help you if you won’t talk to me”

“I could very well say the same thing” Jon snarls. 

Martin blanches.

“Wow” He can feel the ice on his chest, can feel the nothingness as his world stops “ Very nice, Jon”

He’s still not looking him in the face and yet, he can tell Jon instantly regrets it. 

“Martin” He breathes, low and desperate “Martin. I’m sorry”

“I’ll see you at home”

Martin turns on his feet and pays for their groceries on his way out. He never checks to see if Jon tried to look at him. He doesn’t think he’d like the answer.

The thing is — Martin doesn’t care if Jon needs the Eye to eat.

That sounds bad. He does care. He cares about Jon in every small, desperate, longing way. And he knows Jon has flaws, he does. Years alongside each other have shown him how difficult the man is sometimes - how stubborn and infuriating and ridiculous he can become.

If the Eye has to be part of the deal, Martin doesn’t consider it a flaw , aside from the moments when Jon suffers from it. And he understands it, he can see the ways he blames himself for his fate, makes himself responsible for manipulations that - to Martin’s eye - were clearly out of his control. The Eye for Jon means terrible, painful things. 

But. 

The cold, hard, practical fact is Jon needs the Eye to be well. Jon needs Statements to supply the horrendous alternative of spiralling and hunting down someone. Jon is hungry. Jon is suffering. Jon would hide it all if it meant a greater good.

And Martin. He will lose him. If not to his own stupid, infuriating self sacrificial dillemas… to the moment Jon realises how pathethic Martin is. How selfish. How useless.

Does he know the person Martin killed to become himself? 

And after the foggy path, there’s a door. There’s a house. 

How can something so familiar, so homey become so cold when empty?

“ Martin ” 

He stares at nothing for what feels like a long while.

“Martin” There’s hands on his face now. Rough, familiar, loved hands. Jon holds him amidst their blurry living room like there’s nothing else that matters. The groceries are scattered on the floor. Their feet kick an orange under the couch. “ Martin ”

He looks. Deep down inside, he loves the shape of his name in that mouth.

“It hasn’t let you go” Jon’s bun is half undone, eyes wide open as he calls to him desperately “Can’t you feel it, Martin? It refuses to let you go”

Oh, isn’t he cold and tired . He laughs.

“Of course it hasn’t.” He says “Maybe I want it.” 

Jon shakes his head, steps closer, doesn’t let him go.

“You don’t” He answers. 

“There’s nothing else but this” And Martin believes it. This is how it’ll always be.

“There is so much beyond this, Martin” Jon promises. There’s tears in the corner of his eyes “I’m here. I’m here. I’m here”

Here. Where is here?

He looks around. A house. Not their house but a house they love. A house they’re happy in - with its patched curtains and its rusty appliances. The soft chant of birds slips inside like the beam of sunlight that crawls through the window, lighting Jon’s dear, lovely face in golden. 

Jon, who smiles, hands still holding his face, eyes still watery.

“We’re here, Martin. We’ll be okay”

And they are. At least for a moment. He takes his time to come down from it. Reality blurs with the edges of his panic until there’s nothing left but his tired body, the bright colours of the house under the afternoon sun, the groceries on the floor and Jon’s eyes, slightly glistening.

And the goddamn furrow between his brow.

Martin leans his face onto Jon’s hands, enjoying the soft caress that follows. Softly, because he can see it - not because he needs to pry or he’s picking up a fight - he speaks up.

“You’re hungry” He murmurs. Jon opens his mouth to contradict him but Martin sighs, bone deep tired “ Jon ”

“I-” He drops his hands to his sides. Martin opens his arms in offer and - like he can’t help himself - Jon sinks into the embrace and lets himself be held.

“Alright! I am!” He murmurs, muffled against Martin’s sweater. He clutches the hem of it tightly, despair dripping into his voice “You were right.  I am. I hate it.”

Martin hums. 

“The Statements aren’t coming anytime soon, are they?” 

Jon’s answer is defeated.

“Not that I know of, no”

“Alright”

They both fall quiet, still holding each other. 

“I can hold off” Jon argues weakly. Martin sighs. “I’ll be fine , Martin.”

“No”

“What else can I do?” It’s the tired tone of someone who’s thought about this one hundred times “I have no other choice. There’s no other alternative, Martin”

Quietly, Martin extracts himself from the hug. He holds Jon’s arms and simply. Looks .

“I think there is” He says, looking straight into his eyes. Jon’s expression tightens in confusion.

“What else-?” He cuts himself off, realisation melting itself into horrified, wide eyed horror “ No .”

Martin smiles.

“It’s not as bad as you think” He promises “I trust you”

Jon stutters, uncertainty creeping into his features. But determination - this infuriating, endearing self sacrificial stubbornness wins.

“You underestimate it. You underestimate it all”

Martin sighs.

“We’ll discuss it later.” He smiles sadly and kisses Jon’s forehead. Then, he walks towards the kitchen and searches for their mugs. They need a long, deep conversation but before that, they need something warming their chests.

Jon follows him.

“ Martin ” He hisses. Martin looks at him pleadingly.

“We’ll discuss that later”

He puts the kettle on. 

Jon sits before the small (diminutive) kitchen table and pointedly looks elsewhere. It’s bright pink and contrasts awfully with the burgundy-colored counters it’s squashed next to. The chairs are no better - they’ve both remarked how awful the muddy green color was in the past. 

When Martin puts the steaming mug in front of him, he looks up with a solemn expression. He doesn’t say anything until he sits, though, his own cuppa in his hands and right across Jon’s contemplative gaze.

“I’m sorry” He says, cutting right to the point. He taps his fingers against the table while the seriousness on his face deepens “I was a prick. Back there.”

Martin stays silent for a bit. Just. Taking it in. When the silence starts to stick and sting, he clears his throat. Jon isn’t the only one who overstepped.

“I’m sorry, too. I was an arse. I pushed too much. I didn't-” He cuts himself off, stares at his mug as he holds it tighter, as he tries to absorb its heat “You were right. I-I want to tell you things. But…”

“It’s not easy” Jon supplies. Martin snaps his head towards him. Fears the moment he’ll stop looking at him with such love and kindness.

“It’s not just that. My life…” He cuts himself off.  Jon reaches out and caresses his hand “I’m not- I don’t want you to see what I’ve become, Jon.”

The other man’s smile turns dark and bitter.

“I could very well say the same thing, couldn’t I?”

Martin — finally —  reaches back. He holds Jon’s hands, thinks desperately about this man and how he adores every wretched, rotten bit of him. He doesn’t say it. Maybe he doesn’t need to.

“I’m sorry” He says instead. Jon smiles sadly.

“I know, me too”

“I love you”

“I love you too”

“We’ve got this. We’ll solve it” He motions at himself, the awfully decorated kitchen, Jon’s horror-empty stomach “We’ll figure all of this out”

Jon smiles wider. The emotion shining in his eyes feels like hope. 

It’s shadows on the Safehouse. Neither of them are sleeping and the bed is too big and they’re so far, so far from each other. They’re still holding hands, though. So much unsaid. So much said, bared open. It’s been a long, hard conversation. There’s nothing left to hide. With faint amusement, Martin notices that he doesn’t care 

“Statement of Martin K. Blackwood…”

“You don’t have to do this.”

“I want to”’

He can feel the Lonely in his lungs, still, making each breath painful, shallow, cold. It’s always been in his lungs, full of words unsaid and walls raised. The fog in Martin’s life has always seeped through between silence. 

“You hate this”

He hates what it does to Jon. He despises that it makes Martin say words he hasn’t even uttered to a mirror. But now, Jon’s dear face is scrunched in worry and Martin’s lungs are full of a worn, old-timely loneliness and if he doesn’t take the leap now, when he’s safe and loved, when will he?

“I need to”

Jon, dear Jon, with his heart on his sleeve. Same old Martin, who hasn’t let himself be seen since he was ten years old and he left his home behind. 

“Statement of Martin K Blackwood. On- on being Martín. On uprooting and the loneliness thereafter.”

He takes the leap.

An immeasurable amount of time later, he falls, crashes, and prepares to jump again. 

Everyone Martin cares about, this world and the next, the man he loves. All of them are already on the line. 

Martin has everything to lose and so, he chooses.

Chapter Text

FALL

Somewhere, there’s a place.

Hold on.

The knife and the blood and the pain and a familiar bitter sensation at the back of his tongue — it isn’t fair it didn’t have to be this way please it doesn’t have to be this way please—

The body in his arms and the world swirling around him and there’s no world, there wasn’t a world, there won’t be a world anymore, not now, not yet.

Hold on. Hold on. Hold on.

Hold on. Hold on. Hold on.

Cotton in his mouth. Cotton inside his head. Cotton around him that is silk, that is static, that is bile. 

The first time Martin wakes up, he won’t remember it later. There’s the rough texture of rock under his head and a weight on his chest and someone screams. 

The second time Martin wakes up, he can see only two things: he’s in a car, someone’s yelling and Jon’s in front of him, paler than he’s ever seen him. He’s half awake and pressing a hoodie to his side. But he’s alive. He’s alive. He’s alive. Martin swears to never take his eyes off him ever again. Then, he passes out. 

The third time he wakes up, it’s to the beep of machines and a pristine hospital room and Jon’s asleep beside him, clutching his hand tightly. 

Martin’s first instinct is thrashing around.

He can’t help it. Panic rises like bilis on his throat, the need to scream, to shriek, to run . He needs to wake Jon up. They need to get up. They need to get away from wherever the hell they’re attached to (because this is a trap, it must be, it has to be), they need to run and be safe , just for a couple hours, just so they can figure out where they are.

Martin needs to run. He needs to run. He needs to run. 

He doesn’t realise Jon is awake and speaking to him until he feels the hands on his wet face.

“Martin.” He calls, voice raspy and raw and alive and this must be a trick, it must be, there’s no way — “Martin, I’m right here.”

Jon’s eyes are wet, some distant part of Martin’s brain realises. He looks lost, exhausted, distraight. They need to get out. 

“I’m here. I’m right here, Martin, I’m alive.” He’s saying. He’s repeating it over and over and over, throwing himself as close as the (frankly small) hospital bed Martin’s laying in lets him. There’s bandages all over his side and there’s a blanket on the back of his chair and why doesn’t he have a bed? Why doesn’t he have a bed? Jon was stabbed . Martin stabbed him. He should be dead. He’s alive. He should have a bed. “We’re here, Martin. We’re here.”

Martin bawls. 

“I thought I lost you.” He manages to say. “Jon, I thought I was going to kill you.”

He’s looking right at him, dark eyes shiny and tired and so sad . It’s the same dear face, the same features Martin’s mapped over and over for years. He’s alive — just a little pale and dirty. 

“So did I.” He says gravely. The serenity of his tone doesn’t match his expression. He’s trembling, trembling in Martin’s arms.

“You’re-you were—” 

Dead. Gone. Taken. 

“Yes.”

Martin tries to get his breathing under control. He needs to say this. If anything, he needs to say this. 

“I’m sorry, Jon.” He manages to voice without stuttering. “I’m so sorry.”

Of all the people that have harmed Jon, Martin never expected to be one. And yet. 

Jon frowns, cups his cheek.

“I’m—” He starts, then cuts himself off. “I love you. Okay? I love you. I’m here.”

He breathes in. Out. Tries to anchor himself to the feeling of Jon’s hands on  his face, the sight of his sad smile, the smell of antiseptic in the air. They’re here. 

“I love you too.” He says. Savours the words in his mouth, bitter and coppery and yet sweet and familiar like a morning kiss. More focused now, he takes his chance to look around the unfamiliar room ‘I…’I don’t have a single clue of where we are.”

Jon grimaces.

“Oh.” 

Martin looks at him, truly looks at him. Looks for the otherworldly amongst the glints of silver, for the extra eyes and the hungry gaze. 

“What about you? Does the Eye…?” He cuts himself off as soon as Jon flinches.

Good job, Martin.

The man parts his hands from Martin’s cheeks, raises them to his own face and sighs.

“Well, that’s…” He sounds so tired “Complicated.”

Martin’s heart stops.

“Jon.” He asks carefully “Is the Eye still here?”

A pause.

One second.

Two.

Three.

Hold on. Hold on. Hold on.

When Jon speaks, his voice rings clear and serene.

“In a sense.” He wavers. Of course he does, something in his tone breaking into despair, breaths turning ragged. “But. There’s something off , Martin. There’s something deeply off.”

“I’d say it’s been this way for a while.” Martin jokes half-heartedly. It resounds humorless and flat on his own ears.

“It’s more than that. I just— “He sounds wounded. Scared. Martin wants to reach out and envelop him in a hug but he’s frozen on his spot and Jon won’t lower his hands from his face, won’t look at him. “ Can we put a pin on it? I don’t need statements, if that worries you. I’ve been— normal hungry. Human.”

“Jon…”

“Not that I’m much human anymore.” Jon laughs hysterically “But. I’ve been acting human enough. All in all. No eldritch cravings.”  

Martin purses his mouth. Jon leans in, finally lets himself be seen. He’s crying. Of course he’s crying.  Martin itches. 

“ Please. ” Jon begs “We’ll talk about the rest later.”

Martin nods. He wants to envelop him in a hug. And, so, he does.

“Alright.”

It’s comforting. This hasn’t changed. Jon’s bony arms around him and Martin’s hands brushing across his back and the warmth caused by the simple, lovely closeness of them both.

Amongst the quiet, Jon’s hushed voice speaks again.

“I— I probably should mention, too…” Martin stills. What now? Judging by the panic in his voice, Jon notices and rushes to assurance “Nothing bad!”

He pauses and parts from the embrace. Instead, he repositions so he can hold Martin’s face between his hands, noses brushing against one another.

“I just think you should know,” He says “’ I think we’ve landed somewhere else entirely, Martin. Since I’ve been awake I..”

He chews on his lip worriedly and it does nothing to stop Martin from worrying. 

“Spill it, Jon.” 

“I can’t understand a word.” He finally says “I think we should consider the possibility that we’ve landed in a universe with a whole different language.”

Before Martin can react properly to that, the door opens.

The doctor walks in — he looks like a doctor, in a way that he can recognise, white gown, tired eyes and stethoscope. When he opens his mouth to speak, Martin tries to brace himself for what’s coming.

“Buenas tardes.” the man says, in perfect Spanish. 

He knows these words. In a different lull, a different tilt that, with the years, he lost the ability to fully imitate. The lull and weight of it is familiar — too familiar — and Martin finds himself repeating the phrase back at him automatically.

It tastes bitter in his mouth. 

Turns out they've landed somewhere else, indeed.

Ushuaia. They’re in Ushuaia. The utmost south of Argentina — found dry and wounded on the side of the coast, the edge where the shore meets the freezing water, and taken to the hospital; Jon bloody with a gash on his chest, Martin battered with multiple head wounds. 

All in all, Jon had been awake, conscious enough to grasp Martin’s hand and yell when parted. Distraught enough to not notice the familiarity of the words spoken at him. Upon discovering Jon’s wounds weren’t deep, they patched him up rather quickly and squeezed them both in a room. 

It was Martin, who wouldn’t wake up, who they were worried about. Funny that.

Their doctor’s surname is Benitez and he relies all of this to Martin — he actually does speak English, once he gets it’s what everyone in the room would understand better. It’s a bit stilted and he’s got a harsh accent but it’s more than enough. When he stumbles upon a word, he trusts Martin to catch the meaning in Spanish and relay it to Jon.

It’s… a lot.

Doctor Benitez requires them to stay here a couple nights.

Doctor Benitez writes their names down and doesn’t ask them where they’ve come from. 

Doctor Benitez leaves and  — once again — it’s Jon and Martin and a pristine, half lit hospital room. 

Martin’s back hurts. 

The hospital has provided him a cot — they offered a bed , claimed there was enough space (and justification) for that. But Martin didn’t want to leave Jon — who is bearing rounds and rounds of exams and naps the rest of the time.

So. A cot.

It doesn’t get much use. He barely sleeps, as it is, and when he lays down it’s wrapped around Jon, both of them trying to squeeze together as much as possible. 

The hospital is a blur. Martin sees nurses pass by and he nods. They ask him questions and he barely answers. He walks down the hall to the vending machine once, finds a large window overlooking the mountains and feels nothing. Jon sleeps and sleeps and when he’s awake - he’s pained and hushed and Martin doesn’t want anything other than provide whatever meagre comfort he can. 

Everything is fuzzy, cottony, diluted, up until the moment Doctor Benitez walks into the room with a serious expression across his face. 

“I’ve talked with the police.” He says.

Panic rushes through Martin and he’s suddenly, unbearably alert. Jon, right besides him, goes very very still.

The Doctor crosses the room. 

He takes a chair from the corner and sits down.

Pauses.

“I was told you weren’t found with any identification.” He says. It’s nonchalant. Normal .

There’s nothing accusing in his tone. A simple statement of fact. “Were they mistaken?”

Martin looks at Jon and finds a mirroring, wide eyed surprise on his face.

“No.”

The doctor nods. 

“Is there a chance you can get some anytime soon?”

Jon shrugs.

The doctor nods again.

“No identification, then? No passport?”

“No.”

Doctor Benítez stands up. Paces. No one says anything.

After a bit, he sits on the bed. He inhales, exhales, takes his time before he directs his grave gaze towards them and speaks.

“Do you know where you’ll stay once discharged?”

Martin bites back a cutting comment. Jon straightens but says nothing. 

The doctor notices. He purses his lips, leans back and relaxes his stance a little. 

“I don’t mean bad things with it.” He says “I just… como se dice. I have a friend. She runs a hostel but it doesn’t have many people. She has room.”

Jon swallows.

“We can’t pay right now.” He says “Not… not until…”

“Not until we figure things out.”

Documents. Passports. Bank accounts. Whether they exist in this reality or not. 

The doctor’s eyes widens and he shakes his head.

“No, no, no.”  He repeats vehemently “I think you don’t understand. She’s got room. No charge.”

A pause.

Then, it bursts, both of them speaking at the same time.

“Ah-”

“ What ?”

Jon winces, reaches out to Martin, whose response is more startled than anything else. Who does the doctor think he is? They’re not helpless , they’re grown adults, they can surely figure this out—

“Why would she do that?” He asks. Jon squeezes his hand in warning and if he relaxes, it’s just a tiny bit. 

The doctor shrugs.

“She has room.” He simply says. Like that’s all there is. 

Jon sighs. 

“We surely can’t accept…” He starts but Martin isn’t as patient. Refuses to be this light about it. There are dangers out there. There’s a world that wants him dead, all around them. Maybe even here. 

“She’d just take two strangers out of nowhere? Just like that?” It’s insane. It’s utterly fucking crazy. “Why would she take us in?”

The doctor looks between them, confused. They’ve lost him. That was too fast. But he must see the bewilderment and panic on their faces because he smiles and motions at them to breathe. 

“I… trust her. She trusts me. You have nowhere to go. And…” He points at his chest “I trust you.”

He smiles.

“Just like that.”

What else can they do?

Their host is named Chita. 

Or, at least, that’s the nickname the doctor and everyone they mention her to knows her by.

The nurses, the cleaning lady, even the taxi driver they met as soon as they were discharged nod knowingly at the name. 

She’s an older woman  — doctor Benitez explains — and she owns a hostel called “La Posada”. She doesn’t have many customers — or at least, not long-term “Because of all the cruises” (He points through the hospital window, then, to the not-so-far spot at the port where the giant ships can be seen). She manages the whole place by herself. Or, at least, does since her son left for Buenos Aires. The doctor worries about her, he comments off handedly, because the damn woman can’t keep still. After that, Jon pretends he can’t see Martin’s smug smile for a whole ten minutes.

All of that information wouldn’t prepare them for the reality of the woman herself. 

The moment they step on the hostel’s sidewalk (a wooden and stone, cosy looking building), she’s waiting on the threshold. 

The first thing Martin notices is that she’s small. 

Pale and bony, her hair is mostly grey and her sharp cheekbones frame a vivacious face. She holds herself with intention and it’d be immediately intimidating if not for the warm, genuine smile that crosses her face the moment she spots them.

“Jorge!” She calls. Doctor Benitez - who is simultaneously handing Jon his backpack from the trunk and paying the driver — waves affably. 

Jon takes Martin’s hand.  

They look at each other. The memory of Upton House - the last place with an actual bed they slept and Hilltop Road — the last proper door they went through — rings in the air.

“Well,” Martin says, trying to smile. Jon mirrors him. “Here we go again, I guess.”

Jon squeezes his hand.

“I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

They cross the door.

It is, after all, just a bloody normal house.  

With a normal room, all of their own, where Jon spends the day recovering. Where Martin naps during the day and paces during the night. 

It’s ridiculous.

—

The world ended. 

The world didn’t end.

The world was doomed and then it was saved and they died and they lived. 

It’s five in the morning, Jon’s pained little breaths are sharp but alive as he dreams on and Martin beside him can’t sleep. He wants to sleep. He should sleep. The cycle of meds they both have to go through the next day - and exercises and avoiding conversation about it — will be mentally and physically draining. He needs his energy. 

And yet.

He can’t sleep.

He wishes he could talk about it. He should talk about it. He should sleep and wake up and help Jon. Function like a normal person with responsibilities. He should sit both of them down and calmly draft a plan for the next few months. They don’t know where they’ll live, how they’ll earn a living… hell, they don’t even know if they’ll stay in this city, much less in this goddamn country . Jon barely understands the language , for fuck’s sake .

And Martin…

Martin should get better. Martin should ignore the pressure on his chest, the anxious pull that dries his mouth, reminds him none of this should be his. This isn’t earned. There’s no aftermath or happy ending or-or-or healing period to deserve . That Martin should have very well died, that Martin almost did, over and over again and almost lost Jon twice in the process. 

Martin shouldn’t be so pissed off about it.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

With a huff, he throws himself off the bed, wincing as his socked feet touch the floor. He fetches the slippers he threw around opposite sides of the room and pads off the room.

The structure of Chita’s hostel consists of a big patio in the middle of the building that connects all rooms, the stairs to the first floor and a hall towards the lobby, public bathrooms, dining room and kitchens (there’s also a small office behind the lobby but Martin’s seen it and it’s a glorified supplies closet). All of this means that when Martin steps out of his and Jon’s room, the morning air outside hits him right away. 

The world is quiet.

Martin shivers. It’s cold . He can hear some birds chirping in the distance. He runs through the little roofed space (that barely covers him from the chilly wind) until he’s in the halls, crosses and — finally — opens the door to the kitchens. 

Almost automatically, he heads for the stove and turns it on. He fills the kettle with water and settles to wait. This isn’t the first night he’s done this, not even close. He should feel some way about it, shouldn’t he?

The inside of his head feels like cotton. Fuzzy.

A drink. He needs a warm drink. 

That’s all.

Jon stays in bed a lot. 

These days, Martin does two things. Sometimes, he watches him, observes the rise and fall of his chest against the bandages, and catalogues the furrow of his brow as he dreams on. 

More often than not, though, Martin feels… abandoned. Bereft. Lonely. It’s stupid. It’s not Jon’s fault that he’s got to rest so much. He was the one that stabbed him. He needs to let him heal and he needs to let him breathe and he needs to stop being so fucking needy.

More often than not, Martin feels angry. And, so he walks it off.

Tonight is no exception. 

Moonlight falls over their bed. He should have stayed, buried his face in Jon’s hair, breathed in and enjoyed the fact that he’s here , he’s alive. 

But Martin walks through the hostel, wide awake and slightly chilly.

It’s so goddamn quiet

There are a couple chairs in the patio. If he stays here, shrouded by the night, could he pretend everything is alright? Could he make rage beautiful?

He sits anyway. Pretends this is just an idle midnight walk. Pretends he’s five years old gazing through the window of his old room. Pretends he’s twenty one on his first full night out, half-dozed by beer, tasting a cigarette someone lent him. 

He pretends the constellations over his head are familiar. That this place could have been his, once. The same streets his grandparents walked him through. The meadows he laid in with Jon, once upon a time, further north. 

Martin looks up at the stars he doesn’t recognise and pretends the weight in his heart isn’t grief.

God. God. He closes his eyes, tries to get the waves to recede, tries to vanish the humid aftertaste of fog. He should think about things that make him happy, that make him warm. 

He should marvel over the face Jon makes when he wakes up (How many times has his expression fallen when the sun hits it? How many days has he turned around on the bed, too tired and grief-stricken to answer Martin's put-on cheer?).

He should marvel over the fact that he’s alive, they’re alive (Barely. And at the cost of millions. How much is your life worth, Martin? Surely not the whole entire universe and the ones that follow it). 

He should make peace with himself for the tranquillity that they’ve done it, that Georgie and Basira and Melanie are safe, that everyone in the world will never have to cross paths with the fears ever again (Everything and everyone will forget them. You’ve left your home before, Martin, your footprints in the sand have vanished before. You should have gotten used to it).

It’s too much. It’s too much. It’s too much and Martin can feel himself trembling, can feel his quick breaths ruining the quiet, can hear his own painful whine.

It shouldn’t be like this. 

Yet it is and Martin is crying in the cold, foreign, lonely quiet.

It’s not quiet anymore. He can feel himself breaking . He can feel the world falling apart. He can hear the footsteps coming and, of course, of course he’s ruined Jon’s sleep too. What else is Martin useful for?

The steps stop. And when the voice speaks, it’s not the hushed lilt of Jon’s worry. 

“Buen día.” Chita says. Martin freezes. 

“Oh.” He gets his hand out of his mouth, tries to wipe his eyes without any result. The tears keep falling . God. This is so embarrassing. Not wanting to be impolite, though, he turns around and greets her “Hola.”

The woman stares. 

She’s very serious. Jon has commented on that before. Martin is acutely aware of how pathetic he is, standing barefoot on her hostel’s patio, while she quietly looks at him — shawl over her shoulders and a thermos under her arm. 

He smiles nervously. It probably looks more like a grimace.

“I’m okay.” He babbles, pointing to his tear-stricken face. “Sorry for that. It’s just—”

How can he explain it? Martin’s a wreck. He’s been for a long time. There’s no fixing it.

 “It’s just. It’s so much. I’m so tired. I should be sleeping right now but I can't and it’s so…” He can’t help the sob that comes out then. He puts his hand over his mouth to muffle it but it’s in vain.

Chita frowns. She steps forwards, then extends her arm towards him.

God, Martin’s gone and worried her. 

“I’m sorry! I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.” He blubbers “I shouldn’t be here worrying you. I should be over this. I was over this before- before.”  Before the goddamn apocalypse. Except that isn’t true, is it? It was just another fucking setback but he’s been downhill for a long, hard while. He’s never at peace. He never lets things be “Why am I not happy? Why am I breaking down now? It makes no sense. And I should be speaking to you in spanish, for fuck’s sake! ”

“It’s okay.” The woman says. She grasps his arm, then, and her grip is decisive as she leads him towards the chair, as she picks the thermos and pours hot liquid over the teacup she had already set on the little glass table. “It’s okay. I understand. I work in a hostel, Martin, remember?” 

Martin nods. Chita holds his hands as they tremble, as they take the teacup, as he slowly drinks from the rim. 

“Unless you have a preference.” She adds “What do you prefer?’

Martin shakes his head. 

“Neither. Both.” He takes a sip. Maybe enough tea will dissolve the knot in his throat the question has caused “I don’t know.”

Chita doesn’t question it. She just nods — like he’s being perfectly reasonable, like he’s not having a breakdown on the patio at four in the morning. 

“Está bien.” She simply says. She sits on the chair beside him, relaxes her grasp and yet keeps her hand on his forearm. It’s a small yet unmeasurable comfort. 

They fall quiet. 

Martin drinks. He lets the taste of it inundate his senses. Plain black tea with a dash of milk, not the way he’d usually prepare it but slightly comforting nonetheless. It’s warm. He hasn’t realised how numb his fingers felt until now. Hasn’t noticed the chilly wind against his damp cheeks.  The heat from his teacup helps. His hands aren’t freezing and his throat doesn’t feel like lead. 

When he finishes the tea, Martin realises that he doesn’t feel better- but he doesn’t feel worse either. 

As he deposits the cup back on the table, he smiles guiltily at Chita’s pensive face.

“I’m truly sorry for this.” He tells her “I don’t know why I’m like… this. Now. But-” He cuts himself off. The woman doesn’t want another round of Martin bawling over his issues “It doesn’t matter. I’m sorry for this, anyway”

Chita says nothing. Instead, she lays back on his seat and looks at him. 

There’s something aching about it. 

Kindred. Martin idly wonders if the fog would curl up in the corners of this old woman’s eyes if she’d let it. Her hand is still a warm comfort against his arm and, when she thinks, she taps her fingers against his skin. 

When she finally speaks up, her voice cuts hushed and definite against the stillness of the night.

“When I was thirty four, this place almost burned down.” She says. 

Martin flinches.

“Oh my god, I’m so—” He starts saying, but she waves him off. 

“ That’s not the point. That’s not the point.” She sighs. Then shakes herself off to continue. "Leo — he’s my son. He was very young, back then. I was his only parent. It was just him, me and my own elderly father. So, when the fire happened, it was…” She stops to shake her head, eyes clouded. Martin reaches, then, takes the thermos she’s left on the table, pours it on the spare cup and quietly nudges it towards her.  She huffs a laugh but takes it. 

“It was all up to me.” Chita resumes “I had to bring my kid and my dad out, evacuate the guests, put the fire out, call the authorities…”

She pauses. Takes a sip.

“I was calm. Um. Serena . That’s the best word. You know it?” She asks. Martin nods and she smiles again. “Good. I was so calm. I did it all on… automatic. No problem at all.”

Her gaze trails off  — towards the little windows that face the patio, towards the beautiful tiled roof, towards the bindweed that climbs through the stairs and over the walls. 

Maybe she, too, sees what could have been. Maybe she also regrets.

When Chita speaks again, it’s very quiet. 

“But when everyone was safe and everything was solved, I broke.“ She says “I remember my friend’s house and her couch and I was just. Crying. Couldn’t stop shaking.” She pauses, looks straight at Martin "Just like you now.”

And he is, isn’t he? How hasn’t he realised?

“I’m sorry.” He apologises and just like that, he’s off again “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. ”

Through the tears, maybe he can see Chita standing, maybe he can see her worried as she extends her bony, wrinkled arms towards him. 

“Está bien, corazón, no pasa nada.” 

“ I’m so sorry. ”

“Shhh, it’s okay” And just like that, she hugs him tight as he bawls and absolutely loses it “You’re safe. That’s what I mean. It’s because you’re safe you break down. Your body is letting go”

“I should— I should focus on Jon. I should focus on the fact that we’re happy. Why can’t I be happy? Why can’t I just… enjoy ? It's over! It’s done! What the hell am I crying about?” His voice breaks and, just like that, he dissolves into incoherence. Chita holds him through and through, squeezes him like his mother forgot to do, the way his grandparents could never do again, the way only Jon has and Martin has gone and ruined that, too, hasn’t he? He’s lost them. He’s lost it all.

“Está bien, está bien, está bien” Chita repeats. Over and over and over. Like a lullaby. Like a good charm “Vas a estar bien. Van a estar bien”

And it hurts.

It hurts to be tired, it hurts to be awake, it hurts to hurt .

And yet, he realizes, Martin is held. Martin isn’t alone. Martin is alive.

It hurts because he’s alive.

“Vas a estar bien” Chita shushes “Va a estar todo bien”

And - for one small moment of hope - he lets himself believe it. He’s alive — so he can feel better. 

They’ve got time.

Jon’s voice breaks through his slumber like the pierce chime of a bell.

“Martin. Martin! ”

He scrambles upright, heart racing. To his surprise and relief, Jon’s expression is calm and just a little bit excited.

“What? What is it?” He asks, with half a mind of collapsing again on the matress. Jon reaches for him and tugs at his hands insistently.

“You need — Come with me, please.”

“What?” Martin asks, yet he climbs out of bed anyway. Of course he does. 

" Please. ” 

“I’m coming, I’m coming!” 

Jon stands at the threshold of their bedroom, changing his weight from one leg to the other as he turns around to look at Martin impatiently. He’s excited. Properly, thoroughly, excited. It’s endearing.

Martin puts on his slippers and lets himself be led out by the hand. Jon walks them to the centre of the empty patio — there’s nobody here, it’s the middle of the night — and, with barely concealed joy, he points up. 

"Look at the sky, Martin.” He says. Martin can’t see his face, can’t tell if Jon realises the shiver the words send down his spine, the way they dig and twist and ache.

And yet.

Martin looks up.

The width of the sky stands before them. It strikes him, then, that the last time they’ve been so close to the pole, it was on the opposite side of the world. They’re at the utmost south, the below of the belows and the sky, in its infinite glittering calm, knows it.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen this many stars.” He says. 

Jon’s voice is soft — and maybe just a little bit choked. 

“I know.” He says, cuddling closer “Me neither.”

They stay outside in the quiet, arms around one another to stave off the cold, for a long mournful while. 

Jon wakes up early on a Wednesday morning. 

He rolls over with a quiet sigh and a determined frown, kisses Martin on the forehead and pokes him on the sides until he’s up and giggling from the ticklish touches. He retaliates by hugging him tightly (or as tightly as the stitches let him) and blowing a raspberry into Jon’s neck, right in the dip between his neck and collarbone. They start the day just like this, embracing and laughing and eyes still half closed from sleep.

It’s a good start.

They notice pretty quickly that the hostel works in strange ways.

Jon’s the first to point it out — stretched over his chair while he bites a piece of toast and observes the quiet murmurs in the dining room. He’s frowning and the comment makes Martin become very, very still.

“Oh!” Jon shakes his head emphatically “No, not like that.”

Martin relaxes a little bit. From the kitchen, they can hear Chita puttering back and forth — working the coffee machine and the toast and the baked goods and —

“I just meant—” Jon continues “Have you seen any employees here?”

Martin looks around. There’s them, obviously, calmly eating breakfast. There’s a little family on the corner — two moms and a toddler wrapped in a tiny puffy coat. They arrived yesterday morning, he knows. Behind them, there's the old man and his wife from upstairs who have been staying for almost a week. And on the doorway, just arriving, there’s a young woman who is definitely underdressed for the weather.

And… Jon’s right. No staff. 

“Todo bien por acá?” Chita says, coming out from the kitchen and pointing at their (now empty) cups “Té?”

Jon hesitates, peering dubiously at the pot she’s holding alongside a couple of plates filled with pastries. Martin’s gotta admit, it's certainly a feat that such thin arms can hold so much without any apparent effort. The woman makes a motion to refill his cup and he scrambles to help her. 

“It’s alright, I can do it.” He mutters, trying to take the cup from her hands. She frowns, motioning for him to sit.

“No, no.” She insists “’You’re my guest.”

“And I’m not doing anything right now!”

They stare at each other with mutual stubbornness. It’s a bit eerie. 

“Chita,” Martin pipes up, high pitched and desperate for a distraction “Are you the only one working here?”

They break it off. Chita waves Jon off and — finally — he sighs and slumps back in his seat, defeated. She starts serving them both with a pleased smile.

“Oh, no.” Chita answers as she sneaks a medialuna onto Jon’s plate and wordlessly urges him to eat “There’s my son.”

Martin smiles.

“Ah!” It’s a relief, honestly, that she’s not doing all on her own  “Where… where is he?”

“Buenos Aires.” She says without missing a beat.

Martin bluescreens. Jon stops halfway through chewing. They both look at her as she happily pours tea through the tables and greets the new guests. They look at each other, then back at her.

“Chita” Martin calls “Um. Does he…Is your son living there?”

“Yes.” She answers “Why?”

She turns around, sees their cups are empty again.

“More?”

Jon shakes his head and Martin fidgets nervously.

“You’re doing this all on your own?” He looks down at his plates, stands to pick them up and carry them to the kitchen. He had heard about this but didn’t believe it. Now, he’s certain of it. This cannot do. She’s old and thin . What if she breaks her back because she’s running around while Martin stays on his butt? “The cooking and the cleaning and the reception-”

He’s not even fully out of his seat when he’s intercepted by said old and thin woman, back definitely not broken.

“Sit down, sit down.” She commends him with a disappointed shake of her head that doesn’t disappear until he’s plopped down behind Jon. The man pats his knee understandingly “You need to rest! Sit! You’re a guest!”

“Let us help.” Jon pleads. He even uses his adorable face, the one Martin can never say no to. Chita can’t possibly resist it, can she? “We’re not doing anything. Let us help.”

She has absolutely none of it.

“No.” She says. It sounds final but becomes even more so when she wags her finger sternly “Sit. Rest.” 

She points at Jon

“Heal.”

Then she marches back towards the kitchen, picking up three pairs of plates, cups and cutlery on her way.

“Wow.” Martin comments, sighing into his (somehow, refilled again) cup of tea “She’s stubborn.”

Jon doesn’t answer right away. He just looks after her thoughtfully as he sips his own drink. 

After a couple seconds, he pipes up with a smile that can only mean trouble.

“Do you think it comes with the nationality?”

“Oi!” Martin exclaims. He flicks some water towards Jon’s snickering face “You’re one to talk!”

He accepts begrudgingly the apologetic kiss on the cheek. 

“Well, that’s certainly a good point.” Jon concedes. 

Martin’s annoying habit of waking up on the middle of the night doesn’t vanish.

I’m alive , he tells himself. Jon snores in his sleep, so he is too , he adds.

The thought, like many times before, doesn’t tranquilise him. It itches. He feels bereft, exhausted by his own exhaustion. Why is nothing enough? Why is he staying still? Why isn’t he doing anything ?

You got away, you selfish creature. You lived and got everything you ever asked for — why are you not happy? Why are you not okay? Why are you plagued by the guilt when the sun sets, when the unsurmountable burden of existing is reason enough for condemnation?

His guilt has guilt. Jesus, that’s pathetic. 

“Querés?”

He jolts.

In front of him, Chita has sat down, knitting kit on her lap. Her face stays serene as she extends a second kit towards Martin. 

“Ah!” He feels a sudden surge of reaching out, of taking the needles and the thread, of just zoning out into the manual labor of it all. He squashes it down. It’s unnecessary “No, no hace falta”

She raises her eyebrows. The message is clear. Why not?

“Oh—bloody— okay!” Martin gives up and grabs it. He fumbles with it a bit “Okay! Te aviso que no hago esto hace mucho así que no juzgués.”

One small stitch. Two. Three.

Hold on. Breathe.

“Gracias” He tells the silence. 

“Ayuda.” She says, clicking her needles togheter. She points at her head “Especialmente cuando tenés la cabeza toda enredada”

Martin nods. 

There’s not much said, then. Just the easy rhythm of and the slight rustle of yarn . The cold air is getting colder with the days but when Martin looks up, there’s not a cloud in the sky. 

The stars are pretty, though. They’re slowly becoming familiar. 

They’re sitting quietly one evening, all three of them in Chita's private dining room.

She’s got a spacious enough place up here — her own TV set and bunch of sofas, a spread of knick knacks and half-knitted blankets all over the place. There’s a bunch of pictures on the corner, too. She points at them when she catches Martin looking, sometimes, calls her son’s name in a toddler’s chubby face, her sister’s in a sepia photograph taken years and years before she died, and uncovers the young faces of several neighbours he and Jon have personally met.

Tonight, there’s not much chatter. Martin lays on the big sofa, sprawled without a worry in the world. He’s half writing, half listening to the telenovela playing on the TV. Jon, on his part, is very comfortable leaning on his chest like it’s just another cushion, brow furrowed as he plays a game of cards against Chita. She’s kicking his butt but Martin can tell - he has no proof but he can tell - she’s cheating. He’s bidding his time until Jon notices, though. 

“How much was one of gold worth again?” Jon asks.

Chita tsks theatrically. Minxy old shit . 

“Not much, I’m afraid. It’s like four, remember?”

Jon squints. 

“I’m pretty sure it’s worth way more, Chita”

She shakes her head, the picture of innocence.

“No, flaquito, no.” 

Jon stares at her with suspicion. He looks back at his cards, stills and then looks up again, outraged. Martin can’t help it — he starts snickering. His partner turns around to swat him.

“Martin!” He complains. Martin shrugs, but can’t stop his giggles. Jon huffs, then turns back to Chita “Chita!”

She rushes to stand up, rub her hands against her lap and smiles guiltily as she says:

“I’ll turn the kettle on.”

“ Chita! ” 

“Mate, café o té?”

Jon slumps over Martin with a resigned sigh.

“Mate, please.”

“Bueno, flaquito.” She says, then pats his leg like he’s an unruly child “You’re getting better at this game, don’t worry.”

“Thank you, Chita.” 

“Hm.”

She leaves, then, all firm steps and a flurry of her crochet shawl. 

There’s a pause.

“Martin?”

“Yes, love?”

“She was cheating, wasn’t she.”

“Oh, she absolutely was.”

Jon harrumps, soothed by the knowledge he was right , then turns around to cuddle Martin properly. Jon’s hair tickles his nose but there’s no way Martin’s complaining.

The nights are hard. 

The nights are quiet.

It feels there’s a lot to say — a lot they’re simply passing over. A lot they’re ignoring. It feels like the nights should be the space that fills that silence, the shroud over the blood and bones and gore of a past they must bury. 

The weight of the unsaid tastes bitter on Martin’s mouth. He’s afraid to say it, to even try. Will his tongue curl the wrong way around the vowels? Will he stumble over the wrong threshold? Will the venom inside him poison Jon, sting and choke until there’s nothing more than Martin left, on his lonesome once again?

They’re alive.

Shouldn’t that be enough?

It’s Sunday. 

Martin should put on his shoes, walk somewhere. He doesn’t want to. Just one look at the street makes him tired. It doesn’t matter that he hasn’t explored the city — not really — since they arrived here a couple weeks ago. It doesn’t matter that being holed up in the hostel is probably doing him no good. It doesn’t matter that he’s deeply, painfully bored.

He should go out but he doesn’t.

Jon’s bored, too. Even if he doesn’t say so. He’s picked up and browsed through the same goddamn paperback Doctor Benitez handed him back in the hospital. Martin doubts the man has read through a single book more than once, much less this much

There’s nobody else here. The few guests the hostel has are out. Well, technically, Jon and Martin are out , too. Just — not out in the city. Just out on the patio. 

This is okay , Martin tells himself. It’s okay to be bored and not want to walk around a new city. It’s alright to stay in the same place you and your partner have been shut in for a month and a half. Look at Jon, eyes closed while he lounges on the chair! They’re hanging . This is what well adjusted adults do!

“Jon.”

“Yes?”

And, because Martin is indeed a well adjusted adult, he says “Veo veo.”

“Um…” Jon falters, closes his eyes and scrunches his face in concentration. They’ve become familiar with this version of “I spy” on the safehouse and - lately - they spontaneously bring it up  “Qué ves?’

The effort he makes in his pronunciation sends a sharp, overwhelming jolt of fondness through Martin’s heart. He smiles giddily, wanting to kiss his cheeks but restrains himself and  - instead - continues the game.

“Una cosa.”

Jon rolls his eyes. 

“Qué cosa?” The shape of the words in his mouth is awkward. Martin wants to kiss them anyway. 

“Maravillosa.”

Jon groans.

“Honestly, Martin, I Spy is much more straightforward.” He protests, slumping into his chair with put-on dramatics. 

“Apologies. Forgot you were a connoisseur in such thrills.”  Martin snarks, receiving a poke in the ribs for his troubles 

“De qué color?” 

“Color…” He looks around. At the wide doors and the elegant windows, at the people milling around in and out. The air’s warm today. Almost too warm and a little bit sticky. It’s a good day “Verde.”

“Hm…” Jon hums, looks around for himself. To what, Martin doesn’t care. He’s much too busy getting his eyes acquainted with the small lines around his eyes as he squints“The mantelpiece?”

“No.”

“The plants?”

“Which one?” 

“If I start going leaf by leaf we’re never getting this game over with.” 

“Oh, you’re no fun.” 

Jon rolls his eyes. 

“Well?”

“No, not the plants, Jon. Promise.”

“Alright. Let’s see…” He trails off. Martin focuses on him, the way he’s braided his hair neatly over his shoulder (they really had too much time today), the way he bites his lips, the way his eyes scan the room — human, thoroughly human “Oh, good lord— ”

“Hm?”

“ Fire ” 

“What?” Martin stops, properly stops “Where have you seen green—”

“No, Martin, look” Jon springs up from his seat, grabs Martin’s arm and tugs him forward, “Fire!”

At the end of the hall, the small AC that cools the lobby is covered in a thick layer of smoke. And faintly, amongst it all, the small flicker of flames advancing towards the walls. 

“Chita!” Martin yells automatically. The woman didn’t go out. She mustn’t have been. He’s sure he’s seen her around - popping in and out to do various tasks and denying any help from them both. She has to be here. She’ll know what to do.

Jon’s quicker. In what seems like seconds, he’s grabbing a fire extinguisher and sprinting down the hall straight towards the fire.

Martin’s heart stops, for a couple seconds. The sight of him, braid unruffled, fire extinguisher in hand, is familiar.

Way too familiar.

He itches to come forward. He itches to help. He itches to take Jon by the shoulders, shake him and tell him to please not fucking run towards danger again . 

He doesn’t do anything.

He simply stares, frozen, as Jon aims the mouth of the extinguisher and — just like that, in a cloud of white steam — puts the fire out at the same time the alarm starts going off. 

He simply stares as Chita runs out from the kitchen, wide eyed and scared as he starts coughing.

He simply stares as she takes the extinguisher from Jon and conducts him back to the patio, both of them drenched to the bone. 

Mechanically, she sits both of them down, pats their cheeks and makes them look up and down. When she’s reassured nobody’s hurt, she lets herself fall over a spare chair with aplomb.

“Are you alright, Martin?” 

“I’m not the one that ran into the fire , Jon!”

The man winces but doesn’t respond with more than a shrug. Still clutching at the extinguisher and with her eyes set on the ground, Chita speaks up.

“I’m sorry for that, kids.” She says, then mumbles to herself “Tota warned me and I just — forgot. I should have seen this coming.”

Jon and Martin exchange glances. They’ve been discussing it for a while, but seeing an emergency like this...

“Chita,” Martin calls softly “You need help. You can’t manage this on your own.”

The woman shakes her head.

“I’m fine.”

“Chita.”

“I’m good!” She says, then motions around “ It’s always been like this!”

Martin drags his chair closer to her.

“Please, Chita.” He pleads “Would you let us help you? With something, at least?”

“We’re here sitting idle.” Jon adds, extending his hand across the table to grab hers “Let us help.”

She sighs and looks up in exasperation. When they meet her eyes again, she’s smiling faintly.

“Alright.” She says, then wags a finger “But I’ll be paying you.”

“Chita, you’re feeding and housing us…”

The finger now points at Martin’s nose.

“No discussion.” 

Her tone is final. 

“Alright!”  Martin puts his arms up in surrender “Jon?”

“I’ve been aiming for a change of careers so…” He says, giving the extinguisher on the floor a spiteful little kick.

It’s not funny. The cold panic from moments ago still stays on Martin’s skin like a layer of sweat. Jon’s forehead has a grey smudge and Chita’s voice still creaks from the smoke. The small joke — a dig at their well-ignored past — stings more than amuses.

And yet, Martin laughs.

They had to get out, eventually.

The city is quite pretty. Feels like a town, really. Mostly small buildings and houses and one look beyond shows either the surrounding mountains or the coast — the water of the channel still. Jon and Martin walk through the city centre hand in hand in cautious, yet amiable, quiet. 

There’s no need to talk, to comment on the differences on the buildings they're certainly both documenting. Is the wood and brick of the houses like this because it’s another country or another universe? Are the stars meekly peeking over the reddish horizon different from what they should have been? Should they even care?

They walk by the coast. There aren't many tourists at this time of the year —and yet, from here they can see the cruises stationed on the port. They pay them no mind. 

Martin looks towards Jon. His face is barely visible, buried as it is under layers of coat and sweaters. His scarf was Chita’s — gifted one evening after he couldn’t stop staring at the bright, ridiculously cheerful orange discarded over the couch and she noticed. The thing’s a bloody eyesore but damn Martin if he doesn’t think Jon somehow — stray gray hairs and reddened cheeks — pulls it off.

Jon looks over at him, raises a pointed eyebrow. Instead of an answer, Martin bites back a smitten smile and squeezes their joint hands. It’s not like his attire’s much different — a big overcoat lent by Ricardo, an older gentleman Chita’s good friends with. After the fifth time the man had come over to the hostel for coffee and found Martin shivering in the kitchen, he simply decided that wouldn’t do and brought one of his spares, waving away Martin’s protests all the while. He seemed to prefer discussing fish species with Jon than hear any thanks on the matter. 

It’s weird to be surrounded by people again.

A cool gust of wind interrupts his thoughts. Jon tugs him and they both run from the farthest end of the coast towards the small cluster of trees. 

Such a wonder, to run solely from the cold.

They sprint, half breathless and Martin can feel himself giggling, can feel Jon’s soft chuckle besides him. 

And then, he sees it. Amongst the trees, the sign stands gently, unintrusive, the Beagle Channel its beautiful backdrop. 

USHUAIA  

Welcome to the end of the world.

Martin’s breath catches in his throat. If he had any capacity for thought, if he held any hope at all that Jon wouldn’t see it, the way he feels him freezing and tensing would disappoint him. 

Somewhere in Martin’s mind, a flicker of memory sparks faintly. The city at the end of the world, indeed. Of course. Even in its agonising moments, the Web’s spite would never cease. Irony wrapped, silky and thin, to their necks like a well worn noose.

Martin can help it, he scoffs. 

Jon crosses his arms.

“I know.”  He drolls, voice deep and faintly amused. His expression as he stares at the sign is utterly serious. The effect it’s thoroughly ruined by the bright orange monstrosity around his neck. Martin’s overcome with affection. “Dreadfully tacky, isn’t it?” 

And it is. The bright red and white letters clash with the wooden surface. The small illustration of the city is all wrong. The fonts are mismatched. It looks like they were aiming for kitschy and landed in parody.

“Welcome to the end of the world, I guess.”

It’s not funny — Martin knows it the moment the words leave his lips. It’s an awful joke. It’s mean

And yet, Jon laughs. He laughs as if he can’t help it, he laughs with a choked, painful sound; he laughs the way he cries when he thinks Martin can’t hear it, muffled and wholeheartedly.

And it’s contagious. Martin can feel his own hysterical burst of laughter spill from his lips, can feel the cold against his eyes as they feel with tears, can feel Jon’s breath on his face — the proof he’s alive, both of them alive, against all odds, for some stupid reason.

They laugh for a while. 

It’s insane and relieving and desperate.

It’s proof of life.

Chapter Text

Hold on. 

There’s something fragile in Martin’s chest. He can feel it blooming, thorny with the anxious agony of what-could-have-beens, darkened by residual guilt, bright and lively like newfound hope. It twists and turns his insides as he keeps it quiet, as he swallows it down, as he quietens it with the idle murmurs of domestic life.

A pat in the hand, a kiss on the cheek, a caress to his shoulder.

A reminder.

Hold on.

Martin can’t sleep.

The early morning light covers their room like a forgotten blanket, pale and blue and almost ethereal. Besides him, Jon snores. He denies he does (always has and always will) but Martin knows the truth - listens with a detached fondness to his soft wheezes as he dreams, basks in the fact that he’s here, he’s alive, he’s peaceful.

Jon does an acrobatic and moves from trapping Martin’s chest and arm to the other side of the bed.

The room is cold.

Martin can’t sleep.

It’s already morning.

Better get up, then.

He does just that. Slowly climbs out of the bed, shrugs on a big knitted sweater Chita lended them and walks out of the room and through the internal patio towards the kitchen. He can’t hear any guests eating. It must be before seven. 

He finds a kettle on the fire and a yawning old lady cutting bread on the counter. As soon as she peers at him, she smiles.

“Buenos días, Martín.” She says, eyes crinkling at the corner with mirth. Another yawn overtakes her and - this time - she follows it with a grumpy hum..

“Buenos días, Chita.” He greets back shyly. 

She waves her hand at him dismissively 

“None of that, please” she says, then points at the mate by her “Un matecito?’’

Martin ponders for a second.

“Yes, please.” He decides. “Thanks.”

The woman just smiles.

He sweeps in to help with the bread. It’s easy. Toasts and medialunas for the guests' breakfasts. Start a pot of coffee, get the sugar bags out of the counter, get the little packets of jam and butter and honey the hostel buys in bulk. Mechanical. Chita’s small portable radio drones in the background — a symphony of chipper eighties tunes and an announcer going on about the weather and the latest news. 

They don’t talk. It’s not oppressive, though. The silence wraps around them in sleepy comfort and, when the old lady needs to get to something, she pats his back with easy confidence.

Soon enough, the hostel’s meager occupants start arriving. Chita greets them and comes back to the kitchen to fill a cup with coffee, hot water, juice. There’s no fragility in her motions as she navigates back and forth from the dining hall, grabs the stuff she needs and waves away Martin’s offers of help.

The breakfast rush — if it can even be called that — ends. That’s where Jon appears, tangled hair and sleepy limbs looking incredibly disgruntled for someone who slept until ten.

He ignores the very comfortable chairs and couches in the dining room and instead paces through the kitchen tiles until he’s collapsing against Martin’s back, burying his face in his sweater.

“Good morning!” Martin chirps from his spot at toaster duty, trying to keep his laughter to himself. Jon notices anyway and pokes him on the waist about it. “How did you sleep?’’

Jon groans.

“Sorry, love. I don’t speak sleepy.”

Jon chuckles. The sound reverberates through Martin’s spine and warms him down to his core. 

“It was fine.” He finally says  “‘It's too cold to be up.”

“It’s always cold, Jon.” 

“It’s because we’re close to the Antarctic. Being surrounded by the Andes doesn’t help, either.”

“Is that so?’’

Jon hums.

“Yes, it’s a…” he yawns “A climate thing. Don’t look it up.”

“Very serious term: climate thing. ’’

“Yes, learnt it at Oxford.”

“Definitely didn’t pick it up from Chita’s lengthy explanations.”

“Oh, absolutely.”  Jon tugs at Martin so he abandons the toaster for a bit and they’re face to face. Then, he raises his toes to give him a peck. 

“Talking of Chita, did she give you the talk too?’’

Martin raises his eyebrows.

“The talk ?’’

“Yes, what— oh.” He scrunches his face when he registers the wide, cheeky smile in front of him “Not that, Martin, good lord.’’

“But wouldn’t that be funny.’’

“More like mortifying, thank you very much.’’ Jon pokes him in the cheek, once twice “I meant the whole talk on, hm, basic survival skills?’’

“Ah! About not jumping into the Beagle, you mean?’’

“Yes! And how to layer our clothes and where not to wander—’’

“It was a bit patronizing.”

“I felt like I was being chastised by my grandmother! Does the woman know we’re not useless?’’

That’s where the loud sound of the toaster expelling burnt toast everywhere startles them both.

They scramble to pick it up (Burnt fingers and all). When they look towards the doorstep, Chita is watching them with an amused - if slightly smug - smile on her face and a raised eyebrow.

“Buenos días.” She greets pointedly.

Jon smiles apologetically.

“Buenos días, Chita.”

This is a normal day.

It becomes clear enough in the first couple weeks working at the hostel that the place isn't brimming with guests. 

Most days, in fact, the place functions as a social club of sorts. 

Various locals walk in and head straight towards the dining room, where they spend hours talking and drinking coffee. Chita greets them with easy familiarity, serves them and graciously accepts the crumpled bills and a soundly kiss of the cheek when they leave. 

The greetings, particularly, are also directed at Martin and Jon. Everyone who comes to greet Chita has an enthusiastic welcome ready. The first time Jon was kissed on the cheeks - by the town's most serious octogenarian - he looked properly stunned behind his spot at the lobby main desk.

Oh, and if that doesn't amuse Martin greatly , Chita decided it was perfectly reasonable to set Jon in reception . Not the bilingual man with multiple retail jobs under his belt. Jon - with his adorable scowl and his undisguised exasperation when he's speaking to someone particularly difficult. 

It's delightful. 

If Martin didn't have his own work to do in the kitchen (and occasional cleaning duties, which he's perfectly content to do while listening to podcasts, thank you very much), he'd stay in the lobby all day to enjoy the spectacle. 

All in all, it works just fine. Most hostel guests are tourists from abroad, anyway. Different lulls of English and Brazilian Portuguese are common background noises, at this point. The Spanish speakers that arrive either wait patiently while Jon tries his best or ask for Chita's company. 

From all the locals that waltz through the hostel's doors, the most constant of them all is Ricardo. In his fifties, stocky and a bit sunburnt, he comes in most afternoons after work with a warm smile.

"Buenas tardes." he always greets as soon as he steps inside, his voice booming through the place even though Jon's like five steps away and Martin and Chita not so far behind. Then, he walks towards the dining room and settles there with a newspaper or a book, calmly waiting for “un café con leche con dos medialunas, por favor.” and some company.

Surprising no one that has met him, the old man's company is - usually - Jon. 

Ricardo's jocose affability complements Jon's passionate lectures well. They spend hours talking in broken half-English half-Spanish about random fish fun facts, rare historical maps (Google pictures and heavy gesturing included) or the weirdest border markers (Jon insists it's Baarle between Belgium and Netherlands, Ricardo swears by the Diomede Islands). 

Martin joins them sometimes. 

It's difficult, he finds, to be surrounded by other people again. People who are not Jon — who never really feels like an other, burrowed as he is under Martin’s skin. People who want his input, who care about what he has to say and will listen carefully. People whose opinion on him has yet to bloom, subsisting in potential. Most days, he passes his time by working, knitting with Chita or walking around the city with Jon. Or cuddling with Jon. Or playing cards with Jon.

Some days, he’s okay with it.

Some others, he’s sure he doesn’t deserve it.

Because he shouldn’t, should he? A quiet existence with the one he loves. Keeping a job. Learning to be a person again. 

Martin should…
Martin really should…

He never completes that sentence. 

And then, the day ends. 

And then, life moves on. 

And then, it’s a normal day.

Martin wakes up on a Saturday only to find Chita hiding in the hall, head tilted to eavesdrop into the murmurs from the lobby and with an amused smile on her face.

“What are you—’’

She raises a finger to her lips and shushes him. Then, looking incredibly smug, she urges him to scoot beside her. From this spot, Martin can hear Jon's mildly exasperated lilt, interrupted by a nasal voice he doesn’t recognise. 

“No, there’s no bathing area in the city.” Jon says. He sounds like this is the fifth time he’s said the phrase. 

The tourist - because that’s definitely what he is - is quick to insist.

“But are you sure? I’ve read a lot about this area. Patagonia is not what it seems in the movies, you know. It’s more than desert and mountains, kid.” 

Martin can feel Jon’s eye roll from here.

“Yes, sir. ” He drones “I’m positive you shouldn’t take a leap into the Beagle Channel.’’

Chita muffles a snort with her sleeve. Martin narrows her eyes at her. 

“Should we help him?’’

She waves him off.

“No, grandote, he’s got it, he’s got it.” she says, just as Jon’s voice raises to dangerous levels.

“What do you mean why? ’’ He vociferates. Hell, Martin’s glad to not have that tone directed at him anymore “Because it’s water from the damn South Pole and you’re showing me a pair of swimming trunks !’’

Oh. Oh no. Oh no. Code red. 

Just as Martin makes a motion to enter the lobby and diffuse the situation — bypassing Chita entirely, who seems to have no care for customer service at all — the tourist decides to huff his way into the hall, making them both crash specularly. 

The man isn’t fussed. He just huffs harder, waving the very thin and very purple swimming trunks in frustration and storming off into his room.

Well.

That was a thing. 

He peers into the lobby — where Jon’s still scowling behind the reception desk. 

“You alright, love?’’

He gets a huff.

Chita walks in, a wide smile on her face. Jon looks at her, then back at Martin and narrows his eyes. 

“You were eavesdropping, weren’t you.”

Martin opens his mouth to shamelessly lie but Chita wins him to it. 

“Oh, absolutely” She smiles and earnestly pats his hand “You handled that perfectly, flaquito.”

Jon blinks.

“I yelled him out of the room” 

“Yes, well. He was being silly.”

Jon sighs and slumps. The small smile on his face seems to say Fair enough . He scoots closer to Martin, cuddling himself to his side and smiling fondly when he’s answered with an arm around his shoulders and a kiss to his forehead.

“Mhh. Mornin.”’ 

“Good morning to you, too.”

“Have you put the kettle on yet?’’

Martin snorts.

“Rude.” He says, poking softly at the space between his missing ribs “No how are yous? You won’t ask how I slept?’’

“Alright. How are you?’’

“I’m perfectly well right this second, thank you very much.”

Jon huffs out a laugh.

“Cheeky.”

“Yes.” Martin grins, then places a loud smooch to his cheek “I’ll bring you some tea, okay?’’

Jon opens his mouth but is promptly interrupted by the doorbell signaling another arrival.

Martin’s dreaming. 

He knows as much, as he walks through the moors — feeling no chill in the air, no frost on the cold grass below his bare feet.

He knows as much — he tells himself as the fog rolls in quietly, as the lap of the waves and the buzzing in the air grows louder and louder.

He knows as much — because Jon would never leave him here, because this isn’t a beach but a hill — crumbling daises beneath his feet, something different, off and yet immensely familiar creeping in.

And then, realization hits him —- Martin might be dreaming but the Lonely has never bound itself by reality.

Panic washes over him, all at once. He needs to go back. He needs to run, before  he forgets. He needs to find a way out.

But everything’s fog — thick, ominous, indifferent. Everything’s fog and it wraps around him like an old blanket that itches and assaults his nose with the smell of naphthalene, the same way it did when he wrapped it around his body on sick, lonely days. 

Everything’s fog but the light.

Martin stays still and stares.

The light doesn’t shift. Red and shining. No clear source, suspended a few meters over the ground. 

He battles unease, feeling himself trapped, somehow. A mix of relief, nausea and adrenaline paralyzes him as he watches, as the fog slowly recedes around the light and then thins all around them. The scenery becomes clearer: the daisy field that covers the top of the hill he stands in, the water lapping under him, the cloudy night sky so very close above his head. 

The light remains. 

Martin walks towards it, feeling the grass crunch under his feet. Maybe it’s because — deep down — he’s no better than Jon when it comes to craving knowledge. After all, the Eye had sewn itself into Martin’s skin, too, like an age-old tattoo, had claimed him, no matter how hard he spit and rattled against it. 

He reaches, bile rising in his throat, arm hairs standing up. 

The light disappears. 

Over the grass it stood, bare of meat and skin, lays the cleaned off skeleton of an animal.

Martin wakes up.

They meet Tota Ibañez for the first time when she arrives at five o’ clock, bearing a bundle of medialunas on one side and holding her little granddaughter’s hand in the other. 

She’s got a kind, creased face, wrapped in bright scarves over her jacket. As she crosses the lobby without a care in the world, the stack of bracelets on both of her arms jingle. Jon can’t even begin to half-heartedly greet her when the woman looks him up and down and beams .

“Chita! Así que es verdad que levantaste a un par de la calle?’’ She calls, chipper as ever. The woman in question rolls her eyes and sighs deeply. Jon looks at Martin questioningly.

“I think they’re friends. She thinks we’re vagabonds Chita picked up.” He translates. “But like, in a good way.’’

Jon frowns.

“I—’’ he starts saying, then pauses and scrunches his nose. The two old women greet behind them, loud kisses on cheeks while the newly arrived keeps chattering on “Goodness, I don’t think she’s entirely incorrect.”

“At least she means well?’’

“If she expects me to hold idle chatter she’ll be dissapointed.”

“We really should get you on some Spanish classes.”

“The Eye really let me down on this one, didn’t it?”

Martin’s smile falters.

“Don’t even joke about it.” He says grimly, playfully poking Jon’s side to lighten both their moods. The sheepish, pained smile Jon answers borders on macabre.

“Too soon?’’ He asks.

Martin huffs and turns just in time to be enveloped by a warm, tight hug. It’s Tota, naturally. As soon as she’s wrapped him, she leans away to inspect his face with a comical purse of her lips and narrowed eyes. He takes the chance to inspect back. With her bright lipstick and her overconfidence towards people  — strays — she literally just met, she’s almost a cartoonish version of what a grandmother should be. She’s unbuttoned her coat in the last five seconds and under it, he can peek at a thick red poncho over a long cotton skirt. 

She points at his face.

“Your boy speaks English, right?” she asks, as if commenting on the weather. 

Martin looks at Jon, who very unsubtly coughs. He is very much here , thank you very much, standing besides them.

“Uh, yeah, he does. We come from there.” He says, smiling faintly “I was born here, though.”

“Hm” Tota nods approvingly. She pats his cheek “Figured. You have the nose.”

Martin’s hand flies towards his face the same moment Chita protests.

“Tota!’’

“It’s a good thing!’’ The woman points to her own - big - nose, waves her off and leans towards Martin with a grin “Es una vieja aburrida, no le des bola.”

She turns to Jon, then, a humorous glint in her eye.

“We’ll teach you Spanish so you can catch all the gossip, don’t worry. Talking of…” She pats their chests  “Have you tried medialunas from the bakery by the port, yet? They’re very good!’’

And just like that, she’s marching down the hall towards the dining room, toddler in hand trailing beside her — from when they hear the unmistakable sound of a kettle turning on.

Jon and Martin turn towards Chita, who is standing still — amusement lining her face subtly as she looks up, eyes rolled in exasperated prayer. 

“That’s Tota” she says, as an explanation.

Turns out, it is an explanation. Martin finds himself immensely entertained by her company — she insists on them trying the medialunas and giving their honest opinion, only to remember mid-tasting a story she overheard while tending the shop at work today. 

Jon tunes out for most of the conversation, absorbed in a very serious talk with Tota’s grandkid where the toddler babbles away as she draws with a set of enormous crayons and Jon nods and produces responses like “ Quite certainly ” and “ That’s reasonable’’ ’.  

Tota lives down the street — Martin learns. Unlike Chita, she was born here and refused to ever leave — roots firmly planted on the ground, beyond time, struggle or death. Two of her children took after her and remained. Two left. She seems to have made peace with it. 

As the days pass and temperature gets harsher, she comes in more and more. They get used to her. Tota breaks the monotony like a glitter bomb — a hurricane of dyed hair, bright lipstick and knick knacks in her pockets that consist mostly of stuff her grandkid picked up. She’s expressive and full of excitement in a way that reminds him a smidge of Jon, the bright eyed, eager to thrive man in those first days in the Institute, ranting about emulsifiers while ice cream melted in his hand.

When Martin tells Jon himself this thought, though, the bafflement painted across his face is equally - if not more - entertaining.

On particularly cold evening, they cook together for the first time since the Safehouse.

It’s just Martin and Jon, stumbling around the kitchen to get to the bubbling pot, easy as anything. They spill tomato sauce everywhere, produce way more dirty dishes than necessary and nick their fingers cutting the garlic at least once each. 

It’s a new routine, a new pattern of movements and touches that overlaps and comfortably nudges besides their old ones — those domestic motions built while the world roared outside.

It’s a new routine, a new space, a new place — here, at the end of the world where the world doesn’t end. 

Here, where the kitchen is warm and the chilly air outside dries their cheeks. Here, when they are done and dump the aesthetical nightmare that is their simple spaghetti with sauce onto three plates, they can sit it on the table and know — quietly — they’re well fed.

Unexpected upside of not being trapped any longer by a nightmare workplace? 

They get something resembling a social life. Or — as Jon puts it — they are constantly coaxed by old people to interact with the world around them. 

 Jon and Martin walk through the center hand in hand as they listen to Ricardo prattle on about the wood and brick of the houses and the history of the old presidiary they find at the end of the main street. He also keeps dropping not-quite-subtle hints that he knows the best fishing spots in the area — even though Martin’s stated plainly neither of them are fishermen when asked. 

On the bright side, his comments have already sent Jon on two detours about marine life in cold climates. They seem to get each other.

Ricardo stops in front of a white and brown house with a little tower in the center. 

“This is one of the historic ones.’’ He says, patting one of the window frames fondly. He bows his heads at the oohs and awws he receives, with as much pride as if he’d built it personally

“Brought from Sweden, I believe. Prepackaged all the way here for some of the big families. Well, it wasn’t brought here. It was three streets over until a couple years ago. We moved it”

Martin blinks. 

“You moved a whole house .” He says.

Ricardo nods, unaffected. 

“Yes. Well, not me. A towing truck did it” Then, without a single opportunity to expand on the thought, he moves on towards other topics “The bar down the street is also one of the old ones but don’t go there, food’s terrible. There’s better centolla elsewhere” 

And he’s off down the street. Before Martin can run and catch up to his (frankly impressive) long steps, Jon tugs him in for a kiss.

“Jon?’’

Another kiss. 

“Yes?’’

“What’s centolla?’’

“A type of crab” Jon’s nose wrinkles.  “Lives in the depths. Pretty… spikey ”

He takes out his phone and shows him a picture. Meanwhile, half a block away, Ricardo keeps prattling on about different bars they should definitely visit. 

“Ah, a Pokemon crab” Martin comments, enjoying the way Jon’s eyes crinkle at the silly comment. 

“There are many places to eat here. Lots of pubs, because of the anglican missionaries…” He look back at them and tilts his head to Martin “Is your boy English?’’

“No” Jon frowns “I’m Irish.”

Ricardo seems to cheer up at that. Figures.

“We’ve got Dublin!’’

“What?’’

“Irish pub! It has the… green things” He makes a gesture. He could either be referring to four leaf clovers or to an offensive leprechaun caricature. “I’ll invite you later!’’

The walk ends on a spot by the port. Ricardo points to a sign. 

“And this is the closest point to Malvinas in all of Argentina”  He waves his hands towards the sign “I guess you also know them as Falklands Islands, because of the war with the English.”

“ Fuck the english” says Jon with feeling. Both Ricardo and Martin look at him, eyebrows raised. The man nods with newfound respect.

“He’s got it” He says and claps Jon on the back.

The thing is. Not everything is good. Not everything is beautiful.

The climate is — it’s fine. It’s foggy a lot, sometimes. It’s cold most days. But the town is warm, always warm in the little pubs, in Chita’s living room, and Ricardo's spot at the café. There’s always someone with a kind word, a genuine interest in what’s going on with their lives — their lives, Jon and him, Jon and Martin, JonandMartin, a unit, an undivisible factor.

There’s always someone willing to see them, to meet them halfway.

It’s the furthest thing from lonely.

And yet.

(Jon wakes up with a jolt, always, at four in the morning. He pretends everything is fine and Martin tries to swallow the panic that swarms him when he feels him leave the bed for awhile. They don’t talk about it)

(Martin wants to run, sometimes, and it scares him. He can see the little corners where he could disappear, vanish as if there’s no space left for him. He doesn’t want to leave anyone. He just. Wants to stop feeling so much. For a little while.)

(They pretend the guilt doesn’t eat at them. They pretend they don’t keep thinking about the Fears, that they don’t jump at shadows and expect - over and over and over - to see the traces of the hell they brought with them)

It’s fine. It’s fine. It’s fine.

(It’s not it’s not it’s not everything is going to fall apart, everything is going to end and Jon’s going to blame himself and it’s going to be Martin’s fault —-)

Hold on.

Hold on.

Hold on.

Jon’s up to something. 

Martin doesn’t know why he knows that. Maybe it’s the way he seems more alert than usual — eyes wide open, flinching at the nearest sounds. Maybe it’s the tension that - in the last couple weeks - is back on his shoulders. Maybe it’s the familiar scowl he always gets when he can’t solve a specially difficult puzzle.

Maybe it’s because the moment Martin enters their room, Jon abruptly closes the lid of Chita’s laptop. 

“It’s nothing”  He immediately chimes. Then, he winces at his - truly obvious-  lie. 

Alright, then.

Martin paces slowly towards the end of the bed. Jon — laying on it, still closed laptop on his lap, is staring at the ceiling, eyes shut and expression pained. 

“I didn’t ask” Martin says as gently as he can. He reaches out and — oh so carefully — nudges Jon’s foot with his hand “But now that you mention it…”

Sharp breath.

“Is there a way we can avoid this conversation?’’ 

Martin frowns.

“Why?’’ He asks, noticing how his mind flashes through bad scenarios, how his heart beats a mile a minute and how Jon is still not looking at him .  

“It’s not …” Deep breath. “It’s not easy and…’’

“Why isn’t it?’’

“ Martin” Jon sighs “You’re already on the defensive”

“I’m not—You are—’’ Martin starts to argue. Then, he stops, breathes in and out “Okay, yeah ”

“Yeah?’’

“Yeah, Jon. I get your point”  He grabs Jon’s foot, leans in to kiss his knee apologetically “I guess I’m just… I don’t like feeling like you’re hiding something from me. Even if it’s for my own sake”

“I’m not…” He denies but Martin can’t take it, not from him. 

“Jon” He calls sharply “ You’ve been up to something ” 

The man stills, then sighs.

“Yes, but it’s not like I’ve had a lot to lie about” He passes a hand through his face and laughs bitterly, just for a second “Good lord. It’s about the Eye, alright?’’

Martin freezes. 

“Is it back…? Is it…?’’ He can’t even finish the phrase, the terror seeping through his muscles down into his bones. Mentally, he starts listing up plans for the worst. They have a backpack in their room, lazily thrown over a chair with some clothes they haven’t hung yet — packing their belongings shouldn’t take more than half an hour, they don’t have that much anyway. Winter clothes, some change, a lighter to set whatever the fuck is after them on fire. They probably should sneak out after Chita goes to bed. They don’t want to involve her in this and- 

Jon’s hand brushes his.

“Martin” 

He can’t answer. He can’t do this again. He wishes he could just — give up, drown himself in oblivion. But he can’t leave Jon alone — he can’t abandon him to yet another spiral, yet another battle with things he can’t fully comprehend. Not again, Martin refuses to. 

“ Martin ” Jon repeats, and suddenly, his arms are around him, squeezing tight “Martin, I’m here, I’m right here”

He snaps out of it faintly, lets himself sink into Jon’s arms, bury his face on his neck, breathe him in. He smells like he always does, safe and comforting. Like home. 

“Jon” he says against his neck “Jon, tell me what’s going on. Tell me if it’s back. Tell me if something’s happening.”

Jon stills but his embrace turns tighter.

“It’s not back.” He says gravely “I’m — I can feel something. I’ve been feeling something for awhile — very faintly. But it’s different. Nothing’s really going on.’’

He laughs, humorlessly, and it rings sad and desperate in their quiet room.

“Isn’t it pathetic? I’m basically human again but I’m freaking out because—’’ He takes a deep breath. Martin cherishes the way his lungs inhale and exhale, tucked against Martin’s own body “I’m freaking out because I don’t know what’s going on. It’s not empty , this universe. It’s got something going on. I can feel it.”

“Jon…”

“I just can’t seem to figure out what. ” He hisses “And I didn’t want to make you worry. You’ve got enough in your plate as it is-’’

“Jon!’’

Jon goes quiet.

“Are you alright?’’

Jon laughs, wet and humorlessly. 

“No”

“I’m sorry”

“Not your fault, love” The endearment falls — quick and easy — from his lips and Martin shivers. It’s a usual occurrence, lately — the relative joy and safety of their situation turning lovely, affectionate Jon somehow more adoring. Martin basks in it, basks in the small bubble of comfort they’ve built, mourns the quickly approaching day their peace shatters to pieces the way it has so many times before.

For now, though, he cherishes what he has, adjusts their positions so he can comfort Jon in turn,  kiss the side of his head. 

“Don’t shut me out, please. I want to know, I want to help you” I want to see you , he doesn’t say, but they both feel it ring like a well worn bell “Can you tell me how… how it feels?’’ 

Jon pauses

“How can I describe it?’’ His fingers fidget with the fabric of Martin’s sweater “I’m definitely not the pupil anymore. You took care of that.”

Martin purses his lips in a thin line, tensing. Jon, focused on his thoughts, doesn’t notice.

“And - honestly - I’d be tempted to claim the Fears aren’t here, not really. Except…” He falters “Except we..’’

Martin completes the sentence for him.

“We didn’t die.” He says, because he knows they should have. He knows the cost of his choices, the odds, the probabilities. He stared at the tightly knitted patters of a spiderweb and jumped.

“But there’s something. On the corner of my eye, sometimes. A flash or a thought — a presence. It doesn’t feel like them , not really. The knowledge is fainter, gentler, more indifferent. Less like a rough hand, more like water, like waves.’’

 Martin pauses. The familiarity of Jon’s description brushes against his thoughts like a well calculated nudge. He’s babbling away against his shoulder, words disjointed forming sentences that shouldn’t make sense but Martin knows perfectly what he’s talking about.

Hold on .  

“Jon.’’ He whispers “I can feel it, too”

The man in his arms pauses. The next breath he takes is shaky

“I’m sorry’’

Not your fault. Not your fault. Not your fault.

“It’s not always, though.” Martin says instead

“No, it isn’t” Jon agrees, then he’s off again “But, why? Why not always? Are they coming and going? From where? We passed through alright, whole. Why didn’t they? Are they weak? Is there something wrong with this world? Is it somehow too much for them?’’

“I don’t know, Jon”

“Why would it be too much for them, though? Are the feelings from here too great? The fears have never let fullness stop them, they’d gorge themselves even if it were the last thing they could do”

“Jon…”

“Maybe they don’t fully cross over and take everything over because they can’t. Maybe there’s something here already, something stopping them, Martin, and if there is…”

“JON!’’ Martin untangles from him, holds his shoulders and looks him in the eye. Holds him, tries to bring him back to him. He’s unfocused and disappeared and Martin knows what’s next — he’ll retreat into himself with panic and closed off responses. “You’re spiralling”

“I’m not” 

“You are”

Jon tenses. 

“I’m just thinking ! Forgive me for musing what kind of horror we’ve brought onto this world!’ He’s shaking, he’s shaking, he’s shaking but when hasn’t Martin shaken too? How better was him for kicking and biting his way out of vulnerability, every time Jon did as much as gently prodding? “Forgive me for caring about what kind of nightmare could sprout from the ground any second!’’’

Martin blinks. Anger bubbles inside of him, just for a second, but Jon’s words seem aimed to wound himself more than anything — contained tears dangling from his eyelashes like small regrets.

“You were right” Martin says quietly “We shouldn’t have talked about this now.”

They both go quiet. Jon’s shoulders stay tense. Martin’s hands, still digging faintly on Jon’s arms, start caressing the skin in small, slow circles.

Hold on. 

“You’ll keep looking for answers, though.” It isn’t a question. They both know the price Jon will pay for his guilt. 

“I will.” Softly, like another apology. Like a regret that refuses to yield.

Martin swallows.

“Let me help you, then.”

“What? No!’’ 

“If you think I’m letting you go out to sniff out the supernatural alone…”

“It’s not like I’m close to finding anything, Martin!”

“One never knows.”

Jon falls quiet. Softly, he shrugs himself out of Martin’s grip and instead cuddles closing to him, wrapping his arms around him once again. 

“Alright. We’ll do this together.” He agrees “I’m sorry.”

“What for?’’

“ Martin ”

“Alright.”

They hold each other in the quiet for a long time.

Martin has to admit — Jon’s right. 

There’s nothing to research. Nothing that feels right . Nothing on the Entities or Smirke or Jonah Magnus. The Institute doesn’t exist — which, good riddance, they both let out a cautious whoop when a Street View search showed an empty parking lot. Google doesn’t appreciate their searches of “supernatural’’ , “fear entities’’ or “avatars” they way they’d prefer. Jstor is similarly quiet — their local searches send them squarely into “brujería”, every time, which they promptly discard. 

They spend the next weeks cautiously surfing the net for information at night, huddled together with mugs of tea in the empty hostel’s dining room. Their room feels much too sacred, very much a them space to contaminate for this and the patio is freezing at this time of the year.

They develop a routine — through the days, they work at the hostel, walk through the city and enjoy Chita’s company. Before bedtime, they pour over texts and google searches and —on one memorable occasion — Gertrude Robinson’s Facebook profile. She’s having a vacation in the Bahamas, time off graciously conceded by her job as a demolition insurance saleswoman. Jon had to go to the bathroom to laugh for that one — lest he woke up the whole hostel.

One specific evening, Martin gave into the temptation and found Sasha. They both stood frozen for a moment in front of the computer — the picture from a woman whose smile they barely knew posing proudly, clear water glistening on the beach behind her. “ Can’t find sun like this in London!” the caption beneath her Instagram post says, a Cuban flag emoji beside it. 

“She went back.” Martin said, feeling emotion close up his throat “She got to go back.”

He turned to Jon, quiet besides him,  who was already staring at him with a devastated expression on his face. 

“She must be paid better than the Institute wherever she’s working now, to afford such a vacation.” He joked, trying to coax a response.

Jon brushed the tears on the corner of his eyes with the back of his hand , closed the laptop firmly and wrapped Martin into his arms.

They promised one another to stop looking up the people they knew, after that time.

And like that — weeks turn into a month and a half of dead-ends. They get documents — which makes things like getting a card for the local, dusty, ancient library easier to acquire. With tomes of books on the supernatural that they both pour (quite slowly, with their language level) and with access to the community noticeboard pinned to it. 

The latter — somehow still used and updated even though social media exists — is what prompts Jon to arrive one Monday while Martin’s knitting on their room, burst the door open and say

“We might have a lead!’’

“What?’’

“There’s a meeting — next month.” He takes the laptop from their table, taps at it for a bit then turns it around to show Martin a sober-looking flyer“ Some group tracking paranormal phenomena.”

The group in question seems to be very fervent on UFOlogy and ghost-hunting. It’s on their instagram description.

“Y’know.” Martin says conversationally “Four years ago, if I came to you with something like this, you’d have chewed me out for falling for frivolous ads and not having any researcher criteria.”

Jon winces.

“That bad?’’

Martin raises an eyebrow. Jon collapses on the bed. 

“I know, I know.” He crawls until his head is in Martin’s lap, smiles happily when hands immediately card through his hair “It’s something. And it brings us another problem…”

“Which is”

“The meeting is in Buenos Aires”

They stare at each other, simultaneously making the same mental calculations over their finances. And proper documentation. “Shit’’

“Chita…”

“Dime, grandote.”

It’s a sunlit evening and they’re playing cards in her comfortable sitting room. Or, at least, Jon and Chita are playing. Martin’s more busy throwing whatever catches his eye when it’s his turn. He’s - logically - losing. 

It’s not his fault. He’s been nervous. Approaching the subject is his responsibility — he’s the one that can lie through his teeth with relative ease. And yet, this skill seems to be fundamentally different when you’re about to apply it on a kind old lady you’re fond of.

Martin licks his lips. Focus.

“Do you visit your son much?’’

“Not really” Chita clicks her tongue “I don’t like the city. Mostly he comes home to visit and I go up there when I have a procedure or paperwork.”

“Is it difficult to fly there?’’

“No, I just have to drive to the airport. I’ve told you — just because this isn’t London, it doesn’t mean we’re a desert —’’ Chita stops on her familiar tirade to frown. Smart lady “Why are you asking?’’

Martin swallows.  Besides him, he can feel Jon’s breathing’s stopped.

Here goes nothing.

“We might need to go to Buenos Aires” He tells her, meeting her eyes with a bashful smile. 

“What for?’’

“Family stuff” 

Chita looks between them, face carefully neutral. 

“Whose…”

Jon — who is currently receiving the intensity of her gaze — points to Martin, who waves.

“ Alright . How come you’ve never mentioned your family was still in Capital, grandote?’’ 

“Ah, well-” Martin looks down, tries to cover the shame blooming inside him with a flimsy layer of sadness “We don’t have the best relationship.”

Chita narrows her eyes. Martin’s heartbeat quickens. He can feel Jon besides him growing tense.

“How come you’re reconnecting now, then? Why are you visiting?’’

“Ah, you know, for old time’s sake.” Martin answers, just as Jon says:

“To pay off a debt.”

Everyone falls quiet. 

Martin closes his eyes. Shit .

Face giving away nothing, Chita stands up and leaves for the kitchen. Through the half open door, they can see her frail figure as she skillfully takes out her mate from the cupboard and prepares it while the kettle heats up.

She returns to the room and lays the mate and a plate of cookies on the main table. 

“So here’s what we’re going to do” She motions them to seat “Once the kettle boils and we can all sit around the table with something to drink and eat, you’re going to tell me what this is truly all about”

And just like that, she marches towards the kitchen.

“Chita…” 

She waves him off.

“No buts, flaquito”

“Martin” Jon calls, breathless. His eyes are wide with fear. And guilt. Always guilt. “I don’t think it’s safe” 

Martin bites his lip. Chita turns towards them and frowns.

“Are you two in danger?’’

They exchange glances. When aren’t they? When isn’t death or pain or fear sneaking up on the corner, waiting under the bed? They were foolish enough to avoid talking about it, stubborn enough to believe that — if they only pretended — the past wouldn’t catch up on them.

Jon closes his eyes, braces himself and answers.

“We might be”

Chita touches his arm carefully. She looks between them, eyes both serious and kind. Suddenly, Martin remembers this isn’t the helpless old woman they’ve been making her out to be, remembers the steel and solemnity in her posture the first time they crossed her doorway.

“Then I need to know. And I need you to spare no details”

“You wouldn’t believe us” Jon insists. There’s no passion in his tone, though. Judging by the tired way he passes his hand through his face, he seems to mostly be arguing with himself “It’s too…”

Chita raises a hand, cutting him off. 

“Try me’’

The kettle boils. 

Martin and Jon look at each other and - silently - they seem to agree on their decision. She wants the truth, unbelievability aside, and so the truth they’ll give her. Hands clasped, they sit side by side by the old living room table and prepare to speak.

The silence that follows their lengthy and tearful explanation is one that’ll haunt Martin for the rest of his life.

Jon, hand squeezing his to the point of pain, knee bouncing wildly and eyes skittish and wild as they sweep through the room. Martin, a cold numbness spreading through his chest, stands still, the certainty that this is it , of course nothing good would last. Offhandedly, he wonders if they have to flee the city. 

Chita, on the other side of the table and apparently unfazed by the quiet, takes a sip from her mate with an unreadable expression on her face. 

And then, all of the sudden, she’s nodding. She keeps nodding while she sits by the landline, while she picks it up and punches the number in with a click. She keeps nodding, a small frown on her face, as she quickly mumbles into the phone words that Martin — in his stupor — doesn’t catch, as she hangs and punches a new number to do it all over again, several times over. 

Jon, anxiety overruled by indignation, scowls. 

“If you could just say something to us —’’ He starts but is promptly interrupted by Chita raising her hand. 

Another number. Mumble mumble. She hangs up.

Then, as if it’s nothing, she sits in front of them again.

Jon and Martin stare. 

She blinks pleasantly.

“Okay.’’

Jon and Martin exchange a glance. 

“Do you…” Jon starts, tentatively “Do you believe us?’’

Chita doesn’t stutter

“Yes.” 

Silence.

“Chita, we’re telling you the supernatural exists”

“You are.”

Martin’s starting to lose his patience. Would it kill her to freak out? At least a little bit?

“And you have no reaction to this?’’ He can feel the pitch of his voice growing by the second “At all?’’

The woman just looks at him.

“Should I?’’ She asks, eyebrows raised in genuine confusion “I already knew that”

Jon straightens from his seat 

“Pardon?’’ 

“Didn’t know about your… things, specifically but…”

“Fears.” 

“Entities.”

“Yes, I didn’t know about those.” She waves them off and focuses on refilling her mate to pass around “That’s not a thing, this is the first time I hear about that. But I’m no stranger to the supernatural. Who is?’’

“Everyone from where we come from?’’

“Ah, yes. England.” 

“No, our dimension— ’’ Martin answers, hysterically “We’re telling you we’re coming we’re coming from another dimension , Chita!’’

“Eh, same thing. I’d bet my right foot this continent doesn’t think of your… Fears the same way you two do”

“She has a point.” Jon muses, absent-mindedly receiving the mate handed to him “The Entities are cultural. The way they’ve embedded themselves in the fabrics of society is shaped by the structures already there, the beliefs, the negative spaces where they could build their niche and feed from. It’s actually quite interesting—’’ 

Alright, Martin loves this man but he can’t be the only person losing his shit here. 

“Wait, wait, wait” He interrupts “That doesn’t explain how she knows about weird things here ”

Jon stills

“Right. Uh, Chita” He turns to her, passes the mate back “I’ve basically just told you monsters exist. And that we’ve brought them here with us”

“Yes, I understand”

“Don’t you have any questions?’’

“No” Chita shrugs “Do you?”

Jon laughs humorlessly.

“Yes”

Martin chimes in

“That’s why we were trying to get to Buenos Aires — we thought we might have more chances of finding someone who knew what they were talking about”

Chita huffs.

“You’ll find scammers.” She gestures at them “Two foreigners, gullible and desperate in the big city? If you go, they’ll eat you alive within five minutes”

She clicks her tongue.

 “You say there’s a danger and I believe you. You say you want to help us and I believe you” “You say you want to know about how it all works over here, that there’s something different from your world, I believe you. I don’t know how to help you, though, brujería’s never been my thing”

“I know someone that does, though” She grins “You say you want information — you want guidance. I know how to get it’’

She pats Martin and Jon’s knees. 

“Help me prepare something to drink, will you?’’

Martin’s thirty two and he’s sitting in a hostel’s dining room with the love of his life beside him, the both of them explaining to three people from a country he thought he’d never visit again about the eldritch monstrosities that came with them from a whole different dimension.

This is - Apocalypse included - one of the most bizarre situations he’s found himself in.

Turns out the help Chita talked about came in the form of Tota, eyes serious yet still smiling, the stack of bracelets on her wrists tingling when they knocked against one another. On her lap is her grandchild —  who pays no mind to the adults around her and plays noisily with Tota’s necklaces. Ricardo is there, too, although he’s decided to not say much — he just frowns while the rest explain and interjects with grumbles and quiet hums between sips of his coffee. 

Chita stays on the head of the table, one hand squeezing Martin’s, the other over the table to be occasionally fidgeted with by an exhausted Jon, who is shouldering the bulk of the explanation. 

Eventually, he runs out of words. The silence that extends his conclusion — a synopsis of their last days in their world and the Panopticon and landing here — doesn’t last much. It’s Tota the one that breaks it first, not a care for solemnity, no accusations of madness. She just bites her brightly colored lips and frowns.

“You say your— things, your Entities. You say they’re evil” She states. Almost unconsciously, her hands grace the deep blue rosary on her neck — it’s the only one they’ve seen her wear. 

Jon rubs his hands on his face. 

“Not exactly, they’re hungry” He smiles, then, sardonically. His tone is bitter and tired and it sets a chill over Martin. It’s not the first time this evening Jon’s drained, lifeless tone while recounting reminded him of the detached drone his voice transformed to while they walked the domains “But their food of choice is Fear — they are Fear. They eat and eat and eat because that’s all they know to do. Most of them don’t even have forethought, they can’t construct plans by themselves.”

“Except the spiders.”

“Except the Web, yes. Think of them as the fingers of a hand.  A wheel of colors — a mass of different shades of fear, in a parasitic relationship with living beings.”

“Like a disgusting bloodsucking bug.”  Martin chimes. On the corner, Ricardo’s serious face scrunches up, comically disgusted. It makes Jon smile for a second. 

Tota’s not fazed. She leans in, her usually chipper expression sharp, eyes shifting between Martin and Jon insistently.

“So they’re Fear. Why would you call them supernatural , then?’’ 

What a stupid question. 

“Because they aren’t right !” Martin throws his hands up, frustrated. He feels Jon’s jump in reaction to his outburst more than he sees it. Alright, calm down. Calm down. He makes a point of lowering his voice “Fear is natural, yes, but they… they enhance it. They gorge on it. They’re parasites!” 

He remembers, that's the thing. 

He remembers the worms, their squirming sounds and the way they spread and covered everything — remembers the increasingly uneased hunch in Jon’s posture after Sasha was replaced and they didn’t even know it. He remembers Tim’s stony face as he stared at her picture and how he blew up into a thousand pieces not even three months later, his remains scattered amongst plastic and wood and burned out mannequin heads. 

Martin knows the aftertaste of gore and dirt in his mouth and saw Jon’s perfectly clean rib standing meekly on a desk. He knows the way all of it — all of them intertwined with the shit so throughly that it’s a fucking miracle Jon and him are living mildly normal lives now. He knows it’s fleeting. 

Quietly beside him, hands on his lap, Jon elaborates.

“What they cause — it goes beyond experiences that can be explained by logic. Time and space stop making sense” He sounds so far away. Martin hates this. He hates this “They’re just — just trying to eat. That’s natural. But the experiences the victims go through — they deviate from their usual experiences, starkly.”

He pauses, then sighs.

“I know that well. Statements — the experience of telling their experience — that wasn’t natural. They felt bad.” He grins sardonically “And I felt full.’’

Oh. 

Jon’s quietness isn’t detachment— he’s not submerged back into the role of the Archivist by the mere act of retelling. He’s ashamed. Now, Martin can see it on the white of his knuckles, on the tightness of his jaw— the guilt and pain and embarrassment weighing on his shoulders. 

Not your fault — Martin wants to scream. Not your fault. Not your fault. 

Surprisingly, quiet Ricardo is the one that snaps Jon’s attention. 

“So. It’s eat or get eaten out there.’’ He grunts out. “Sounds like it was beyond your help, son.’’

Jon turns towards him, posture still tense, the blankness masking his face washing away towards desperation.

“It’s not— that doesn’t make it okay ” He insists “I did things that were far from okay, because I was hungry, because I needed to know, just a bit more. Suddenly, then, I had power and that was…”

He cuts himself off, choking on the words but Martin can feel them anyway. It felt right. It felt right the way the numbness settled like a chill over his skin, like it was always there. It felt right like walking miles upon miles without eating or drinking and not questioning it. It felt right like turning away his closest friend — the love of his life — as he begged Martin to run away with him.

Fuck. If after all Martin’s had done, Jon’s careful hands on his face didn’t falter, who is he to bestow himself as a monster?

“It wasn’t your fault.”

“ Martin —’’

He doesn’t understand. Martin needs him to understand.

“No. It wasn’t your fault. If you’re telling them —’’ He looks at Chita, Tota and Ricardo, who smile encouragingly. He takes Jon’s hand, presses himself as close as he can while sitting besides one another, knee against knee, ankle hooked to his calf “If you insist on placing all of this blame — from the fears, from the whole universe —then they deserve to know that much.” 

“I—’’

“You were used ”

“I could have done better — I could have been better! ”

He preses closer.

“And yet you cared.” He squeezes Jon’s hand in his, wills the knot in his throat away, focuses as much as he can on the wide, glassy eyes in front of him “You saved us, too. In so many ways, so many times. Even when you didn’t save anyone, you were trying because you cared.’’

“Intentions didn’t matter if—’’

Martin cuts him off.

“No, you know what? You’re right. It had nothing to do with intentions — I was an Avatar too, just because I was. He was an Avatar because he was basically thrown into it”  Martin passes a hand through his face, lets himself remember those days. Lets himself remember surviving off others' suffering, people whose faces he’d never see. His long trek through the Apocalypse, his moments of bittersweet comfort grasping to Jon’s hand, fueled by the eternal torture of many “And after— after, it didn’t matter either. At the end of the world, people either had a domain or were in one. It’s just what it was.”

“Matar o morir.” Chita interjects softly.

“Yes.”

Silence.

Jon breaks it, trembling hand grasped tight between Martin’s hands. The stubborn shell of guilt hasn’t shed from his expression but at least there’s something else — something fierce and determined instead of devastated and hopeless.

“I don’t — really feel them here. The Fears. Not the same way.” He says “But there’s something — something off.”

Tota makes a face. 

“Off?’’

“Not normal.”

She shrugs, then hunches to let the squirming kid on her lap down. When she leans towards them again, her hands are interlaced over the table — big clunky rings reflecting faintly the afternoon light that slips through the window. 

“Just because there’s something you can’t explain right away, it doesn’t mean it’s off. ” She says “Your fears are parasites — because they feed on fear and provoke fear. They provoke this fear by causing experiences their victims usually don’t experience, right? The experiences you call supernatural?’’

“They are supernatural.”

Tota shrugs again.

“For you ” She says, then twirls her hands theatrically, voice raising as she singsongs “Because you can’t explain them away by hard, cold logic! Because they’re different from your usual!”

“It’s not a matter of difference.” Martin insists."There's the natural world and then there’s supernatural experiences.”

“Well, that isn’t how it works over here. Let’s say…” She grabs a sheet of paper and a bunch of her grandkid’s crayons, traces a line through the center and writes ‘supernatural’  and ‘natural’ opposite to one another “This is your world, usually.”

Jon and Martin nod at the colorful monstrosity shoved to their faces. Cool. At this point, they’re probably doing a PowerPoint presentation next. 

Tota smiles and draws an arrow from “supernatural” to “natural’’

“Here’s your world, when a Fear feeds. Your natural world gets, uh, invaded. The victim is rattled, afraid, because their normal has been turned upside down, even for a little bit.” She points her pencil at Jon “And they decide to tell you and your people your experience.”

“That’s how it was” Jon agrees darkly “before I ended the world”

“You opened the gates! Boom!” Tota folds the paper so the line is invisible. She slaps the table like a tambourine, making Chita’s serious expression break into an amused grin “And suddenly, all of the supernatural was crossing over at once! The whole of humanity, suddenly living one of these… experiences… nowhere else to go!”

Jon stills. Closes his eyes. Nods.

Martin wants to hug him close, wants to reach out and whisk him away. He contents himself with pressing closer and closer. 

Tota beams.

“ Good ” 

“Good!?’’

“Excellent, even! Because if this is how it works in your world…’’ She points at the paper on the table, then gleefully puts down her hands over it and rubs until the line, the arrows and her handwriting are smudged, until the difference between ‘supernatural’ and ‘natural’ is illegible and indistinguishable  “This is how it works in ours”

Martin frowns.

Besides him, Jon gets very, very still.

“In our world… a good friend once told me there was no such thing as Entities of love, just fear” He whispers “That’s not what you’re referring to, is it?’’

Chita pats his hand.

“I call them cosas ” She says calmly “Tota prefers bichos , for some of them”

They all look at Ricardo, who smiles affably.

“I just ignore them.” He says “It works. Except when you can’t, specially on the highway — other drivers have stories, we keep tabs on the spots we shouldn’t stop.’’

“That’s vague” Martin quips.

Chita shrugs.

“It’s normal.”

“For you. It’s normal for you. ” Jon says slowly. Then, he turns sharply towards Tota “That’s what you’re trying to tell me, isn’t it? — this reality doesn’t separate natural from supernatural. Your… forces, they’re part of nature. They seep into everyday life, they’re immersed into quotidianity.’’

Oh. 

“Like waves” Martin whispers. Martin remembers.

Tota’s joy is blinding . She nods emphatically 

“They’re no power . They’re no parasites feeding off us. It’s not eat or get eaten, here.” She waves a hand “They’re like — a group of things that you can’t explain. Sometimes it’s uh, spirits living in your house with you. Sometimes it can be wielded — mal de ojo, gualicho. Brujería. Santería. Sometimes it 's just… a nudge. Barely distinguishable from instinct but… off , as you’d call it.”

“It’s harmless.”

Ricardo snorts. 

“Not really, no.” Tota admits “It’s neutral — it just is.”

“But we’ve changed it, haven’t we?’’ Martin asks anxiously “We brought the Fears with us, we changed the… biodiversity. We introduced a, uh, new species.” 

“But I can’t feel them, Martin” Jon’s voice is hushed, thin, careful “ You can’t feel them, not like before” And then, he’s sparked alive, moves his hands and goes on and on “The Entities need the line! They need people who know the difference between supernatural and natural and are scared when one turns into the other. That’s why they’re weak — they need fear to be the most intense response to the supernatural. But in this new world, fear isn’t the first or only response because the lines are blurred! So they can’t feed!”

Jon folds onto himself, massaging his temples. Martin feels restless, feels the steady need to do something thrumming though his body so he does what he does — he gets up to squeeze into the kitchen to put the kettle on.

“Fuck” Jon whispers. He sounds exhausted

Chita laughs tiredly.

“I’d use stronger words.” 

“I don’t have the energy to be that creative.” 

A sigh. 

“Now, what?’’ Jon asks, putting into words what Martin thinks and doesn’t dare to voice “What do we do now?’’

Then, Tota’s voice, her bracelets jingling as she talks —

“We do what one always does — spread the word.” 

“How do I —’’

“No” Ricardo, this time. He sounds tired — but firm. “That’s not on you, though. We can take care of it.’’

“I can’t just… forget. ’’ 

“No one is asking you to do that” Chita, then the screech of a chair moving. Martin smiles to himself — she’s been perceptive to the moments Martin needed comfort the most. It’s nice to see that same care extended to Jon “This is not your burden to bear, not anymore.”

“I brought them!”

“Quite unwillingly, it looks like.” Chita sounds sad, thoroughly and properly devastated “And you warned us, Jon. That counts for something.”

“I can’t just walk away from it. I brought the problem, I need to solve it. Tell me what we can do.”

A silence drags out. 

Is it bad that Martin doesn’t want to hear what’s next? If he doesn’t want to know their next task, their next suicide mission they’ll thrown themselves in with next to none information? Is he selfish — for leaving Jon all alone out there, surrounded by people who say what he wants to say more firmly, for trembling in the kitchen and wishing fervently they can just live , walk away from all of it?

Silence. Then, all at once.

“ Flaquito ”

“We’ll solve it the way we’ve solved many problems before — together” 

“Why won’t you just—’’

Jon’s anxiety is palpable even from the other room, even when Martin closes his eyes and tries to breathe, braces against the counter and tries to just — just

“This is our home , kid” Ricardo says firmly “You knew about your city, your institute and those things. How they worked, what and why things happened. It’s the same for us, here. This is our place. Don’t you think we know best?’’

The kettle whistles.

Martin walks into the room with the filled thermos, feels everyone’s eyes turn to him, watches Jon’s desperate eyes as he silently pleads —

“Chita’s right, they deserve to decide over their own home” He says. The way we couldn’t , he doesn’t say. Instead he sets the thermos on the table and grabs Jon’s waiting hand “But Jon has a point. This is truly big”

They exchange glances. 

“We believe you, trust me” Tota says “ But you did your part, you gave us information. Ours is spreading it and paying attention. We’ll try our best.’’

Jon shoots from his seat.

“You don’t understand! This is important, this can’t be solved by — goodwill. This could mean the end of the world !’’

Silence.

Chita exchanges a glance with the people in the room. She stands, too, and scoots closer to Jon, opens up her arms and holds tight as he collapses into the embrace, holds on as Martin shakes silently and she notices , drawing him in as well —

“The world’s always ending, kid” She smiles sadly, creases in her eyes crinkling at the corners “But we’re still here”

“Not everyone” Jon breaths “Not always’’ 

She nods, parts away just a little bit. 

“You’re right, not everyone.’’ Her gaze sweeps through the pictures scattered across the walls. Martin watches as her eyes stop, one by one, on the faces sealed on the paper. 

He never stopped to observe them, not really. In the daily bustle of the hostel dining room that he frequents so much, he never stopped to notice how the same faces repeat across the pictures and through time — until some of them aren’t present anymore.  Martin never noticed the recent pictures, with creases on eyes instead of paper, where its people huddled together, where the empty seats between their bodies are a quiet statement “That’s why memory is so important. We remember them and we remember what happened so it never happens to anyone ever again.’’

Never again.

Never again.

Martin finds Jon upstairs — he stands over the rails overlooking the main patio, forearms digging into the wood and a pensive expression on his face. If he held a cigarette on his empty, dangling hand, Martin wouldn’t have found it in himself to be surprised.

As he walks up to him — mentally calculating what to say so he doesn’t scare the quiet vulnerability in his eyes - he’s once again overcome with how much he loves this man. 

Martin’s stared at his back until it faded into the distance and taken in his sleepy features on late nights until they became blurry and foreign. He’s reached for him and found him reach back in return, more than once. He’s lost him, he’s got him back, he’s killed him.

He’s loved him and he loves him. In the simplest of ways, the simplest of truths, as easy as scooting to his side by the railing and knocking their shoulders together. 

After a minute of silence, Jon speaks up.

“I spoke with Ricardo.”

Martin hums.

“He… he gets it” Jon’s breaths are shaky, yet determined. Like if he can’t get the words out now, he’ll never get another chance “He understood. ’’ 

A pause. Martin takes it in.

“In a way that I didn’t.” He states, winces at the residual bitterness in his voice and places his hand over Jon’s in apology. By the tired, fond side glance he receives, the gesture is appreciated.

“It’s different, Martin” He clicks his tongue “He told me about the war, the one for the islands…”

“Oh” Martin’s surprise freezes him for a second “It happened here, too, then.”

“The British Empire’s a constant, it seems.’’ Jon drawls, grins a bit at the chuckle he produces, then continues “He was drafted by the dictatorship. Suddenly, he was seventeen, had a gun in his hands and was freezing in the trenches, knowing he would kill another person to survive.”

Jon’s eyes cloud over. His hands are trembling. 

“He told me all about it. It felt…” Jon laughs sardonically “It felt like a Statement, Martin, just a bit. I could feel the terror, the hunger behind my teeth but then… then it went away. And it was just a conversation.” 

His voice shakes, sharp and direct like the winter winds justling his hair

“It was just a conversation because he — he looked at me and he told me, he talked with me, not at me — Martin, he understood. ” Something in Jon’s voice shakes, about to unravel “The guilt. The despair. The heinous, regretful lack of regret and— Martin. ”

Jon trembles, trembles, trembles. Martin holds him.

“I’m here.”

“Martin, he was seventeen, just seventeen, he was a kid . A stupid kid swept by the circumstances, half aware, cornered into the worst of choices. And I—I was a kid, too, when it all started-”

Jon breaks. 

“Martin, we were just kids. ’’

And Jon bawls and bawls and bawls, loud sobs muffled into Martin’s shoulder. And he holds him through it, feeling the hands on his back dig in with painful force, feeling the frost on his face as he silently cries along for the man he loves and the child he could have been. 

Together, cradled by a house they’ll soon call home, they hold on.