Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Jon hasn't been right.

Look, Tim knows he shouldn't judge. Prentiss affected everyone in different ways, and even two months later it's possible Jon is still recovering. Plus, the whole job of recording statements has got to take some kind of mental toll.

But no matter the cause, Tim knows that—well, that Jon isn't right, whatever the hell that's supposed to mean. Because, the thing is, deep down in his gut Tim can feel that every time Jon makes a joke, or smiles brightly, or shows up at work well-rested but not at all dressed professionally, that something is wrong somehow.

It's driving Tim a little crazy. Especially because, when he thinks about it, his mind seems to helpfully supply justification and memories of Jon acting the same way. It's just—Jon. 

But... It isn't.

But...It is?

Tim knows Sasha and Martin feel the same way. He can see it, in the way Sasha glances away from Jon's friendly smiles, the way Martin tries to shuffle away if Jon sits too close. Not to mention the fact that, well, Sasha told him about her worries. Tim can't help but feel the same way. He can feel it in the dread building in the pit of his stomach, the way he's constantly glancing over his shoulder, paranoid; until he finally makes it home to his flat.

But the most infuriating thing is that it's. just. Jon. Tim has dealt with weird shit before. Hell, he saw a thing wearing his brother's skin be ripped apart, and this is not the same thing. Jon is the exact same as he has always been. 

But every time Tim looks at him, every time Jon hands him a new statement to research, or cracks a slightly off-colour joke, or offers to pay for drinks, he's back there. Watching, silent, helpless, not even able to blink as Danny's skin is torn away. 

It makes it frightfully difficult to do his job when he knows Jon is in the other room. At least he can get stuff done in the hour Jon takes to get lunch. Which is a thing Jon does now, apparently. Tim tries to remember if he had gone out for lunch in the past, but any memory of it is foggy; like it's right on the tip of his tongue but he just can't find the word. It doesn't feel like normal memory haziness, though. It feels... intentional. If he tries to think to before the Prentiss attack, it's even foggier, but more so in a way that it's something insignificant that Tim wouldn't have bothered to learn about his co-worker, and not at all like it's a fog forced into his mind.

"Tim!" Tim jumps and spins in his seat. Jon is smiling at him. "I'm heading out for lunch. You want to come with?"

Tim shakes his head. "Er, not today, Jon," he says. Then, deciding to just go for it and pop the proverbial bubble, he asks, "Sorry, weird question: have you always gone out for lunch?"

Jon's expression hasn't changed, but Tim feels like it gets... darker. "Yeah, usually. It's one of the only opportunities I have to get out of this place, you know?"

And then he Did. Tim does know. His mind reels as it tries to tell him desperately that he has always known this, trying to rewrite the past couple of minutes where he debated whether or not he was going crazy. It's like his mind is completely betraying every part of Tim that says otherwise. Like it's slapping a band-aid on top of his instinct that says run away, get out of here, danger and telling it no, actually, you're completely fine! It's just Jon! Nothing is wrong here.

Now, when Tim thinks back, the fog (that his brain is trying to convince him was never there at all) he can quite clearly remember all of the times Jon has gone out for lunch. Oh, yes. Of course, he'd remember that about Jon. They're such good friends, after all. Never any doubt about that.

Never any doubt at all. 

Tim huffs as he places the file down, itching to talk to somebody. Sasha's out doing fieldwork, interviewing that mosquito guy, so no luck there. Jon's obviously out. Martin... Tim considers this. He can hear the faint sounds of Martin in the breakroom, most likely making lunch for himself. He's been pretty jumpy lately (which Tim has a sneaking suspicion relates to the Jon business) but he's still someone to talk to. He bounces his leg as he thinks, before ultimately deciding that even if he is jumpy, it feels pretty unbearable to be alone with his thoughts right now--and he probably should have lunch, anyway.

So Tim heads to the breakroom, leaning in the doorway and watching as Martin putters around the space and makes himself tea. Tim says, "Hey."

Martin jumps and drops a spoon with a clatter, whipping around. "Oh my god—Tim, sorry, oh my—" He cuts himself off, taking a deep breath. He smiles sheepishly at Tim. "Sorry. I thought everyone was out."

Tim folds his arms across his chest and chuckles. "If anything, I should apologize. Didn't mean to creep up on you. Sasha isn't in right now, and Jon is... well, he's Jon." Tim sighs. "Went out for his lunch break."

Tim notices Martin's slight frown at that, and somewhere in the back of his mind, he wonders if Martin's memory of Jon's lunches is—was—as hazy as Tim's.

"Oh. Did you ask him to get you anything?" Martin says, clearly trying to make small talk, awkward as it is. Tim shakes his head.

"No, lost my appetite talking to him. He's uh...he's been a bit odd lately, hasn't he?" Tim says, leaning slightly closer to Martin, who doesn't look the least bit happy to be having this conversation. Martin scoffs as he taps the spoon against the rim of his mug--a novelty one that Tim had gotten him as a joke, for his birthday, that reads "I heart to fart."

"You're telling me," he mutters, shaking his head. "Uhm, I suppose? He hasn't been doing anything out of the ordinary, has he? Just...being Jon." Martin gives a small laugh at the last sentence, clearly forced.

"Really? You haven't noticed anything out of the ordinary? He hasn't said anything weird? Suddenly done anything strange?" The question 'rewritten your memories?' goes unsaid.

Martin flounders for words. "Um," he finally manages. "Um, well. I... I guess... he—he hasn't accepted tea? When I could have sworn he had before. But that's just—that might just be me. Misremembering things. You know."

Tim nods. He does. Better than usual. Slowly, he is trying to piece together a puzzle, gathering evidence of all the things that seem strange in regard to Jon. He has confirmation from Sasha and himself that something is off, plus the—oh. What was it that Tim had thought was odd? Something about lunch. Something about... memories...

If Tim tries to think about it too hard his head hurts. Something about Jon not going to lunch, which is—okay, no memory gaps there, Tim knows that Jon practically always goes out for lunch, so why does that feel so wrong?

Tim stumbles a little and leans his weight against the wall. Martin stares at him cautiously. 

"Fuck," Tim breathes. "That is. Not right. What the—" His mind races. What was it he was thinking about? He knows he thought something was wrong before Jon left, but now when he tries to recall what was wrong, what he couldn't remember, it's... Nauseating. He thinks he might be sick.

"...Tim? Are you," Martin hesitates, seemingly searching for words before settling on, "Okay?"

Something inside Tim snaps. "Okay? Am I okay?" He asks, incredulous. Martin looks like he wants to say something, but Tim continues before he can open his mouth, words bordering on a shout, "Of course, I'm not fucking okay! Jon has been acting weird since Prentiss, and I know you've noticed, everyone's acting like he's completely bloody normal, and whenever I try and think about what's so strange, why my stomach god-damn churns every time I see him, I get a head-splitting migraine! I can't be around him anymore, and I know it isn't just me. I'm not stupid, Martin. Every time I look at him I don't want to speak to him because I know he'll say something that'll make my mind feel like it's being fucking rewritten! Every time I see him he's doing something mundane, normal, but it's always..." he trails off, anger dying down slightly as the rant draws to a close, "Wrong."

Martin blinks, and apparently has the mind to look ashamed; his ears blush red and he turns away. Tim, for a hopeful second, thinks that Martin will say he was right; and will start to actually help him figure out what's going on.

"Don't be ridiculous," Martin says in a small voice. Tim realizes how foolish he was.

"Right," Tim's hands clench into fists. "Right." He stops at that. He honestly doesn't know what else to say, what else he even can say. He leaves the room, and leaves Martin standing guiltily by himself.

Tim clutches at his head, the heel of his palms digging into his eyes. He's vaguely aware that his screen is on in front of him, opened to some research into....whatever he's meant to be researching. He can't bring himself to care, Jon's mostly been giving them bogus statements lately, and Tim can't tell if it's on purpose. He doesn't know anymore.

When he tries to think about this, his headache--which had been dulling slightly--comes back in full force. He hisses through his teeth at the jolt of pain and takes his hands away from his eyes, where they had been beginning to dig in so sharply spots of colour had been flying behind his eyelids. He blinks away the blurriness that had appeared, blocking his vision, and leans forward on his chair to focus on his research.

He doesn't get anywhere, obviously. Between the horrible headache, how blatantly fake and uninteresting this statement is (can't the people giving fake statements at least take the time to make them interesting?), and the weirdness going on with Jon that is only worsening the headache, Tim isn't in the best condition for researching.

He taps one of his pens against his desk, one shaped like a long furby that Sasha had given him, vaguely recognising the slow patter of steps down the stairs leading to the archives. The door creaks open, making the horrible groaning-squeaking noise old hinges do, and Jon saunters in. His ever-present smile is wider than usual.

He makes a beeline for Tim's desk, and Tim plasters on a fake, plastic smile, so wide it could rival Jon's. "Hey, bossman, something up?"

"Tim! Tim. I'm giving you permission to stop working for a second."

Tim looks at Jon skeptically—he doesn't think that's really something Jon can declare, actually—but Tim turns his entire body away from his computer anyway. "You're looking happier than usual. Have a good lunch?"

Jon's smile turns a little mischievous, and he leans forward secretively. "I... have got myself a girlfriend."

Tim can't help the excited gasp that escapes him. For all the wrongness he knows comes from Jon, they're still... friends. Besides, so far Jon feels okay, right now. His joy does seem genuine, and Tim's headache has mysteriously dissipated, so. Might as well congratulate the man.

"Dude, that's great!" Tim's smile turns more genuine, "Tell me about her! How'd you two meet?" He leans forward in his seat. The feeling of wrongness is still there, deep down, but Tim can brush it off, the feeling overwhelmed by the happiness for his friend. Maybe that's the reason Tim thinks Jon's been so odd lately.

"Well, we uh...We met at a.." Jon twiddles his thumbs, seeming nervous, "We--We met a wax museum!" Jon says it like he's had an epiphany, finger pointing up like it's a "eureka!" moment.

Tim can't tell if the weird-weird feeling is back or if it's just normal-weird from becoming aware that Jon, apparently, goes to wax museums. He thinks he should probably respond to Jon, but his tongue isn't quite working.

"Er?" he manages. He subtly clears his throat. "I, I mean—that's great?" he can't help the slight lilt up. "What's her name?"

"Tabitha," Jon replies confidently.

"Well. That's great! Uh, good—good for you, Jon."

Jon, still smiling, pats Tim on the shoulder and walks away. Tim wonders vaguely if he ate something bad at lunch. 

The next day, Tim watches from his desk as Jon makes to leave, a spring in his step. He gets up from his desk and catches Jon by the shoulder before he reaches the door. Jon looks over his shoulder at him, a sour look on his face, but just as soon as it came, it's gone. So quickly Tim could think he imagined it.

"Hey boss," Tim grins, ignoring the glare, "You going for lunch? Mind if I come with?"

Jon tries for a smile, but it just looks sort of annoyed. "I'm meeting with Tabitha."

Tim ignored the obvious attempt at denying him without explicitly saying so. "And? I could meet her! C'monn. Whaddya say?"

"No," Jon says, and turns to head out the door. Tim stares at the back of his head as he leaves. He grumbles under his breath.

"Sasha!" he calls behind him. "I'm heading out for lunch!" He waits until he gets a faint noise of confirmation, and then leaves as briskly and quietly as he can. 

He slips out of the door behind Jon, doing his best to keep quiet, the stairs are creaky with age, but Jon is further ahead than him and he escapes detection as he follows. 

Jon takes a small moment to talk to Rosie about her day, Rosie leans back, away from Jon and doesn't meet his eyes as he asks about her wife. Tim narrows his eyes from where he watches. Neither of them notices he's there until Jon's left and Tim walks in, nodding to Rosie before he half-jogs out to catch up with Jon.

Jon doesn't navigate London with great skill, he gets pushed around by the great number of people on the streets in busier areas, and constantly makes wrong turns on the quieter. This is a great annoyance for Tim, who is significantly bettering his "ducking behind things quickly" skill the longer this goes on.

Somewhat impressively, Jon manages to get to his house. Tim watches from behind large, loudly coloured shrubbery and hopes it obscures him from view. Jon enters his house.

No one else shows up for the entire lunch. 

"Tabitha, huh?" Tim whispers to himself, glaring at Jon's walking figure as he leaves to go back to work. Theoretically, Tim knows that Jon could have just lied about Tabitha because he didn't want to eat with Tim. But that wouldn't make any sense. Jon always asked if Tim wanted to hang out with him for lunch, so why did he refuse when Tim asked? It's not like he was doing anything important. The man literally just went into his flat for thirty minutes. Tim doubts he even actually ate anything. 

Tim starts to follow Jon again, presumably back to the Institute. His stomach growls, and he is reminded that he didn't actually eat anything. 

Tim stops, watching as Jon makes another turn around a corner. He huffs and turns around, walking to the sandwich shop near the institute. Sasha likes it there, and if he's going to get lunch, he may as well get some for her, too. He mulls over what Jon did in his mind. It's a perfectly natural thing to go home during your lunch break, especially if you live nearby. But in Jon's case, it just seems...odd to Tim. He shakes his head, mouth twisting into a frown, Tim never really asks where Jon goes during lunch breaks alone, but it's not odd to just go home. Tim knows he's being paranoid, logically, there is nothing odd or out of place about what Jon's doing, but the thought of Jon going home and grabbing a snack--instead of...staying at the institute and not, maybe? Tim doesn't know what he's expecting Jon to do--makes him want to wring his hands, stomach tying itself into knots.

He shakes himself, trying to get a grip, as he walks inside the shop. He orders what he and Sasha got last time, just to be safe. He leans against a wall while he waits, tapping his foot as he contemplates the day's events in his mind. It was, maybe... a little creepy that he followed Jon home. But Tim doesn't know what else he's meant to do; Jon hasn't been acting weird lately, and there is zero reason for Tim to feel uncomfortable, but he does, either way.

Tim thanks the person that hands over his food. He leaves the shop, starting back to the Institute. He wonders if Jon is back already. 

Thankfully, the walk back doesn't take too long, and soon he's waving cheerfully at Rosie and heading down to find Sasha.

He finds her at her desk, squinting at her computer. Tim softly raps his knuckles against the table, and Sasha looks up in surprise.

"Oh, hi." Sasha rubs her eyes. Tim holds out the bag he's been carrying.

"Got you a sandwich. How's it going?"

Sasha laughs bitterly. "Awful," she mumbles, reaching into the bag. "I forgot my glasses. It's been hell."

Tim pats the top of her head in sympathy, which earns him a fond glare. "Have some food, Sasha. Maybe it'll help you feel better."

Sasha takes a bite of her sandwich and mutters incoherently through it. Tim laughs.

"Sorry to interrupt, but," Tim does not jump at the sound of Jon's voice, "Tim, do you remember that file I gave you a few days ago?"

Tim turns on his heel to face Jon. "I, er"—he does—"I do, yeah. What's up? Do you need it?" Tim takes a moment to observe Jon's expression. He's smiling, because of course he is, but there's something deeper under it that reminds Tim a little too much of malice. 

"Sasha," Jon says, sickeningly sweet, "you mind if I take Tim away? Won't be a minute."

Sasha blinks and casts a confused look at Tim. "Uh, sure. I don't care."

Tim feels himself being practically dragged away by Jon. Tim tries to struggle, but Jon is surprisingly strong. Tim is helplessly led to Jon's office, where the door shuts behind him.

"Er," Tim swallows. "S-So you need that file, then? It's—I have it by my desk..." he trails off.

Jon seems confused. "File? What file?"

"I—" Tim pauses. "Oh. I don't—I'm not sure, sorry. I figured it was a work-related reason you dragged me here." 

Jon's face brightens again. "Ah, but it is," he says, but doesn't clarify. "So, how was lunch? Have a nice... walk?"

Tim pales. Had Jon seen him? He can feel his heart beating through his ribcage. "I-I was just getting lunch for Sasha, I—"

"Yes," Jon says.

Tim reels. "Right." Why is his heart beating so fast? Why is he so shaky? He was just getting lunch for Sasha! It was, quite honestly, one of the most boring lunch runs he's ever had! Nothing happened!

"You're right!" Jon smiles. Tim chokes. Did he say that out loud? He must have. "So, about the file."

"W-What... file...?" Tim stutters, still feeling on edge for no reason.

"Did it slip your mind again?" Jon says kindly. "The one I gave you."

Tim is going to throw up. "Yeah," he gasps out, clutching at his head. "Fuck, sorry—fuck," he stumbles backward.

Jon is still smiling—Tim is unsure he ever stopped. "It's okay. Maybe you should go home? You don't look too well. A good night's rest might help with your... memory issues, too."

Tim retches and passes out.

Tim wakes up in the breakroom, facing the ceiling. The first thing he comprehends as he comes to is that it is brown-ish-grey, as most things in the Archives tend to be. The second thing he comprehends is the searing, all-consuming pain in his head; the ache is so bad it spreads down to his stomach, making him nauseous. He groans, sitting up to curl into himself as he clutches his middle.

"Tim!" says Jon, rushing over, "are you alright?"

Tim brings the hand not clutching his stomach to rub at one of his temples, "Yeah--I--Sorry, what happened?"

Jon smiles; like he'd been holding it back over the course of their conversation. "You passed out on me there, bud. After I asked you about a file. Have you eaten anything today, or did you just stop by your apartment at lunch?"

"No, I have. I just -- Sorry, something's up with my head, you said you needed a file?" Tim racks his brain as he asks, honestly not caring much about the file at all. He tries to remember anything after his conversation with Sasha but it's hard. Flashes--Leaving the room, searing pain, confusion, Jon's smile.

"Oh, don't worry about that." Jon laughs. "Turns out Sasha had it after all, haha! She was very concerned after you passed out."

"Oh," Tim says, not really listening. He hurts too much to comprehend anything. "Jon, can I—"

"You should take the rest of the day off," Jon interrupts like he knows exactly what Tim was going to say. Tim nods and slowly eases himself into standing. Turns out he had been laid down on a table. He unsteadily walks to the door. Jon doesn't say anything else as he leaves.

Sasha's face brightens as she sees Tim. Her eyebrows are creased in worry. "God, are you okay? After you didn't come out of Jon's office for a while I started to panic, and then he tells me you passed out?"

Tim winces. "I'm fine. I just... I think I need a break." Sasha nods sagely. Suddenly, Tim remembers something. "Oh, what was the file that Jon needed? He said he got it from... you...?" he trails off as Sasha visibly gets more and more concerned.

"What file?" she asks slowly. Tim's head pounds. He sways a little where he's standing. Sasha rushes to steady him, standing up to grab his arms over her computer. "Woah, okay. Come on. I'll help you home—"

"It's—fine, I'm fine," Tim shouts. Sasha blinks and lets go of him. He wobbles back in surprise. "Sorry," he whispers. "Don't know what's wrong with me."

Sasha sighs through her nose. "Okay, Tim. Get home safe." She sits back down. "See you tomorrow?"

"Yeah." He pauses, "Sorry, again. I just--feel a little off, I--Sorry."

Tim collapses on his couch as soon as he gets home, not bothering to take off his work clothes as he face-plants straight into the pillows. His headache has slowly been fading over the course of the trip home until it was just a dull ache at the back of his head. When he tries to think back to before he fainted, it's marginally clearer. He can remember walking in but when he does his headache comes back in full force, making him wince and become nauseous.

His phone buzzes from in his pocket, and he groans. He decides it's probably just Sasha checking to make sure he got home okay. He can text her back later. For now, he thinks a nice, long sleep would do him good, and he squeezes his eyes shut. 

And the next thing he knows he's getting into the shower, because really, how did he think he would be able to sleep like that? After he's clean, he slips into his own bed. He picks up his phone from his nightstand, and replies to Sasha's text with a thumbs-up emoji, and then shuts his phone off.

He sighs and slides further into his bed, so much so that only the top half of his face is uncovered by the duvet. He curls in on himself and tries to think of anything but work. Sasha. He can think of Sasha.

...Or Jon. He could think about Jon because that's what his mind is determined to think about today, even when it still brings about that horrible headache. He thinks back to today and tries to blame Jon for any weird things that happened today and he...can't. Because it isn't Jon's fault, it's his. He was the one who passed out when Jon asked to see him, and then swayed on his feet while trying to talk to Sasha about work. He knows Sasha shares some of his ideas about Jon being strange but what if he was just...sharing his paranoia?

The though chills him, and he rolls onto his side as he prepares for a night of stewing in his own head.

Chapter Text

Jon is not in the Head Archivist's office, because the thing in the Head Archivist's office isn't Jon.

It's been seven months since the Prentiss attack, and Martin is sure of it. He doesn't know what it wants, if anything at all and not just to scare them, but it has been there for months. Martin thinks it appeared during the Prentiss attack, commingling itself into their group for whatever sickly and vile purpose it has.

Martin's not even sure there ever was a Jon, not like this, at least. There might've been an Archivist, as there's an office labelled "Head Archivist" in the Archives, but if it can mess with memories, how is he to know if there ever was in the first place? Martin looks at the door as he comes into work every day, unable to stay away for too long for some reason. It seems so unassuming if you don't know what's behind it.

Well. No matter. No use wondering about it now. Everyone is probably going to die anyways.

It's been one month since the attack on the Magnus Institute, and Martin is... fine. He's fine. He's... going to be fine. Eventually. 

When he goes to work every morning, he takes a moment to count heads to make sure everyone's still there. They all usually are, except for a day when Sasha came in late and Martin nearly made a fool of himself. But that was okay, really. He just... needs more time to adjust back to normal. 

It doesn't matter that every time he gets to work he has to scan every hallway for moving worms. It doesn't matter that every time he catches sight of a decomposing corpse of one he has to go sit down for a while. It doesn't matter!

Seeing Jon usually makes it worth it. That's what had in the past, anyways, when he was living in the archives (although living is probably too strong a word. Surviving is more accurate). Sometimes Martin can feel Jon staring at him when he comes out of his office for a while, and it makes him flush an embarrassing shade of red. It doesn't help that any time Martin is even slightly in Jon's vicinity, he gets anxious and fidgety and on edge, which he doesn't think used to happen. Maybe he gets like this because it seems like Jon is starting to notice his affections.

He feels a little bad when Sasha invites him for drinks and he barely says a word the whole night. He just can't stand being out in unfamiliar locations yet, okay? It isn't his fault Prentiss made a traumatic mark on him.

When Jon finally gets there—apparently Sasha lied to him about the time of arrival—Martin has thankfully loosened up enough to act only the normal amount of anxious around him.

When Sasha and Tim get up to get Jon a drink, he says, "I've noticed you watching me."

Martin immediately blushes mortifyingly brightly. "Um," he stutters out. "It—it's—erm. Yeah. You too."

Jon chuckles slightly. He smiles sweetly, and through it, says, "Stop doing it."

Martin deflates on the spot. He doesn't even know if Jon is joking or not, because he always seems to be smiling these days. Frankly, he's afraid to ask.

Martin clutches the handle of the knife so hard it starts to hurt his palm. It's hard to breathe, although he isn't quite sure if it's because of the claustrophobic walls around him or because he's completely freaking out. Possibly a healthy mixture of both. The tunnels are an awful, terrible place, Martin decides.

But it's where Martin is going to—well. Where he's going to kill Jon. Try to, at least. If all goes well and he doesn't get murdered by some weird, eldritch creature.

He really, really doesn't want to get murdered. 

The tunnels are damp around him, he can feel what might be moss or mould or soggy dirt squelch under his feet as he continues down the tunnels, flinching at every noise. Martin's a bit of a coward, but, well, anyone would be if they found out their boss got replaced by a horrible mind-erasing monster.  But he saw Jon come down here, so he must follow.

It's been two months since the attack on the institute, and Martin's getting better. 

He can look at worms now; the normal kind, that is. He's never been particularly squeamish. When he was in primary school he was that one kid that would always try and bring caterpillars inside to try and make them the class pet, but being attacked by a woman infested with horrible grey worms changes you. That being said, he can look at normal ones now without feeling queasy. Martin thinks this is progress.

Tim's been jumpy, lately. He would be comforted by this fact if it wasn't very, very worrying that Tim, good old jokester Tim, was being jumpy. Although it's not so much jumpy as...irritable, paranoid.

He's snapped at Martin, though only once. Going on a rant about how odd Jon's being, and how his head feels like it’s being rewritten, and how he's not stupid, Martin. 

Martin has seen him following Jon out of the building multiple times.

The thing is, Martin can see where Tim is coming from. His memory of Jon has been sort of... well, odd. Things just don't seem to line up properly. If he tries thinking too much about it, he'll lose his train of thought entirely. Sometimes it's hard to remember that Jon is what he was trying to think about in the first place. 

Martin doesn't know what to do about it. It's no Prentiss attack. There isn't much he even can do, honestly. Except just, you know. Accepting it. His own weird memories aren't affecting anything or anyone in a significant way, so he'll just... keep it to himself. Stick to his job. Keep making tea, but not for Jon, because apparently he doesn't like it. 

He usually goes home at the end of the day feeling vaguely miserable and sad, but that's not exactly new. 

His mother had always berated his fear of the dark. "There's nothing to be afraid of in there!" She would shout when he refused to cross the dark kitchen, to reach the light switch on the other side. He had always, truthfully, thought it was a little stupid too, but he can't control his fears.  He is really wishing he can, right now, though. The dark clings to every corner, wrapping around the spaces he isn't directly shining his flashlight on as he traverses deeper, yet deeper.

Of course, the dark isn't really what he should be afraid of at the moment. He can quite literally be attacked at any second by Jo—that thing. But he can't help it. The shadows sometimes look like squirming, wriggling lines out of the corner of his eye, and he has to take a second to stop and direct his light so that he can assure himself none of Prentiss's worms are still alive down here. 

He—He knows they can't be. They were all completely destroyed. It's just... Something about the tunnels, about the certain way water drips, or the way his footsteps sound, reminds him horribly of the weeks locked in his own apartment.

Three months after Prentiss, Martin doesn't feel right. It's like someone stuffed his brain full of cotton. And now he has to live with their poor decision to stuff a conscious mind with cotton. And now he's taking his cotton-headed mind with his cotton-headed decision to take a cup of tea to Jon. It feels like there's something he should be remembering about Jon and his tea, but he just hopes that it was about his favorite kind, which he also can't remember. Whenever he tries to he's left with a sharp pain in his head and a pressure on his temples that doesn't fade for hours, so he just makes it black. That seems like something he would like, right? 

He had heard Tim mumbling under his breath about Jon and someone named Tabitha, and when asked about it, Tim stormed off, yelling about Jon's—apparently non-existent—girlfriend. A girlfriend is news to Martin. He wonders why Jon never says anything about her. It doesn't really matter.

Martin is just trying to get himself on Jon's good side again, even though he has no recollection of being on his bad side. There isn't any other explanation for why he's been so... cold to him lately. He knows it's just to him, he sees Jon go out and talk to Sasha or Tim, and he just... he just wants to be in everyone's good graces. 

What better way to do that than congratulate someone on their girlfriend that may or may not exist?

The mug is warm in his hands as he carries it from the breakroom to Jon's office. He's always found it a little cute: a plain, black mug with a white, simple cat face on it. Adorable, sure, but Martin finds it a little odd that this is Jon's mug of choice. He doesn't strike Martin as a very big cat person; dogs always seemed more up his alley. Less work to get them to like you.

Martin knocks on Jon's door, pushing it open when Jon calls, "Come in!" Jon is sitting at his desk, looking over a few files.

"I, er... made you some tea," Martin says softly. Jon turns his head to look at him. He looks... annoyed. Martin sweats. "I-I heard you got a girlfriend?" he tries. "So... congrats?"

Jon keeps staring. Martin thinks he sees his eye twitch. "Yeah," he says at last. Martin almost sighs in relief. He sets the mug down on Jon's desk. Jon doesn't hide the quick look of disgust he shoots at it. Martin starts to panic. Clearly, he guessed wrong for Jon's favorite tea. Surely Jon will understand?

"Martin," Jon says, as Martin makes to leave, the awkwardness getting unbearable. His words have a sense of finality to them, even though Martin can tell he's only starting his sentence. He turns back around, Jon is smelling the tea with disgust clear on his face, looking as though he has to resist a gag as he gets a whiff. "Martin." Martin's body, for some unholy reason, has decided to skip past the nervousness of speaking to a crush, or the anxiety of getting a scolding from your boss, straight into fear. He's never been one to freeze in fear--he's more of a fight person--but that might just change today.

"Is—Is something wrong, Jon?" Martin says, doing his best to actually speak words instead of standing there frozen like an idiot.

"I don't drink tea."

The phrase should have been something very normal to say. Under any other circumstance, with any other person, Martin would have apologized quickly and gotten them something else. But Jon says it in such a way that Martin can practically feel the hostility radiating off of him. For a horrified moment, Martin swears Jon is about to get up and hit him. 

"Right, sorry. Let me just take this aw--" Martin bends down to pick up the tea with one hand, but is cut off as Jon's hand grabs his wrist tightly. "Uh-"

Jon grips tighter. Martin’s head hurts.

"Make sure it doesn't happen again." Jon grits out. 

Martin can only nod.

Jon squeezes firmly one last time before releasing him. Martin trips in his haste to back away and leave. He can't breathe until he leaves Jon's office, shutting the door behind him with a little more energy it really needs.

He rests his back against it, panting. He can't stop staring at his wrist. It's blotchy red where Jon had held it. It feels sort of sore. He worries it'll bruise.

He can't believe that was what he had been forgetting. Not Jon's favorite flavor, oh no. It was the fact that, of course, Jon doesn't even like tea. How did he manage to space it that hard?

Martin groans in frustration. What is with him recently?

Or, whispers a part of his mind that he had been trying to suppress since Prentiss, what's with Jon recently? Martin sighs and walks away. He knows he'll have to start looking into things if anything else weird happens.

He left the tea in Jon's office. 

He tries to imagine going back in to get it, and immediately recoils at the thought. Martin's never been one to avoid touch. He doesn't seek it out, but he likes it if someone else initiates it. But Jon's touch had felt wrong, somehow. It was violent and sudden, and Martin didn't enjoy it, but he felt as though the discomfort had gone past that, somehow. Martin has a crush on Jon, he should enjoy the--infrequent--touches from him. But now that it's happened, Martin realizes it felt… uncomfortable. He doesn't understand. He's been touched by Jon in the past, though maybe a little more gently than this time, and he had liked it, enjoyed the fluttering feeling it sent through his stomach. 

This time, it had just left a feeling of cold dread, instead.

When Martin gets back to his desk, he dabs at his wrist fretfully, trying to test how much pain he's in—or is going to be in later. It isn't very bad, and the red is already fading. It sort of reminds him of the sort of rash you'd get sliding across the carpet. So he tries to forget about the tea and Jon and how he grabbed him. 

"Martin!" Martin jumps. It sounds like Jon. He stands up cautiously. "Martin, could you come here, please?" Definitely Jon. Martin takes a deep breath and heads back to Jon's office. He opens the door with nothing short of wariness. 

Jon is standing this time. He's holding the mug delicately away from him, like if he even has to see the tea inside he'll get upset. He smiles plaintively at Martin. "Sorry," he says, and that's that. "Also, you forgot this." Jon hands over the cup. When Martin takes it, their hands brush over one another just a little too long, and Martin shivers as he tries not to pull away immediately. That would be rude.

Jon's smiling warmly, and for a second Martin remembers why he likes him. Nothing bad could come from that smile. It's like the sun, bright and happy and—and Jon is leaning just a bit too close, and Martin can do nothing but breathe hard and stare wide-eyed into nothing as Jon presses his lips to Martin's temple. Quick as anything. And then it's over, and Jon is sitting back down, and Martin is still holding a cup of tea he needs to dispose of. 

He feels like he's about to cry, and he doesn't know why. How could this thing, that in retrospect should be great for Martin, leave him feeling so—so bad? He almost feels sick, and disgusted, and then he feels guilty for that, because, silly Martin, Jon was being nice! Maybe his girlfriend really doesn't exist and he actually wanted to—what, kiss him? 

He dumps the tea in the sink. 

Sasha had offered to come down here, instead. She had told him that she'd never been scared of the dark, not even as a kid, much to the delight of her parents. But Artefact Storage...freaked him out. More than the dark, or worms--or so he thought. If given that offer now he probably would've taken it. Let Sasha take on the big bad monster while he burns a table, or breaks it with an axe, or whatever she's decided to do with it. He would've preferred the arm work-out over shuddering every time he sees a group of decomposing, shrivelled worms.

He didn't feel like he could go to Tim, after he found out, not after reacting that way to his outburst about Jo-- Not Jon.

Especially since the tunnels seem to almost be turning him around. Maybe it's his own incompetence, but he can't seem to find Jon at all. He's passed the trapdoor three times now, but the way ahead always seems to be different every time, constantly taking him in circles no matter which direction he chooses. It freaks him out, all right? He could swear that that left turn was not there the last two times he went this way.  

Suffice it to say, it makes navigating extremely difficult. Every second that ticks by is another second of Martin slowly creeping through the dark, hoping against hope that the next corner he turns won’t land him directly at Jon’s feet, or somehow take him to find Prentiss alive and well, or leave him completely lost and confused with no way out and he’ll have to live in the tunnels for the rest of his pitiful, sad life, starving to death and rotting away and becoming infested with those terrible, awful worms—

It's four months since the attack on the institute, and Martin is feeling thoroughly creeped out.

It's not just because of the statements--though that is part of it, even some of the fake ones are so well-written they make Martin’s skin crawl--it's because of Jon. He's just been off lately, Martin tries to tell himself, it'll pass soon enough! Almost getting eaten by worms will do that to a person. He's lying to himself. 

Sure, almost getting eaten by worms is a traumatic experience, but it isn't an excuse for how creepy Jon's being! The worst part is that none of it's that bad. It's just his general aura, threatening and off-putting. Martin can swear that he wasn't like that before, that it had happened during the attack, but that's ridiculous. It's not as though Jon picked it up from Prentiss.

Martin has seriously considered the option.

He thumps his head against his desk and sighs. Jon had asked him to find an old file, but anywhere he looks, Martin can't find it. After nearly an hour of scouring he decided he needed a break. The job has been... slow, recently. Jon hasn't been asking for as much research for the statements, and when he does, usually just one person can handle it. It's usually Sasha that does it, actually. Tim is too busy being paranoid about everything to really do his job, and Martin—well, Martin can't even find one file correctly.

A hand grabs Martin's shoulder, and he lets out an embarrassing squeak of terror. He coughs and looks up to see Sasha.

"Oh. Hi," he says.

Sasha smiles a little. "Hi. You seem a little distressed. What's up?"

Martin fidgets with his hands under the table. "Well," he starts, dragging it out, "Jon asked me to find a file and I can't find it."

Sasha hums in sympathy. "I can help you look, if you want?"

Martin nods, sighing in relief. "Yeah. That would be great, thanks."

"Who's it for?" Sasha asks, kneeling next to Martin where he had been digging through an unorganized box of files and tapes on the floor.

"Hm?" Martin says, only half paying attention. The labels on the tapes are cursive, so they must've been Gertrude's. Jon prefers to write in big, blocky letters. (Martin ignores the fact that Gertrude went for a more stylised cursive when she wrote the labels, almost to the point of illegibility. Because if it wasn't Gertrude, who else could it be?)

"The statement, who gave it?" Sasha says, patient as always. Martin swears she can see right through his fake credentials, sometimes.

"Oh, it was Dorothy Parker, about a changeling, or something?" Martin shrugs, "Jon told me her name and everything, but he didn't tell me where it would be, or if it was a tape, or a document, or both because it had already been transcribe--"

Sasha cuts in, "Wait, did you say Dorothy Parker? I remember her! Jon told me to sort out her statement before, but I doubted it was very coherent, because she just ran out before she finished."  She stands up and brushes the dust that had collected on her skirt off the grimy floor. "I know where I left it, be right back." And with that, she's off, running out and in between the large shelves of document storage.

She comes back holding a tape and a single sheet of paper. She sets them both down in front of Martin. 

"I didn't know if you wanted the form too. It's not even technically completed," Sasha says. 

Martin glances over the paper. "Er, I'm not sure. He didn't say." The form is a preliminary sheet that live statement-givers need to fill out for filing purposes. Name, place of occupation, date of occurrence, and the like. The tape has a plain beige label on it, like any other tape, and is simply marked "D. Parker."

Sasha gazes meaningfully at the tape. "I never actually... heard what happened," she says. "You want to have a listen?"

"Oh!" Martin starts. "Yeah. 'Course. I might need to make a transcript of it, anyway."

They head over to Martin's desk to listen, as he already has a spare tape recorder. Tim isn't there—he's been weirdly shifty lately, and Martin has decided not to worry about it—and Jon's in his office doing...whatever he does all day. Sasha brings her chair over, sitting down on it and pushing herself off it with a force so great she propels herself all the way next to Martin's chair, and it startles a rare laugh out of him. He puts in the tape and presses play.

***

"Alright, statement of Dorothy Parker, regarding something that was not her sibling-in-law," Jon says, slightly distorted from the tapes. There is a faint, high-pitched squeaking that worsens when Jon speaks, "Statement begins."

"Uh, is--is there no one else I can give my statement to?" A woman on the tape says, most likely Dorothy Parker. "I'm not sure that I--uhm..."  Her voice trails off as she speaks, quietening down even as Jon says nothing.

"I am the Archivist," Jon eventually says in lieu of a reply.

It's then silent except for the odd squeaking noise (Martin wonders offhandedly if it's the lights in Jon's office). "Do I—Do I go?" Dorothy asks. Jon doesn't respond, but Dorothy takes a second to breathe in and out. "So, so my brother, Lawrence--Lawrence Parker--he's married this person, Aspen." Dorothy's voice sounds shaky. "Me and Aspen, we didn't get along too well. Well, I mean, we certainly got along better than them and my parents did, hah. I think, I think Lawrence introduced me and Aspen about...2014? Maybe 2015, I don't remember. It was at this very nice bar, you see, we--"


"Please try to stay on track when you give your statement."

"R--right. Sorry. So, they got married this year, it was a nice ceremony and my brother was very pleased. He's always idealised his wedding, and before he proposed to Aspen he created this big elaborate plan, where they would go on holiday and they'd go on this once-in-a-lifetime trip before he ended it with the proposal."

She sighs sort of wistfully. "Anyway. After the wedding, I didn't see them until after their honeymoon. I think they had gone somewhere smaller, but still rather grand, I have a picture somewhere—" she paused. "Sorry. So, um. After they got back, Aspen was—is—different. And I don't mean, like, they got a new haircut, I mean they're... completely different. I didn't even recognize them. They're an entirely different person. I—I mentioned this to Lawrence, because honestly, I thought something horrible had happened and he brought home someone else, but... He just looked at me like I'm crazy."

Dorothy's voice grows shakier, so much so that it's hard to make out what she's saying, "And they had this sort of....aura, about them. I felt like something was going to jump out at me whenever I was with them, or heard their voice. It felt like when you're going down the hallway in a haunted house, and there's nothing scary about it except for a couple fake cobwebs, and it felt like," Martin can hear her swallow, "like you."

The squeaking grows louder, and the faint static that is ever present when statements are given rises. Jon laughs faintly, and Dorothy pulls in a sudden breath of air, bordering on a gasp. 

"Oh?" Jon says, in a delighted voice, "Tell me more."

"I-It's... not..." Dorothy cuts herself off. A chair screeches against the floor. "You're like them!" she screams. "You're like Aspen! I'm not—"

The tape ends.

***

Martin and Sasha stare at each other. Sasha looks pale and sort of green.

Sasha sputters, "Sorry—I've gotta—" and nearly runs away without another word.

Martin doesn't know what to think. He's split in two, where one-half of him says, See! It isn't just you! Jon isn't himself! and the other says, She was just confused, probably traumatized, or something. Jon is always sort of unnerving, that's just a side effect of working here. 

Martin takes a deep breath. He wipes at his eyes, thinking to himself very loudly to anyone who might be listening that it wasn’t tears, I wasn’t crying, it’s just sort of humid and hot down here yet probably convincing nothing.

He rounds another corner. It looks like the same stretch of tunnel he had just come from. Muddy floor, dirty walls, long hallway. He walks down it.

He rounds another corner. Muddy floor, dirty walls, long hallway. He walks down it.

He rounds another corner. Muddy floor, dirty walls, long hallway. He walks down it.

Martin should have stayed at Artefact Storage.

He rounds another corner, dead end.

He turns around the way he came.

Dead end.

Frantic, Martin turns around, and the dead end in front of him has turned into another muddy passageway, streaked with old and constantly-wet mud. 

Yep. This is how I die, he thinks to himself, trapped in a tunnel that will either crush me to death or turn me around so much I never leave. 

Martin takes a shuddery breath, and counts to five.

It's been five months since the attack on the institute, and Martin is, to say the least, not doing well. 

Work is hard to focus on, when your boss has either been replaced by an imposter, or you're going insane. It might be both, Martin can't tell--it might explain why the words are swimming in front of his eyes. He minimizes his tabs and shuts his eyes, the statement wasn't that important anyway--the statement giver had been a little too obsessed with vampires. Martin never wants to hear the word fang again. He begins to rub at his temples to try and stave off the beginnings of a headache building there; they've been happening a lot more lately, and Martin is barely tolerating it.

He opens his eyes again, but he can't be bothered to do work, and Jon doesn't seem to particularly care these days. Instead, he looks at what his co-workers are doing. They're interesting, right? Sasha is leaning forward on her desk, looking quickly between the file in her hands and the screen in front of her, squinting through her glasses. Absorbed. Tim is rather the opposite, holding his phone in one hand, fidgeting with the pop-socket on the back even as he plays with a fidget toy on the other. The Archives are silent, and Martin can hear the incredibly faint sounds of a person talking emitting from it, turned down for his and Sasha's convenience. Not like it was doing much for Martin, though.

Jon comes out of his office. His eyes scan the room, and Martin purposefully looks away. To his relief, Jon goes over to Sasha to talk to her. There's a quiet knocking and Martin startles. He looks around. It doesn't look like anyone else heard it. Martin stands up from his chair and goes to the door that leads out of the office. Slowly, he reaches for the handle. He doesn't think anyone is supposed to be here today?

The door opens and he jumps backwards. A woman is standing there, looking vaguely frustrated and... sort of familiar?

"Uh, hi. I'm looking for Jon? Jonathan Sims?" she says. Martin's eyes widen and he turns around furtively, but Jon is walking back into his office and it doesn't seem like he heard.

"Um, r-right," Martin says, turning back to look at the woman. Something clicks in his memory and he blurts, "Ghost Hunt UK! Er, Melanie, right? You were here a while ago for a s-statement." He stutters slightly, embarrassed at the outburst. Melanie nods, though. 

"Yeah," she says. "Look, I really need to talk to—oh? Who's that?"

Martin glances behind him again. Jon apparently came back out, still talking quietly to Sasha.

"That's—That's Jon," Martin says.

Melanie snorts. "So you've got two of them now? That's gotta get confusing."

"W-What? That's... Jon. Sims."

Melanie peers behind Martin. "Are you... sure?" she asks. "Because the Jon I talked to last time was... not that. You know, sort of graying and tired looking, used a cane, talked with an accent that, frankly, I don't believe for a second, and definitely not white?"

Martin looks between the door to Jon's office and Melanie, as though the solid wood would give him any answers. He nods slowly, "Yes. Yes, I'm sure. That's definitely the Jon you talked to last time." Martin gives an anxious laugh, humourless and rough around the edges.

Melanie leans forward and squints at him, as if trying to puzzle out if this is a joke, if she's being made fun of. Martin shifts under her gaze. When she leans back, seemingly believing that Martin may be right, she looks thoroughly creeped out. She looks away, at the door to Jon's office.

"If you... say so?" The end of her words pitch up as though asking a question, and her gaze flicks back to Martin for a moment before she leaves for Jon's office, steps unsure.

Martin goes back to his desk and sits down heavily. He holds his head in his hands. Something is piecing itself together in his mind, and it feels dangerously close to clicking together like when he remembered who Melanie is. Between Dorothy Parker's statement--when was it, four months ago?--and Melanie having a completely different image of Jon...

Martin feels like he's in a dark tunnel; he can turn on the light, see dozens of monsters staring at him and confirm what he's been thinking ever since he decided to climb in there, or... well, or he can... keep the light off.

His flashlight flickers again, as it's been doing periodically for the past...40 minutes? an hour? Since he came into the tunnels, trapping him in darkness for milliseconds at a time before it cuts out, just long enough to make Martin think it's not coming back this time; that he'll be stuck alone in this horrible, damp, humid, cold tunnel that's covered in dirt and grit and mud with no hope to find a way out.

It flickers out for about ten seconds this time. Martin is pretty sure his heart rate is going to kill him, with how fast it's going. The tunnels seem to get louder when his flashlight stutters, all his senses heightened. The water drips louder, and he can almost feel the presence of worms around him without seeing them. He feels like the patches of dirt and mud he's standing on will suddenly soften up and he'll be dragged under. Or, debatably worse, he'll fail to pull his shoes off as he escapes, and will be forced to wander without any.

Finally, finally, it turns on again, and Martin breathes an audible sigh of relief.

Jon is in front of him. Oh, Martin thinks, and then says out loud. Great. Of course his final words are going to be Oh. Because there’s Jon, just standing there, grinning like a psychopath, and surely he’s—it’s?—going to kill Martin now. He debates over whether or not it would be worth it to curl into a ball on the floor to die instead of embarrassing himself by trying to actually kill that thing. Nevertheless, he adjusts the knife in his hand, because if he’s going to die a horrible, gruesome death, he wants to at least go down as The Guy Who Tried.

“Well, well. Is someone a little lost?” Jon smiles. Then he sort of… stretches and distorts, or—or maybe Martin is the one who changes, or the tunnels do, because all of a sudden Jon is the furthest thing from human and Martin is unsure how anyone ever thought he was a person in the first place.

Martin is going to die, holy shit.

Six months after the Prentiss attack, Martin is starting to become aware of something.

Or, more accurately, he's starting to become aware that he has been aware of this thing for a while now. Buried under a few layers of denial and doubt.

He's picking up his flat, for once in a while. Rearranging things, throwing away old papers, organizing his poetry. He's been needing a distraction, lately, from work, and Jon, and the way his head always hurts when he's around him. There isn't enough tea in the whole world to fix that. It's such a weird, particular kind of ache, one that kind of makes him think he's sick. But it always goes away when he leaves work. 

Speaking of work, he had found a small notebook--or is it a scrapbook?--while cleaning a bit ago, probably from his first few months in the Archives, and he's been waiting to look through it until he's done cleaning. Which, he sort of is, now, so. So he guesses he should look through it.

He doesn't know why he's hesitating so much. His hand is poised over it, ready to open, and he just--he just needs to take a deep breath. It's just old work stuff. Literally nothing bad about that.

He opens to the first page. Poetry, unsurprisingly. Broken verses, occasional stanzas, and words Martin had been meaning to use in the rare completed poem that he didn't feel too much like a dolt to finish. He flips through a couple more pages, more verses, and the occasional to-do list, or reminder. He quickly skims the book, finding a completed poem. He reads it quickly, not taking in many of the details. It's one of his better ones, flowery in the way he had always admired of more famous poets. Though it talks of the smell of books and dark, greying hair. Martin tilts his head to the side slightly, confused. Maybe he just had a crush on one of the librarians that he had forgotten about.

He continues going through the books, stopping when a small pile of Polaroids falls out of the last page. Ohhh, Martin thinks. I remember these. Before the Prentiss attack, before he was even trapped in his apartment, he had bought a Polaroid camera. He hadn't taken many photos, the occasional snap of plants or buildings he had thought were pretty, and a couple with his co-workers after Tim had seen it in his bag and insisted they all take a couple of photos together. "It has its own sort of charm!" he had said, and Martin had to agree.

The first in the stack is one of Martin and Tim. Tim is smiling wide and happy, his arm slung around Martin's shoulder, and Martin is looking awkward but still pleasant. The next few are various random objects or scenery. Then there's one of Tim and Sasha, talking and laughing.

Martin smiles faintly at the assortment. He hadn't realized how much he misses Tim and Sasha. Because of course, they're there, but all of them don't really... talk anymore. They've stopped going out for drinks.

A final polaroid slides out from between two pages. Immediately, Martin recognizes the break room in the back. Martin is in the foreground, presumably holding the camera up, and Sasha and Tim are grinning, and there's... Jon, next to them. Or at least, it should be Jon. Martin remembers taking this photo, he remembers that day—

But the photo is of someone so visibly different from the Jon at work, the Jon who's all great, big, fake smiles. The Jon in the photo—because it must be Jon, who else would it be?—is smaller, more reluctant. He isn't smiling, not really, but there's a subtle tug at his lips like he's trying not to and Martin just knows he felt satisfied every time he saw that expression, and he can't remember, he doesn't know who this is, and he's crying, because everything feels so wrong and bad and unfixable and he doesn't know what to do.

He wipes at his tears, feeling slightly ridiculous. Slowly, Martin takes a deep breath, holds it, and breathes out as he reaches for the photos that had fallen out of his shaking hands as he had begun to sob. There's only one more of Jon, presumably taken in secret, judging from the way half the photo is concealed by a doorframe as if taken from around a corner. It's of--of Jon, Martin can only assume. Martin can see the corner of Tim's body, half concealed by the door-frame and most likely telling a joke, based on the rest of the image, but all of Martin's attention is taken up by Jon.

His face is mid-laugh, face lit up with a wide grin, not the plastic, barely noticeably fake smiles he was used to from--from the fake Jon, but a genuine one, shy and reserved but lighting up the room either way. The corners of his eyes are crinkled with mirth, heavy and dark eyebags barely noticeable under the amusement on his face. Long, elegant fingers come up to cover half of his smile, slightly blurry with slow motion like anybody would want him to cover up that handsome beam. His hair is greying slightly, dark hair streaked with lines of lighter hairs. Martin would assume he was older based on that alone, but Jon's wide, brown-with-flecks-of-green eyes bring his estimate down by at least ten years. Jon had brown, almost black eyes, dark hair, and cool brown skin. Jon has blue eyes, bright blonde hair, and is deathly pale.

Martin drops the photos and the book to the floor. He doesn't know if he did it on purpose or not. He finds his bed and falls onto it backwards, staring up at the ceiling. More tears pour from his eyes. He doesn't know if he ever stopped crying.

He doesn't know anything. 

Taking a shaky breath, he picks up his phone.  

***

Sasha comes right away.

Martin is grateful for this, but it also worries him. He tries not to be, obviously. It's a little dense for him to be worrying about the state of his apartment or the mess in his room when he, Sasha, and Tim are working with a literal monster, but what can you do?

He opens the book again, flipping through it. He finds nothing else useful, aside from the odd actually good verse that he writes down in his current notebook. Oddly enough, some of the pages have stray pieces of sheet attached to the ring bindings, or a little half of a page is missing, words cut off as if the page were ripped out in haste, though Martin has no memory of doing so.

Sasha presses her back against the wall and fixes Martin a stare. Martin swallows. No one has spoken since he let Sasha in. 

"Jon isn't Jon!" Martin finally blurts after the awkward tension gets too much for him. Sasha visibly slumps in relief.

"Oh, thank God." She laughs dryly.

"Wh-what?"

Sasha sighs. "I'm so glad I'm not the only one that thinks this. God, I thought I was going crazy!"

Martin blinks. "W-wait, so—? You know?"

Sasha hums. "Well, I've had my suspicions. So has Tim, for the record, he's just... internalized it more."

Martin pauses. "And you're just saying this now?" 

"You, too!" Sasha exclaims. "You didn't exactly talk to anyone about this!"

"I didn't want you to think I was--was crazy or something! Imagine that, your co-worker comes up to you and tells you your boss has been replaced with a monster." Martin scoffs. "If you didn't think the same you'd think I was crazy. Good thing I have evidence."

Sasha visibly stops. "You have evidence? I thought you'd just finally cracked under the pressure or something." She comes to sit next to him at an alarming speed. "What is it? I'm pretty sure he's been replaced by the Not-people the statements talk about? There was this one about trapping it in a table, and it was definitely the one delivered to us a few weeks ago. The one with the webs on it? Me and Jon talked about it after I read the statement, and it just clicked, you know? All the statements talked about the freaky 'something-is-wrong' aura that the monsters have, and it was strong around the table, and then Jon--or whatever replaced him--walked in, and it got so much stronger, I think--"

Martin interrupts her. He doesn't want to be rude, but he would like to formulate a plan with a small amount of his input, at least. "Yes, yes! I have evidence. I wasn't...sure what he'd been replaced by, and I think the table is a great idea. Can we please talk about it after I show the evidence?" Sasha nodded impatiently, and Martin reached over for the book, where he had tucked the photos back inside, sticking out slightly through the top of the pages so he could find them again. "Thank you, and...here." He hands them over.

Sasha draws in a sharp breath as she takes them, looking at the two Polaroids. She stares, face schooled into a neutral expression even as Martin can see the emotion in her eyes. Cursed to be the observant type, he guesses.

“Oh,” Sasha murmurs, like she hadn’t really meant to speak. She doesn’t speak again for a while after, just absorbs every detail of the photographs. “They’re so… different.”

“I wondered about that,” Martin admits. “Why look so different if they’re trying to blend in?”

Sasha shrugs. “Could be a number of reasons,” she says, gaze still locked on the images in her hand. “Can’t make an exact replica, maybe. Or… Or it just likes messing with people.”

Martin squirms uncomfortably where he’s sitting. He really doesn’t like that thought at all. It doesn’t matter that it’s the likely answer, the thought of that thing digging about in his memories just because it’s fun makes him sick. “S-So,” he starts, the question abrasive in his throat. He coughs slightly. “How do we get Jon—the real one—back?”

Sasha perks up visibly at this, "Okay! Okay, so—the table that was delivered to the Archives a couple of months ago. When me and Jon both went into artefact storage a couple months ago to look at it, and he made some rather...strange comments about it. All knowing. And not regular Jon-condesending, it was all weird and wistful. That got me curious about the thing, so I looked for any statements that included it, and I found one." Sasha starts immediately, not pausing for breath as she continues her onslaught of words. Martin would be impressed at her lung capacity if he wasn't trying to take in all the words she was saying. "It was about this guy, Adelard Dekker, and this monster replacing a guys cousin, and it included this table with a mesmerising pattern, and guess what the table looked like."

"Uhm--The table in artefact stor--?"

She doesn't give him time to finish "The table in artefact storage! So, If I'm correct, we've just gotta destroy the table, and it'll destroy the monster." She deflates, "But...I don't think it'll bring back Jon. In the statement, Dekker said that his cousin was dead, and had been since he was replaced."

Martin's stomach drops. There was the answer he had been so dreading. Because, even if they do destroy it, Jon will probably still be dead. "There's always a chance he's alive," Martin says. He doesn't know if he's trying to convince himself or Sasha.

Sasha shrugs. "Yeah."

But at least there wouldn't be a supernatural entity living directly under their noses. At least it wouldn't be able to hurt anyone ever again. At least they'd be safe. 

Martin can't remember how the real Jon acted or sounded or really looked. He can't remember why he developed a crush for him. He can't remember if the real Jon would be worth risking his life for.

He hopes he is. He really, really hopes he is.

***

Martin and Sasha open the door to the Archives. It creaks horribly, a noise that makes Martin wince every time he hears it. They walk over to Artefact Storage, and Martin has to resist the urge to tip-toe, even though the building is completely and utterly empty. He's about to grab the handle to open the door when Sasha grabs his arm. 

"Wait, can we.." she glances between Martin and the door to the Head Archivist's office, "...check his office?"

Martin nods mutely, watching as she turns around to open the door to Jon's office.

This door opens smoothly, only making noise closest to the hinges. Martin is thankful for the small amount of stealth that provides, although as Sasha flicks the light on, he realizes it wouldn't have actually done anything anyways. Now, though, they can see the office is completely empty, completely undisturbed. No one's home.

She advances further, relaxing her tense shoulders as Martin stands in the doorway, almost scared to walk in. He does, of course; no time for cowardice now. Sasha peels through the neatly organised files on Jon's desk, face scrunching up as she seemingly finds nothing. "These are all just normal statements," she says, sounding irritated.

"Check his drawers?" Martin suggests, deciding to make himself useful and check the filing cabinet in the corner of the room. Martin can see her nodding from the corner of his eye, sitting down on Jon's chair to reach the drawers on his desk.

"On it," Sasha says, opening the drawers in rapid succession. Martin is just onto the second drawer down when he hears a drawer give some resistance, a thud and click as it's stopped by a lock. Martin looks up, and Sasha grins. "Jackpot. He must be keeping something...important in here, right? No reason to have a locked drawer unless you’re keeping--I don't know, hopefully a document that contains your evil plans from start to finish?"

Martin gives a weak laugh, slightly nervous. He watches as Sasha pulls a bobby pin from her hair and inserts it into the lock, moving it around until a faint click sound emerges, and she twists it slowly.

Martin stares at Sasha, silently asking something like, You can pick locks? and Sasha returns a look that implies, Maybe if you're lucky I'll tell you later. She pauses, and then slides the pin out. She tries the drawer again, and it opens easily.

Outside, there is a slow creak, the tell-tale sound of the Archives door being opened. Martin and Sasha both duck behind the desk immediately. Martin leans closer to Sasha to whisper, "Do you think it’s...him?" he says the last word with a lot of implication, and Sasha nods furiously. The footsteps outside sound ever-so-slightly wrong. Shuffling and unstable, but far too fast for him to actually be injured. Both he and Sasha hold their breath as it passes the office, instead heading to what can only be the door to document storage. "I think he might be going into the tunnels?" Martin suggests, "Unless there's some other eldritch horror-y place in this institute, God." He rubs over his face with his hands, overwhelmed. 

"You could be right? We'll have to check it out." She stands up, and turns her attention back to the drawer.

Inside the drawer, which they were too busy hiding to really look into, are stacks of tapes. "Maybe he really doesn't like these ones?" Martin suggests, already reaching in to grab the top one. It has a yellow sticky note on it, written in a familiar cursive that Martin thinks is Gertrude's, although the writing on it seems to directly contradict that thought: "33rd statement recorded. Recorded by Jonathan Sims, head Archivist at the Magnus Institute, as of 2015." The tape itself is labelled like how they used to be before Prentiss (before Jon suddenly changed it up). Case #0110201. They don't seem to be in any particular order, as the next one down is notated as the 2nd one recorded.

Sasha gets the player from on top of Jon's desk, and Martin hands her the tape to put in. She hits play, and the recording starts.

The beginning skips slightly, but when it comes back, the person speaking is... not Jon. It's Tim, actually.

"—you said that Alan Parfitt was reported missing… er, in August 2009," he was saying. Martin glances at Sasha, who looks just as confused. "Which would actually be, uh... six months! After the statement had been given!"

"Obviously, it should have been 2008," an unfamiliar voice responds sharply. "I—misspoke an 8 as a 9. What does it matter?"

"Well, someone noticed," Tim says.

"Who?" The unfamiliar voice says, sounding less curious and more grumpy. 

"Martin..." Sasha's voice interrupts Martin's rapt listening, speaking over the quiet noise of the tape. "Do you think that's--"

"--Jon." Martin finishes for her. He suddenly has a thought. "Do you remember when Melanie King--the Ghost Hunt UK girl--came to the institute, for the second time. She made a big fuss about Jon being completely different."

"Uh, yeah." Sasha says, "I know who Melanie King is, had a Ghost Hunt UK phase a couple of years back. Her coming in was kind of the thing that really tipped me off. Why'd you ask?"

"When she came in, she said that Jon sounded like he was faking his accent. I can't help but think she was right."

Sasha laughs a little, but it's a wet sound. Her eyes look shiny as they continue to listen to the tape.

The unfamiliar voice--Jon?--had been speaking under them, and Martin tunes him in again. "--not enough that Gertrude left us with this pointlessly awkward filing system, half the time she doesn’t even stay consistent in her own records."

Martin and Sasha listen to the rest of the tape, and the statement, in silence.

When it ends, Martin doesn't click it off immediately. Instead his hand finds his eyes and his fingers pull away wet. "I don't—" his voice wavers. He swallows thickly. Sasha's cheeks are streaked with tears. She sniffs and wipes at her face with a cracked smile.

"You know," she starts humourlessly, "I don't even know why I'm crying. It's not like I remember him."

Martin knows why. It's because there was a connection. Jon—the old Jon—may have put on such a fake-sounding accent and sometimes mislabeled important statements, but he was... real. He was human. He made mistakes. Jon may have been cruel to Martin but at least it wasn't the horrible, suffocating smiles that he wears now. At least he seemed to get angry, and frustrated. If Jon—the real Jon—was still around, maybe he would have improved. Maybe he would have started smiling more, because they survived an experience like Prentiss's attack, and wasn't that so crazy? Maybe he would talk to Martin about things other than work.

But they wouldn't know. They can't know, not that—that not-Jon is with them, and that is why they're crying. For everything that could have—would have—been.

Martin doesn't say any of this to Sasha. Instead, he asks, in a small, small voice, "Can we break the table later?"

Sasha nods, once, twice. "Yeah," she says. "Yeah."

With silent, unrecognized solidarity, she takes the next tape off of the pile and puts it into the player.

"Oh, Martin,” the thing that isn't Jon croons. He drags out the last syllable, almost singing it. He's grinning, like he always is. His fingers are long and his legs are too long and his smile is too big and, oh, god it has always been too big, hasn't it? Maybe that's what really tipped Martin off, that ever-so-slightly too-big smile that has always made his face just a little off. His hair looks too spiky and his shoes look too pointed and he looks wrong. Martin may be hyperventilating. 

It taps its too-long fingers on its jaw and leans in. Jon is far from close, he's standing at least six feet away, but he's able to lean in so close that Martin can feel his own breath bouncing off its face. Jon isn't breathing. Did he ever?

"What are you doing down here, I wonder? Searching for your dear old boss?" Jon taps his finger on his jaw again, looking up as he pretends to consider. His gaze snaps back to Martin suddenly, and it does not pin him, and he does not feel watched. "Well, you're not going to find him."

"I--" Oh my God, Martin thinks. Why did he agree to come here, again? If it was Sasha, Jon would be bleeding out on the floor by now. "I know."

Jon's grin gets impossibly broader. Martin thinks his head gets wider just to accommodate it.

"Oh?" It says, it's too-long and too-many joints folding so he can cross his arms. "Then what are you down here for, Martin?"


"I'm--" Deep breaths, Martin. "I'm here to kill you."

The grin falls off its face immediately. A nice change of pace, in Martin's opinion.

"And how are you," Jon drawls, dragging its gaze down Martin. Martin shivers in disgust. He isn't sure why he ever liked Jon in the first place. "Going to kill me?" it finishes.

Martin, without thinking, lunges forward with his knife bared. Apparently, he had clenched his eyes shut, because he's opening them again when Jon releases an ear-splitting screech and Martin gets flung back. His back hits the wall. All air is knocked out of his chest, and he gasps for breath, staring wide-eyed at the writhing creature in front of him. 

It struggles and shrieks and claws at its own neck as its limbs shift and wave and melt and soften as it tries to reach for Martin and stop the thick oozing liquid pouring from its neck simultaneously. The knife had torn through its neck like rock, stiff and unmalleable and hard under the blade as Martin made a long, bloody (not bloody, not blood, this pale facsimile of a human has never had blood) gash over its stretching and contorting neck.

It wails and grows and buckles under its own weight as it tries to reach for him, sharp fingers digging into the pale skin of its neck as its own legs scrabble against the ground; its hands twitch between reaching for him and clutching its own neck with a grip that would've stopped airflow on a real human. Its skin grows and stretches like it's trying to have more limbs and failing. It clamours and shifts and screams and shrieks and twists and distorts and swells and shrinks before suddenly it's just—

Gone.

Martin isn't breathing properly. He can't remember how. All he can do is stare at the spot where Jon used to be and struggle for air. Is he having an asthma attack? Is this the moment that he's discovering he has asthma?

But then the tears come, and he can finally rake in a few measly breaths, but it's not quite enough oxygen and his vision is a little dark around the edges. Right. Not an asthma attack. Just one of the panic variety.

He clutches his knees close to his chest and buries his face in his arms and tries to steady his breathing. It's all over now. The thing that isn't Jon is gone. Now it's just Martin, alone in the creepy tunnels. Alone, and—and lost, and, oh, Christ, he's never going to find his way out of here, he's never going to see the light of day again, he's never going to see Sasha or Tim, or drink of a cup of tea, or—

"Martin?" someone's voice says. Martin shouts and jumps up and tries reaching for his knife before realizing it's on the floor a few feet away. 

And there stands a short man, his hair streaked with grey, his figure all sharp angles. Martin knows him from his polaroids, and he remembers. He is the most beautiful man Martin has ever seen. "Martin? Wh--where are we? I was just in Artefact Storage?" Jon, Martin vaguely recognises, the real one. "Are you crying? What's goi--"

He's cut off as Martin wraps him in a tight hug, burying his face into Jon's shoulder as he comes back to himself all at once. Jon flounders and freezes under him for a moment, before awkwardly wrapping his arms around Martin, too. Martin wants the chance to fall in love with him again.