Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Martin didn’t think Jon could do it. 

And maybe, perhaps, he’d been right. But only a little. Jon couldn’t do it for himself. He’d wanted to do it for Martin. But he’d made it clear that it wasn’t what he wanted. So… so Jon didn’t think he could do it either. 

At least until he fell asleep on his desk. It wasn’t for long. Probably not more than a couple hours, at most. He couldn’t be sure. He’d been losing track of time lately. Beholding could tell him, if he cared to ask, but he had more important things in his mind right now. 

Like Naomi Herne. Like Dr. Lionel Elliott. Like Jess Tyrell. Like Tessa Winters. Like so many people. The way they barely paid him any attention anymore, the way they tried their hardest to ignore him, the way Jon’s– the Archivist’s– stare got more and more intense the harder they tried to pretend that maybe he wasn’t there, still and silent and watching.

The way he shivered with pleasure at their terror, at the crunch of plastic breaking between Tessa’s teeth, the way Naomi’s fingernails broke off as she scrambled for purchase inside the grave, the way Lionel tried to cover his eyes and his nose and his ears as blood spurted in rivers around him. 

Jon couldn’t do it for himself. But for the people he was hurting… wasn’t it horribly selfish of him to now know a way out and not take it? Earlier he could have said that he didn’t have a choice. He could, possibly, even justify the live statements that he– he stole from people like Jess. It was a hunger, after all, wasn’t it? He could barely think straight. 

(He knew they were just excuses.) 

Still. Still. 

Now there was a definitive way out. He’d either die or be free. He didn’t want to die, that’s the entire reason he had made that choice in the hospital, even if he barely remembered it. 

He didn’t remember making that choice, but he might have chosen it nonetheless had he known as well. 

At the time, at least. Now… now he wasn’t quite so sure. Not anymore, not here, sitting alone in his office, with Tim gone, Sasha gone, with Daisy just a shadow of herself, with Melanie’s emptiness, with Basira’s threats ringing in his head, with Georgie disappointment, with Martin’s cold eyes and the even chillier fog that had clung to him—

Peter would probably have had a better chance of poaching Jon for the Lonely than Martin. 

Even with his connection to the Eye getting stronger and stronger, Jon never felt more powerful. Yes, he had gone into the Buried, shifted under the weight of the entirety of existence, and gotten out. Powerful, he supposed. Except if it weren’t for him, Daisy wouldn’t have been there in the first place. He never would have needed to go in there. So many of his problems wouldn’t have existed if it weren’t for the goddamn Eye. 

The absolute helplessness and terror that came with being an Avatar was not worth… anything, really. Nothing was worth these powers. He couldn’t keep anyone safe. 

This was the least he could do, really. 

And he wouldn’t deny that there were some more– well. Some more selfish reasons as well. He knew he couldn’t keep going around taking live statements. Rescuing Daisy or not, Basira would go through with putting him down if he couldn’t stay straight. At least this way he had a chance of survival. 

Another monster gone. 

He just wanted to feel comfortable again, something that felt more and more alien with each day that passed and he had to increase the number of statements he took just to shop shaking. It was too much, all the time. There was never any relief. Even when he took people’s statements, even when he sucked them out of them like some kind of vampire, the feeling of his hunger sated was always undercut with that of shame, and the nagging terror that he was going to be found out. 

And even if  Jon didn’t survive this, he hoped… he hoped they’d be happy. Happier. Or less upset than they currently were. He knew Georgie thought he was gone already. So if he died, then she might get to mourn properly. 

In the end, there were far more reasons to do this than there were to not. So he would. He was capable of making the right choice. He knew he was. He had to. And it’s not like he cared all that much about pain anymore. It was a constant companion. 

He’d not really spared much thought into how he’d do it, or he’d have found some excuse not to. 

The corkscrew brought back… not fond memories, exactly, but memories of a much better time. When he didn’t even know who Daisy and Basira were, when Melanie was just that one annoying youtuber with some sort of grudge against the Institute, when Tim still looked at him with an amused, excited glint in his eyes, when Martin still stammered and blushed around him… this corkscrew, incidentally, was also connected to his last memory of Sasha. Of her digging a worm out of his leg and teasing him for making a fuss. Except even that memory was tainted with the Not Sasha. 

He let out a hysterical, wet chuckle. 

The corkscrew had grown warm in his hand. It was clean, but if Jon looked hard enough, he could almost imagine blood staining it. Could feel the phantom pain in his limb where Sasha had screwed it inside, the squelch of the worm as it came out. A full body shudder wracked his frame. 

There was a pit yawning open inside him. His hands were shaking so badly he wondered if he would end up accidentally killing himself before the severance from the Eye could do it for him. But he needed to do this. He’d prepared. Not much, granted, but enough. He had a couple clean towels in front of him, and he’d disinfected the corkscrew, and he had his phone within reach. He wouldn’t even need to look at the screen to dial emergency services. Just press the power button thrice. 

He had carefully labeled the tape in cramped, slightly clumsy writing, “Quitting the Archives”. Just to be completely, fully, absolutely clear. To that, he had also attached a small note. Not exactly a goodbye note, no. No one really cared enough about him for that to be necessary. But an… explanation. Because despite everything, he still refused to die a goddamn mystery. 

If he died, that is. Jon was trying to remain optimistic. 

If it didn’t work for me, that was probably because of my own, quite strong connection to the Eye. It should work fine for you. Good luck.  

Should he sign it off by his name? No, that would be just weird and over doing it. They would know it was from him. So there, that was done. 

He had prepared. He didn’t know why he was so scared. 

Well, he knew, but it just all sounded so… selfish. This was a good thing. 

It’ll be fine. 

There was a familiar click, and Jon let out a thin chuckle. He didn’t bother trying to locate the tape. He didn’t care anymore; just took in a deep breath and braced himself. 

A cold numbness was spreading through his hands, making the mangled scar tissue on his right tingle a bit. He gripped the corkscrew with stiff, uncoordinated fingers, made worse with tremors. 

He lifted it up to his face, and his breathing picked up. He brought it closer, an ache starting to build between his eyes. He used his other hand to try and hold open his right eye. His breaths were loud in his ears, drowning out most other sounds, blood pounding through his body and his heart hammering against his ribs. 

At least Jon could say he was used to pain. 

Swallowing hard, he took another deep breath, and then he pulled the screw back just the tiniest bit, preparing to thrust it in in one smooth motion—

“That’s not going to work, you know.” 

Jon let out a short, cut off scream and dropped the corkscrew, spinning around in his chair to look behind himself. 

He hadn’t even heard the creak of the Distortion’s door. 

Helen stood there, her neck tilted just the tiniest bit, hair spilling in all directions and moving in a way that almost reminded Jon of Prentiss’ worms. He looked away, fixing his gaze somewhere on her collarbone. Possibly one of the least disorienting parts of her. 

“What?” he said hoarsely, and had to clear his throat. 

“The Eye isn’t going to let you go so easily. You couldn’t even cut off your own finger, what makes you think you could mangle your eyes?”

Jon blinked. “I… uh…” 

Why had he thought it would work? This was logical. He should have figured that out himself. Of course it wouldn’t work. The Eye liked him too much. He was the goddamn Archivist, after all. Last time he had subverted it by using another Avatar to do the work for—

By using another avatar. 

Helen wasn’t exactly an Avatar, more of a manifestation wearing her as a fucked up costume. Closer to creatures like the Anglerfish than someone that used to be human once. Or was she? Helen had been human once. But was this Helen?

Was he Jon? Or was he just some thing wearing Jon’s corpse? A something that would die when he cut out his eyes, leaving just a lifeless body behind. 

Better dead than replaced, though, right? Wasn’t that what had hurt the most about Sasha? Not only had she died, but they hadn’t been able to mourn her either. That thing stole her life. Stole all memories of her life, as well. 

But comparing his own situation to that of Sasha’s felt… wrong. Rancid and bitter and foul. This was nothing like her situation. She’d never had a choice, whereas Jon had made the wrong choice at every turn. Just as Elias had said. 

His tongue felt heavy in his mouth when he next spoke. “Will you do it?” he blurted out. 

Helen didn’t go still per say. He doubted she even had the ability to go still. But a lot of the movement that Jon hadn’t even been registering till then stopped. The swirling of her eyes, the shimmering patterns on her clothes, the tapping and curling and uncurling of her fingers and hands, the gentle, silent swaying to her door. It all stopped. Her hair still moved, and the very air around her seemed to warp a bit, but the rest of her felt dangerously still. 

“This is the second time I would be helping you mutilate yourself, Archivist.” 

Jon wanted to argue that technically it had been Jared Hopworth who had done it the first time, and not her. But then felt the words die in his throat. What was the point of it anyway?

“Will you do it?” he repeated. This time, he made himself look at her. Right into her eyes. Felt the migraine build, the pounding, heavy aching climbing up and up and up the longer he stared, and he thought about how much different this Helen looked from the Helen he knew. Different even from the Helen who had rescued him from the Circus. 

He wondered how much more she would change. And whether he would be able to see it, or if he would succeed. 

“I see the hesitation in your eyes,” Helen whispered, and her voice came from three different sides. Almost like wearing a pair of really shitty, fucked up earphones where both the ear buds were out of sync with each other. Except there were three earbuds all plugged directly to the inside of his head. “Are you sure you want to do this? You won’t be able to read again. You would have to learn an entirely new language. You would never be able to see Martin’s face again.” 

He’d seen Martin’s face. He’d seen it, one last time. He’d seen it. It would have to be enough. 

A smile curled across her lips, stretching wide, wider, wider and wider. “Do you think they’d be happy you did this? Do you think this will really help them? Do you think this is redemption?”

Jon’s jaw was clenched so tight he could feel it throb through his entire skull. 

“But maybe they would just be angry at you. For taking the way out and leaving them alone to deal with this mess.” 

She’d come closer, somehow. The door was nowhere to be seen, and she was so very close to him. The previous stillness was gone, filled with a flurry of uncoordinated movement that made Jon go cross eyed. 

“Perhaps keeping hold of these powers is better, no? Isn’t that what you think? After all, it did help you get Daisy out. And get that statement from Breekon. That had felt good, hadn’t it? The fear in his voice, in his face, when he’d asked you– begged you to stop Looking.” 

He could feel himself hurtling down a horrible path, is what Jon didn’t say, even as Helen’s words burrowed into him like one of Prentiss’ infernal worms. He could tell that whatever benefits there were, sooner or later they would stop outweighing the bad parts. They had stopped comparing to the good parts a long time ago, actually. This was more grasping at silver linings. 

He didn’t want to cross the point where everything was lost. 

Suddenly, Helen straightened up, going quite a bit more… normal, for lack of a better word. She stopped swirling about quite so much, and her smile only looked slightly inhuman instead of completely deranged. “Well,” she said, “Looks like you’ve made your choice.” 

Jon stared at her, and he could feel the blood rush through his body, could almost picture it. He thought about the anatomy students from Dr. Elliott’s class, and pushed down a hysterical giggle. 

This was just Helen taking a little snack. And how could he begrudge her that? Hadn’t he, too, feasted upon the fear given to him by not just one Distortion, but two? Even though Helen had been human at the time. 

“Will you do it?” he asked, voice barely audible, but Helen understood him anyway. 

If being a Sectioned police officer had taught Basira anything, it was how to be calm during unexpected, and very alarming situations. Adding some very explicit and hostile supernatural entities to the mix did not do anything to this ability except perhaps strengthen it. 

So when she heard the screaming, Basira did not panic. She actually felt her head clear the tiniest bit, like she’d just taken a shot of espresso, back when things like caffeine still used to work until she built a tolerance.  

Melanie, on the other hand, let out a yelp and toppled over backwards in her chair. Basira glanced at her, making sure she hadn’t cracked her skull open or something, and then slowly unholstered her gun as Melanie picked herself up. 

Daisy was on her feet as well, eyes wide and just the smallest bit frightened. It made Basira grit her teeth, but she just moved towards Jon’s office door, clicking the safety off the gun. 

The screaming hadn’t stopped yet, not completely, but it had petered off the tiniest bit. Like Jon had run out of air to scream. 

In the entire time that Basira had known Jon, she’d seen him in some exceedingly vulnerable situations. She’d seen him broken, bleeding, she’d seen him begging and whimpering, she’d seen him in a coma. She’d thought she’d seen him at his lowest. 

She’d never heard him scream like that. She hadn’t known he could scream like that. 

Daisy was gripping her cane in a white knuckled grip, and Basira knew she could probably swing a mean hit with that even in her weakened state. Melanie had taken out a knife, but she looked far less confident with it than she had before the bullet had been taken out. Still, she held on to it firmly, and without shaking. 

Before Basira could kick in the door though, it swung open with a very familiar creak. For a wild moment, Basira expected to see it open into endless corridors and dizzying headaches, but it just revealed the dimly lit, cluttered office. 

And the overwhelming, metallic smell of blood. That smell hit her before the sight did, and she nearly took a step back. Melanie cursed, and Daisy made an indecipherable noise. Her hands had gone the slightest bit numb as she gripped the gun, pointed towards the scene in front of her. 

Jon was slumped over on a chair, and his hands were grasping at Helen’s… arms. They were twisted in the fabric and skin of her limbs like she was ink blots dissolving in water. 

He’d stopped screaming. 

His head turned the slightest bit towards them, and Melanie cursed again. Daisy let out an alarmed, but very quiet, “Jon.” 

“Oh, don’t worry about him. The worst part is over!” Helen said, grinning at them. One of her hands was resting on Jon’s cheek, the other gripped his shoulder. They were both completely soaked in red, much like Jon’s face and the front of his clothes. 

Basira couldn’t tell if Helen had just stabbed Jon’s eyes or scooped them out entirely. 

She was very, very close to pulling the trigger. Helen only smiled, and pulled away a little bit. 

In a swift movement that Basira’s eyes couldn’t track, Helen had lifted Jon up in a bridal carry. Jon let out another scream that he stifled into a whimper, still clutching at Helen as his head rolled about. Daisy let out a cut off sound and tried to shove past Basira, but she held Daisy back. 

“Put him down,” Basira said levelly, staring at the grinning figure of Helen. 

“Nope,” Helen said, “You can have your toys back when you learn to take better care of them.” 

A vein ticked in Basira’s forehead as no one moved for a few seconds. 

“Helen…” Melanie said, very slowly. Good, good. Melanie and Helen were close, so maybe Helen would be willing to listen—

“Melanie…” Helen said, equally slowly, in an exact imitation of Melanie’s voice, making her flinch the tiniest bit. 

A door swung open behind Helen, and it had closed before Basira’s fingers could pull the trigger. Only the echo of a door thudding shut cut through the deafening silence of the room. 

Melanie hated Jon. 

She was pretty sure she did. 

She was… mostly certain that she hated Jon. She definitely used to hate Jon. But looking back, it was hard to figure out how much of those feelings were her and how much were the bullet. The bullet hadn’t given her new feelings, that much she knew. Thought. Speculated. 

Either way, they’d just exacerbated what was already there. 

Probably. 

Well, there was one thing that she did know, and that was the fact that in the absence of the bullet, of that anger and purpose and direction, she felt… empty. There was a void left behind and nothing was filling it. She felt angry; a spitting, frothing vitriol towards Jon. She felt empty and angry and tired, all the time. 

The emptiness was starting to yawn wide open and consume the anger too, bit by bit. Georgie helped, but she couldn’t fill it. Nothing felt like it could. 

When she’d heard the scream from Jon’s office, her mind had completely blanked out. 

Perhaps, once, she might have felt glee. Delight. Vindication. Hadn’t that been what she’d said? In the tape she’d recorded before the Unknowing? I also hope it hurts. 

It had. It had hurt him enough to send him into a coma for six months. And then she’d tried to kill him. And she’d stabbed him. And he’d taken the goddamn bullet out of her and left her like this. She didn’t want him dead but she still hoped it hurt. Most of the time. 

None of these things were in her mind when she heard that scream. 

Something shifted in the air when that scream had pierced through her skull, her hair standing on end. She’d toppled off the chair and had barely felt the impact, her heart thudding loudly in her chest. 

She didn’t know what she’d felt when she saw Jon’s face. But it sure as hell didn’t feel like vindication, or any kind of glee or satisfaction. Horror, perhaps. A terrible, sickening horror at the way Jon’s empty eye sockets had glared at her from his face. 

And then there was the tape. The goddamn tape and the fucking note. 

A goddamn suicide note. That’s what it had felt like. Good luck. Like—

Melanie took a deep breath. They needed to figure out where Jon was. 

She’d– they’d all heard the tapes. Both of them. Statement of Eric Delano. And… and the conversation between Jon and Helen before she gouged out his eyes. The second tape meant that Helen, hopefully, hadn’t decided to keep him in her hallways, or just outright kill him. Which meant that there was a distinct possibility that she might have taken him to a hospital. 

She didn’t know what to think. 

Hearing Delano talk about the way he took out of the institute had made Melanie feel… strange. He’d left the Institute, and he’d taken quite a drastic measure to do it. What happened after that was unfortunate, but he’d gotten out. She could respect that. She did respect that. 

She thought she would do it too, if push came to shove. 

But while listening to the tape, something else within her had slotted into place. 

The shift in the air when they’d all heard the scream. 

The three of them had decided to split up and check out as many hospitals in London as they could, trying to figure out if he might be in any of them. They’d try calling hospitals outside of London if he turned out to not be in any of them. 

She was in a cab now, rushing to the first of the hospitals on her list, one about a forty minute ride from the hospital. 

Melanie didn’t know what to think. She didn’t know. Because it felt like… she thought she might be able to quit now. She pulled out her phone, her hands shaking a little bit as she opened her email, and slowly typed up a letter to the head of the institute. 

A letter of resignation. 

Her fingers kept shaking as she wrote it, but there was no supernatural compulsion stopping her from writing it. No pressure in the back of her head. No yawning dread opening up inside her, shortening her breath and blurring her vision, nothing that happened when she usually tried to quit. 

She wrote out the entire thing. It might even have come across as professional. In the loosest definition of the term. 

Her fingers hovered over the send button. 

She’d need to write an actual letter, sign the sheet, yes. But this… this was a step. A step she’d been unable to take before. A step she could now take, right after Jon quit. 

She didn’t know what to think because apparently it wasn’t Elias who’d been keeping them tied to this place, but Jon instead. The fucking Archivist. Her anger hadn’t been misdirected, after all. Maybe if she’d killed Jon when she’d had the chance, they’d all have been free sooner. 

Except she also couldn’t get his scream out of her head. They’d not only had the pleasure to hear it in real time, but the tape hadn’t stopped recording until after Helen had done her gouging. It had recorded every second of that horrid, ear piercing shrieking in a clarity that was quite unnatural of an analog recorder. 

It seemed to echo through her skull. 

Her phone rang, and she nearly dropped it. Quickly accepting the call, she put it to her ear, “Did you find him?”

“Yes, he’s here. Registered as a John Doe but I’m pretty sure it’s him, description and injuries match, dropped off by someone no one seems to remember seeing. Kinda just appeared in the A&E,” Basira said, voice brisk enough to almost cover the slight strain buried in there. “I’m sending you the location.”

“Alright.” 

Alright. 

She rattled off the new address to the driver, tipping her head back and staring up at the ceiling of the car like it could tell her how to feel. What to think. 

The ceiling remained silent, and the car ride passed within moments that Melanie couldn’t be bothered to count. 

When Martin got the call from Daisy, he barely even looked at his phone. 

During the first call, that is. 

The second time, he stared at it until the call cut out. There was no voice mail, nor any message. He stared until the phone’s screen blacked out. And then stared some more. 

He could feel something shifting— something had already shifted, slotted into place. 

Not a lot. Just the tiniest bit. Like he had climbed down a mountain and only just realized he could breathe easier. Like he had just taken off some ill fitting clothes. Like someone had just opened a window in a stuffy room. 

Despite his staring, when the screen lit up again with Daisy’s caller id, Martin still flinched. He’d have been tempted to ignore it, but it could be an emergency. Someone could be in danger. They all knew what he was doing, Daisy wouldn’t try to call him so many times if it wasn’t necessary. 

And maybe she’d be able to tell him what had changed– if anything had changed. Other than him, that is. 

He picked up. 

“Martin?”

She sounded frazzled, but not panicked. Martin let his shoulders drop, a slight irritation creeping in to replace the worry that that spiked. 

“Yes?”

“Do you… do you know how to quit the Institute? Because Jon found a—”

“Yes,” Martin cut her off, irritation flaring further, “He told me. What does this call have to do with that?” 

There was silence on the other side, only punctuated with the sound of Daisy’s breathing. 

“Daisy?” Martin asked slowly when she still didn’t speak, “Did something happen?”

“Jon quit.” 

Martin blinked. “No.”

“Listen, Martin, I don’t know what the two of you talked about. I don’t know what’s going on between you and Lukas. Jon had told us to trust you and leave you be. And I’ll leave you be. I just thought you might have wanted to know that Jon quit. That’s all. I’ll hang up now—” 

“Wait! Wait. Jon… he… he quit?” There was something cold and heavy lodged in Martin’s throat, and every word was a struggle. He couldn’t have. Jon couldn’t have quit. They’d talked about it, hadn’t they? Jon hadn’t denied it when Martin had said he couldn’t go through with it. How could he? Jon was so closely tied to the Beholding, wasn’t he? Why would he quit? Why would he quit when the threat of world ending rituals loomed so close, near constantly?

Martin had given up everything to protect Jon, he was giving up everything so Peter wouldn’t go around vanishing the people he cared about, he was giving up everything to look into the Extinction, even if he didn’t believe he could stop it. 

And now Jon had quit. Without Martin. 

He asked you first, something whispered. 

I didn’t know he’d actually go through with it. 

That felt like a paltry excuse. What did he know about Jon anymore, anyway? He hadn’t really been around him much after he woke up from his coma. What ways Jon could have changed. Just how badly everything might be affecting him. How does a six month long coma affect a person? 

Martin wouldn’t know. He hadn’t been around to see it, had he? 

The numbing coldness was still there, clinging to his bones, despite knowing what Jon had done. If he let his attention drift, he could see mist gathering at the edges of the room. His fingers were stiff from the cold, and he couldn't quite tell if he was there in his body or not. 

Except he could, consciously, think about the fact that he couldn't tell if he was there in his body or not. 

The process of giving himself into the Lonely had been a slow one. Slow and so very insidious that Martin rarely noticed the changes until they had already happened and he was too far gone. 

“Martin?” Daisy said, “Are you listening?” 

“I–” Martin blinked, “Sorry, what?” 

“I said I’m sending you the name of the hospital he’s in, with the location. In case you wanted to come over. We can’t… we can’t see him yet, though.” 

“Oh.”  He could see fog trying to climb up the walls from the corners of his eyes. He didn’t turn to look. “How is he?” 

Daisy hesitated, “He’s… alive. That’s all we can say. In surgery.”

“Right,” he breathed, “Right. Thank you, Daisy.” 

He didn’t wait for her to reply before cutting the call, and then he stared down at the screen. He stared until the screen went black. And then stared as it buzzed against his hand with a new text message from Daisy. His glasses were starting to fog up to the point he could barely see through them.  

Martin took them off, and squinted down at the name and location Daisy had sent him. He glanced back at the statement he’d been reading, and wondered if burning the entire room down might get rid of the fog that still hovered at the edges of his vision. 

He thought back to Jon, back to I’ll be here, if you ever need me.

Except he wasn’t. Jon was in surgery, and Martin didn’t know if he would even survive this. If the Eye was the only thing keeping Jon alive and that severing it meant Jon was going to—

Martin thought back to the last conversation he had with Jon, and how that would be the last conversation he had with him ever, if Jon didn’t make it. He thought back to bedside vigils, and the sharp, clean air of hospitals, the rigid, unforgiving chairs in waiting rooms, the shitty coffee from the canteens and the way the machines just beeped and beeped and beeped all the time. 

He wished he could cry, but his eyes remained stubbornly dry. 

So he just cleaned off his glasses, put them back on, and called a taxi instead. 

Chapter Text

Daisy’s eyes kept sliding over Martin. 

She knew, when she actively thought about it, that Martin was there, sitting on the dark, sunken in couch that needed its springs replaced about three years ago. If she focused on him, she could see him, see the rigid way he held himself, his hands fiddling a little in his lap, the way his glasses kept fogging up and he kept taking them off to clean them. 

But the moment she’d take her eyes off him, he’d disappear from her periphery. 

It set her on edge, nudging the part of her that still hungered for the hunt, set off alarm bells in her head that someone was there not there there not there—

She took a deep breath of the sharp, chilly air in the waiting room, far colder now than it had been before Martin arrived in a flurry of quick but very silent footsteps. He’d looked at her questioningly and she’d told him Jon was still in surgery. 

It was just the two of them. Melanie had left, gone back to Georgie’s, from what Daisy could tell. And Basira… Basira was back at the Archives. 

Elias wasn’t in prison anymore, after all. 

Daisy could understand that, considering his Archivist had just quit in such a drastic manner after all the work that Elias put into making him into an avatar of the Eye. Still didn’t mean any of them liked it. Him being in prison had given all of them, at the very least, an illusion of safety, of vindication, that had been sorely needed. 

Him being out so soon after what Jon did… it didn’t bode well, for any of them. Basira was trying to figure things out. 

Maybe if Daisy talked to Martin, it’d make him more… present. 

She, too, had grown intimately familiar with the Lonely when trapped within the coffin, surrounded by the screams, and sobs, and crying of people far too close and yet too far. Of feeling nothing but the earth pressing in from all sides. Of long hours spent hearing absolutely nothing but her own breathing. Thinking about an eternity, alone, conscious, helpless. 

Jon had, even after pulling her from the Buried, done a lot towards mitigating that loneliness, that ever present dredge of fear—not of being back in the coffin, or giving into the Hunt once again, but rather that of loneliness. That Daisy would find herself alone, again, and no one would be able to hear her if she sobbed or wept herself to near unconsciousness.  

Basira– she helped. But it was more complicated with her. Far more complicated than it was with Jon, which was funny. That is to say, it was just a little sad and pathetic. 

Who did Martin have, right now? He had, quite deliberately, pushed everyone around himself away. He’d been willing in his slow descent into the Lonely. Daisy knew what that felt like as well. The call of something that you knew wasn’t good for you. 

She stood up, and leaning heavily on her cane, made her way to Martin. He didn’t even look at her as she sat down on the sofa beside him, carefully keeping one person’s worth of distance between them. Her body sunk into the couch in a way that made her wince. 

Getting up would be a bitch. 

“Martin?” she said quietly, but he still flinched a little. His body moved very slowly when he turned to face her. His glasses were misted up again. He looked, somehow, faded. Like a washed out, sun bleached piece of cloth.

“Do you think Peter would be angry at you for this?” she asked, and then bit her tongue. Was bringing Peter up really the right option? But what else could she talk about? She didn’t think small talk would be appreciated right now. 

When Martin’s gaze focused on her, Daisy felt a chill settle into her. But he sharpened, somewhat. “I don’t care.” 

Daisy tilted her head to the side, humming a bit. “While I’m glad you’re here, we should probably prepare for the worst.” 

Martin let out a dry, thin laugh, “When do we not? Isn’t the worst what’s exactly been happening to us since… I don't know, we first stepped foot into the Archives? Probably even before then.”

Daisy sighed, fingers tapping impatiently on her cane. Just because she couldn’t run around and work off her restlessness, didn’t mean she didn’t want to. She sat and breathed and tapped away, and then there was a doctor standing in the waiting area. 

“Excuse me,” she said, presumably to them, “Are you with Mr. Sims?” 

Daisy looked at Martin, but he just looked lost, eyes staring at the doctor with something that would have looked like incomprehension if one didn’t know better. 

Daisy stood up, grunting a little, “Yes.” 

“Well, Ms—”

“Daisy.” 

“Miss Daisy,” the doctor– Dr. Mitchell, from what Daisy could make out, “Mr. Sims is stable for now, his breathing and pulse is steady. We had to perform an enucleation– that is a complete removal of the eye, in both of his eyes. They could not have been saved, and the vision in both of them was unrecoverable before we even got him into an operating room.” 

Daisy nodded, and she really wished she could see Martin from the corner of her eyes because she really didn’t want to turn to look at him while the doctor was talking to her. 

“He should, conceivably, wake up within an hour or so,” Dr. Mitchell continued, but there was a slight frown on her face, “However, his breathing had stopped twice during the procedure. We will be monitoring him, of course.” 

“He’s breathing okay now?” Daisy asked, her heart rate spiking. Yes, Dr. Mitchell had said his pulse and breathing was stable now, but—

He’d stopped breathing. 

 “Yes,” Dr. Mitchell said, “He is also quite malnourished. Which may interfere with his recovery. Usually, patients going through scheduled enucleation are able to leave the hospital on the day of the surgery itself, barring any complications. But considering Mr. Sims malnutrition, and the issues with breathing we’d had, we’d like to keep him for a few days, at the very least.” 

“Right,” Daisy murmured, and this time she did turn to look at Martin. He was frantically trying to wipe the fog off his glasses. Again. She turned back to Dr. Mitchell, folding her arms across her chest and shoving her hands under her armpits to warm them, her cane hooked around her elbow. 

“I’m assuming he had sight before the… accident?” she asked. 

Daisy nodded, and the doctor sighed. 

“Well, then. It will be quite an adjustment for him. And for the people around him as well. I will be recommending some counsellors and services which help with blindness and navigating life in the aftermath. Some of them also specialise in, ah, trauma. We can discuss this further when Mr. Sims himself is awake.” 

“Of course.”

The doctor was staring at Daisy in a way she didn’t really like, a kind of scrutinising stare that reminded her of being in the Archives more than she was comfortable with. 

“Miss Daisy,” the doctor said, “Would you like to press charges? Report the incident?” 

Daisy paused. Ah. She shook her head. Doctor Mitchell’s lips thinned, but she only gave a sharp nod, “Please follow me.” 

The room they went into looked just like any other hospital room. It honestly looked like something straight out of a shitty drama show, all white walls and white sheets and beeping equipment. And a blanket covered patient who looked far smaller in the bed than he had any right to be. 

“Call for the nurses if he wakes up, please,” Dr. Mitchell said, turning to leave and nearly bumping into Martin. Both of them looked at each other like startled deer in headlights, before the doctor cleared her throat and stepped around Martin to leave. 

There was no blood. 

Daisy couldn’t smell any fresh blood in the room. She could barely smell any blood at all, actually. A stark contrast to when they’d first heard him scream. When the door had swung open and the smell had hit her with such full force that she’d gone lightheaded with it. With the siren call that sang through her veins. 

It was quiet now. 

For a long, long while, no one moved. Martin stood beside her, still keeping his distance, and Daisy stood as well. Both still and both silent, just watching Jon, who lay motionless in bed, an oxygen mask strapped to his face, and stark white bandages wrapped around his eyes, contrasting sharply with his dark skin. 

He looked dead. 

Jon looked alive. 

That was all Martin could think of as he stared at his prone figure on the bed. He looked alive. And that little fact was enough to nearly send him to tears. But of course they wouldn't come. He wouldn’t get the release of crying. His eyes remained stubbornly dry. 

At least his glasses weren’t fogging up again. 

Jon looked alive. 

Martin could see the slow and mostly steady rise and fall of his chest, and the way the oxygen mask would mist up a little with every breath. Could see the steady beeping of a machine where the heart still beat. Jon was still, yes. But he was also so very indisputably alive. 

And the doctor had said he should wake up within an hour or two. Instead of long, useless platitudes about high brain activity, or body not decomposing, or medical miracle, or we can’t say anything for sure or seen nothing like this before—

He took a step forward, pulled the chair back a little, and more or less collapsed on it. 

Martin couldn’t cry, but he could very well hyperventilate his way through a small breakdown. 

When Daisy kept a hand on his shoulder, he barely felt it. He didn’t know if it was because she was so weak as to be unable to put any pressure on him, or because he just wasn’t… present enough for it. But considering the way the weight of it seemed to grow with every breath he dragged in, he’d put his money on the latter. 

After a while, she pulled out the second chair and sat down on it, her movements slow and tense, the hand gripping her cane white knuckled. She wasn’t looking at him, her gaze fixed firmly on Jon. 

When Martin opened his mouth, only dry air escaped his throat. He had to swallow and cough a few times, his tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth. Christ, he needed water. But he couldn’t bear the thought of getting up and leaving Jon to get it. 

He swallowed again, “He asked me to quit with him.” 

He could see the way Daisy’s head turned towards him, from the corner of his eyes. He refused to look at her, and she didn’t say anything. 

“I thought he just wanted an excuse not to do it,” he continued, aware that he probably sounded a little… blithe. What did she think of that, he wondered with a distant, idle curiosity. Callous. Indifferent. Asshole. Probably. But he wasn’t looking for sympathy anyway. “He told me he’d be there for me, whenever I was ready.” 

There was a soft, but clearly audible inhale from Daisy. 

He turned to look at her, “Do you think he’s going to wake up?” 

She lifted her gaze until it bore into Martin with an unsettling intensity he usually only expected from Jon himself. An intensity which, even if all things went well, would never again be directed at Martin again. Would never be directed at anyone again. Because he’d gouged his eyes out.

Finally, Daisy answered, eyes turning back to Jon, “He’s too stubborn not to.” 

Martin snorted, and Daisy’s lips quirked in a small, fleeting smile. “He really is,” he said quietly. 

The worst part was… even if he had known it, known when Jon came to him that the rejection wouldn’t stop Jon from going through with quitting, Martin wasn’t sure he’d still have said yes. Mere knowledge of the fact wouldn’t have shaken him as much as he’d like to think it would. It took a phone call from Daisy, confirming that Jon had really gone through with it, that actually dislodged the Lonely’s vice-like grip from him. 

Or his grip from the Lonely. He didn’t know, the lines often got fuzzy like this when it came to the Fears. 

His glasses were starting to fog up again. 

Martin sighed, took them off, and cleaned them up. He didn’t even have a proper fabric to clean them with, and using the awful fabric of his starched dress shirt probably scratched up the lenses something awful. He couldn’t tell yet, the way he often hadn’t been able to tell that his glasses were fogged up in the first place while working for Peter, but he could tell with the fog now. Which was… progress. 

Martin didn’t examine it too closely. He didn’t want to, not yet. 

He put his glasses back on and went back to staring at Jon, whose breathing had gotten a little erratic now, which caused Martin to frown. Daisy had noticed it as well, and was leaning forward a bit. She looked at him, a worried frown creasing her face as well, “Should we call someone?” 

“I… probably?” Martin said, looking back at Jon. And yes, his breathing was definitely getting worse. It sent a spike of panic through him. The sharpest feeling he’d had yet, since getting the news the first time round. “Yes, yes, let's call them,” he said quickly, getting up to press on the call button. 

Then, almost on cue, Jon let out a short, aborted noise, his face turning and hands jerking up to his face. He yanked the oxygen mask off his face– or tried to. The elastic strap made it impossible to pull it off without pulling it over his head, so it just clung awkwardly at his chin as Jon’s hand scrabbled at his face.  

Martin’s hands shot out to grab Jon’s wrist before he could touch the bandages covering his eyes, “Jon,” he said quickly, adjusting his hold on Jon’s wrist, “Jon, it’s okay, it’s alright—” 

“Martin?” Jon said, and his voice sounded so small, so scared , and it was doing far more for Martin’s heart than should be reasonably possible with the fog still creeping in at the edges of his periphery. “Where– what’s… I can’t see. ”

Martin froze, and he could see Daisy do the same. Jon tugged at his wrists, “Martin—” 

“Jon,” he began helplessly. 

“Do you not remem—” Daisy said very quietly, but didn’t get to finish her sentence when Jon’s hand jerked so violently in Martin’s grip that he managed to dislodge it. Jon let out a choked, panicked noise and scrambled so fast that Martin could only yell in alarm as Jon toppled off the bed completely, dragging the stand with the IV bag down with him. 

The door opened up and he heard someone curse quietly, and a nurse quickly shoved past Martin, who was standing there blankly as Jon scrabbled at the bandages around his eyes, still on the floor, the IV ripped out of his elbow and bleeding. 

“Excuse me, sir,” the nurse said, grabbing at Jon’s hands, “You need to calm down, please. You’re in a hospital right now. You’ll injure yourself further if you keep trying to mess with the bandages.” 

The nurse kept up a steady stream of chatter, voice even and calm as Jon shuddered and shuddered and shuddered. He didn’t seem to be quite paying attention to the nurse. “I don’t… Daisy? Who is— Martin?”

“I’m going to have to ask you to leave,” the nurse said gently but firmly, helping Jon back into the bed. Jon didn’t struggle, but his head kept darting about like he was still trying to see, “We’ll call you back in soon.” 

“Who is… who is here?” Jon asked, gripping at the nurse with a white knuckled grip. 

Daisy was already backtracking, a stricken expression on her face as she opened the door with her back. Martin followed, unable to take his eyes off of Jon. 

“It’s just us now, sir,” the nurse was saying, “I’m going to stop the bleeding now, alright? We need to reinsert a new IV, you ripped out the other—” 

The doctor who’d been talking to Daisy earlier brushed past Martin as he dragged his eyes away from Jon. She gave him a frown, but then went inside the room. 

The door shut behind her with a decisive click. 

Daisy’s hands shook as she turned her phone down. 

It wasn’t unusual, of course. The weakness was a constant; tremors wracked her frame most of the time. But this was worse. She’d barely been able to type out a short text to Basira about Jon waking up. 

She was counting her breaths, trying not to think about the coffin. Trying not to think about the smell of blood when Jon had fallen off the bed. 

She’d smelled his blood. She’d smelled his fear. 

He’d felt the hunt. 

This wasn’t a first. Logically, she knew that. This had happened a few times, even after the coffin. She could feel the hunt dogging her heels at all times, and Jon could too, but in vastly different ways. But they’d pushed through. Even through shaking hands and gasping breaths and scars and memories. 

This felt different. 

“It’s probably just disorientation from having woken up,” Martin said quietly, and Daisy nodded. Martin continued, his hands wringing in his lap, “I mean, we didn’t really get to talk much. And you said Helen did it, right? That could contribute to the feeling of confusion, couldn’t it?” 

Daisy stayed quiet. Martin’s fidgeting grew worse. “I just mean—”

“I think I’m going to get a coffee,” Daisy said, interrupting Martin’s anxious ramblings. She was glad to hear it, really. His time with the Lonely had drained him of this, made him quieter, in a way she knew Jon hated. This was a sign of progress, especially if he really did intend to ditch Lukas now. 

But she couldn’t hear it. Not right now. She needed to get away, needed to breathe, drink shitty coffee and wash the taste of regret and blood off from her mouth. 

Her cane thumped against the floor as she made her way to the cafeteria. She took the stairs, despite being tired, ignoring the lift. One hand gripped the railing and the other her cane as she very slowly made it down one step at a time. 

The concentration and effort that went into just navigating that one stairwell was enough to take her focus away from Jon for a bit. Enough to calm her racing heart. Enough for her to start thinking rationally. 

Martin was right. They wouldn’t know for sure until they’d talked to Jon properly, with him calmed down a bit. And it had been Helen who had done it; given the nature of the Distortion, a little bit of disorientation was to be expected. Often, people also repressed especially traumatic memories, so he might not remember being blinded—

Whatever the matter, it’d be fine. Jon was alive. And he was awake. And he’d escaped. And according to Melanie, the others could too. 

Daisy got the coffee, and sat down on one of the chairs, cradling the paper cup in her hands. At least the price matched the wretchedness of the drink. She wrinkled her nose at the smell. 

She could barely feel the warmth of the drink through her cold, numb hands, and brought it up to her mouth far too fast, burning her tongue. 

“Urgh.” She squeezed her eyes shut, gripping the cup too hard, nearly crushing it in her grip, but managed to catch it at the last moment. She stared down at the dark liquid. She took another sniff– and yep, still fucking awful. 

After blowing on the coffee a bit, she took a few more sips. Still too hot, but less likely to mutilate her tongue. Neither the smell nor the taste got better, and she couldn't bring herself to finish it. 

Daisy grabbed her cane, and stood up. She threw the cup into the trash, taking the lift this time as she went upstairs. There was a nurse and a patient in the lift beside her, the patient on a wheelchair, asleep. They both smelled strongly of antiseptic. No blood. No blood. 

No blood. 

The lift music was only marginally better than the coffee had been. 

In the waiting area, Dr. Mitchell was talking to Martin, who looked distinctly uncomfortable but also unnervingly focused on the doctor. The doctor didn’t seem fazed, and only raised a brow when she noticed Daisy. 

“Miss Daisy,” she said, “Mr. Sims was asking to see you both. There seems to be some disorientation still, and he’d gotten understandably distressed when we told him about his vision loss. We’d advise you not to stress him out further, and try and make sure if his memories are intact. We ran him through the basic questions, of course. But you’d know the details. If anything about his condition changes, please don’t hesitate to call a nurse. We have scheduled a few scans for his brain as well, just in case there’s some sort of head trauma that might have led to the memory issues.”

She gave a brisk nod and left the two of them before Daisy could say anything.  

Martin turned to her, “Shall we?” 

She nodded, taking a deep breath. The way the waiting room smelled now almost felt familiar, sharp and cold and sterile, shot through with the artificial lavender of an air freshener. 

She hoped Jon had stopped bleeding by now. 

The room still smelled the tiniest bit like blood when they entered, but her attention was immediately caught onto Jon, who was now in a semi reclined position, the bed elevated to an angle. He was picking at the edges of the blanket that had been pulled up to his waist. There was a bandage on the arm which had previously housed the IV in it, now connected to his other arm. 

His head turned towards them when they entered, and he said a quiet, “Hello?” 

Daisy looked to Martin, but Martin was silent, just staring at Jon with an unreadable expression on his face. She sighed, and then said in an equally quiet voice, “Hey, Jon.” 

She saw his hand tighten on the blanket, something flashing across his face before his expression went neutral, “Hi, Daisy.” 

She walked closer, making sure that her steps made enough noise to alert him to her approximate position. He’d started wringing the blanket edge again, a bit more fervently than before. After another moment of silence, Jon asked uncomfortably, “Are you alone?” 

Daisy hesitated, looking back at Martin, whose glasses had, once again, fogged up a little. She turned back to Jon, “No. No, Martin’s also here.” 

“Oh.”

Another long, dragged out silence. Her legs were starting to tremble badly enough that she knew they’d give out on her soon. She pulled the chair back to sit on it, wincing when it made a screeching noise against the floor, and saw Jon flinch as well. 

“Sorry,” she murmured hastily even as she dropped into the chair with a sigh of relief. 

More silence. Blood rushed in her ears. 

Jon was chewing on his lower lip now, and Martin still stood there, silently, making the back of her neck prickle with unease. She couldn’t even hear him breathing. She didn’t know whether it was because of the blood in her ears or if he just… didn’t need to breathe anymore. 

Forcing the thought out of her head, Daisy started drumming her fingers lightly against the arm of the chair, and spoke, “Do you… remember what happened?” 

Jon blew out a long, tired breath. “Mostly. Kind of. I don’t… It's kind of fuzzy. A lot of it is fuzzy. Like recalling something I once saw on a show rather than my own goddamn life.” He sniffed a little, and Daisy wanted to reach out and take his hand in hers, but the image of him flinching at her voice and literally scrambling off the bed in terror was far too fresh in her mind for her to take liberties like that. She breathed through her mouth. 

And then he continued, “The coffin is clear. So is everything before the Unknowing. Any time I spent in Helen’s corridors as well… I think you know where this is going.” 

“Ah,” she said, “Yeah, I can take a guess.” She leaned forward a bit, and she really really wanted to take his hand in hers. But she held back. She breathed. “How much of… of the end, do you remember?” 

“I know Helen was there.” 

“Mhm.” 

“And… Daisy,” Jon said, “Is Martin still here?” 

Martin cleared his throat, making both Daisy and Jon jump. “Yeah,” he said, voice strained, “I’m here, Jon.” His footsteps were as silent as his breathing when he crossed the room and came closer to Jon. 

“Martin,” Jon breathed, and Daisy wondered whether she should leave. “I’m sorry.” 

For a long moment, Martin didn’t speak. He took off his glasses, but instead of wiping them up and putting them back on, he just folded them up and held them loosely in his hands. “Yeah,” he said, his voice coming from a distance, “Me too.” 

He sighed, and then dropped into the other chair. It didn’t make a single sound even as he carelessly dragged it across the floor. 

The silence pressed on her from all sides in a way that was reminiscent of the Buried. It was stifling, and made her feel even more vulnerable than she usually did. 

She stared at Jon’s fidgeting hands for another moment, and then grit her teeth. “Jon,” she began, making him jump a little, “Can I take your hand?” 

Jon visibly perked up, “Yes,” he said quickly, putting out his hand, palm up, towards her. 

With a small sigh of relief, she grabbed it in hers. He was a little cold– they both were, really. She’d heard malnutrition can do that to you. Something about blood circulation to the extremities. But for the most part, with his hand in hers, gripping back with the lightest of pressures, reminded her that he was alive. They were both alive, and not alone. 

It was a familiar sensation, the hand holding. They’d taken to doing that a lot, since coming out of the coffin. Hours upon hours spent in the Archives, either in Document Storage or in his office, just going about their business, whether that be reading statements or listening to podcasts or doing research— holding hands had become one of the few remaining sources of comfort. 

She’d grown accustomed to the feel of his hands, long and thin, the grooves of the circular, worm scars on his left hand, and the smooth, unsettling scar that warped around his right. The slightly too long nails that he always forgot to cut, digging into her skin when he gripped too hard. The minute shake if he’d been too long without a statement. 

Nothing had changed about that. 

The familiarity was comforting enough that she felt her breaths deepening, and the blood in her ears quieted down until she could barely hear it. Until she had to strain to hear it. 

She could see Jon’s shoulders relax too, dropping down from their tense position, tense enough that it looked painful. She looked at Martin, who was staring at them with a strange expression. Like a cat looking at rain; equal parts fascinated, repulsed, and longing. 

He averted his eyes when he noticed Daisy looking. 

Jon cleared his throat, “Can you tell me what happened?” 

“Right,” she said, ignoring Martin for now, “We… uh, we heard you scream,” she said, watching Jon wince, “And ran to your office. Helen was being difficult as usual. More than usual, really. Then she took off with you.” 

“She what?” 

“Yeah, we got to your office and she kind of just took off with you. Took us a while to figure out where you were. Listened to the tapes and all, which didn’t give us much clues except that maybe she didn’t want you dead.” 

Jon snorted a little, grip tightening on her hand, “If she wanted me dead, she wouldn’t take me through her doors. She’d tempt or trick me until I went in myself.” 

“Sounds like her,” Daisy muttered, and then– “Oh, also. I think we can quit now.” 

“ What?” 

“Wait, we can quit now, too? Without the—” Martin said, waving his hand at Jon and then at his own eyes, before wincing and dropping them in his lap. He’d spoken up so suddenly and unexpectedly that it startled both Daisy and Jon, who looked so surprised that she suspected he’d maybe forgotten Martin was there at all. His head turned vaguely in Martin’s direction, but it was still off by quite a margin. 

Daisy squeezed his hand back, “I think it’s the Archivist who was tying us to the Institute, and once you quit… we could quit as well. Melanie already has. Basira and I are still thinking about it. I don’t think the dreams are going to come back now that you’re no longer the Archivist, but also sometimes I think that my connection to the Eye, however faint, might be helping keep the Hunt away.” 

Jon had gone very still as she spoke, and it took her a moment to realise why that might be. She winced, “Jon—” 

“So, Tim and Melanie were right,” he said, cutting Daisy off.

“Melanie literally had a Slaughter bullet inside her.” 

“It was still her, Daisy. You know that.” 

Daisy had a feeling that if bandages weren’t covering most of his upper face, she’d be able to see him frowning at her. That faintly disapproving, tired professor frown. Or one that a librarian might give to a group of unruly people making noise. 

“It’s still Elias at fault here,” she said. 

Jon hummed noncommittally. His hand was trembling in her grip. Had it been trembling from the start or did it start just now? She couldn’t quite recall. 

She sighed. She didn’t know how to convince him otherwise. They’d had the same conversation before. Not quite the same, of course, but similar enough. It was an old song and dance, and she’d realised his self loathing ran far, far too deep for her to do much of anything about it. 

“You quit when you could,” she said, “It’s alright.” 

It wasn’t, of course. It wasn’t alright. But not for the reasons Jon probably thought. 

“Is it?” Jon asked, a hollow laugh escaping him, rough and scraped raw, and then—

“I need to go,” Martin said, standing so abruptly that he toppled the chair with a crash. Jon flinched violently at the noise, violently enough that he ripped his hand out of hers, head swivelling wildly towards Martin as if he had, once again, forgotten that Martin was there at all. 

The glass window on the door to the room had fogged up. She suspected if he’d been wearing his glasses, they’d have fogged up as well. His hands were visibly shaking as he bent over to put the chair to rights. He looked a little wild, and Daisy started to stand up, concerned. 

But Martin then started looking scared , “Just… give me some time. I’ll be back, okay? Jon, I’ll be back later. I will. But I need to go.” 

Jon was pressed up against the backrest, his knees pulled up a little, like he was debating whether or not to curl up defensively or not; hand fisted in the sheets. His trembling was worse now, and lips pressed into a thin, blanched line. 

Martin stared at him for a moment more before he turned and left, almost running out the door. 

The rest of the hour, up until Jon grew too exhausted to awake, passed in silence, his hand back in hers, comforting yet far more cold now than it had been before.

Chapter Text

Jon thought he understood, now. 

Understood why Melanie had been so angry about them taking the bullet out, despite all the evidence towards just how bad of an idea it had been. 

She’d explained it to him, the reason she’d done nothing about the bullet, the reason it had festered in there for so long. And Jon had thought he’d understood then, too. But he hadn’t, not really. That understanding had been nothing compared to the absolute, bone deep empathy he felt now. 

He knew what she felt. He knew it in the most human way possible, no eldritch monster trying to feed it to him. He knew it the old fashioned way where you discover it for yourself rather than have it dropped directly into your head. Because the Eye could Know things but it would never Understand. 

No, the burden of understanding was Jon’s to bear alone, a completely human burden. 

Because that’s what he was. Completely, utterly, irrefutably, human. 

Human. 

A human in spectacularly poor condition, but a human nonetheless. 

He should, perhaps, have felt more relieved than he currently did. Should have felt… somewhat satisfied that it had worked. That he had, in a way, said fuck you to Elias, to Beholding, to everyone who called him a monster, he’d said fuck you and made it out. Should have felt relieved that trying to sever the Eye from himself hadn’t resulted in his death. 

Should have felt anything other than the absolute emptiness that clung to his very soul.

It was not unlike the feeling of being in the Buried, actually. So deep beneath Creation that even the Eye couldn’t quite reach him. But that distance hadn’t been as complete as this one, not even remotely so. It was like he’d lost his ribs all over again, that hollowness within him, that acute Knowledge that something was missing. But this comparison, too, fell short of what he was feeling. 

It went deeper than just the bones. 

Jon didn’t regret it. But for some reason, if he could go back in time to when he’d made the decision, he wasn’t very certain he’d make the same choice. He knew he should, he knew this was the right choice—

When he’d woken up for the first time, blind, in an unfamiliar setting, and heard Daisy’s voice, he’d been so, so sure that she was about to kill him. His mind had gone back to that one drive, stuffed into the trunk of the car with Mike’s cooling corpse. Unable to see but vividly smelling the blood that oozed out of the bullet hole. 

Everything came back, eventually, however hazy. Including the coffin. 

His sight didn’t. 

That was the point, he knew. Being blind was the entire point. It wouldn’t have worked if he could still see. 

But he’d also not quite considered the consequences. He’d not… prepared. Helen had tried, in her twisted, mocking way, to remind him what being blind might actually entail; but it was only now, unable to see even small shifts in light that one did with their eyes closed, that he realised how truly helpless he’d rendered himself. 

Not that he'd been particularly helpful before, or in any way defended against things that might want to hurt him or the others, but at least he’d have been able to see them coming. 

He had nothing now. 

Not even a goddamn flat to go back to now that he’d quit the institute. Jon certainly wasn’t going to go back to the Archives— could he? He might have to. At least he was familiar with the Archives enough to navigate them in a halfway coherent manner. Quarter way coherent manner. 

How would he even go about finding a place to stay? How will he… go about his life at all? Newly blind, newly unemployed, with probably a horde of issues that come with his time as the Archivist, and—

Daisy would help him, he knew. He was reasonably certain that Basira, or even Melanie, wouldn’t just leave him to flounder. And Martin had been there when he woke up as well, even though he’d left quite abruptly and they hadn’t even talked and he’d sounded so fucking distant and Jon had realised what he’d done to Martin—

He needed to stop thinking like that. 

The worst part was over. He’d escaped the institute. And the actual quitting was done and over with. The only way to go from here was up. 

Additionally, it looked like no one else would have to take the same drastic measures as he did in order to escape. He might have felt bitter, if it weren’t for the circumstances. But here they were, and they’d been right in their resentment of Jon, and it looked like none of Jon’s guilt was misplaced, after all. He had been keeping them trapped here, not Elias. He had been their connection to the institute, he’d been their prison. 

And the two people that he had deliberately called on to be his assistants, the two people who most deserved the benefits of being able to escape through Jon’s quitting, they weren’t here. They weren’t here to take it. They were dead. And he’d been unable to do a damn thing about it. And he’d been the reason. 

He’d been the reason. 

Blinding himself for the price of not just escaping the Institute himself, but also letting others free? It shouldn’t even have been a question. It was deserved, he would think, if Jon was feeling uncharitable towards himself, which he was. 

Except the absence hurt. 

It all hurt. All the time. His head throbbed. His body ached, all of his scars stung fiercely, even the one on his burnt hand where he couldn’t feel much of anything at all. It all pulled and ached and rolled through him in a way that made him feel like he was being dragged through a narrow tube filled with rocks and knives. 

It felt like the Eye had been the only thing holding him together, and now with it gone, he was falling apart. 

Melanie gave Georgie’s hand a squeeze, and then let it go. 

She wasn’t nervous, not really. It felt more like curiosity than anything. There was no gnawing sense of dread weighing on her, no shimmering anger, no haze of resignation and defeat, nothing. 

Still nothing. Emptiness, hollowness, a complete void. Yet the heaviness of it all had lifted when she had quit. She’d just returned from another session with Laverne, and had decided to go straight to the hospital Jon was staying at. 

Things were clearer now, in a way they hadn’t been in a long time. The effect of the revelations and her quitting was… tremendous, and she’d like to talk to Jon. 

Georgie had been– well, she’d been off ever since Melanie told her about what Jon had done. She still was. She hadn’t said anything when Melanie said she’d like to go talk to him, but she’d driven Melanie here anyway. 

That didn’t stop her from celebrating appropriately when Melanie told her she’d quit the Institute, though. The thought brought a small smile onto her face, and she directed it towards Georgie, who mirrored it. Then she nodded her head towards the door to the room Jon was in. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Melanie said, staring at Georgie’s face a little more, “It’s not like he’s going anywhere.” 

Georgie shook her head, exasperated, and shooed her off. 

Ever since she had heard the tape, ever since she quit after hearing the tape, she had found a new found appreciation for her eyes that was probably at least a little bit cliche, but she couldn't help it. The thought swirled in her mind all the time now. Every hour, when she looked at Georgie, when she looked at the sky, when she scrolled her phone and looked at posts on instagram, when she looked in the mirror. 

It could have been her.

The thought wasn’t as fatalistic or grim as it sounded, of course. No one would have forced her to quit by blinding herself, just the way no one forced her to sign the contract joining the Institute. 

Something she was starting to realise, now. After several therapy appointments. 

She hadn’t been ready to acknowledge it, that’s all. She hadn’t wanted to blame herself. Hadn’t wanted it to be her own fault. Hadn’t wanted for the burden of responsibility to fall to herself. 

But independence, free will, autonomy… It was a double edged sword where being free also came with the burden of accepting the consequences of your own actions. 

It was hard. Decisions made based on misinformation were not her fault. 

But they weren’t Jon’s fault either. 

No, the burden fell on Elias fucking Bouchard, and him alone. 

Accepting this hadn’t been some great revelation, either. It wasn’t. Melanie wasn’t stupid, or– well. Or blind. She knew she’d been unfair. And not all of it could be blamed on the Slaughter bullet, but it certainly didn’t help. 

She wasn’t going to apologise to Jon. 

Melanie might have accepted it on some level, yes. But she wasn’t going to apologise to him. 

She’d still go see him, though. 

Pushing the door to his room open, she saw the way he shifted– perking up, almost, voice thin and ragged, but painfully hopeful, as he called out softly, “Martin?” 

Melanie winced, “Nope. Sorry.”

“Ah.” The way Jon's entire body slumped was actually a little sad to watch. Jon was sad to watch. Had been ever since he woke up from the fucked up coma, actually. Moping around, sad and pathetic. 

Even more so, now.

Before she could figure out what to say, Jon spoke, “Heard you quit the Institute.” 

“Mhm,” Melanie said, “In a far less dramatic way than you, too.” Oops. Too soon? 

Nope. Jon snorted. “I should hope so.” 

“Hasn’t Martin come to visit today?” she asked, pulling up a chair and sitting down. Jon’s hand twitched in his lap when the chair scraped against the floor. 

“No.” 

“Daisy?” 

“Left this morning for physical therapy,” Jon sighed, “Her staying in the hospital chair the entire night probably wreaked havoc on her body.” 

“Probably, yeah,” Melanie shrugged, “I doubt she'd have left you alone though.” 

She fidgeted a little as Jon stayed silent; it was almost uncomfortable. Almost. Mostly, Melanie was trying not to blurt out some insensitive words. She deserved a say, didn't she? She did. She did. 

Does it hurt? She wanted to ask, Even though you must be high off your ass on meds, does it hurt? Does it still hurt? Does it hurt the way taking the bullet out had hurt? Do you feel as empty as I do?

Do you understand now? 

“Listen, Melanie,” Jon began suddenly before she could open her mouth, “I… I wanted to apologise.” 

“Did you, now?” she said slowly, something squirming in her gut, not anxiety, not anticipation. Something far more removed from her than that. 

“You were right, you know,” he said, twisting his scarred hands in ways that had to have been painful, “I was the one keeping you trapped. And I’m sorry for that.”

The squirming died abruptly. 

“Seriously?” she couldn’t keep the incredulity out of her voice, too loud, too snappish. That’s what he chooses to apologise for? 

Jon winced, “Yeah. Your anger was justified, it seems.” 

“No,” she said bluntly, “No, it wasn’t. Look, Jon—” fuck, oh, that’s a stupid thing to say— she went on anyway, covering the slip up by speaking more rapidly, “I’m not stupid. Yeah, I’m angry as fuck, and I still don’t like you, but my anger at you wasn’t justified. And I shouldn’t have tried to kill you.” 

Jon didn’t seem to have noticed the poor wording, his lips pursed in a straight line for another reason, “Might have freed you sooner, though,” he joked weakly.  

“Maybe,” Melanie conceded, thinking that perhaps she should have been concerned about the way Jon was talking, but couldn’t quite muster up enough energy for it. She sighed, “And then I would have been left with the bullet inside me. Poisoning me until there was barely anything else left. Until I hurt someone I did like. Someone I cared about.” 

Until I hurt Georgie.

Jon stayed silent, looking a little taken aback. “Right,” he said weakly, “Um, yes. You're right. Thank you? I suppose?” 

Melanie rolled her eyes, “Look, out of the two of us, I'm the one who has been going to therapy for the last few weeks. So I'd like to think that I am, perhaps, just the tiniest bit better adjusted than you. So trust me when I say that you got to take your wins when you get them, instead of catastrophizing. You think I haven't agonised about the what ifs? About so many decisions and choices? Going to Cambridge hospital, giving you my statement, giving you my second Statement, going to India, signing the contract that Elias gave me— there's just so many fucking places where I could have halted the absolute shit show the trajectory of my life was headed towards, and I didn't. You know what's the worst part, don't you? Given the circumstances, there's no way I would have made any other choices than the ones I did. Hindsight is fucking twenty twenty.” 

And foresight wears black out lenses. 

There was no reply. 

Melanie slumped back a bit on the chair, unable to look at Jon's heavily bandaged face for long. She’d, once again, said something related to sight. Goodness, she knew Jon wasn't one to get easily offended, not anymore, but it still felt cruel in the context of the guy still sitting in a hospital bed after having his eyes removed.

He didn't even seem to notice, though. 

Sometimes she tried to think back to the man she had first met, telling her to speak into a goddamn tape recorder, and the way her first thought upon listening to him had been how his accent has definitely got to be fake. 

It wasn't. He always spoke in that posh accent of his. And if he was doing a bit, he was crazy committed to it. 

Suddenly, he asked, “You remember what Sasha looked like, don’t you?” 

“Yes?”

“For a while, after I woke up, I did too. I knew what the real Sasha had looked like. The memories were still… corrupted by the Not Sasha, but I knew what our Sasha had looked like.” He tilted his head back, his hands now limp in his lap, and he looked as tired as Melanie felt. 

“And…” she said slowly, having a small inkling of where this might be going, “Now?”

“It’s gone. Gone again. Completely blank. Like she never existed, only the monster.”

“I could…” she cleared her throat, “tell you?” It was inadequate. She knew it was inadequate. It was like… like taking karate classes to make up for the lost power that had surged through her with the bullet. It wasn’t the same. 

“Does it even matter?” Jon said, predictably enough, “I had her. And then I didn’t. The Eye gave that to me.” 

“The Slaughter gave me a lot too,” she said. But it would have taken away far, far too much. Melanie knew that. Jon knew that. And yet these powers clung tooth and nail, leaving claw marks in their wake. 

She cleared her throat, “There’s no turning back now, no more than you could put the bullet back inside my leg. No matter how comforting.” 

“No. No, I made my choice.” Jon’s mouth twisted, “I’m sorry I never let you make yours.” 

There’s the apology she’d been looking for. 

It didn’t feel nearly as satisfying as she’d hoped. Or satisfying at all, really. The only thing it made her feel was pity. 

Melanie hummed, “I think we’re even now.” Sometimes there’s no forgiveness to be had , she didn’t say, but suspected Jon heard her anyway. 

“I suppose.”

“For the record,” Melanie said, “I would have done the same.” 

“What?”

“I think, given a day or two to make the decision, I would have quit too. So, I suppose what I’m saying is, I get it, you know?” 

“I think you get it better than anyone else, actually.” 

She did, didn’t she? The thought should have made her angry, annoyed, filled her with indignation, maybe. But it was honestly a little bit funny. In a sad way, of course. 

Melanie blew out a sharp breath, staring at Jon’s scarred hands instead of his bandage-covered face, trying to squash the thoughts of that could have been me, in a hospital, blind. “The worst part of it is the fact that it doesn’t even hurt,” she burst out, and the words came out sounding both harsh and a bit pathetic. 

Jon gave a humourless chuckle, “I think it hurts plenty,” he said, his head was tipped back and his face drawn in exhausted lines of tension, “But I know what you mean. In so far as I’m capable of knowing things now.” 

“Don’t be melodramatic,” Melanie snapped, and then instantly felt a little guilty, and then angry at feeling guilty. “The rest of us have been doing just fine without getting knowledge dropped into our heads supernaturally, you’ll adjust. I think you should be more worried about the other thing.” 

“Hard to focus on the other thing, as you put it, when all I can currently feel is this… this—” Jon made a frustrated, pained noise, lifting his hand as if to wave it around vaguely before dropping it. 

“The vast fucking emptiness that never fucking abates?” she said wryly. 

“Very succinctly put.”

“Yeah, that’s me. Succinct.” 

Jon snorted, and Melanie let her shoulders drop. Sighting, she darted a look behind her, where Georgie was waiting outside. Then she looked back at Jon, and the slight tremble in his hands, and thought about the way he’d perked up, just for a second, when she’d entered. The hope in his voice when he’d called out Martin’s voice. 

“Listen, Jon, I think Georgie wants to talk to you.” 

“Oh.” 

“Well?” 

“Well, what?” 

Melanie sighed. “Do you want her to come in or not?” 

“She’s here?” 

“Not in the room with us, no. She’s outside in the waiting area.” 

Jon just shrugged. 

Frowning, she said, “Listen, if you don’t want to talk to her, you can just say no. We’ll leave. She’s not gonna barge in here if you don’t want her to. She’s not an asshole.” 

“Right,” Jon said weakly, looking a little sceptical. And alright, Melanie knew Georgie as well as Jon did, loathe as she was to admit it, and more often than not, Goergie got what she wanted by sheer force of will. But if Georgie really wanted to talk to Jon, and he said no, she’d wait until he had recovered at least superficially from the eye trauma before trying again. 

“Well?” She asked again, almost a bit impatient but not quite. More uncomfortable. 

“It’s fine, I guess?” Jon said, looking as uncomfortable as she felt. 

That’ll have to do. If he really didn’t want to talk to Georgie, he should’ve just said so. “Right,” she said, standing up slowly, this time making sure not to let the chair scrape against the floor. “I’ll send her right in.” 

“Melanie,” he said, and she paused, “Thank you for coming.” 

He sounded so painfully sincere that Melanie felt her eyes prick for some unfathomable reason. It was pity, she told himself, carefully not looking at Jon anymore. Only pity. 

“Yeah well, don’t get used to it,” she said roughly, even though she knew she’d probably come again. 

Jon’s skin felt too tight on his body, like ill fitting clothes that stretched and strained against any movements. It prickled, reminding him uncomfortably of Prentiss’ statement. Almost constantly, it felt like there was something crawling around under the bandages covering his face, something inside his eye sockets, squirming and trying to come out. 

He twisted and untwisted his hands in the blanket covering him, suppressing the urge to yank away the bandages and pull out whatever was inside his skull. He took deep breaths, trying to count to five with every inhale, hold, and exhale, but losing track far too quickly for it to work. 

It felt like hours before he heard the door open, even though it was only a few minutes at most. Probably. Hopefully. 

Time was hard to gauge when he couldn’t look at the clock that he could hear ticking incessantly all the time. 

“Hey,” Georgie said. 

Jon tried to parse through her tone, trying to get a measure of what she must be feeling. She didn’t sound hostile– but then again, she’d never really sounded hostile before either. Cautious, yes. A bit cold, perhaps. But hostile was going too far. Now that he knew the true definition of the word. 

His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, and he had to swallow once before croaking out a small, “Hi.” 

“You, uh,” Georgie said, her voice closer now, if Jon were to shoot a guess, it was still hard to navigate with sounds alone– “You quit, then. You’re out of the Institute.” 

“You sound nervous,” he said, and immediately winced. Way to go, Jon.  

Georgie only snorted, “Believe me, I'm really, really not.” A pause, “I just don’t know what to say. Or how to feel about it.” 

“You did tell me to quit. Insisted on it quite heavily.” 

“That was when I thought quitting would involve handing in your two week notice and then dealing with trying to find a good job with spooky research institute on your resume.” 

Jon gave a wry smile, “Now I’ll have to find a job with not just spooky research institute on my resume, but blindness as well.” If he’s capable of finding a job at all, that is. It didn’t seem likely in the foreseeable future. The smile dropped from his face as soon as it had come. He took another deep breath, about to apologise, when Georgie spoke again. 

“For what it’s worth…” she said, “I do think this might just have been the better option. Maybe.” 

“Thank you for the vote of confidence.” 

“You know none of this was ever going to end well, don’t you?” 

Jon clenched his teeth, focused on the goddamn, ceaseless ticking of the clock, and said, “Why do you think I did this to myself?” He waved a hand at his face, still furiously repressing the urge to claw at those empty sockets. 

There was another pause, longer this time, and Jon could feel his heart pounding in his ears. 

“Right,” she said, voice quiet, “Right. Of course you thought it through. You blinded yourself. I’m sorry.” 

Jon flinched a little, wanting to laugh. Because he hadn’t, is the thing. He hadn’t thought it through. It had been a desperate attempt at control, something, anything to stop feeling the way he had been. Even if it meant replacing one kind of pain with another. 

If Helen hadn’t stepped in when she had, he’d have stopped. Given up after the first eye. Especially if it had started healing up rapidly; the way his finger had before. Even then, he’d recognised at some level that he wouldn’t have been able to do it. He wouldn’t have been able to sever his connection to the Eye. It wasn’t quite so easy. The Eye wouldn’t have let him go so easy. But at least afterwards he’d have been able to say that he’d tried. That somehow he would have been able to squeeze enough out of that consolation to go on a few more days. Weeks, maybe. 

“Would it have made a difference, if I’d been there?” 

Yes, Jon wanted to say. It’d made a difference when she’d been there for him, on the run for a murder he didn’t commit and willing to listen to him ramble on insanely about tapes and horrors. It had helped. It had made a difference. 

No, he wanted to say, because he’d have been trapped anyway, because Elias would have continued scheming, because Georgie didn’t deserve to be caught up in his messes, because this was always going to end up in an awful way, varying only by degrees. 

But maybe it would have hurt less. 

“I don’t know,” he said. 

Georgie’s voice was pretty close to him when it came next, closer than before. “I'm glad you got out of there, Jon. It would have destroyed you eventually.” 

The clock ticked on, and his head throbbed in sync. Everything ached. 

His voice came out a whisper, “I'm not certain it didn't.” 

Georgie didn’t have anything to say to that. 

Chapter Text

The world became both unfathomably large and uncomfortably small when one was blind. 

The white can in his hand was a light, uncomfortable weight. He had no idea how to use it, other than sweeping it in front of him so he wouldn’t bump directly into something. But the nuances of it were lost to him. The doctor had said something about therapy and other orientation sessions, but Jon hadn’t paid much attention to it, mostly just wanting to get out of the hospital as soon as possible. 

He just clung to Martin’s arm instead, relying on him to guide Jon while holding the cane aloft and uselessly in the other hand. He’d be worried about gripping Martin too hard, but he was still quite underfed, and it showed in his strength. 

It wasn’t even the pain that bothered him, though that certainly throbbed through him in tandem with his heartbeat. What irked him the most was the urge to just open his eyes. The idea that he just needed to open his eyes, and then he’d be able to see. He didn’t have to remain in darkness, he just had to open his eyes. 

Even days after the fact, blindness felt incomprehensible. Just like that. Blind. Permanently. Not a momentary blinking or blindfolding or obscuring. He didn’t have eyes. Nothing at all. Even the pain throbbing through his entire skull wasn’t enough to really hammer in the idea that he was blind. 

Jon huffed out a small, almost annoyed breath, because really? It wasn’t like the emptiness of losing the Eye had left him. That grief was ever present. But somehow the physicality of the blindness felt separate from that. Too visceral. Not yet sunk in. 

“We’re just there,” Martin said quietly. Always quietly. It almost felt like someone had turned down the volume on him. He wasn’t even whispering and yet Jon felt like if he were to whisper that’d be somehow louder than Martin. 

They stopped, almost abruptly, and then there was a small beep. Sound of a door handle turning, and then Martin was leading Jon inside to what he assumed was their hotel room. 

It smelled clean and floral, and he could feel the change in carpet under his feet even through the shoes. Plush, thick carpet that muffled their footsteps quite neatly. When Martin guided Jon over to what he assumed was the bed and sat him down, it dipped considerably under him. Or perhaps it was the couch? Jon slowly reached out a hand, trying to feel the space around him, but couldn’t find a backrest or arm rests— so, probably the bed. 

The sheets were cold under his hands, as cold as Martin’s skin had been. 

“This place feels considerably more expensive than the hotel we stayed in before the–” Jon hesitated, “Before the Unknowing.” 

“Being Lukas’ assistant has to be good for something,” Martin muttered, his voice coming from enough distance that Jon tensed. There was a creaking sound, and then a cool breeze fluttered into the room. “If I can’t have a house large enough to host even a single person, I’m going to use that money for the best damn hotel room I can find.”

“Are you sure he isn’t going to…” Jon said, “Get upset? Mind? Do something in retaliation?” 

“I paid for the room using my own account. The money in my account came from Lukas, yes, but I doubt he’s keeping track of my transactions right now.” 

“He won’t need to. Elias can just— know.” 

“Jon, I literally could not give less of a fuck about– about Elias, or Lukas, or even the Institute, to be honest.” 

You should , Jon wanted to say, but Martin was starting to sound a bit annoyed and Jon didn’t want him to leave. He wouldn’t, hopefully. He wouldn’t just leave Jon like this, alone in this hotel room. There weren’t even any nurses to help him like he’d had in the hospital. 

The fear was there nonetheless. And there was the possibility that it wouldn’t even be Martin’s own choice to leave. 

Jon slowly set the cane down on the bed, making sure it wouldn’t roll off and fall, before folding his hands in his lap, winding his fingers around each other tightly. 

“Jon?” Martin’s voice was suddenly closer, right in front of him, and it made Jon flinch. He cursed the carpeted floor for muffling footsteps so neatly, sucking in a breath through his teeth so he could calm down some. 

“Sorry,” he muttered. 

“No, it’s fine. I’m sorry,” Martin said, “Here, I have your meds with me. Hold out your hand, please.” 

Jon didn’t want to let go of the tight clasp he’d had his hands in, knowing they’d shake too badly. But he did anyway, lifting them palm up to take the three pills Martin carefully dropped in them. Then he felt a touch at his other wrist, Martin turning his hand and pressing a glass of water into it, curling his fingers around it. 

Skin shouldn’t be that cold. Temperature in September shouldn’t be this cold. And yet the chill seemed to seep into his very nerves. 

Jon quickly swallowed down all three pills with several large sips of water, and then sat there holding the glass in his hand. He didn’t know if there was a table nearby or not, nor whether Martin was still standing there waiting for Jon to hand over the glass. 

This was… kind of awful, really. How was he supposed to function like this? Unable to even take care of a single, half empty glass of water by himself. He huffed out a breath and reached out a hand for his cane.

His hands touched nothing but the cold, soft sheets. He pursed his lips, patting around the bed a bit to try and find it— but no. It wasn’t there. It must have fallen to the ground anyway, despite his best efforts. 

That was fine. He didn’t need the cane to navigate around a hotel room, did he? He could use his hands just as well. 

And then there was a hand curling around his own, the one holding the glass, and Jon startled badly, instinctively tightening his grip on the glass and pulling it towards himself, which resulted in spilling its contents down his shirt. 

“Oh fuck, shit, sorry, Jon, I should’ve—” 

The glass slipped out from his hand, but he didn’t hear any shattering. The carpet had to be good for something, after all. 

But he was wet now. Already cold. The water had been icy. 

“It’s fine,” he said, voice a little breathless, don’t panic. Don’t panic. It’s okay. 

“Jon?”

“I’m fine,” Jon said, clasping his hands together again and straightening his back. A shiver ran through him. The open window didn’t feel quite so nice anymore. 

“Okay,” Martin said calmly, “Alright. You wanted to get cleaned up anyway. I can… take you to the bathroom.” 

“Right,” Jon’s voice came out weak. And then his brain caught up with the words. He could shower without help, couldn’t he? Could he? Could he stand there, under the running water, unable to see which way he might have turned, running into a wall if he took a step in any particular direction, unable to see where the taps were, maybe slipping down and cracking his—

Martin kept talking, “There’s a bathtub if you’d prefer that. I can get the water running. Will you be fine on your own?” 

The urge to cry swelled through his chest, but he buckled down on it. He wasn’t even sure if he could cry anymore. Tear ducts were separate from the eyes, yes, but he doubted Helen had cared about finesse when she’d been carving out his eyeballs. He didn’t want to find out. Certainly not with the bandages over his eyes.  

“A bath sounds good,” he said, trying not to sound too choked. 

“Great,” Martin said, and then– nothing. 

Jon gritted his teeth. He fucking hated the goddamn carpeted floor. He wanted to reach out, to see if Martin was still in front of him, or if he was moving around the room. He didn’t know which direction the bathroom was in. He hadn’t heard any door open or close. 

Taking a deep breath, he instead brought his hands up to his damp shirt, and slowly started unbuttoning it. His hands were still more than a little shaky, and each button took an embarrassingly long time to open, and he was down two of them when he heard the sound of water rushing, somewhere to his left. Shoulders dropping a bit, he was able to get through the rest of the buttons a little quicker. 

All the buttons now open, he sat there dumbly, not quite taking his shirt off. For some reason, it hadn’t quite hit him yet that taking Martin’s help to get into the bath would also mean being undressed in front of Martin. 

Face heating up a little, he wondered if this was a silly thing to worry about. 

Jon startled, again, when Martin’s voice spoke, “Jon? Do you need help?” 

He hadn’t even noticed the water stop running. Jon cleared his throat, fingers drifting over the buttons of his shirt one last time before he shrugged it off. 

“Jon?” Martin’s voice was closer now. 

“Yes?” 

“Are you alright?” 

“Yes.” 

There was a pause, and Jon cringed a bit. And then, rather blandly, Martin just said, “Alright.” 

Toeing his shoes off, Jon stood up, bare feet sinking into the carpet in a way that was, while quite luxurious, still not enough to make up for the muffling effect it had. Would it kill them to have regular plywood floors? Or marble, if they were feeling fancy. 

He reached out a hand, slowly, tentatively, just in case there were things around him that would get knocked over if he were flailing– that was a lesson well learned– and tried to find Martin without stubbing his toes or falling on the ground face first. At the very least the carpet would soften the fall. 

“Here,” Martin said quickly, grabbing onto his outstretched hand, and Jon tried not to sigh too obviously in relief. “C’mon.” 

Slowly, painstakingly, they made their way to the bathroom. The plush carpet giving way to the cold tile of the bathroom made Jon wince, and he tightened his grip on Martin’s hand. 

Stopping, Martin said, “We’re by the tub. Check if the water’s fine? I will tell you which one’s the hot and the cold water one so you can adjust it to your own preference.” 

Bending his knees a bit, Jon trailed his fingers in the air for a moment before he felt the cool, smooth touch of the porcelain. Dipping his fingers in, he found the water pleasantly warm. Far, far warmer than the touch of Martin’s hand in his own. 

“I think I can–” Jon straightened up, “I can go from here?” As soon as the words were out of his mouth he wished he could take them back and swallow them down again. “Probably,” he tacked on lamely, “Hopefully.” 

“I could—” Martin cut himself off abruptly, letting go of Jon’s hand. 

“Yes?” Jon said, trying and failing not to sound too eager. Most of his apprehension at being seen naked by Martin had drained away, leaving only an uneasy sort of gentle anxiety about being alone in the dark. 

“I thought maybe I could wash your hair. Since it’s, uh,” Martin coughed, “Pretty filthy. And you wouldn’t be able to do it on your own without wetting the bandages on your eyes. Unless you’d rather leave it as it is. A quick wash also probably sounds pretty appealing, huh?”

“No!” Jon said quickly, “No, I–” he reached up a hand, tugging at a lock of his hair. To be honest, even without the benefit of having Martin here with him, and washing his hair, this had been bothering him a while. His scalp itched, and the way his hair tickled the back of his neck, sticking to his skin, made him shudder. “I’d… I’d appreciate it if you helped me.” 

There were a lot of striking things about Jon. Many of which had struck Martin the first time he’d seen him. Enough so that it had rendered him kind of stupid, and had quite badly affected their working relationship for a while afterwards. 

And then, well. They had worse things to contend with than Martin’s competence in working at the archives. 

Either way, yes. Jon was a very striking man. 

One of those features was his hair. Martin knew Jon wasn’t actually thirty eight. But he wasn’t quite sure how old he actually was either. He could have checked, he supposed. He had access to most of the Institute’s records now. He’d just never bothered. Still, the streaks of silver within the thick, soft looking black always caught the eye. 

It had been thick. 

While long hair did suit Jon– quite a lot, in fact– it was hard to ignore how thin it all was. There was more silver in it now than ever before, and it weighed almost nothing in Martin’s hand. 

Jon was very still under his fingers, not making even the slightest of sounds as Martin carded his fingers through the hair, hands coated in the fruity smelling conditioner as he tried to detangle it enough that it wouldn’t all fall off if he ran a comb through it. 

He’d done this for his mother countless times now. By the end, by the end of her stay with him specifically, before he managed to scrounge up enough funds to send her to a care home the way she so desperately wanted, she’d all but given up on doing anything at all. Including any kind of personal grooming. 

Her hair had been dark, wiry, thinner even than Jon’s and more gray than brown. 

Martin hadn’t strictly had to do her hair, he hadn’t needed to brush it every night and tie it in a braid and massage her scalp with oil once a week before washing it with a mild shampoo while she grumbled and hissed at him about getting soap in her eyes or pulling too hard. 

Seeing it tangled and falling in clumps around her face had irked him far more than it ever bothered her. And she’d complained about his fussing, but then again, she’d complained about everything anyway. 

Jon wasn’t like that, not really. The darker bits of his hair were a deep black, rather than the brown of his mother’s. His hair, despite its thinness, was just as soft as Martin would have expected, and the sections he had untangled slid through his fingers like water. It was longer, too. His mother’s hair had stopped growing after a certain point, leaving it permanently at a length just below her shoulders, while Jon’s came down a bit further than that, a little above his mid back.  

Thinking about his mother didn’t make him feel much of anything except perhaps a faint emptiness where once there had been a rictus of emotions too twisted up to name. He suspected that if Elias were to try his little trick with the same idea again, it wouldn’t really work well, if at all. 

Thinking about Jon, on the other hand, sent a pang through him, something that reverberated across his entire body. If Elias wanted to hurt Martin, he’d know exactly where to hit. 

Jon was limp under his fingers, Martin holding his head up with his hands. His face was slack, from whatever was visible under the bandages, and it made Martin frown in concern. Had he fallen asleep? 

“Jon?” he asked, slowly lowering his hands a little– and yep, Jon's head was completely limp. “Jon, come on, wake up. You can go to sleep in a real bed.” 

The only response was a garbled sound that Martin refused to be endeared by. 

“Jon,” Martin coughed, trying not to giggle, and god, wasn’t that a pathetically novel feeling. When was the last time he’d giggled? Before the Unknowing, that was for certain. Perhaps on one of his lunch outings with Jon, in those little moments of reprieve where they could sometimes pretend everything was okay. 

Well, that put a thorough damper on his mood, didn’t it? 

Nothing to be done about it now. Sighing, Martin lifted Jon’s head up a little, and said, louder than before, “Jon, wake up, or you’ll drown.” 

Jon whimpered, and Martin froze. That didn’t sound nearly as adorable as his previous articulation had. His head shifted a bit, there was a pause, and then Martin could feel the moment Jon woke up because just for a moment, Jon went completely rigid. 

There was absolutely no way Martin could have made it out of this not completely soaked, not with the way Jon started thrashing and yelling in the bathtub. Still gripping his head so he wouldn’t hit his head against the tub edge and break his skull open, Martin spoke quickly, nearly as frantic as Jon sounded. 

“Hey! Hey, hey, Jon, it’s alright! It’s me, Martin, you’re safe, it’s alright! Calm down, fuck, fuck—” 

His thrashing had abated a bit, but Jon was still trying desperately to climb out of the tub, “Martin? Martin— what, what’s happe—” 

“It’s okay,” Martin said as Jon finally, finally stopped trying to kill himself via either drowning or a caved in head, “It’s alright.” He quickly rattled off the date, the day, the hotel they were staying in. And then his heart sank a little when Jon remained completely silent. 

“Jon? Do you know why we’re here?” 

“I can’t see,” Jon said, voice small, and Martin did his best to remain calm. He’d gotten quite good at it, actually. Staying calm in situations where he’d love to start banging pots and pans together while screaming the whole time. 

“No,” Martin said slowly, “You quit, remember?” 

There was a worrying long pause before Jon spoke again. Voice no longer small but a little empty, “Yes. Help me out, please.” 

“Of course,” Martin said, slowly taking his hand away from the back of Jon’s head and standing up from the stool. 

It was a short, if messy affair, to help Jon out and onto the slippery floor, wrapping a towel around his thin frame. 

Despite the bandages covering the upper half of his face, the discomfort there was plain to see. More so than he before Jon got into the bath. And Martin understood, he did, but he wasn’t going to leave him to get dressed by himself in the bathroom, with the floor already wet and far too many things on the counters and walls and far too little space to accommodate Jon's blind movements. 

Martin had to push his glasses up his head, seeing made impossible with how badly they’d fogged up. He was fairly certain the reason for it was the hot bath water. Fairy certain. At the very least, he could feel the warmth of Jon’s skin through his palms where he was guiding him out of the bathroom and towards the bed. 

Handing  Jon his clothes, he kept his voice neutral as he told him what was what, and when Jon nodded, Martin stepped away, turning round and focusing on the electric kettle and the fancy little tea sachets provided by the hotel service, rummaging through it a bit mindlessly. Behind him, he could hear the rustle of clothes as Jon, presumably, put the t-shirt and sweatpants on. Georgie had given them to him earlier that day, according to Melanie, who’d been the one to actually hand off the bag to him. 

In the end, he settled on chamomile. Bland, and not one Martin particularly liked, but it had a nice smell. He dumped two sachets of sugar inside it. Then a third one. By the time the tea was done, all was silent behind him. He turned to look, and found Jon on the bed, dressed now, with his knees pulled up to his chest, arms wrapped around them. 

Jon had never been a particularly big man, speaking in purely physical terms. He had a big presence, yes, with the way he carried himself, the severe expression, his deep voice which could articulate disappointment and disdain so very well. 

Stripped away of that now, that scowl, the disdain, his straight spine and impeccably proper hair and clothes, he looked small in a way that was even worse than seeing him lifeless on the hospital bed for those six months. 

“I’m sorry, Martin.” 

Martin sighed. Was he ready for this conversation? He hadn’t been, a few days ago, at the hospital. It had all been too fresh, too raw, too close to the surface. The conversation in his office had taken place mere hours before Martin had to see Jon in a hospital bed. Again. 

Would he ever be ready for this conversation? That was doubtful. Would putting it off make him feel better? Either of them? That was an almost definite no. 

So, then, did he know how to go about it? That was a definite no. 

He walked over to the bed, gripping the mug in his hand, one palm curled around it in a way that definitely should have burned but didn’t feel like much of anything. Martin settled on the edge of the bed, then shifted around until he was cross legged, still holding the mug in his hands. 

Taking off his glasses, he set them on the bedside table, looking at Jon’s miserable form, arms tight around his knees. Maybe this conversation would be better if Martin didn’t have to look at Jon with the crisp clarity his glasses provided. 

Martin shifted closer, and Jon’s shoulders went up when he felt the bed shifting further. 

Backing away a bit was, perhaps, the nicer choice. And he would. Martin would back away if Jon got too uncomfortable, but he needed that closeness to remain here, in this room, mind and body. It was too easy to just leave, go away, give into the fog whenever a mildly uncomfortable conversation happened. 

He’d done it several times over the last few months already. He was basically an expert. 

Or an avatar.

Martin cleared his throat. 

Jon turned his head, resting his cheek on his knee, face turning towards Martin. His hair was still damp and stuck to his skin, leaving spots of wetness on his clothes as well. “Martin?” 

“I’m sorry as well,” he said, finally. It wasn’t a lie, despite how flat it came across. He winced, and then, in a soft tone that said he wasn’t quite sure he wanted to know the answer, Martin continued, “Do you regret it?” 

Jon tensed up, his fingers tightening visibly around his forearms, “I… the blinding part or the leaving you alone part?” 

How do you speak a shrug? “I don’t know. Either. Both.” 

“I remember telling you that I’ll be there for you, if you ever needed me.” 

Martin didn’t say anything. 

“I’m sorry for that. For… for not being there. For pulling you away from what you were doing, with Peter, and the— the…” Jon trailed off, lips thinning in frustration. 

“I wasn’t there for you either,” Martin said, willing himself to loosen his grip on the mug. Breaking it and spilling hot tea over himself and the bed really wouldn’t help the already stilted conversation. Might get him out of it, though. Tempting, but— no. 

Jon snorted, “ You waited several months. You were actually doing something worthwhile. I barely waited a few hours before going through with my half-arsed plan.” 

“I don’t think Daisy would agree with the implication that you weren’t doing anything worthwhile. Or even Melanie, for that matter.” 

The flinch was barely visible, but it was there. Martin was good at this, he knew, landing barbs. He’d never wanted to use that against Jon though. But several months of Peter Lukas were hard to shake off in a few days. 

Martin shifted, very minutely, closer to Jon. “And I’m not quite sure whether whatever I was doing was worth all that much either. It’s not like Lukas has a penchant for being truthful. Nor Elias. Or any other avatar, for that matter.”

“No,” Jon said, his left hand tracing the burn scar on his right, “They generally don’t.” 

The silence that covered the two of them after that was not a comfortable one. It itched, and rubbed him all the wrong ways. Peter probably would have loved it. Martin just stared intensely at the steam rising from his mug, and tried to feel something of that heat through his fingertips. 

“Martin?”

“Hm?” There was something in Jon’s voice when he spoke that made Martin look at him with concern. Jon was fidgeting, his shoulders almost up to his ears, and fingers twisting together. The curve of his lips looked bitter, almost a sneer, almost a grimace. Too scared to be either. 

Whispering, Jon said, “I miss it.” 

Martin didn’t need to ask what he meant. He knew. They both knew. 

When Martin sighed again, his breath misted in front of him. “Here,” he said, instead of acknowledging what lay between them, heavy and suffocating as the fog that dogs Martin’s heels, “I made you some tea.” 

Chapter Text

The cafe wasn’t as loud as Jon had been expecting. Given, they’d entered just as it was opening for this specific reason itself, but the outside to Jon always equated to overwhelmingly loud. 

Traffic noises still made their way inside, and he could hear footsteps, clinking of cups and plates, presumably, and the very quiet murmur of conversation that he couldn’t tell the direction of. Instead, he focused on Martin’s voice, reading off the menu so Jon could order something he’d like. 

Even more distracting than Martin’s voice was Martin’s hand, curled tightly around Jon’s left hand. It was a bit sweaty from how long they’d been holding them together but neither of them was very willing to let go. 

“What are you getting?” Jon asked, interrupting Martin as he started going through the milkshakes menu. 

“Oh,” Martin paused, “I, uh. Probably a coffee? They’ve got this nice hazelnut one I wanted to—” 

“ Coffee?” Jon asked, perhaps a tad bit too loud, wincing at his own volume before turning towards Martin, “You’re drinking coffee?” 

“I do drink coffee, you know,” Martin mumbled. 

“No, you don’t.”

“Jon,” there was a fond exasperation in his voice when Martin spoke, something that sent a jolt of longing through Jon, “How do you think I managed to stay alive through school and two different jobs before I finally dropped out and took two more jobs?” 

“Okay,” Jon conceded, “I get that, I do.” 

God knows how many cups of coffee he was ingesting when he’d been worried about being murdered by one of his assistants. It was a wonder his heart hadn’t just given out from the sheer stress of it all. Might have been better for everyone if it had, but– no point dwelling on it right now. 

He usually had plenty of time to wallow about what ifs at night, laying in bed and unable to sleep. 

Right now he wanted to focus on Martin ordering coffee because, “I get it,” he repeated, “But you’ve never had anything other than tea since you joined the Archives. And I very, very clearly remember the affronted looks you gave to the several boxes of instant coffee I had taken to stuffing in one of the cupboards in the break room.” 

Martin made an inarticulate, sputtering noise, “That was instant coffee, who drinks instant coffee when there’s a perfectly serviceable coffee machine present? Also, I was worried you were going to keel over dead one of those days. If I didn’t know you any better, I’d have thought you were also on drugs.” 

I could have been on drugs, Jon scowled, but didn’t say it out loud. He remembered having a similar conversation with Georgie and the way she’d laughed. 

“I’ll have whatever you’re having,” Jon said instead, “The, uh. Whatever coffee you were talking about.” 

“Hazelnut.” 

“That.” 

Martin hummed, squeezing Jon’s hand lightly before letting go. The urge to cling back flared in Jon, but he gripped his cane tighter instead, letting Martin get up to give their order. He’d be fine. Jon only needed to sit in one place, nothing else. This early in the morning, there shouldn’t be a queue either.

The terrible anxiety plaguing him for days now reared its ugly head again, quickening his breath just the tiniest bit. It was fine. He just had to remain seated until Martin came back, and then he could reorient himself by slipping his hand back into Martin’s. 

He wasn’t even disoriented. He hadn’t moved since Martin got up. Only that the world was suffocating when he was alone, unable to see. The sounds too much and too many, the cane a flimsy defence against the awful intimidation of a world too big. 

Lifting his free hand up from his lap, he very slowly brushed his fingers against the table in front of him, feeling the cloth over it. He traced the rounded edge of the table, probably a circular one from the feel of it. The cloth was soft and worn, and Jon wondered at the colour of it. 

He couldn’t feel things much with his right hand anymore, could barely tell hot and cold from each other. It wasn’t good for much other than gripping and holding things, and not even all that great at that. Mariam, his counsellor, had suggested trying to use his left hand to to use the cane with, considering he’d been getting better at using that hand for other tasks as well. 

She had also switched out his cane for a shorter one and it was working out a bit better than the previous one. This one was a folding cane, meaning he didn't have to worry quite so much about it falling down and rolling away from him, he could just fold it up and loop the strap around his wrist. 

Tiny little bits of independence, like not having to ask Martin to locate his cane. And yet the guilt ate at him. 

Martin wasn’t supposed to be babysitting him all the while, to be there for him when the nightmares struck and left them both unable to sleep, to be there when he got turned around in the bathroom and couldn’t tell which way was the door or the faucet, to literally hold his hand through everything. 

The guilt ate at him, but not enough for him to let go. The terror that had dictated his life since the age of eight hadn’t left, it never left. It had now just shifted focus. 

At least now he could actually listen to shows or audio books. He hadn’t realised just how much he’d missed it, ever since waking up from the coma. Books had been one of the few good things about his life, and while the spider Lietner had put a significant dent in that particular interest, it never went away. 

His trouble with reading anything twice, or anything with even the slightest similarity to something else he knew, limited him a little, but when the Eye started supplying him with the plot of every single book or movie or show as soon as he started it— well. It had affected him badly enough that he’d cried, just a little. 

Quitting had given that back to him. Along with other things, but he focused on this a lot. Because this felt tangible, reachable. Something that actually brought him joy. Daisy had even mustered up some teasing about him being unable to threaten her with spoilers for the Archers now. 

His fingers could now feel the lace edgings of the tablecloth, hanging down. Fancy. Expensive cafe, probably. Then again, if their hotel room had told them anything, it was that Martin wasn’t afraid to spend a bit of money on fancy things. Considering it was Peter Lukas’ money, Jon didn’t mind either. 

Familiar footsteps, accompanied by the muted thumping of a cane reached Jon, and he turned his head towards it, shoulders relaxing a bit. 

“Hey, Jon,” Daisy said, pulling out a chair. 

“Hi.” 

Another chair, and then Basira said, “Hey.” 

“Hello,” Jon said, pulling his hands away from the table and onto his lap, gripping his cane there instead. It had become a familiar thing amidst a world of new sounds and feelings. “Martin was just getting us some coffee,” he added when no one spoke. 

“Yeah,” Daisy said, “How are you doing?” 

Jon shrugged. As well as could be expected. Better than before, certainly. Mariam helped. Martin helped. Doctor Mitchell helped. Everyone was that– helpful. It set his teeth on edge, sometimes, waiting for the other shoe to drop like an anvil over his head. 

People weren’t helpful. They’d never been helpful. He’d spent the last several months of his life learning again and again that he couldn’t rely on other people for help, not unless they got something out of it in return— and now, suddenly, he could? Not only could, but that he had to, that he had no choice in the matter at all. 

You did have a choice, and you made it. 

Blowing out a tired breath, he asked, “What about you?” 

“I’m getting better. Physical therapy is helping a lot.” 

“Yeah. You wouldn’t think so, the progress is so slow. But it does help.” 

It had been so long ago. Or at least it felt like it. Barely even two years since he’d been going to physio for his worm ridden muscles and tissues. He didn’t remember his therapist's name from then. Jon didn’t even have the phone in which his number had been saved. 

This was becoming somewhat of a sad trend in his life, forgetting the names of the people who helped him. He still couldn’t, for the life of him, remember the name of that one kid who had been taken instead of Jon by Mr. Spider. He might have asked the Eye for it, he’s sure it’d have given him the answer. But by then he’d been preoccupied with far too much to think of him. 

“Oh, hey Daisy, Basira,” Martin said, and Jon knew he visibly perked up. He’d have felt embarrassed about it if he weren’t so relieved. He did, however, manage enough wherewithal to not immediately start reaching for Martin’s hand. 

Only when Jon felt him settle into the chair next to him did he reach out, and there it was, Martin’s hand, reassuring, and almost warm. 

Getting warmer, day by day. No longer as icy cold as it had been at the start, when Jon could barely tell Martin apart from a chilly gust of wind. 

Being unable to see Basira or Daisy stare– or not stare– whatever their reaction might be– to the handholding did wonders for Jon’s self consciousness. Hard to care about something you didn’t know was happening. And they didn’t say anything about it, so Jon couldn’t really muster up even a token worry about it. It seemed silly to concern himself over something like this anyway. 

“That smells nice,” Daisy commented. 

“It does,” Martin said cheerfully, “It’s hazelnut.” 

By now Jon had wound his free hand’s fingers around the handle of the cup, so he very slowly slid it on the table, towards where Daisy was sitting. “Here, have a sip.” 

Daisy hummed, taking the cup from him gently. 

“So,” Martin said, “Any news?” 

“Well,” Basira began, and it was impossible to read her voice. It didn’t sound too bad, though. Not an emergency that would have them running with guns at hand. “I still can’t find Elias. Although considering he can literally see all my moves from wherever the hell he is probably doesn’t help. I know he hasn’t been back to the archives, though. Or the institute, for that matter. Rosie is holding the fort for the moment.” 

The cup was warm enough that Jon could feel it even with his scarred hand as Daisy handed it back to him, and he tried to focus on that instead of whatever Elias could be up to now. 

“We did think about moving you guys to a safehouse Daisy has in Scotland—”

“ Scotland?” Jon said, head whipping up so fast it actually hurt his neck. 

“Yes, yes. But ultimately, I don't think moving around like that is the best idea right now. There hasn’t been any sign of Peter Lukas either. Can't say I like it, but the fact is, even if we all fucked off to a different continent altogether, if Elias was really determined to get to us, a couple flights worth of distance wouldn't stop him.” 

“So we do nothing?” Martin asked, tightening his grip on Jon’s hand. Jon started an uncoordinated tapping on his cup, chewing on his lips. 

The coffee did smell nice, at least. 

“I am not saying you turn stupid and careless, but I think it's time to start making some more permanent plans. You can't stay in a hotel forever.” 

His tapping on the cup became faster, almost frantic, and he forced himself to slow down lest he knock the cup over entirely. 

Three weeks in the same hotel room had made him pretty good at navigating around there, now. He didn't even panic all that much if he got turned around a bit. Could walk to the elevator by himself without stumbling. The dining hall was doable if he held onto Martin as well. 

But a completely new place? That sent a thrill of fear through him. 

A walk in the park was impossible. Mariam had taken him there, but it hadn’t taken more than a minute or so of her letting go of his hand that he had had a full blown panic attack. She’d been right there as soon as his breathing picked up, but calming him down took so much effort that she’d had to call Martin and end the session early. 

Every session with Mariam only served to hammer in exactly how helpless he had become; which was perhaps the exact opposite of what these sessions were supposed to do. 

Jon knew they couldn’t stay at the hotel forever. Three weeks was already a lot, especially in a hotel as expensive as the one they were staying at. And it had to have been eating very fast into whatever money Martin had embezzled. 

They weren’t talking about throwing Jon away to fend for himself. Martin would be there. They were just talking about permanent arrangements, that was all. 

“It’s not a bad idea,” Jon forced himself to say. 

“It isn’t,” Daisy said, “I’ve even started looking for a few places. Honestly, depending on how much money Martin currently has, there’s even a chance you could buy a reasonably large flat, maybe even one with two bedrooms.” 

Jon felt his brows climb up, “Really?” 

“I do have a lot of money,” Martin said airily, and Basira snorted. 

“Perfect,” she said, “Daisy will email Martin the list of possible places and you both can shortlist it. We aren’t on a strict deadline, and you don’t need to buy a place. A few months renting would also provide a bit of stability, however temporary. We’ll figure this out.” 

Jon nodded. He couldn’t stay at the hotel forever. And having their own home would help, even if it were rented. 

And Martin would be there. With him. Living together. 

That’s exactly what they were doing right now as well, of course. But getting a flat together was different. Very, very different. And oh, now Jon was feeling nervous for another reason entirely. He cleared his throat, “Have you thought about quitting?” 

Jon could feel the mood dropping like a stone in a still lake, and cringed. 

There was a pause. 

“I mean,” Daisy began, “I mostly joined the institute because of the nightmares, but I don’t think they are going to be an issue anymore. So, yeah, I’ll probably quit. Hand in the resignation within the next couple days.” 

“I’ll probably do the same,” Basira said, “But I still want to stay for a bit, just in case it gives us any sort of advantage. Also, one of us needs to be connected to the Institute anyway, or else it’d be weird to keep hanging around.” 

“No one questions what goes on in the Archives,” Jon said, almost a little bitter, “They’re kind of a myth, really. Something for gossip sessions in the breakrooms, but nothing that truly matters in the grand scheme of things.” 

“Right,” Basira said, “Still.” 

“Mhm.” 

“What about you, Martin?” Daisy asked, and Jon felt Martin move beside him. 

“I’m kinda,” Martin said, sounding a bit sheepish, “Well, I’m waiting for the end of the month, until the paycheck comes in. And then I’ll quit too. No point in staying if even Peter Lukas isn’t there anymore.” 

Jon couldn’t help the small bark of laughter that escaped him at that, “I’d be worried if it wasn’t the Magnus Institute you were embezzling from.” 

“Well, it is the Magnus Institute, so I’d say good plan. Say what, I’ll do the same,” Daisy said, amusement clear in her voice. 

“The least that place can do is give us some financial compensation,” Jon said, marvelling at how easy it felt to joke about it from the distance of his resignation and subsequent severing of the Eye. 

He took a sip of his coffee, and it did taste quite good. Much better than the instant coffee Martin had clutched his pearls about. 

Not better than Martin’s tea, though. Obviously.

The flat they found was nice. Ground floor because Jon still hadn’t mastered the stairs yet, especially going down them. It did have a lift, but one could never trust such things. It was not in as posh an area as the flat Lukas had given Martin, although maybe that was for the best. 

It was far enough away from the roads that if he distracted himself sufficiently enough, the sounds of traffic would fade into the background, practically muted. 

It was also about as far from the Magnus Institute as one could get without leaving the country entirely. 

Thunder rumbled outside as Jon walked back and forth from wall to wall in the living room. He’d walked the same path so many times that he folded up his cane and slung it around his wrist, feet trudging almost automatically, weaving around the very sparsely furnished area. Just a table and a beat up sofa they got second hand because it had been far cosier than anything new they’d seen at the furniture store.

He hoped all the windows were locked. But the sounds were loud, and he could almost imagine the way lighting would flash across the sky. 

He’d already called Martin once. He was fine. They’d been working on being alone a little. Small things, Martin going to the grocery run. Jon taking a walk across the hallway without Martin hovering beside him. It was going… fine. Harrowing, but fine. 

So, Martin had gone out to get some rugs, to make the place feel more homely, when the storm had hit. He was fine, he was safe, Jon didn’t need to worry. And calling Martin over and over wouldn’t help. They’d already talked for twenty minutes. 

The store was nice, and there were other customers stranded inside. It wasn’t even a severe storm, really. It should pass soon with a bit of heavy rain, from what Jon could smell and hear. 

And yet something hovered at the edges of his consciousness. Something that reminded him uncomfortable of those days filled with paranoia and stalking and Supplemental, I broke into Gertrude’s flat. 

But was it really paranoia if they were really out to get you?

A particularly loud clap of thunder had Jon jumping out of his skin when he heard a window slam open, a cold, wet breeze hitting him. He let out a string of curses, trying to make his way over before other unsavoury things blew in than just wind and water. 

He only stumbled once before he got to the window, struggling to lock it. He knew how they worked though, he’d learned all the doors and windows in the first few days here. And while they were still furnishing the place, being in on the process helped with his orientation a lot. 

But a heavy storm on top of him already being out of his mind with worry made things significantly harder. Things didn’t come easily to him, just walking took a lot of conscious effort. Apparently he had a habit of listing to the right when he walked that Mariam was trying to correct. 

At least he hadn’t tipped anything over. 

Grimacing, he shook out his arms. The sleeves were soaked from their brief stint outside. He should probably change the shirt. The wetness was a nightmare. 

Jon unfolded the cane, slowly setting it against the floor as he began making his way over to the bedroom where their bags were kept. They’d been trying to come up with a way to sort out the wardrobe that would let Jon pick his own clothes out without needing Martin’s help. 

It was not going well. 

But right now he didn’t need good, he just needed dry. He was cold and he needed dry clothes. Goosebumps broke out over his skin, and he shivered again, something cold and icy sliding into his gut as his instincts screamed at him that something was wrong. 

Feeling along the bed his hand hit his bag, and as he fumbled around with the zipper, the hair on the back of his neck stood up. His skin prickled uncomfortably as he went very still. 

There was movement behind him. 

“Hey there,” Trevor Herbert said, “I believe we’ve got a score to settle.” 

Chapter Text

Since the age of eight, Jon had constantly felt like he was living on borrowed time. 

The feeling, instead of getting better with age, only ever seemed to get worse. 

Jane Prentiss’ attack on the institute had, in some messed up way, been a relief. Sitting in the storage room with Martin, waiting for the wall to break, for Prentiss to barge in and kill them– there had been a comfort to it, like letting out a breath after holding it for too long. 

Everything that came after that felt like a punishment for daring to survive. 

Foolishly, he’d expected things to get better, now that he’d escaped the Eye. He’d thought that such a drastic severing from the source of the horror itself would perhaps give him some distance. Keep him safe. Elias being missing made him nervous, but not the bone deep paranoia that seeped through everything. Not the kind of terror he’d gotten so used to in the last several months that it felt like a second limb. 

Jon was an idiot. 

“We’d have loved to take our time,” Julia said, from a different direction as Trevor, “But you don’t look like you’ll be a fun time.”

The walls were closing in on Jon. 

“Not anymore, at least,” Trevor said, and he genuinely sounded disappointed. “What did you have to go and do that for, eh?” 

Jon raised his cane up, feeling its light weight and cursing everything he ever did in life to end up here. He didn’t regret freeing Gerry. There’s nothing that could make him regret that. But god did he wish these two would leave him the fuck alone. 

The cane was ripped out of his hand, and Jon took a stumbling step backwards, bumping into– something. He didn’t know what. The bed? The bedside table? His hands went backwards to try and stabilise himself, and he heard something get knocked over. He didn’t know what that was either, but at least it didn’t shatter like glass or something equally delicate. 

Not that it would matter after he was dead. 

“See?” Julia said, “No fun at all. Can’t even see the knife I’m playing with.” 

“Maybe we shouldn’t have waited until he was alone for this. Maybe should’ve had let someone be with him. Might’ve been fun, watching them run like headless chickens. It’s always fun when they run.” 

Jon cried out, more from surprise than pain, when something thin and long– his own fucking cane– hit him across the face. 

“Can’t even run anymore, can you?” Trevor continued casually. Jon didn’t even know who it was that had hit him, and he raised his arms up above him defensively, his breaths going quicker, heart pounding in his ears. 

“Really,” Julia said, and her voice was so fucking close to his ear that he could feel her breath on his neck. Jon tried to jerk away, a scream caught in his throat, but then she was wrenching his right arm behind his back, and he could feel cold, sharp metal across his throat. “ Really,” Julia repeated, “I doubt this’d even feed the Hunt. Unsatisfying. Disappointing. Like everything else about you. Couldn’t even do us the courtesy of providing a decent meal.” 

Jon’s breathing was so noisy he could barely hear Julia talk over it, panic clawing at his gut. 

Up until now, he’d thought the most helpless he’d ever felt in his life, the most scared, was with Daisy, pinned to a tree with a knife digging into his throat, staring into her utterly inhuman eyes, the look of a wolf about to rip you to absolute pieces. 

This was worse. What was that saying? The only thing worse than seeing a spider was being unable to see the spider anymore. 

He tried to flex his fingers, but it only sent hot pangs of pain shooting up his arm. Julia’s knife dug in, and Jon knew, he knew that she was pointedly pressing onto the scar he already had there. 

He’d have liked to say this all felt like a terrible, awful nightmare. But really, with the course his life had been on the last few years, this was quite on par with reality. The terrible, awful reality. 

Julia yanked his arm up further behind his back, making him cry out again, “S-stop! Stop it!” The knife pressed in further, effectively shutting him up. 

“Do you think we could still have fun with him?” Julia asked conversationally, casually, amusement thick in her voice. 

Jon whimpered. 

“We could certainly try,” Trevor said, and Jon could feel his cane jabbing him harshly in the stomach. “If we let you go, would you run? Could you run?”

A door opened, loud enough to be heard over the heavy rain pounding on the windows. 

Julia tensed behind him, grip tightening on his arm to the point Jon thought it was going to break. He thrashed, just for a second, only to feel the skin at his throat split. That got him still very quickly. 

“The hell?” Trevor said. 

“Still raining too hard to be the boyfriend,” Julia hissed, voice lower now. She shook Jon a little, “Who is it?” 

Jon stayed quiet. 

“Doesn’t smell like the hunter.” Trevor's voice was farther away now. 

“Doesn’t smell human either,” Julia said, “Sims.” 

“Fuck off,” Jon said, voice barely intelligible through the tremors that ran through it. 

“There are,” Julia said, very slowly, right into his ear, “So many places I can put this knife, Sims. Each more painful than the last.” 

“I’m gonna go check it out,” Trevor said, and there was a click– like– was that a gun? “Maybe this’ll be a bit more fun after all.” 

“Be careful,” Julia snapped, voice high strung. The switch in her demeanour was startling, to say the least. And while any other time he’d have relished in her obvious discomfort, right now it only meant that she got crueler with her grip on him, more reckless with the knife. 

He could feel a hot trickle of blood down his collar. 

There was no sound of footsteps, but Jon could feel Julia get tenser by the second. He struggled for a second, half hearted, and stopped entirely when Julia growled at him. She was so, so close to him, her hot breath hitting his ears, his neck. He could hear the slight rumble that built up in her chest, and it wouldn’t let his heart slow down. Minutes passed, and he felt just as scared as he had when he first heard Trevor’s voice in this room.  

Abruptly, the knife at his throat disappeared, and he was pushed to the floor. His knees hit the ground with a thud that reverberated through Jon’s teeth, making him gasp and clutch at his bleeding throat. A small laugh bubbled in his stomach, and he did his best to swallow it down. 

He could feel Julia walk around him, silent for the most part except for the very quiet taps of her feet on the floor. She brushed against him, walking around him. 

“Fuck,” Julia said, “ Fuck. Trevor, fuck, where are you?” 

It was clear she was talking to herself, but Jon decided to be an idiot and speak up anyway, “Maybe you should go and check on him.” 

The kick was expected, but no less painful for it, catching him in the jaw harshly. Hands grabbed his hair, yanking his head up, as Julia whispered, “If you’ve done something, if this was your plan, I swear to god, you would regret the day you were born. You’ll beg for something as sweet as the Hunt.” 

A door slammed shut in the distance, making both Jon and Julia flinch. She let go of his hair, moving away until he could no longer tell where she was, not even by the sounds of her steps. 

And then another door, this time very, very close, creaked open. It sounded like the bathroom door. 

Jon knew it wasn’t the bathroom door. 

He could now tell where Julia was from the sounds of her ragged breathing. “Trevor?” she called out tremulously. 

“Julia.” Trevor sounded like he was in pain. A lot of pain, voice thin, high, shaky. Like he was begging. 

“That’s not you,” Julia said, but it was clear she was walking closer to the source of the voice. “That isn’t you. I saw you walk out of this room.” 

“You did, didn’t you?” 

Jon had to stifle a hysterical giggle when Helen’s voice echoed through the room, coming from every direction at once. He wished he could see this. Could stare at Julia’s face, the hunted look that would creep into her eyes when she would realise she couldn’t trust anything here, that Trevor wasn’t here or perhaps he was and was she truly ready to take that gamble? 

There was a dull thud that made Jon cringe, but Helen just laughed. “He’s waiting for you, behind that door, you know.” 

“Do you think I’m stupid?” Julia asked. 

“Oh, certainly.” 

The silence that followed stretched out uncomfortably long. Jon’s knees throbbed, his face throbbed, his arm throbbed, and his throat stung. 

Then Julia started laughing, a slowly building thing, half mad, and then–

The next sound that echoed through the room was Jon’s scream as sharp pain bloomed across his already hurting shoulder, far surpassing the previous ache. For a wild moment, he didn’t even know what had happened, and then he felt the warm wetness dampening his shirt. Julia twisted the knife in his shoulder, laughing, and laughing. 

Helen hummed as Jon’s scream died down, “Messy, messy.” 

The laughter cut off abruptly, “Where’s Trevor.” 

The knife was still lodged in his shoulder, and Jon kept as still as he could with the white hot burning sparking through his nerves, panting noisily. 

“I already told you,” Helen said, sounding a bit bored, “Are you so dense? Dense people are no fun.” 

“It’s a trap.” 

“Obviously.” 

“Let him go,” Julia said, words barely intelligible through the deep, rumbling growl that rivalled the thunder outside. 

Jon had to bite his lip to keep from sobbing.

“You’re like a dog without a bone,” Helen said cheerfully, “Chewing on nothing, snapping your teeth. Snap snap!” 

“I said—” 

“I heard you the first time,” Helen said, still in that infuriating cheerful voice. Jon would’ve laughed if he weren’t in agony. “And since you asked so nicely, I’ve decided to… let him go.” 

The house was on the ground floor. The ground floor. The rain was still pouring hard, drowning out most sounds. But not loud enough to drown out the scream that echoed in from outside, just for a second, followed by a dull, wet thud, right outside the window. Perhaps once upon a time Jon would’ve retched at the sound, but he was in too much pain to risk the movement. 

Helen was giggling, and Julia had stopped growling. She’d gone very, very still. Jon could tell, because her hand was still on the knife lodged inside him, and it wasn’t moving a bit. 

The shriek that then cut through the air took him by surprise. He hadn’t thought she was even capable of making such a noise. She let go of his shoulder, and he could feel the moment when she pounced, still screaming, the sound warping with that of Helen’s laughter. 

“Eeny, meeny, miny, boulder,” Helen sang, “Catch a hunter by the shoulder.” The shrieking stopped. “Hmm, my rhyming could do with some work.” 

And then the screaming started up again, somehow even more visceral than before, accompanied by the overpowering, metallic stench of blood. And another sound that reminded Jon uncomfortably of Jared Hopworth. 

Bones cracking, crunching, grinding, the wet sounds of meat, thumping, slapping against the floor, and— and something that sounded awfully like chewing. 

Jon tried to scramble backwards from the sounds, from the smell, but the slightest movement sent the knife jarring in him, tearing into muscles, and he reached up a hand, a single, dry sob escaping him. He wanted to wrench the pointy little thing out. Wasn’t there something about how taking the knife out can cause you to bleed out? Jon didn’t know. But bleeding out was now a thing he had to concern himself with. 

Dr. Mitchell really would not be happy with him losing more blood after she’d worked so hard on getting him just the tiniest bit healthier than before. 

“Well,” Helen said, not even the slightest hitch in her voice. Not that Jon had expected there to be. “Good thing you hadn’t yet laid out any carpet or rug, right? You can just cover all… this up with whatever sad little thing Martin picks out today.” 

“God,” Jon breathed. 

“No,” Helen said, “It’s me. I did all the work here, I deserve the credit for that.”

“Trevor…” Jon said, ignoring her still sing songy, upbeat voice. He tried to heave himself into a standing position, and mostly even managed it. He had the bizarre image of taking a step forward and slipping in Julia’s blood, landing up within the gore and viscera of her body. He struggled not to vomit. “He might not be… dead—” 

“I assure you, he is very much dead.” 

“Falling from a height isn’t any more dangerous than lung cancer—” 

“Who said it was the fall that killed him?” 

“But I— I heard him scream–” 

“And you believe what you heard?” Helen clucked her tongue, “I expected better from you, Jon. You’re smarter than that, aren’t you?” 

Jon stayed silent, hand still grasping the knife. The rain was starting to die out a little, enough so that Jon could hear himself think now. The blood was so sharp in the air he could feel it on his tongue. A tiny part of him was relieved he didn’t have to see whatever mess was left of Julia. Or even Trevor for that matter. 

“You killed them,” he said finally. Taking a step to the side, he very gingerly sat down on the bed, feeling bad about possibly getting the sheets dirty but in too much pain to give much of a damn. “Two hunters.” 

“Oh, it was easy. Boring, really. Usually hunters are far too smart to fall for little tricks like that. If I want to treat myself to one, I have to work a lot harder than I did today.” The smug amusement in Helen's voice was clear as day, “I suppose there's a reason most hunters hunt alone.” 

“And you helped me quit.” 

“How nice of you to remember,” Helen crooned, “I think there was still some of your blood stuck under my fingernails. Although it’s all been covered up with fresher, warmer blood now.” 

Jon grimaced a bit. “Thank you,” he said, quietly. 

“You’re very welcome, Jon,” Helen said, and this time her voice came from behind him, “It was my absolute pleasure.” 

The yellow door was awfully distracting. 

It had been there for a full five minutes now, and Martin kept dithering about, walking back and forth across the shop. No one else seemed to be able to see it. And the rain had slowed down to a light drizzle. The streets were still flooded with water, but navigable. Especially with how anxious Jon had sounded over the phone. 

He should leave right now, get back home. It would take him about half an hour to reach. 

The next aisle had a lot of fluffy rugs in light colours– not something he’d recommend. They’d be stuck trying to get stains out forever. They’re rugs, they go on the floor. They’re bound to get dirty. Besides, he’d already gotten a nice, muted brown coloured rug. 

Martin glanced back at the door again. No one else was paying attention to it. Chewing on his lips, he did a circuit around the shelving with the white rugs.  The doorknob rattled, almost making Martin jump out of his skin. 

He needed to make his decision soon, he couldn’t keep wasting time in the shop. He needed to get back home. But something about the door… It made him uneasy. More so than your usual oh a manifestation of the spiral is beckoning you way.  

The doorknob rattled again, and he could feel his own heart rattle with it. Something wasn’t right. 

There was a possibility that Helen was just fucking with him. She liked to do that. That was her entire purpose. That’s what the Spiral was all about. And yet, something in his gut told him that—

That what? It just felt like an alarm going off but you can’t find the alarm. You didn’t even know you had an alarm. 

An alarm that would’ve been very useful before he’d broken into Carlos Vittery’s basement. 

Martin had done another circuit around some of the shelves by now, and the clerks were starting to glance at him a few times, looking hopeful, like they were about to come over and try to sell him more things. 

This time the knob didn’t rattle, but the door, very slowly, creaked open. It shouldn’t have been as loud as it was, but Martin heard every single second of that godawful, rusted, pitched creaking as it swung gently, opening up the tiniest sliver. 

On the other side he could make out a wall, and a bit of what looked like a couch. What was a couch, because he knew that couch. Because that couch was in their home, the one Jon and Martin had picked out a few days ago. Because he knew that wall and the stains on it that he’d been thinking of painting over with a nice, soft pink colour.

Swallowing nervously, Martin paused. His heart thundered in his chest, the uneasy feeling growing to the point he could barely breathe under the weight of it. 

Thirty minutes. It would take him thirty minutes, probably more, to reach home. Who knew how many routes had been blocked due to the rain? Even hauling a cab would take a while. Too long. Could he afford to take that risk?

Could he afford to use Helen’s door and risk being trapped? For two weeks? More? 

Helen had helped before, hadn’t she? She’d helped Jon get away from the Circus, and she’d helped them when Jared Hopworth had attacked the Institute. And while Martin had very mixed feelings about her helping Jon quit, it was apparently what Jon had wanted. 

Taking a deep breath, Martin gave one last glance back towards the row of white and cream rugs, then slowly and determinedly walked towards the door. 

He didn’t know what the clerks saw, because apparently they hadn’t even noticed a new, very distracting yellow door on the premises. He didn’t much care anyway. 

He pushed the door open, making that awful creaking sound grate over his ears again, and took the leap of faith, a couple steps over the threshold and into… into his flat. It looked like his flat. 

It didn’t smell like his flat. It didn’t smell like the rain, either, something that had been pretty prominent back at the shop, even over the smell of cleaners and sharp air fresheners. 

It smelled, most overwhelmingly, of blood. A smell he could have done well without ever having been acquainted with, but he knew it anyway. Enough that his heart stopped for a moment, the bag in his hand falling to the floor with a thud he barely heard. 

“Fuck,” he cursed, “ Fuck.” He almost hoped this was a trick by Helen, that it wasn’t really their house at all, that she was fucking with him and laughing at him. He whirled around to see if the door was there, but only met the plain, grey, stained wall that needed a paint job.

Then a sound, from the bedroom. Awfully familiar. 

Martin ran into the room and almost— he almost slipped. He slipped on something, something wet and viscous under his shoes. A deep, deep red. There was someone on the floor. Or at least, there were chunks of someone on the floor. There didn’t… seem to be enough to form a full person. But what did he know? It’s not like he knew how many little pieces a person could be shredded into. 

Bile rose up his throat, and he carefully lifted his gaze from the floor. 

Jon was on the bed, his knees pulled up to his chest and clutching a towel to his shoulder. A very wet looking towel. The stains didn’t look like water at all. 

Helen was sitting cross legged beside him, wriggling her fingers at Martin. “Hi,” she said, “Do you like what I did with the place? I used to be a real estate agent, you know. I have an eye for interior design.” 

“What the fuck.” 

Jon shifted at Martin’s voice, perking up, “Martin,” he slurred out, “Mar-tin, I think I need to go to the… uh, the hospital, I think.” 

Stealing himself, Martin quickly crossed the room, carefully not looking down at the floor. But it was impossible to ignore the blood coating Helen’s clothes, and her hands, and her face, and her teeth, and also the bed and Jon. Including his hair, bright against the silver streaks in it. 

“Oh god, Jon,” he whispered, hands hovering uselessly in the air before he carefully settled one at Jon’s back, and took over holding the towel to his shoulder with the other. “What happened?” 

“You can interrogate him later, I think. He should probably go to the hospital first,” Helen remarked ideally, reaching out an impossibly long hand to card one impossibly long finger down Jon’s hair. Jon shivered under Martin’s hand. “I have a nice shampoo I can recommend for getting blood out of his hair properly, you know? Wouldn’t want that hunter’s stink everywhere.”  

“ Hunter? What do you mean? Did Daisy—” 

“No!” Jon quickly said, “Not Daisy. It was, uhh. It was Trevor and Julia.” 

“Wait, you mean the American hunters?” 

“They aren’t actually American…” Jon mumbled, and Martin was about ready to throw his hands up into the air. 

“Not the point!” He eyed the… things on the floor again, thinking of how even if Jon scrubbed himself head to toe in bleach, the smell would never actually leave this room, sunk into every corner of it. It looked like the blood was seeping under the floorboards, soaking into the wood, climbing up the walls. 

Martin quickly turned his gaze away.

“Right, hospital,” Martin said, voice remarkably even. Courtesy of the Lonely, maybe. Or perhaps he was just too stunned to process anything at all. He pulled out his phone, “I’ll call an ambulance–”

“No need,” Helen said, and she was standing up now, carefully brushing down her skirt. The blood from earlier now just looked like… colour. Like she was wearing a very strange, colourful dress. “Buckle up, boys, you’re getting a free ride. Again.” 

Despite himself, Martin found himself glancing back at the floor again, before having to restrain the urge to gag. He turned his gaze back to Jon, but waved a hand back towards the mess, “What about that?” 

“Don’t worry about that,” Helen said, “The police really don't care about Sectioned cases all that much.”

Jon cleared his throat before Martin could say anything. “Can you find my cane?” 

Despite himself, Martin forced himself to look around. “Um, Jon,” he said once he spotted the mostly white cane, because– “You might need a new—” 

“Don’t be silly, Martin,” Helen said, picking the cane up from the floor, wiping a cursory hand down it and only smearing the blood on it further, “Here, Jon.” 

Jon hesitated a moment before holding his hand out, clearly expecting something from the tone of Helen’s voice. When his fingers closed around the slick, wet, probably warm handle, the grimace on his face mirrored the one on Martin’s. Helen just grinned her impossibly wide grin. Her teeth still had blood on them. 

Somehow, he didn’t let go of it, visibly bracing himself as he folded the cane up and looped the strap around his wrist. He grabbed onto Martin’s arm and pulled himself off the bed. Martin hastily adjusted himself so he was still pressing the towel to the bleeding wound, and god he really hoped it wasn’t as bad as the blood seemed to be suggesting. 

“After you,” Helen said, waving them towards the new door.

This time walking through the door was far more of a relief than a leap of faith. 

Chapter Text

“How does this even keep happening to you?” 

Jon shrugged with one shoulder. He still wasn’t quite sure whether hospitals had something similar to Section 31. It’s not like he had been told anything about it, but it did sound like a reasonable division to have, didn’t it? Especially with how often paramedics might be called to situations caused by one of the entities. 

Even if such a division did exist, he didn’t know whether Dr. Mitchell was part of it. Although he suspected she was. She never asked too many questions, only whether or not he wanted to press charges. He knew she’d wanted to do a psych eval on him, but had relented after a few conversations that, according to Daisy, involved a lot of frowns. 

“Several stitches, because apparently whoever did this also decided to twist the knife a bit. And I don’t mean metaphorically,” she continued.  

“Yes, I know. I was there,” Jon said, slightly snappish because they’d asked Martin to stay outside their little curtained off bed in the A and E while Dr. Mitchell talked to him, and also because he still ached, despite the painkillers. The smell of blood was heavy in his head as well, even over the sharp scent of the antiseptic that he’d come to hate over his many, many visits and stays at the hospital. 

“Right,” she sounded sceptical. “I’ll be blunt here, Jon. But are you safe?” 

“Er.” 

“Jon.” 

“As safe as can be? There probably won’t be a repeat of this.” Hopefully. He did believe that both Julia and Trevor were dead, and he couldn’t really come up with someone who would want to hurt him immediately. Of course, there was always the threat of Elias looming over their heads, possibly Peter as well, and the many many people Jon had pissed off. But none as much as the Hunters, so he wasn’t too worried. 

“ Probably.” 

“I can’t see the future,” he said, possibly a little grumpy because he still didn’t have Martin with him. “I can’t even see the present.” 

Silence. 

Jon cringed a bit. 

“At least you’re well enough to make jokes,” she said dryly. There was the scratching of a pen, then the tearing of a page. Then Jon felt her fingers brush lightly against his hand, giving him a slip of paper. “This is a prescription for some antibiotics and painkillers. I’d advise you to press charges again but given the amount of blood on you, I doubt that’s… necessary.” 

Oh, definitely part of a section, then. Probably. Hopefully? Or else she thinks he works in a gang. Or a cult. Which– not quite inaccurate. She was remarkably calm about… everything, really. He got lucky. Or possibly he had been given to her because he came from the Magnus Institute. 

“I’ll be sending Mr. Blackwood in now,” she said after he’d nodded. He knew he visibly perked up. There was audible amusement in her voice. “You look about ready to jump out of your seat and run to him.” 

Hesitating a bit, he ventured, “That’s all?” 

She sighed, “Yes, that’s all. I’m not a cop. Just try not to get yourself killed.” 

Without waiting for a response, she walked away, her heels clicking on the floor. He wondered whether he’d tracked bloody footprints over it when he came in. And whether that was a semi regular occurrence here. Or perhaps a regular one? It was an emergency room, after all. 

There was the swish of the curtain, and another set of footsteps. A smile tugged at his lips so hard he didn’t even bother trying to look less like a besotted idiot. 

“Hey,” Martin said, standing so close to Jon he could feel him, “Can I touch you?” 

“Yes,” Jon said. 

Martin then enveloped him in a half hug, careful of the bandages, and very distinctly not careful of the blood that was on him, sticking to his clothes and making everything reek. He squeezed, just a little, and Jon quickly brought his arms up to wrap around Martin. 

“You can’t keep doing this,” Martin whispered, breath hot at Jon’s ear. At those words, the smile slipped off his face. He sighed instead. 

“I didn’t– this wasn’t on purpose,” Jon said weakly. 

“I know, I know,” Martin pulled back a bit, but didn’t quite let go of Jon. “I know. But I only just… I only just got you back. And I’m aware of how a lot of it is on me, I was the one not there the last few months, but… I can’t do it again, you know that, right? I can’t.” 

“I’m sorry.” 

“That’s not—” 

“I know.” 

Martin let out a sigh, long, heavy, and drawn out. “Quitting was supposed to be the end of it. The supernatural bits, at least. You don’t deserve this. Haven’t you suffered enough?” 

“The entities, or the avatars, they don’t care about that. The concept of enough doesn’t exist.” There’s always a hunger for more. Like a black hole, devouring everything you throw at it. Demanding more, sucking in more, consuming everything that dares come closer. 

“You know, I stopped thinking in terms of what’s fair and unfair years ago. Even before I joined the Institute. I know the world doesn’t work like that. It just doesn’t. The revelation of these things, it didn’t change that, just further cemented it.” The bed shifted beside him, dipping down, the arms around him moving until Martin was pressed against Jon’s good side. “But sometimes the urge to just– just throw a tantrum about it all, to just, scream and cry and throw stuff. It’s overwhelming. Because none of it is fair. ”

We’ll be okay , Jon wanted to say desperately, it’ll all turn out fine. We’ll be happy.  

But Jon had always been a shit liar when it came to things that truly mattered. It didn’t mean things were bound to go wrong… just that Jon knew what kind of a track record he had. So he didn’t say that, no matter how much he wanted to reassure Martin. But them sitting here, in the ER with Jon freshly stitched up and drugged, really wouldn’t help make it sound anywhere near convincing. 

“I wish it was,” Jon says. If only for you. Martins deserved fair, more than anyone else. Everything that had happened with Jon… was any of it really unfair? He’d made his choices. And this was repayment. But what had Martin done? He hadn’t even asked to be transferred to the Archives. He’d just been put there, shifted around like so much cargo.  

“Yeah,” Martin said softly. A pause, and then Jon felt a light touch against his shoulder, barely present, not at the stitching side but a bit below it. “Does it hurt a lot?”

“No,” Jon said, mostly honest. He reached out a hand, too, shifting his body so he was facing Martin rather than pressed side to side. He fumbled, just a little, but he knew Martin well enough. He knew Martin. His fingers brushed against what he was reasonably sure was Martin’s face, his cheek. 

“Jon?” Martin’s voice had gone, somehow, even softer. 

“I…” he cleared his throat, feeling his cheeks heat up. 

But he had to say this. Hadn’t he hidden enough? Didn’t he deserve this? Didn’t Martin deserve this? When the words came out, they were clear, if soft enough to match Martin’s tone, held out like glass, prone to shatter at the slightest mishandling. 

“I love you.” 

For a second, Jon was sure neither Martin nor Jon even breathed. 

“Jon,” Martin croaked out, sounding like he was about to start crying. “I–” 

“You don’t have to say anything back!” Jon said hastily, feeling panic start to claw up his stomach. This was probably a bad time to tell him, in the middle of the emergency room, with both of them bloodied, and Jon straight out of a fresh murder attempt. “I just.. I needed to say it, okay? It doesn’t have to change anything. You deserve to know it. To know that I– that I love you. That I’m very grateful that you’re here, that you’re alive and here and… and maybe not okay, but as close as you could reasonably be given the circumstances. That’s all.” 

Jon realised he was babbling a little, and also that his hand was still on Martin’s cheek, the latter of which he only realised when Martin covered his hand with his own. Not removing it, the way Jon had been expecting, but just… covering it. Keeping it there, warm between Martin’s face and palm. 

“Jon,” Martin said, and god, he still sounded like he was about to burst into tears any second. “It’s okay. I… I get it.” There was a wet sounding chuckle, making Jon jerk forward in concern. “Do you know how long I have loved you for? Christ, I’d almost forgotten.” 

“Forgotten?” 

“Yeah,” Martin murmured. “The fog, it made everything so hazy. Distant. Thank you for reminding me.”

Martin was nuzzling into Jon’s hand, which made a little stroke of warmth run up his spine. Thank you for reminding me. Jon felt like he couldn’t breathe with the swelling of affection within him, almost too much to bear. Martin didn’t sound upset. He sounded… he sounded more alive than he had in months. 

“No, Martin,” Jon said, “Thank you. ”  

Listening to the soft sounds of Martin’s breathing, Jon felt… content. He couldn’t find a better word to describe that feeling. Contentment. Maybe he couldn’t see Martin, but he could know he was alive, and well, and asleep beside him. His breathing was deep and even, so the sleep was probably restful as well. 

He could actually hear Martin breathing. 

Jon didn’t know whether caring for him during these times was better or worse for the hold the Lonely had on Martin. But he seemed to have loosened it anyway. Jon could hear his footsteps now, even on carpet. He could hear him breathe. And the room didn’t feel so cold with him in it. Quite warm, really, something that spread out from somewhere within Jon’s chest and seemed to consume him whole. 

One of Martin’s arms was thrown over Jon’s stomach, and the slow rise and fall of Martin’s chest almost lulled Jon back to sleep. He very carefully pried Martin’s arm off, laying it on the bed as he slid out of it. He just needed a drink of water, and then he’d be able to go back to sleep. 

His bare feet sunk into the carpet they’d bought specifically for this room, to cover up the floorboards. Jon didn’t know what they looked like, and he didn’t care to guess at it either. 

Jon trailed a hand along the freshly painted wall as he made his way over to the kitchen. He knew there were people out there who liked the smell of fresh paint, and petrol, and other such things. For Jon though, they’d mostly just been a source of intense migraines. 

However. However, Jon would take the sharp, piercing scent of wood polish and fresh paint over the metallic, all consuming one of blood and viscera. Even if he could never get the sounds out of his mind, he could at least try to drown out the smells. 

It even worked, for the most part. 

Taking out a plastic cup, he filled it with water, eager to go back to bed, to the warmth, to the touch and sound and smell of Martin. Before he could bring it to his lips though, a voice sounded from behind him. 

“Hello, Jon.” 

Jon froze. He didn’t recognise the voice. His blood chilled. Very slowly, he turned around. Not that it helped, not that he could see whoever it was. But better this than having them at his back. 

He could maybe throw the cold water at their face. His aim would go wide, though. Very wide. He doubted it would help, anyway, considering the kind of people he’d had to contend with in the last couple years of his life. He wanted to laugh, thinking about his conversation with Dr. Mitchell. She really wouldn’t be happy to see him back so soon. He’d just gotten his stitches out. 

If he lives long enough to go to the doctor, that is. 

Perhaps he could scream. Martin was just in the other room. He could scream, Martin would wake up, and come running. He might even shoot a text to Daisy or Basira. Maybe Helen would come. 

He should scream. 

“Mhm, screaming won’t work, I’m afraid,” the person said, “Martin’s… quite deeply asleep.” 

Jon’s grip on the glass tightened to the point his fingers hurt. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t breathe. “What did you—” 

“Oh, no need to get all worked up. He’s perfectly fine. He’ll be up later. Just not yet. I wanted to talk to you alone, you see.” 

“Who are you?” he asked, voice shaking just the tiniest bit. 

A short but deep laugh, “Questions, questions.” 

Jon bristled, “ Who are—” 

“Do you feel the absence, Jon,” the person cut him off, a little amused, “When you ask questions now? The lack of power in each word and questioning intonation? The way you can feel nothing now, where there used to be so much? Do you feel the disadvantage you’re at, in every dangerous situation? How you have become a liability? A burden? Dead weight?” 

“What are you doing here?” he asked, more firmly than before, but his stomach was churning already. Because he could, was the thing. He could feel the absence when he asked questions now. He could feel nothing when he asked questions now. 

He’d often complained of being unable to control the compulsion because he barely ever even realised it was there. But now, with it all gone, he could tell the absence of it like a gaping hole within itself. Could tell what used to be there, because it wasn’t there anymore. 

It was fucking horrible. 

The person currently invading his home hadn’t said anything he didn’t know, hadn’t said anything he didn’t already think to himself every single day. Hadn’t said anything that he wasn’t working on. Because he was. He was working on it. With Martin, and with Daisy, for the most part. Sometimes the others as well. 

He knew he’d made the right choice. 

But having all these thoughts laid out in front of him like this, with this— this stranger inside his home, , it struck him. He’d assumed, foolishly, again, that with Trevor and Julia dead, this place would be safe. Safer, at least. He knew no place was truly safe, of course. But he’d still started associating this little flat of theirs with safety anyway. Especially after the clean up. Cover up, whatever. 

“Do you think you made the right choice?” they asked next, ignoring his queries. Jon’s skin prickled. 

“Get out,” he said, voice wavering, “Whoever you are, get out of here.” 

“No,” they said pleasantly. “I don’t think so. As I said, I wanted to talk. And you’ll listen. You’re good at that, aren’t you? Listening.” 

Jon threw the glass of water he was holding in the direction of the voice. He didn’t know whether it splashed even slightly on them, but it did loosen some of the coils tightening within him. The laughter this time was just as deep as before, and a bit longer. 

“Very impressive,” they said. “Now, you see. I don’t need to be here, strictly speaking. I just like you, Jon. You were interesting. Now you’re not.”

“What are you talking about,” Jon said, a little desperately now. Was this person sent by Elias? Lukas? Or… or someone worse. The prickling sensation on his skin had turned into a crawling one, and it made him want to climb out of his body and burn it. 

“The Mother doesn’t like unexpected hitches in her plan. It was all going fine until the Distortion decided to interfere– but perhaps one should have expected that from something like the Spiral. You on your own,” the voice gives a deep chuckle, “Well, you would have given up quitting as a lost cause after a couple tries, I’m sure.” 

Oh. He knew who this was. It did not help the panic currently building up in him, but at least he knew who it was. 

Secretly, he thought she was being generous with that estimation. He didn’t think he’d have tried even one more time if his first attempt didn’t work at blinding him. He’d always been a bit of a coward, hadn’t he?

“You know,” Annabelle Cane continued, “The unpredictability of the Spiral is truly incongruous with the careful control of the Mother. But it’s not just the Distortion she had been wrong about. What stings the worst is that we were wrong about you.”

“I still have no idea what the hell you mean. Did Elias send you?” 

  Annabelle made such a noise of scoffing disgust that Jon was actually taken aback, “No. I don’t dance to the whims of people like him. For that matter, he misjudged you horribly as well. Especially for someone as dedicated to his ritual as he. Too arrogant.” 

Jon could feel himself trembling from just how tense he was. He still didn’t understand, not quite well. But he could feel the shape of it. A vague sense. A ritual. Elias’ ritual. And Jon. Jon and a ritual and—

“Oh well,” she said, her voice shifting like she was moving around the room, and Jon pressed himself back into the counter, the cold hard marble digging hard into his spine. “I have to admit I am a little impressed, really. You are useless now, of course, but it takes a lot to evade the mother’s plans once she’s got you wrapped in her webs. ” 

“What,” he said blankly. 

“Live well, I suppose. I don’t think you have anything to worry about anymore. Unless Elias decides to be stupid. But we’ll be working on him.” 

“I don’t–” 

“Goodbye.” 

Jon stayed still as a statue. There were no footsteps. No doors or windows closing or opening. No sound at all except for his own harsh breathing. But he knew, with a certain, deep pervading certainty, that she was gone. 

There was this thing that happened sometimes. When he miscalculated the number of steps on a staircase, or when he lost count halfway up; he’d be at the last step, and he’d lift or drop his foot with the expectation of the next step, but instead find flat ground. 

It was jarring, and sent his heart thundering for a few moments. But nothing actually went wrong. And he would be on a flat surface then, something he preferred infinitely more than steps. 

This moment, with a still silence that made his ears ring, felt like that. 

Like finding even ground.