Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Time passed, but it was hard to tell how much.

There had been pain before this—tearing, ripping, brutal pain—but it was a memory now. Martin didn’t know where he was, or if he even was anywhere at all. It felt a bit like floating, maybe, if he had to describe it. He couldn’t feel himself.

He couldn’t feel anything.

He couldn’t feel Jon.

***

Time passed again, and he could open his eyes.

Jon was there, after all. He just wasn’t breathing.

There’s so much blood, he thought. It’s all over both of us. I have Jon’s blood all over me.

He closed his eyes and tried to forget.

***

Time passed, probably.

“Martin.”

He wouldn’t look; he wouldn’t let himself. He simply refused to see it again.

“Martin, please—stop crying.”

Am I crying? He wondered. If I am, I don’t feel it. I don’t know how to stop.

He wanted to though, for Jon.

***

Time passed. It must have, because things were changing; the world was forming around them. They weren’t floating anymore, they were resting, but on what Martin wasn’t sure.

He could feel again. There was a little pain, but not enough to matter. Mostly, he could feel Jon. Jon had weight in his arms now; his clothing had texture against Martin’s skin. His chest rose and fell, and he was warm.

Martin opened his eyes one more time, and Jon looked back at him.

“You’re alive.”

“So are you,” Jon answered.

“You—you weren’t breathing.”

A moment passed before Jon answered again.

“Neither were you.”

No, that—that’s not true. That can’t be true.

They stared at each other in silence.

***

Time passed, but less.

The ground was soft, like grass. Maybe it was grass. They could hold each other now, actually hold each other, touch and move together and breathe each other in, and they did—even as they made their first feeble attempt to sort through what had brought them here.

“I’m sorry,” Jon murmured.

“No, you’re not,” Martin replied, his face buried against Jon’s neck.

“Martin, that isn’t—”

“Yes, it is. You’re only sorry that I messed it up.”

Jon went quiet, fingers tangled in Martin’s hair.

“You’d do it again if you could. You’d just—you’d find a way to keep me out.”

“No. Never.” With some effort, Jon pulled away to meet Martin’s eyes. “I would never keep you out. Not… not if you wanted me.”

Their lips met once, then twice.

“What, then?”

“I would have… It was…” Jon was getting lost in his thoughts, and Martin compulsively tightened his arm around him. “I didn’t… I didn’t think they could—”

“You didn’t think they could blow it up.”

“Right,” Jon said, his eyes troubled. “I would have… right.”

Martin’s heart ached. He kissed Jon again, longer this time, and felt him relax.

***

Time passed, and it didn’t feel so strange anymore. They lay side by side in the grass and dirt, hands intertwined. Martin turned his head to look at Jon, to ask what he had been wondering for a while.

“Where are we?”

“I’m… I’m not sure.” Jon closed his eyes, and was quiet.

“Checking?”

“I… I can’t right now. I’m remembering,” Jon answered. “Trying to. There was a moment, before we were here, I could… I could see it. The connections, the web… something didn't work. It wasn’t… it wasn’t what we thought. Not yet.”

“Christ, Jon. You remember it?” All Martin could recall was that awful wrenching pain, and then everything had just… disappeared. Gone blank. It hadn’t occurred to him until right then that Jon might have experienced something different, and probably worse. He usually did.

“Not well enough, I’m afraid.” Jon sighed and gave up, opening his eyes to stare at the blue sky that had filled in above them. “Wherever we are though, I think… I’m not sure, but the entities—I don’t think they made it past this place either.”

Martin considered this. He imagined that meant that where they were, the fears had come here, too—but maybe they hadn’t really spread, not exactly. The second part sounded good—possibly—but he’d been part of this long enough to know there was always some catch. He’d ask about it again, later, after Jon had more time.

He had other questions now.

“Jon, is there any chance… could we still be in our—our dimension, I guess?”

“No,” Jon said, too quickly. “No, I don’t think so.”

Martin sighed. “What about the people there, then? Are they… are they ok?”

“Ok?” Jon repeated. “No, they are not ok. But their immediate suffering, the apocalypse, the—the fear domains… that is over.”

“Good.” Martin was ready to declare a victory of sorts when he realized what Jon was getting at. “Wait—are you saying that they—that they remember what happened?”

Jon looked at him blankly. “Why wouldn’t they?”

“I just… you know, in the movies, when they end the apocalypse, everything goes back to normal, and they—no one remembers it! Things just go back to the way they were before it happened. I just…  I guess I assumed—”

“You assumed things would be like they are in the movies,” Jon finished dryly.

“Well, when you say it like that, it sounds pretty stupid.” Martin pulled his hand away.

“I’m sorry.” Jon’s voice was gentle again. “I didn’t mean—”

“No, it’s all right. It was pretty stupid.” Martin paused before adding, “I still think it’s better for them, though. That it’s over.”

Jon didn’t answer him, and they lay in silence again.

***

Time passed, but Martin no longer thought about it. They were curled up on their sides, facing each other, heads resting on their arms. Although they weren’t touching, they were close enough to reach out when they needed to.

“Jon.”

“Hm?”

“Let me see it.”

Jon was confused.

“Let me see where I—” Martin couldn’t finish his sentence; the words wouldn’t come. Instead, he brought a hand to his own chest, over his heart.

Jon understood now. “No.”

“Why not?”

“Just… not yet.” Jon touched Martin’s arm. “Not right now. I… I don’t want it to hurt you.”

“I’m going to see it sooner or later, and… well, it hurts anyway.”

“Martin—”

“Jon.”

Jon withdrew, sighing. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

Jon nodded reluctantly. He reached for the edge of his shirt, but couldn’t lift it far enough, and slowly moved to lie on his back. They hadn’t stood up yet—Martin wasn’t sure if they could—but he pulled himself close so that when Jon’s hand reached for the shirt again, his own closed over it.

Together they lifted the fabric, stiff and red with dried blood, until they had raised it enough to reveal the aftermath of the knife. It had healed, like all of Jon’s injuries, but it had healed angry, a mass of pink and white tissue that made Martin inhale violently. He let go of Jon’s hand. He couldn’t help himself; he had to touch it. He had to know what it felt like. It was his, after all.

“Does it hurt still?” he asked, voice shaking as he pressed his hand to it.

“No.” Jon hadn’t even looked at it; he hadn’t looked away from Martin’s face.

“Jon, I’m—” Martin swallowed as his fingers sought out the raised edges of the scar, whether he really wanted them to or not. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be. It wasn’t your fault. I did this.”

“Don’t do that!” Martin snapped, yanking his hand back.

“Do what?”

“T—take the blame for everything! Insist on keeping all the guilt for yourself!” Martin pulled himself up, pressed his hands to the ground on either side of Jon’s chest. “Jon, either you are responsible for your choices and I am responsible for mine, no matter what brought us to them or pushed us to make them, or—or neither of us is. You don’t get to have it both ways.”

Jon looked back at him with so much sadness that Martin was ashamed of himself. He was ashamed for trying to make Jon listen, ashamed of his outburst. Jon had been right; it was too soon. He shouldn’t have asked. He started to pull away, but instead Jon pulled him down, pulled him to his elbows, pulled him close.

“I love you,” Jon said quietly.

“I love you too.”

They came together in yet another kiss, physical comfort begging to bridge the chasm that had briefly opened between them. Comfort worked here in a way it hadn’t for a long time; although he wasn’t sure if he should, Martin let it.

***

They lay where they had finally collapsed, each lost in their own thoughts, when Martin noticed something he hadn’t before.

“Jon.” He propped himself up on his forearm, touching Jon’s shoulder. “Jon, the—the uh—that wasn’t here before, was it?”

“Oh. Um…” Jon roused himself and looked where Martin had directed his attention, at a building that now stood next to them. “No. That’s new.”

Then, as an afterthought, he added, “Well, actually, technically it was here, but—”

“What?”

“Technically it was here. We’re the ones who weren’t here before, and now we—”

“Ok, ok, sure—I mean, I’m not sure, but—but look at it, Jon.”

Jon sighed, but took a longer look, and Martin felt it when the jolt of recognition ran through him. “Oh. Oh god.”

“It—it’s the Institute, right?”

“I—” Jon paused, concentrating in a way that Martin knew all too well. “I—I don’t know. I can’t. There’s—there’s nothing. I’m trying, but—”

“Jon—”

“The… the Eye, it’s so weak right now—”

“Then stop trying to use it! That’s a good thing! For god’s sake, Jon—”

“Wait, shh.” Jon went still. “Listen.”

Martin listened. At first, he couldn’t figure out what Jon was referring to, but then he heard it also. Birds. He was sure he hadn’t heard birds here before. Then his brain made one slow, final logical step—one Jon had already made, judging by his expression.

“Are there—are there people here?”

“There must be.” Jon answered. “We just… we’re not quite with them yet.”

“What does that—what do we do?”

“I—I don’t know. I don’t know.” Martin wasn’t used to hearing Jon sound so uncertain, and for all he would have given for so long to get him away from the Eye, he really didn’t like it. Before, in the tunnels, at Upton, Jon had at least been aware that all he had to do was step outside to—to reconnect, or whatever the hell he did.

Now he just sounded frightened.

“Hey.” Martin touched his face, gently asking him to refocus. It worked, a little—at least Jon was looking at him again. “Hey, it’s ok. We’re—we’re together. We can do this. All right?”

Jon didn’t say anything.

“Jon, I mean it. Don’t worry. We’ll figure this out.” He instinctively reached for Jon’s hand and squeezed, and was relieved to feel Jon squeeze back. He was trying to decide what to say next when a voice interrupted him.

“Oh, shit.”

Jon’s head turned sharply, and Martin followed suit, twisting his neck back over his shoulder to have a look. A man stood on the pavement walkway behind them, staring at them in a mixture of shock and growing alarm as he took them in.

The thing was, Martin knew this man.

“Tim?”

Chapter Text

“Martin.” Jon’s whispered caution was unnecessary; Martin realized right after he did it that saying Tim’s name might not have been the best idea. They really knew nothing about this place, or who this man actually was. It didn’t seem to have fazed the man that looked like Tim, though. Or maybe he just hadn’t heard it.

“Where have you two been? And why are you out here? And… fuck, that’s a lot of blood.” The color drained from his face. “Is it—is it your blood? Oh shit. I’m—I’m calling an ambulance.”

He grabbed his phone.

“No.” Jon managed to push past Martin to sit up for the first time since they’d been here. “No. We’re fine.”

“Jesus, I don’t know how you could be unless—unless it’s not your blood?” The man who was maybe Tim didn’t seem particularly ready to put his phone away. “Please tell me you didn’t kill someone.”

“No.” Jon shot a warning glance at Martin, who hadn’t actually considered arguing semantics at that moment. “It—it is mine. And… a bit of his.”

Martin started.

“You haven’t seen yourself,” Jon said quietly.

I guess not.

Maybe-Tim finally decided that he wasn’t going to call anyone, at least for the moment. “Can you—can you get up? I mean—you should—you should probably come inside, at least.”

With a small nod from Jon, Martin accepted help standing up, and found he was much steadier on his feet than he would have guessed.

As he helped Jon up in turn, Jon leaned into him. “Don’t say anything you don’t have to. I know—I know how this feels, but—”

“Yeah, I got it,” Martin answered. “I’m sorry I—”

“It’s all right.”

Maybe-Tim didn’t even notice their exchange; his attention was on his phone again. “I’m messaging Sasha. I’m… I don’t even know what to tell her. I’m just telling her to meet me in her office. Are you—are you really sure you don’t need to go to the hospital?”

He definitely just said he was messaging Sasha.

“Jon—"

“It’s fine.” Martin couldn’t tell if Jon was responding to him or simply answering the question, but it sufficed for both. “Let’s go.”

***

Walking into the Magnus Institute was unnerving in a way that Martin wasn’t prepared for. Yes, he had just lived through a fear apocalypse, but that was part of the issue. Every domain they had encountered had been its own nightmare, in one sense or another. Fears had been isolated and then amplified, exaggerated to the point where they couldn’t be mistaken for anything other than what they were: pieces of a literal hellscape. He had grown accustomed to knowing that no matter what unimaginably terrifying thing he had just seen, the next thing would be worse.

Here, there was just something off, something subtle, and subtlety wasn’t his specialty right now. This, well, it was the Institute, and also it wasn’t. Sure, there were some physical differences—a paint color that didn’t seem quite right, a sign indicating that the Office of Research was located on the third floor instead of the second—but those things didn’t make it not the Institute. Martin had worked there for enough of his life to see those kinds of things change before. That wasn’t what was getting to him.

It was the feel of the place. The feel was different somehow, but he couldn’t sort out in his own head exactly what he meant by that—he couldn’t even be sure it was true, or if it was maybe how it had been in their world too, and it was merely his memory of it that had been rewritten.

They followed Tim down the stairs to the archive. Martin had given up trying to think of him as anyone other than Tim. It wasn’t just his face, or his voice as he rambled about what a mess they were; it was the way he walked, what he did with his hands as he talked, his whole demeanor.

As they entered the reception area, Martin heard another familiar voice—he recognized Rosie’s practiced, cheery-but-professional tone immediately. He’d been overhearing it for years; it had become part of the general background noise of working in the archive for him. There was even something uplifting about it, given that the last time he’d seen her was passing her on the stairs on his way up that tower, with that ever-sinking feeling in his gut. She’d seen him too; they hadn’t spoken to each other.

Unfortunately, the feeling wasn’t mutual. She was startled enough when she saw them that the handset she was speaking into clattered to the desk.

“Oh.” She stood up. “Is—is everything ok? Do you need me to call someone?”

“I guess not,” Tim answered. “Look, we’re going to talk to Sasha and then—I don’t know.”

“Oh. Well… Ms. James is in her office. Please let me know if I can do anything?” Rosie seemed more upset than Tim, and Martin started to really understand what he and Jon must look like to—well, people. He had to admit, Jon did look pretty bad, and he had no idea what state he was in. He didn’t realize he had stopped walking until he felt Jon tug at his arm.

“S—sorry.” He couldn’t help but apologize to Rosie, who continued to stare after them as they entered the archival assistants’ office.

Martin was again struck by that peculiar mixture of recognition and unfamiliarity. So much in this office felt like he remembered it—his desk even had the same odd-colored back leg it always had. He recognized Tim’s desk too, almost exactly like it used to be, before Peter Lukas insisted Martin clean it out himself. It had been a relatively successful tactic for making sure he never wanted to go in there again.

And then there was Jon’s desk.

A wave of vertigo hit him, strong enough that he had to squeeze his eyes shut to fight it. Of course, Jon’s desk had not been in the assistants’ office—that was a simple fact—yet somewhere in his mind, it was almost like he remembered this version of things too, that this was the way it had always been.

When he was able to open his eyes again, he found that both Tim and Jon had stopped to look at him.

“Sorry. Something just—never mind. I’m fine.”

He looked at the head archivist’s office, which stood at the other end of this one, and the name painted across the frosted glass very clearly read Sasha James.

***

The four of them sat around the circular desk in the assistants’ office in uncomfortable silence. After Sasha’s initial shock had worn off, and Jon had insisted yet again that they did not need to go to the hospital, she had asked Rosie to make them tea. That was the one positive point; at that moment, it felt like maybe the best tea Martin had ever had.

Tim finally spoke. “So… any chance of you telling us what the hell is going on?”

“Tim,” Sasha scolded. “Clearly, whatever happened, it’s not easy for them to talk about.”

“Well, it’s not easy for me to not talk about.”

Martin felt bad. “Sorry, it’s just—”

“It’s complicated.” Jon cut him off again.

“And are we also not going to talk about this?” Tim motioned toward their hands, which they held together on the table without thinking. Martin immediately moved to pull his hand away, but Jon tightened his grip with a firm never mind.

He left his hand where it was.

“Tim.” Sasha turned to face him. “They disappear for two months, we can’t find any trace of them, they turn up covered in blood and—well, not to mention everything else that's happened, and that’s what you want to talk about? Really.”

Martin glanced sideways at Jon. Gone for two months—what did that mean?

“Yes! Yes, it is. You can’t tell me you don’t want to know.”

“Tim, I just think—” Sasha sighed and shook her head before turning back to Jon and Martin. “Are you really sure you’re ok? I mean, we—looked for you, we tried reporting you missing. We even had an officer come out here—what was her name, Tim? You had her card last.”

“Alice Tonner,” Tim replied.

Martin squeezed Jon’s hand.

“Right. I feel like her partner called her something else, though, so I keep—anyway, the thing is, they didn’t seem very interested. Like… she asked if we’d been in touch with your families or anything, and obviously we hadn’t, and she said something about people picking up and moving all the time, and—well, I don’t think they even bothered filing an official report. They said they’d check in again, but we never heard from them. We even tried calling them a couple of times, I left messages, but they never got back to us. I mean, I’m sure they’ve been busy lately, but—”

“What do you mean, they’ve been busy?” Jon surprised Martin by venturing a question.

“Well—” Sasha seemed to consider whether she should continue, but she did. “Things have been happening since you disappeared. Weird things. Not like on the news or anything, just to people. We’ve even had a few come here, to the Institute, wanting to talk to someone about—well, their experiences. I guess we have a kind of reputation. But of course, no one knows what to do with them, so they send them down to the archives—and I mean, I do talk to them, I guess? Take some notes? But that’s not really—”

In the middle of her explanation, Martin began to notice how tired he had become; he was exhausted. It wasn’t entirely unfamiliar, because it was the exact thing he and Jon had experienced when they first arrived at Upton House. It made sense, he supposed—after all, they hadn’t really been sleeping, however long they had been here—but the fact that it made sense didn’t help him go back and prepare for it. He heard a commotion, the sound of chairs being shoved from the table, felt hands and arms helping him to lie down on something. Somewhere, amid the rest of the noise, just before he lost consciousness, he heard Jon insisting again that they were ok, that Martin just needed sleep. He knew Jon wasn’t talking to him, but it helped.

***

Hours later, Martin woke. He was still horribly tired—he could barely open his eyes—but once he realized Jon wasn’t nearby he wouldn’t let himself go back to sleep.

As he forced himself into wakefulness, the first thing that really came into focus was the sofa. He had been sleeping on a sofa, which hadn’t been a fixture in the assistants’ office where they came from—yet he remembered it had been in that office, briefly. Tim had brought it in with a friend one day, early on, claiming they needed somewhere a bit more “welcoming” when patrons came to visit the archive. Frankly, Martin had agreed with him, although he wasn’t sure he’d wanted to know all of Tim’s plans for it. The chairs in the office were particularly stiff, and although it wasn’t exactly Tim’s point, he could have used a comfortable spot to take the occasional break. Of course, Jon had immediately insisted it was unprofessional, and when Elias—Jonah—had backed him up, Tim and his friend had grudgingly hauled it back out again a few days later.

Here, though, Sasha had approved, with the caveat that it needed a new cover. Tim had happily obliged, and of course, Jon had ended up using it more than anyone, thanks to his insistence on keeping late hours when—

Wait, what?

He tried to remember more, but Martin now found it impossible to recall. It was strange, just moments ago he’d had such a clear picture of Jon—

Jon.

He sat up to find Tim at his desk, already looking at him.

“You all right?” Tim asked.

“I’m—yeah, I think so. Just tired.”

“I really can’t believe we haven’t called someone, Martin, you two—”

“Where’s Jon?”

“What?”

Where’s Jon?”

Tim gave him an odd look. “He’s in Sasha’s office. As soon as we got you on the couch he passed out. We managed to haul him in there and bring in that old cot from the back room.”

“Can I see him?”

Tim shrugged. “I suppose.”

Martin was relieved to find Jon sleeping peacefully on the cot when they entered, quiet, still. Breathing. His eyes were closed for the first time since—well, since the first few nights they had spent together in Scotland.

“Has he… has he been sleeping like this?” he asked, glancing as Sasha.

“Like what?” she asked.

“Like… normal.”

“I think so,” she said. “I haven’t noticed anything.”

Martin nodded, fighting a sudden surge of emotions too complicated to identify.

“Are you all right?” Sasha asked.

"Yeah, I’m all right,” Martin lied, before thinking of a second, slightly more truthful answer. “Actually I’m—I’m kind of hungry.”

Fortunately, Sasha kept extra food in her office, just in case she had to stay late; unfortunately, at the moment it just happened to be canned peaches. Martin briefly considered holding out for something else, but the empty pit in his stomach wouldn't wait. Instead, he went with option two, getting it over with—and by the time Sasha had found a spoon for him he’d already downed half the can.

“Well,” said Tim, “that looked extremely unpleasant. In several ways, actually.”

“Sorry.”

Martin was just starting to worry about what he was going to say to fill the time when Jon stirred on the cot behind him. Martin wordlessly handed him what was left of the can of peaches. Jon was clearly disoriented, but ate readily enough after Martin handed him the spoon. They watched him in silence for a moment, until Tim snapped his fingers suddenly enough to make Martin jump.

“I forgot, I—hang on.” He disappeared into the assistants’ office, and came back with a couple heavy plastic bags looped over his arms. “We’ve been keeping these in the back. It’s the clothes you left here. The police weren’t interested in them. You do look a bit—”

Martin knew he was pushing it, but he asked anyway. “What do you mean, the clothes we left here?”

“They were just… there,” Tim answered. “On the floor in the office. Thought maybe you were pulling some sort of prank for a bit, but then of course you didn’t turn up.”

Martin looked at Jon, who paused mid-mouthful. He’d forgotten about that little complication, the Jon and Martin who had apparently disappeared from this place. The longer he thought about it, the more uncomfortable it made him. Jon swallowed and set down the can, which Martin noticed he hadn’t finished. “I think we will get changed.”

Tim handed them the bags and waved them toward the empty assistants’ office. “All yours.”

As they dumped the clothes out on the floor, they could hear Tim and Sasha speaking in low voices next door. Martin couldn’t make out what they were saying, although it was clear Tim was very unhappy—but at least it seemed reasonable to assume no one would be able to hear them, either.

“Jon,” Martin said after a moment, “do you think we—I mean, the Jon and Martin that—”

“Don’t think about it.” Jon was already halfway out of the clothes he’d been wearing. “Not yet. We need to get out of here. I need to—I need time. To think. And we need more rest. But not here.”

Martin couldn’t argue with that, but he also had no idea where to go. He sighed, and turned to the clothes that had been in the bag. Although he couldn’t recall if he’d owned that exact jumper, he would never have bet he didn’t. And as it turned out, the trousers fit him perfectly—he didn’t know why it surprised him. At his height, and well—general size—he’d always had a bit of trouble finding clothes that fit, so he supposed it was mostly that he didn’t want to accept they had belonged to him. A different him, that maybe no longer existed.

He sighed and turned back to Jon, half wondering why he hadn’t been hurrying him along—and found him frozen with an expression on his face that Martin placed somewhere between worry and surprise.

“Jon?”

“I’m—” Jon started to answer, but then stopped.

“Jon?” he prompted again.

“Look.” Jon held out his hand toward Martin, and he realized it held a set of keys.

“Are those—yours? Um, his?”

“They were in the trousers. A phone, too. But I—” Jon stopped again.

“Jon, are you—”

“I touched them and—Martin, I know where he lives.”

“What, like, know?” Martin pointed upward, a gesture he’d adopted a long time ago when referring to the Eye.

“Not like that. It’s different.”

As soon as Jon said it, Martin recalled the experience he’d had when they’d entered the assistants’ office, and also when he’d woken up on the sofa—memories from a place and time that he shouldn’t have had. “Oh.”

“We need to leave.” Jon was starting to sound a slight bit panicked, and Martin knew they really would need to find a way out soon.

“Ok, ok, but… where do we go?”

“Here,” Jon said, holding up the keys.

“Oh, Jon.” Martin felt a little sick; the peaches weren’t sitting well.

“I know—just—don’t think about it.”

“Look, are you sure we can even get in? I mean, if they’ve been gone for two months—”

“Tim and Sasha don’t even think there was an official police report. I’ve always had my rent—I’m—I’m sure he—”

Martin didn’t like it, but Jon wasn’t looking good. He gathered up their discarded clothes and packed them into the bags, not wanting to leave anything behind. “All right. Let’s just—tell them we’re leaving, I guess.”

It went over about as well as he expected. Tim simply threw up his arms, and even Sasha lost her composure a bit. “Are you sure? I mean—you don’t seem—even if you don’t want to talk to us, you probably should really at least go see a doctor. Can we take you?”

“I’m sorry,” Martin said. “I know—I know this has been—”

“It’s been absolutely ridiculous!” Tim cut him off. “You haven’t told us anything. What were you even doing outside in the first place? Where have you been? What happened?”

“I’m—I’m really sorry,” Martin stammered.

Sasha sighed. “What should we tell Elias?”

Martin wasn’t even touching Jon, and he still felt his body go rigid behind him. Oh god.

“Please, we’ll—we’ll check in.” He had no idea if they actually would, but it was the only thing he could think of to say. His available hand found Jon without turning around as he started to back out.

“We’ll check in,” Sasha said, as Tim continued to protest.

“Are you really just going to let them—”

Martin had an arm fully around Jon now, guiding him back out of the office.

“Tim, I really don’t know what you’d have me do here. Call the police again?”

He didn’t hear Tim’s reply, and was only vaguely aware of Rosie’s concerned stare as they made their way out.

***

They were a few blocks away when Jon nearly collapsed; Martin immediately dropped the bags of clothing he was carrying to help support him.

“Hey. Hey, look at me. You ok?”

“Martin, I don’t—I don’t think it’s Jonah.”

“Um—ok,” Martin answered.

“I don’t see how it could be. There was no—there was no mechanism here, without—it wouldn’t have worked.”

“Ok,” Martin answered again.

“But also—” Jon drew a shaky breath. “You feel it, right? That it’s—not him?”

Martin didn’t bother asking for clarification; he knew what Jon meant, although he hadn’t felt it. “I don’t know. I think—it only happens when I’m not trying.”

“Hm.” Jon was drifting again.

“Wait—wait,” Martin said. “Are you saying—are you saying actual Elias Bouchard runs the Magnus Institute?”

“Yes, I—I think so.”

“How? Why?”

“Because—because he did in our world. Sort of.”

“What does that—”

“I can’t explain it right now. I can’t—I need time. I need—” His breathing, which had slowed, was starting to pick up again.

“Ok, ok—it’s fine. Jon—you’re ok.”

“Am I?” Jon asked.

“Yes—Jon, it’s all right. Look—just get us where we’re going and I’ll—I’ll take care of you.” He shifted his grip and ran his thumb over Jon’s cheek, trying to keep him there. “I’ll take care of you. I’ll take care of you until—”

“Until what?”

“Until you feel better. I’ll take care of you until you feel better.”

“And what if I don’t? What if I never do? What if—”

Martin didn’t know what else to do; all he wanted right then was for some of the worry to leave Jon’s eyes. He pulled Jon close and pressed their mouths together; he held him there until he felt some of the tension leave his body. It wasn’t an answer; he knew Jon had only given up struggling against their situation for the moment, but that would have to be enough. That would have to get him to whatever was next.

“You will.”

Chapter Text

They made it to the flat without much trouble. It was within easy walking distance, an unimpressive one-bedroom, virtually interchangeable with anywhere Jon had ever lived. It was also just as stark, but they didn’t waste time looking around. Instead, they headed straight to the bathroom. Being clean was the only thing Martin wanted more than sleep.

He got a look at himself in the mirror for the first time. Beneath the layer of dirt and blood and whatever else that he’d expected, he noticed a dark red mark on his skin, peeking just above the neck of his jumper. He pulled down at the collar, trying to get a better look at the apparent injury, but the full line of it extended well below where he could reach without taking it off. He recalled how the shirt he’d removed earlier had been torn and bloody around the shoulder, but at the time he’d just assumed that was from Jon.

He turned on the water in the shower to let it get hot, and left Jon to undress on his own as he steeled himself for whatever he was about to find. He pulled the jumper up over his head and was finally able to view the whole thing. It was completely healed, of course, but it ran from the top of his chest back over his collar bone and partway down the right side of his back. Parts of it were smooth and barely noticeable, but there were a few parts where it looked like the skin had been torn wide open—jagged edges that had healed poorly, like they had been stitched back together without being lined up properly.

He was so engrossed in it that he startled when Jon touched his shoulder.

“Hey.” He started to turn toward him, but Jon stopped him.

“You should—here.” Jon ran a hand down Martin’s arm to a spot on his forearm, just below his elbow, where he felt around for a moment. “Right there.”

Martin touched the spot, and found a small, hard ridge that stood out from the bone. He didn’t remember that, and it didn’t match the same place on his other arm.

“What—what is that?”

“It… broke.” Jon met his eyes in the mirror. “Before we came here. I’m sorry. It was a clean break, though. Also… here.”

He touched another spot on Martin’s back, which he turned to see, craning his neck to get a good look at it in his reflection. It was another scar, left over from what would have been a very large, deep gash, about halfway down his spine.

“Wait.” Martin took Jon by the shoulders; there was no way Jon had escaped undamaged if he looked that bad. He inspected his chest, his neck, then turned him firmly to look at his back, which Jon tolerated reasonably well—better than Martin would have given him credit for, anyway. Beyond the scars he already knew about, he only found evidence of a few smaller scratches, and wasn’t sure he believed it. He kept searching.

“’Martin, I'm fine,” Jon sighed.

“I wouldn’t say that.” Martin pressed his hand pointedly to the stab wound on Jon’s chest.

“I meant”—Jon finally moved Martin’s hands away—“that I didn’t get hit when the tower went down.”

“How?” Martin asked. “I mean, look at me. How is it even possible that you—”

“Because you wouldn’t let go.”

Oh.

Martin wasn’t used to finding out he’d done something right. Once he unfroze, he was so grateful that he ended up pulling Jon into him, despite the fact that Jon wasn't dressed. Thankfully Jon welcomed it, and allowed himself to be held, even leaned into it. It felt nice to be so close, to feel Jon’s skin on his, to be relaxed and warm from the steam of the shower that had finally heated up. He could have stayed there like that for a long while, and under normal circumstances he would have insisted on it; this time, though, the need to wash up won out.

“You go first,” he told Jon as he pulled away. “I can wait.”

“Absolutely not. I don’t think we’ll stay awake long enough for that.”

“You don’t mind?”

“Oh, for god’s sake. It’s soap and water. No, I don’t mind.”

It wasn’t that he didn’t want to shower with Jon. He supposed part of him still wasn’t sure where the lines were, what would make Jon uncomfortable, although they had taken a bath together at Upton. Several, actually, just because they could. That had been a little different, though; they’d had a large garden tub and plenty of room. Plus, although he’d seemed happy enough about it at the time, he wasn’t sure Jon even remembered it.

If he’d understood what taking a functional shower together was going to be like, though, he wouldn’t have bothered worrying about it. First, there wasn’t enough room for two people to stand under the water at the same time; second, if the shower was at the right height and angle for him, it definitely wasn’t right for Jon, and vice versa. They only had one bar of soap between them, and there was a lot to scrub off. The water at the bottom of the tub ran almost black for the first few minutes. He was grateful to find that Jon was at least well enough to wash himself. Martin only helped a little with his hair because, well, he wanted to—plus it sped up his turn with the shampoo.

Martin would have been happy to go straight to sleep when they were done, but as soon as Jon sat on the bed his stomach interrupted with a noise that went well beyond a growl. “Right,” Martin said, pressing a hand to his forehead. He was still pretty hungry himself, and Jon hadn’t even finished the peaches. “You stay. I’ll go see what there is to eat.”

There wasn’t much in the cupboards, and Martin didn’t think it was possible to be hungry enough to try the fridge after it had sat for two months, but he did find a couple of ready meals in the freezer that didn’t look too bad. He heated them up and returned to the bedroom to find Jon face down with his legs tucked up beneath him, head toward the foot of the bed, in what he assumed was a failed attempt to stay awake.

He did have to keep an eye on Jon while they ate; his appetite was good, but he kept closing his eyes with the fork halfway up to his mouth. Finally, when they had eaten what they could, he set the trays aside and wrapped his arms tightly around Jon as they lay down. At least he didn’t have to worry about keeping him up.

***

The next few days were like a long fever dream. They did wake up occasionally, sometimes apart, sometimes together, for maybe an hour at a time. When they did, their top priority was more food. Martin managed to have groceries delivered, which he was quite proud of.

When they were able to accomplish anything, they left scrawled notes for each other on the single pad of paper they found on Jon’s desk. At one point, Jon completely emptied their bags of clothes again and came out with a second phone that had apparently belonged to Martin. That’s useful, Martin thought when he saw that particular note. There was another little scribble off to the side that looked like it read “wallet.” Probably also useful, Martin thought, shoveling another spoonful of cereal into his mouth.

Mostly, though, they slept. The best was when they didn’t dream. When Martin closed his eyes and he woke up and time had passed and he felt a little bit less tired, and he could look at Jon breathing deeply or even snoring a little and he could close his eyes again—that was ideal.

When he dreamed, it was usually not too bad. It was different than it had been. He knew he’d had nightmares during the apocalypse, but he never remembered them; it was always Jon who told him about them later. Here, at least, the dreams were his, and he did remember them, sometimes. Sometimes they were the same ones he’d always had, meaningless, dreams about building things or walking aimlessly through empty hallways or even the one where he forgot to show up for an exam. Those were fine.

His bad dreams, though, were bad. He relived things he hadn’t wanted to live the first time. Endless webs he couldn’t escape, filthy with spiders, while Jon read statements he couldn’t understand; there was only that voice that had never quite belonged to him and never seemed right. Then they were back in Jude Perry’s domain and Jon was burning, Jon was literally on fire and he wouldn’t save himself and Martin was too terrified to go in and drag him out. He didn’t need an interpreter for that one.

Then there was the dream where he killed Jon again, only in the dream there was no here, no somewhere else; there was no together. There was only Jon bleeding out in his arms after his flesh and muscle gave way and the knife went in. There were only his dead eyes and hands that went cold so fast, and Martin screaming for him to come back, begging him, telling him how sorry he was. He screamed until he couldn’t anymore and there were only tears left, silent gasps for air, and he was clutching at the back of a corpse that used to be Jon and he was alone; all he could feel was dead hands on his body, and when he woke, he was pushing Jon aggressively away from himself. Even when he realized he’d been dreaming, all he could see was the mark on Jon’s chest that he’d put there and he couldn’t take it, he couldn’t breathe and he had to get out, he had to do anything but stay in that room and suffocate.

Just minutes later Jon, now in a t-shirt, came in to find him on the couch with his face in his hands. Softly, so he didn’t notice at first, Jon’s hands started at his waist and made their way up his back, to his shoulders and around his neck. The weight of Jon’s body on him was enough to stop the shaking after a few minutes, and get him to where he could lift his head and speak without his voice breaking.

“Go back to bed, Jon.”

“When you do.”

He stayed a little longer, trying to slow down and match his breathing to Jon’s, until Jon began to fall asleep on his shoulder.

“Jon. Go to bed.”

“No.”

He gave up and they went back to the bedroom together. He fought to stay awake at first, but when Jon crawled to him under the covers to rest against his chest, groggy, familiar, warm, he couldn’t help himself. He slept again.

That still wasn’t the worst, though—not for Martin. The worst was when Jon dreamed. When Jon woke up it was like Martin wasn’t there. He sat and stared and waited, sometimes for seconds, sometimes for minutes, before he finally saw Martin or felt his touch—and sometimes he simply went back to sleep, and it was like Martin was never there at all.

***

They were awake; they were looking at each other. Jon reached for Martin’s face. He didn’t exactly seem happy, but his expression held maybe a broken kind of gratitude.

It was enough.

***

Sometime later, still in bed, Martin asked Jon what they were going to do.

“I don’t know,” Jon answered.

“Well… what do you want to do?”

“I still don’t know,” Jon said, this time with a wry smile.

“Fine, I get it. Can I ask you something, then? About—where we are?”

Jon’s smile faded a little. “I probably won’t know that either.”

Martin sighed. “Look Jon, I’m sorry I used you like—like post-apocalyptic Google. You don’t have to know everything, all right? Sometimes it’s ok just to talk. Figure things out instead of—”

“It didn’t bother me. I liked knowing things.”

“You miss it.”

It wasn’t a question, but Jon answered nonetheless. “Yes.”

“All right. You said once that you—that you liked feeling people’s fear, too. Do you miss that also?”

Jon paused. “Was that what you were going to ask me?”

“No.”

“Then I think I won’t answer.”

“Fair enough.” Martin didn’t know why he’d asked, because he really didn’t want to know. “Here’s what I was going to ask. You said you thought that Elias was in charge of the Magnus Institute here because—well, because he was in our world. And also just the Institute itself, and Tim, and Sasha, and… why?”

Jon screwed up his face.

“And I get that you don’t know, I just want to hear your thoughts,” Martin added.

“All right,” Jon started. “It was more a feeling—”

“That’s fine.”

Jon gave him a look and Martin held up his hands in apology. “It was more a feeling, but—when we were pulled through, the web connected the dimensions, but they weren’t—open.”

“Like… knocking on locked doors.”

“Yes? Actually?”

Martin ignored the implications of Jon’s surprise at his understanding. “And this dimension?”

“I think they got desperate. They were running out of… strength? Energy? They were dying. They couldn’t go back, and this dimension was—adjacent to ours, maybe. Nearby. Not physically, obviously, that doesn’t mean anything—”

“Ok—”

“—but there were other connections, older ones, different from the web, the tape. And this dimension was connected to ours. They've probably pulled on each other, influenced each other, maybe from the beginning. Ours may have been especially strong because of—well, never mind, I don’t know. But it was easier for them, to come here. A refuge, I suppose.”

“That—that actually makes sense,” Martin said.

“Does it?”

“I mean, as much as anything. Let’s just say I’m willing to accept it?”

“As a theory,” Jon said firmly.

“Fine, as a theory.” Martin looked at Jon. “Did you really feel all that? I didn’t—I didn’t feel anything.”

“Who knows. Maybe it was all in my head.”

“I doubt it. I just feel bad I wasn’t really there with you.”

“You were, though.”

Martin let the silence linger for a few minutes before he pressed on.

“Jon, what—what do you think happened to the Jon and Martin that were here before? Are they dead?”

“No idea.”

“I mean… it had to be because of us, right? It probably wasn’t a coincidence.”

“Probably not.”

Martin took a deep breath. “Do you think we—did we Helen them?”

“What?”

“You know—do you think we—did we trap them inside us somehow?”

“Like the distortion?”

“Yeah.”

“No. No, that’s something different. Something like that—that could only be done deliberately. And it would be awful. At any rate, we would feel it.” Jon seemed convinced of his answer, and it made Martin feel a little bit better. “But I do think… I do think we intersected with them, somehow.”

“Do you think… Is there any chance that they could come back?"

“Doubtful.” Jon shook his head. “But I—I don’t know.”

Martin accepted this, but wasn’t any closer to knowing how to feel about it. All he knew was it still made him extremely uncomfortable. It had been one thing to talk about theoretical Archivists and Martins and whatever else might exist in another dimension, but now—

“Can I ask something else?”

Jon shrugged.

“How did I get here?”

“What? You know how we got here, as much as I do.”

“I know how you got here. I’ve been thinking, and I know Annabelle”—he found he really disliked saying her name, even more than he thought he would—"said there was a chance she might be pulled along with the entities, if they left. Because—because she was—well, all web. Nothing else left.”

Martin paused, and Jon waited.

“So I don’t really want to think too much about what that means for you—I don’t—but I get it. But—how did I get here?”

Jon turned it over for a moment. “I took you with me.”

That answer was much too brief for Martin, so he pushed. “Ok, but—how? Could you have brought anyone? Like… could you have brought Basira?”

Jon laughed sharply, clearly not having anticipated the question. “No. No, just you.”

Martin sighed. “Ok, look, that’s real—romantic and all, but—how?”

Jon took so long to answer Martin thought maybe he wasn’t going to, but he finally did.

“Remember you told me that Annabelle said our bond was… complicated?”

“Yes?” Martin wondered immediately what Jon knew that he didn’t. This had I didn’t know how to tell you written all over it.

“And she talked about the Lonely.”

“Yes.”

“I didn’t realize it at first, but when I—when I came after you, it… Look, Martin, the Lonely—it’s not—people aren’t supposed to be together there. That’s the whole point of it.”

“Sure.”

“Well, it did something. To us, I mean.”

“Like?” Martin was trying his best to be patient, but he could tell that Jon was reading his irritation and starting to get flustered.

“To the entities we’re—we’re sort of—we’re the same.”

Martin saw through that explanation right away. “What you mean is that I’m an extension of you. A part of the all-mighty Archivist.”

“Well—yes. To them.”

“Great.” It made sense, though—how Martin had been able to go with Jon through all the domains, why the former archivists guarding the tower and the tunnels had left him alone, and of course, how he’d been able to come here. He turned on his back, crossing his arms over his chest, and allowed the smallest grumble to escape him.

“Martin, you know I don’t—”

“Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

“Well, like I said I didn’t realize it at first, and then—”

Martin turned his head toward Jon but kept his arms crossed, specifically to demonstrate how unimpressed he was.

“All right. All right, fine. I didn’t want you to think that was when I fell in love with you. Happy?”

Martin forgot to be annoyed. “What?”

“I didn’t want you to think—”

“No, I heard you. Why would I have thought that?”

“Because we never—I never told you before the Lonely. I didn’t really—”

“Ok, Jon? I’d be lying if I didn’t say I’m aware we’re a bit… messed up, but I know that you love me. Like, really love me. And I love you too.”

“I know, but… don’t think I’ve forgotten what you said, crises and trauma and all that.”

“Jon. I said that made us compatible. I didn’t say we don’t actually love each other, or that it was just some kind of weird fear reflex.”

Jon opened his mouth to respond, then closed it again.

“Jesus.” Martin moved toward Jon, touching a hand to his shoulder. When Jon didn’t pull away, he moved closer again, taking him properly in his arms until he knew what he wanted to say.

“Jon—you asked me once if—well, if I would gouge my eyes out and run away with you.”

“Oh, I remember.” Jon’s voice was muffled against Martin’s shoulder. “Although technically you were the one who said ‘gouge your eyes out,’ I would have settled for—”

“Yes, yes, all right—well, I would do it now.”

Jon stiffened.

“Or I mean, we could try it without the eye stuff too, you know, test it out first? But the point is—we could leave. We could just go. Jon, you’ve—you’ve suffered enough. We don’t have to stay here. We can tell them whatever you want. Or we can tell them nothing. They’re smart, though, they’ll figure it out if it comes to it, and maybe—maybe nothing will happen, maybe there won’t be an apocalypse, maybe never. Maybe they’ll even figure out something we didn’t, some way to destroy—"

“Where would we go?” Jon interrupted softly.

“Anywhere. Back to Scotland, maybe. I could work in that little country store, and you could—I don’t know, you could do nothing if you didn’t want to, you could read all those books you told me you never got around to, there’s time now—”

“Martin—”

“Or we don’t have to go there! We could go—well we don’t have to decide right away, we could just travel for a bit—”

“Martin.”

Martin stopped.

“It sounds lovely.”

“But you won’t do it.”

“No.”

He held Jon just a little tighter before letting him go. “I figured you’d say that. Thought it was worth a try, though.”

“It was worth a try.”

“So back to my original question—I guess we do know what comes next, then. Back to the Institute.”

“You don’t have to,” Jon said. “You don't have to go back. You could work somewhere else. Or not. Or you could leave, I’d find a way to—”

Martin shook his head, then pressed his forehead against Jon’s. “You know the deal, and that’s not part of it.”

“I do,” Jon sighed.

They fell into silence again, this time for a long while.

Chapter Text

Shortly after Martin’s phone flickered to life, he found a lot of messages waiting for him—and they were almost all from the same person.

     Are you ok?

     Message soon please.

     Do you need anything?

     Answer when you can.

     Still worried…

He glanced at Jon, sitting on the other side of the bed and looking through his own phone.

“Sasha been messaging you too?” Martin asked him.

“Yes. And I’ve got one from Tim.”

Martin had that one also. “Telling you to answer Sasha?”

“Yes—and calling me something I won’t repeat.”

Ok, so he didn’t have exactly that one.

“All right,” Martin said a few minutes later. “Let’s do this, then. I’ll message Sasha back.”

“Wait—what are we doing? What’s the plan?”

He typed out a simple message to Sasha telling her they were ok and he was sorry for not answering sooner. “We lie to them.”

“Hm.” Jon seemed uneasy.

“Did you want to tell them the truth?”

Jon thought. “Obviously, we can’t. It's just—”

“Exactly. And even if we did tell it to them, they wouldn’t believe it.”

Jon still looked doubtful. “Martin, I’m not sure if I—”

“Look, sometimes there are good reasons to lie. We just need to keep it simple, make sure it doesn’t get out of hand.” He read the message one more time and hit send. “Anyway, don’t act like you don’t know how. You’re actually quite good at it when you want to be.”

He didn’t mean to add that last part; it just came out, and it came out bitter. He looked at Jon again and regretted it immediately. He had come to realize he much preferred Jon’s anger to his sadness, especially when he was the cause. He opened his mouth to apologize, but as he did his phone began to buzz. They stared at each other.

“Jon, I didn’t mean that. I’m—I’m sorry—forget it, ok? I have to—hang on.”

He answered Sasha’s call on speaker, turning away to concentrate.

“Hey, Sasha.”

“Martin? Are you all right?”

“Yes. I’m sorry I didn’t answer you sooner. It’s been—”

“How is Jon, do you know?”

“Yes, he’s—he’s with me. We’re both ok.”

“Oh, thank god.” Her relief was clear, even over the speaker, and Martin felt a pang of something in his gut. He hadn’t had a moment to consider how much he’d missed Sasha, how unfair it had all been, and how much it felt like she’d somehow come back. It would have been so easy to think that way—except their Sasha was still dead, and he may very well have been responsible for the death of the person she thought she was talking to.

“You do sound better,” she continued. “Look, I really didn’t want to tell you what to do, but please tell me you went to a doctor or something?”

Martin cleared his throat, aware Jon was listening to the conversation. “We did, actually. We did end up going to the hospital. I think we were maybe in a bit of shock after all.”

“No kidding. What happened? What did they say?”

“Physically, we’re—we’re all right.” He thought about all the blood again, and decided he should add a little more. “I mean, we were very dehydrated. They put us on a drip for a bit. And—and antibiotics, just in case. But they said we’re healing well, I guess?”

“That—that’s good. What else? What about—not physically?”

“Well, they did a lot of tests. The kind where they asked a bunch of questions. They didn’t want to call it amnesia, exactly, but we’ve—we’ve got some memory loss.” Experience told him the less specific the lie, the better. “Neither of us really remembers what happened. And it’s possible—they said we might have forgotten some stuff from before, too. We don’t really know how bad it is yet.”

“Oh. That’s awful.”

Martin looked over his shoulder at Jon, who had crept closer to hear better. He nodded, and Martin turned back.

“It’s not great, but the good news is they don’t think there are any deeper issues. I mean, they’ve got us signed up for all kinds of therapy, but they don’t think there’s any—how did they say it—no lasting cognitive impairment.” Cognitive impairment was a phrase that maybe came to him too easily after caring for his mother; he felt like he was maybe pushing it a little.

“Well, that part’s good. How are you feeling, though?” Sasha asked.

“A lot better.”

“Did they feed you? Do you need anything? Can I bring you something?”

“No, that’s all right. We’re—actually, Sasha, we were wondering if we could maybe come back. To work, I mean.”

There was a moment of silence on the other end, and Martin cringed and held his breath through it; he didn’t look at Jon. He might have gone for it too soon.

“You want to come back? Already?”

He exhaled quietly, away from the phone so Sasha couldn’t hear it. “They said the more we could normalize things, it might—help? I mean, I know there might be some issues rehiring us—but maybe if Elias hasn’t replaced us yet—"

“Oh, no—you know Elias, he hasn’t even taken you off payroll. It just seems fast. Are you sure you want to?”

“Well, if you’re worried, we don’t have to come back right away.” Jon grabbed his arm and Martin frowned at him, shrugging him off. Wait, he mouthed. “I know we might not be up to our usual workload, and we’re going to have to take some time off for therapy and all… I’m really only bringing it up because they thought it would help, but it’s completely fair if you don’t want to take—”

“No! No, I don’t mind.” She sounded upset, and he felt bad. “That’s not it at all. And we could use your help, honestly, but I really don’t want to put pressure on you while you’re recovering. Do you promise you’ll let me know if it’s too much?”

“Yes,” Martin answered. “Yes, of course. Jon too.”

“Well…” said Sasha, “When are you thinking about coming in?”

Um… hang on.” He muted himself and turned to Jon.

“What do you think?” Then, before Jon answered, he added, “And do not say today. It’s already after 2 pm and that would just be weird.”

“Fine. Tomorrow, then.” Of course. He sighed.

“Sasha?” He said, unmuting the phone. “Jon says—Jon says tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow? Really?”

“Yeah. Yeah, actually. If you’re all right with it.”

There was more silence.

“And I mean Sasha, I wouldn’t—I wouldn’t mind being around people. It would be nice.” That wasn’t even a lie.

“Ok. Sure, Martin.” It had done the trick. “Take your time getting in though, ok? And get some sleep tonight.”

“Will do. Thanks, Sasha.” He hung up, and turned his head slightly in Jon’s direction. “Happy?”

“Thank you,” Jon answered, putting an arm around Martin to press his mouth briefly to his cheek. Martin couldn’t help but smile.

“Yeah, all right. Just don’t exhaust yourself. Remember, you’ve got to eat real food and sleep real sleep now.”

“Mm.” Jon was already headed out to the sitting room where his desk was.

“What did I say, Jon?” he shouted.

“Eat and sleep,” Jon shouted back.

Martin grumbled to himself.

The rest of the day was spent washing the one set of clothes that he had, and going through the phone to learn what he could about his current situation. His passwords and fingerprints opened all the apps, but that didn’t faze him anymore. He was able to figure out from email and voicemails that the apartment building where this world’s Martin had been living had indeed kicked him out, but thankfully his belongings were being held in storage. He could pay two months of back rent and a late fee if he wanted to reclaim them, although it wouldn’t be until the following week.

On top of that, Sasha had been correct that they hadn’t been taken off payroll—not only had they not been taken off, but Martin had been paid his full salary for the last two months. If he hadn’t already been convinced that Jonah Magnus was not running the institute, that certainly did it.

***

Although he didn’t successfully get Jon off the computer for it, he did manage to get him to eat most of a meal that evening at his desk. And while Jon didn’t get in bed at the same time he did, Martin was still up to hear him come in.

“Hey.”

“Sorry,” Jon said softly. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“No, that’s all right. You didn’t. I actually—something’s been bothering me. I wanted to apologize for what I said right before Sasha called today. About you. Lying. I mean, we need to talk about it—what happened—but not like that.”

Jon shifted under the covers. “I want to talk about it. I do. You deserve that. I’m just—”

“You’re not ready yet.”

“Not yet.”

“I’ll—I’ll try not to push,” Martin answered, closing his eyes again. “I want to do this right. Or at least better than we’ve been doing things. Just—you try too, ok?”

There was a moment of quiet before Jon answered. “Ok.”

***

Going back to the Magnus Institute in the morning already felt much easier than it had the first time. It didn’t hold the same sense of discontinuity—it felt less like déjà vu and more like returning to a place he had genuinely spent a lot of time. Rosie was away from her desk when they arrived; Sasha and Tim were in Sasha’s office with the door closed, and they could hear muffled conversation through the door. Jon sat at his desk, but Martin decided he’d wait for Sasha before he even pretended to do something, and sat on the sofa instead.

“So,” he asked Jon, “how are you feeling, now that you’re here?”

“Good, I suppose,” he answered. “Well, not bad, anyway. I’ll feel better once I can start looking through some of Sasha’s statements.”

“They’re not statements, Jon. I expect you’re going to be disappointed if—”

“I just meant that I’ll feel better once I have some understanding of…” He trailed off. “Why do I need a pin?”

“Hm?”

“My laptop. I need a pin.”

“Wait, didn’t you have one before?”

“No. Sasha kept telling me to set one, but—” Jon sighed. “This would be a lot easier if we could remember things about this place when we wanted to.”

A thought occurred to Martin, something they hadn’t talked about yet. “Are you going to be all right, Jon? With Sasha being the archivist here?”

“She’s not the Archivist. There is no Archivist here. Not even me, right now.” Martin could hear him typing, trying different combinations of numbers, and could also hear his frustration growing.

“Hang on, let me try a couple things before you go getting all worked up.” He got up and went to join Jon at his desk. “And no, you’re right, of course—I just meant, are you ok with her being the head archivist here? At the Institute?”

“I don’t care.” Jon leaned back from his desk so Martin could reach the number keys. “Wait—is that the sofa that Tim brought in when—”

“Yes, it is. And it was a good idea.” The pin would have to be something Jon would easily remember, and knowing Jon, probably also too easy for someone else to guess. He tried Jon’s birthday; it didn’t work. He tried the street number of Jon’s flat, and that didn’t work either. “Hmm…”

“Well, I suppose professionalism isn’t as important when your entire area of research is—”

“Jon, hush.” Last four of Jon’s phone number?... Nope. He stared down at the keys and a wild thought entered his head. No reason he couldn’t try it, though. He typed the four-digit combination and was surprised to find that it worked.

“Oh.” Jon leaned forward. “What did you type?”

“I don’t know,” Martin lied. “I was just trying things. I don’t remember what I did.”

“Well, how am I supposed to get back in next time?”

“You’re going to have to change it.”

“I don’t want to change it.”

“Sasha’s going to make you change it.”

“How is Sasha going to know that—”

“Because I just saw Martin type it in for you.” Sasha smiled at them from the door of her office.

“Hey, Sasha.” Martin let himself smile in return—it was easy, if he forgot the last four years of his life. “Thanks again for letting us come in today.”

“Honestly, I’m already wondering if it was a mistake. I told you to take your time and really, it’s first thing in the morning.”

“Well, Jon just couldn’t wait to get back,” he said, reflexively rubbing the back of his neck. “He—hang on.”

He snatched the mouse away from Jon and clicked through to the screen where he could change his pin, while Jon did his best to appear extremely inconvenienced. “Oh, stop. Type the new one, I’m not looking.”

Jon grudgingly did as Martin instructed.

“So why are you so eager to be back here, Jon?” Sasha asked.

“Oh.” Jon cleared his throat. “I, um—”

Martin interceded. “He’s actually been very concerned about—about the things that have been happening here since we were gone.”

“I’ve been thinking about that myself,” Sasha said. “I know you don’t remember anything, but the timing was just so… Do you think there might be a connection? Jon, I know you’ve always been a skeptic—”

“And I still am. I’m sure there’s a logical explanation.” Martin thought maybe Jon would catch on after all. “But it would be quite the coincidence if it were unrelated. I was actually wondering if I might review some of the notes you took during your—interviews.”

“It’s not a bad idea,” Sasha replied. “To be honest, I haven’t the slightest idea what to do with them. They aren’t exactly typical archive material. Maybe you can help me—”

“Morning, everyone.” Tim cheerfully disrupted the conversation as he slipped into the room behind Sasha. “How are we all feeling?”

“All right,” Martin answered, when no one else did.

“Great. Especially coming from you, Martin, because we are going on an adventure today.” Tim made his way to his desk and picked through a few papers.

“Oh?” Martin looked at Sasha.

“What Tim means is that if you are up for it, there were a few people who contacted us but couldn’t come in, and we haven’t had a chance to get back to them. I haven’t felt comfortable sending Tim to interview people alone, and well—it’s not really our job, and I’ve got more than enough actual work to take care of since—well, we’ve gotten a bit backed up.”

“What do you think, Martin?” Tim asked, waving the papers toward him.

“Oh, well, I—I guess I could, yeah.” He glanced at Jon, who was suddenly sitting up very straight in his chair.

“Martin, I—are you sure?”

“Yes?” Martin replied. "I think?"

“It's just that if something were to happen—”

“What—what sort of thing?”

“Yeah Jon, what sort of thing?” Tim echoed. They both turned to look at him and found him with a curious look on his face. “Oh look, if you two need to consult about this, please go ahead. Don’t mind me.”

“Yes, thank you, Tim.” Jon spoke through gritted teeth, indicating the sarcasm hadn’t escaped him. “Martin, just—come talk to me.” He stood up and took Martin by the arm, leading him out into the reception area and closing the door.

“Jon, what—”

“Martin, we have no idea what’s going on, or who or what could be out there, or—”

“Do you want Tim to go by himself?”

“Well—no, but—”

“Look.” He took Jon by the arm now. “I know we haven’t been apart since—well, not for a long time. And I know every time we have been apart, it’s been bad. But things are different now. This is different. You’ll be all right here with Sasha, and I’ll be with Tim and—”

“And with anything else that’s shown up since we got here. And if something happened, I—” Jon stopped and looked toward the floor. “I wouldn’t know about it.”

“Yeah, well, welcome back to being a normal person.” He squeezed Jon’s arm. “Look, if you’re really worried, I’ll come up with some excuse. But Jon, we’ve got to—we’ve got to try and be functional here. Plus, if you really want to figure out where things are—if you’re here going through the interviews, doesn’t it help for me to be out there? Talking to people? You know—like I used to do for you by myself all the time?”

Jon pressed a hand to his own mouth, thinking.

“Jon, I’ve got my phone.”

“Technically you had your phone when you went to look for Jane Prentiss.”

“Ok, I see why that’s not that reassuring, but do you realize how long it took for Jane Prentiss to—become what she was? And I will be with Tim, and—”

"That's not exactly comforting either.”

“Jon.” Martin sighed. “He’s just concerned. Ok, what if I—what if I look through the contact forms before I leave? Make sure I don’t recognize any names on them? Like—no bad names?”

“We don’t even know if it works like that.” Jon thought for another minute, but Martin could see his resistance starting to come down. “Look, I don’t want to—maybe I am being overprotective.”

“You think?” It didn’t really bother him to hear Jon say it; in fact, he got a bit soft knowing Jon felt that way, but it wasn’t going to help the situation to admit it.

Jon finally gave in. “All right. Do look at the names though—and if anything happens—”

“I’ll let you know right away. I won’t do anything dumb.”

“I know, it's just that I—” Jon looked up at him again. “I love you.”

“I love you too.” He leaned down for a quick kiss, which Jon returned. “I’ll be fine, ok?”

Jon nodded.

***

Despite another look from Tim, Martin did check the names as promised; there were only three for that day, and he didn’t recognize any of them. By the time they left, the thought of spending time alone with Tim made him more nervous than their actual task. He imagined that as soon as they were out the door, Tim would start peppering him with questions about where he and Jon had been, what had happened between them, or both.

As it turned out, though, their time together on the way out was quite enjoyable. Martin had forgotten how easy it was to be around Tim before everything had gotten so messed up—that Tim could make anyone comfortable when he wanted to. They took the tube out to a suburb, and on the way, they talked about the weather a little bit. They talked about a new café that had moved in down the street a few weeks ago; Tim said it was all right for an occasional something different, but nothing special. They talked about what Tim had been up to in his free time. As it turned out, his brother Danny was getting married soon to a girl Tim absolutely adored. Martin was struck with a sudden memory from this world of Danny coming to town and visiting Tim at work one day a few years ago, and he’d been amazed by how similar the two of them had been when they stood side by side.

In this world, I’ve met Danny Stoker. The urge to smile hitting alongside that awful catch in his throat was becoming a strangely familiar feeling here.

Martin really didn't think there wasn’t anything to their first two interviews, at least not anything related to the fears. Once they finished up with those, Tim made a phone call to their third interviewee, and announced they were headed back to central London. He didn’t want to meet at home, but he was willing to meet them somewhere public; Tim arranged to meet him at a deli not far from the Institute. The ride back was pleasant enough, if a bit quieter.

“It’s getting late,” Tim said, after glancing at his phone. “We have time to eat first, if you’re up for it.”

“Yeah, sure.”

Martin was pretty hungry again by the time they sat down with their food. He supposed he’d missed being able to enjoy food, but having to eat multiple times a day was sort of annoying when it came down to it. He was just wondering if he should send Jon a reminder to eat, when he realized Tim was staring at him; he hadn’t touched his sandwich yet.

“Everything ok?” he asked.

“What happened?” Tim asked. “To you and Jon.”

“Oh, I—” Martin swallowed the bite in his mouth. “I assumed Sasha told you. We don’t—”

“Don’t remember.” Tim cut him off. “Really, though? Like—nothing?”

Well, here goes. “Really. Nothing.”

Tim regarded him thoughtfully. “We looked for you. Me and Sasha, we looked everywhere, for weeks. Well, everywhere we could think of.”

“Tim, I’m—I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” That was the truth. In fact, he was sorrier than he was going to be able to explain.

“Sasha took it really hard, you know?” Tim said. “I mean, you were at work when it happened. She felt responsible. Like it was her fault.”

That sounded familiar.

“It wasn’t,” Martin replied. “It wasn’t her fault. It had nothing to do with her.”

“I told her that. Every day. I don’t think it made any difference, though. And I’m sure it hasn’t really sunk in yet that you’re back.” Tim picked a small piece of crust from his sandwich bread and chewed it carefully before swallowing. “It almost seems impossible, doesn’t it? If you look at it from our perspective, I mean.”

“How so?”

“You were gone for two months, you left no sign of what had happened or where you were—and then you just show up again one day, covered in blood and making out on the landscaping.”

“We were not making out,” Martin snapped.

“You were too,” Tim answered. “What’s that about, anyway?”

Martin didn’t answer him.

“Look, I have no idea what happened, and I’ll admit I’ve always wondered if you maybe had a thing for him. I mean, the man’s always been a bit of a wreck, and I’ve watched you defend him and take care of him ever since we all started working together. And it’s not like you got along that well, but I know you and it just seems like the kind of thing you’d go for. But I never thought—”

“So you're saying you don't like Jon?”

“What? No, I like him just fine. You know that. I'm just saying that it seems like a big change after two months.”

“Tim, it’s complicated, and I don’t know how to explain it. You don’t—you don’t know what we’ve been through. What he’s been through, or what he’s—”

“I thought you didn’t either.”

Martin’s heart skipped, and then beat double to make up for it. “I just meant—look, I don’t know what happened, but I—I feel things I can’t explain. And I can say that it feels like it’s been a lot longer than two months since—since we've been gone.”

“Is that so?” Tim asked. “Just tell me. Do you not remember, or do you actually not remember?”

“I—I really don’t remember.”

“Right.” Tim said. “Well in that case, I believe you”—he paused to make large air quotes— “and I definitely won’t keep asking.”

“Tim—”

“It’s fine,” Tim said as he finally took a large bite of his sandwich, then continued with his mouth full. “Whatever happened, I am glad you’re back—and whenever you’re ready to talk about it, I’m here.”

As hungry as he had been when he’d sat down, Martin couldn’t touch the rest of his sandwich; he wanted so badly to tell Tim the truth in that moment. Instead, he sat in silence and watched him eat.

A short time later, Tim grabbed a napkin to wipe his mouth. “I think that’s him. Our interview.” He raised a hand toward someone coming through the door behind Martin.

“What was the name again?” Martin asked as he turned around.

“Hang on—” Tim pulled out one of the contact forms. “Here we go. Antonio Blake.”

Wait. Wait, there was something familiar about that name—shit. He’d thought about it too quickly that morning.

“You’re—you’re Oliver Banks,” he said to the man now standing directly in front of him. He’d completely forgotten about the alias he'd used when he'd given his statement.

Jon is going to lose it when I have to tell him this.

Oliver looked suspiciously from him to Tim and back again. “I didn’t—how did you know that?”

“I—I don’t know. It just came to me. Maybe we met somewhere before.” 

Tim gave him a look. “You know him?”

“Not—not really. Please, sit.”

Oliver continued to hesitate.

“Look—I am sorry, I didn’t mean to—I’m Martin Blackwood, from the Magnus Institute. This is Tim Stoker.”

Tim stood up and offered his hand in that easy, open manner he had, and Oliver tenuously accepted it.

“Please,” Martin said. “We’d like to hear whatever you have to say. It might be important. Maybe we could—maybe we could help.”

He didn’t feel great about himself for adding that last part.

Oliver slowly pulled out the third chair at the table and sat down. Martin didn’t know what he’d expected him to be like, but somehow this wasn’t it. He felt sad for this man. He looked so tired, but at the same time so ready to run. He reminded Martin a bit of Jon, actually, during the year after Jane Prentiss had come to the institute and before they’d realized that Sasha had been murdered. He supposed that made a lot of sense, the more he thought about it.

Tim spoke again. “You didn’t leave a lot of detail in your message, so—do you want to just walk us through what happened to you?”

“Well…” Oliver looked from one to the other of them again. “I’m really not sure you’ll believe me. To tell the truth, I’m not sure anymore that I’m not going crazy. I’ve—I’ve not been sleeping much, and it’s…” he trailed off.

“You don’t want to sleep because you don't want to dream.”

Oliver focused again on Martin with renewed suspicion.

“It’s all right.” Martin said. “I just want you to know that I’ll believe you. If you want to tell us.”

They sat in silence for several minutes. Martin didn’t want to say anything that might send Oliver back out the door, and Tim followed his lead. Finally, Oliver spoke, quietly enough that it took some effort to hear him.

“It was a dream. Or it started with a dream. The first time, I dreamed that I was walking near Canary Wharf—I used to have a job there years ago, and—well, I don’t need to get into that, do I… The point is, I know the area. There were people around me, people I don’t actually know, like happens in a dream, but they all had these—I don’t know—tendrils.” He paused and made a motion with his hands, like he was holding something heavy. “I don’t really have another word for it. Like snakes, almost, but not alive like snakes. Just tendrils, everywhere, and they went through these people—like their hearts, or their heads, or around them somewhere. I really didn’t like it, you know, but also I think I knew I was dreaming. Everything was sort of pulsing and—and I was trying to ignore all of it, but when I headed home in the dream… Well, it was my landlady. She had lots of them, like black veins, running into her chest, or her lungs, really, somehow I knew it was her lungs. I woke up not long after that.”

Martin tried to keep his expression neutral. This was so much like the statement Oliver had made years ago in their world, to Gertrude, but it was also so different. Most obviously, it wasn’t a statement at all, it was just Oliver talking. That made sense. There was no Archivist here, either with them or in general, which Jon had so intently pointed out that morning. The words weren’t just pulled out like Martin was used to, thank god. And certainly, the people Oliver had first dreamed of in the other world would have passed years earlier. The basic story, though, was the same.

“OK.” Tim nodded, scratching down some notes. “And—is there more?”

“Well, the thing is—not even two weeks later, she—she died. Lung cancer. It was sudden. Undiagnosed. I’d almost forgotten about the dream, to be honest, but that… it shook me.”

“Understandable.” Tim nodded again. “So you think your dream was a—a premonition? Like seeing the future?”

“Well, I mean—of course I was sort of struck by it, that day, but after a little time, it didn’t seem like such a big thing. She smoked her whole life. I know sometimes people know things they aren’t really conscious of, and maybe I just—knew she was sick. But then it happened again. A man at the bakery near the shop where I work now. I barely knew him. It was his heart. And I—I dreamed it again. The whole thing. A week before it happened. And I just started wondering if—if every person I see in that dream—”

Tim frowned and looked toward Martin, which prompted Oliver to do the same.

“What do I do?” Oliver asked, visibly jittery now, whether from nerves or too much coffee or not enough sleep, or maybe all three. “I thought maybe you would—know something about this. Maybe you’ve heard of something like it before. Do you think—do you think I could help them? If I found them, if I talked to them—”

“No,” Martin answered. “I mean, I have heard of it before, and—no. You can’t help them. I’m—I’m sorry.”

Oliver worried at his lip. “I was thinking that maybe—if I keep trying to stay awake—”

“No.” Martin shook his head. “You—you should know it’s not your fault. You're not causing it. And if you sleep, or if you don’t sleep, they’ll still—they’ll still die.”

Oliver nodded his head, digesting the information. “So I can’t do anything. I just get to know they’re going to die, and I can’t do anything about it.”

“I’m sorry.” Martin wondered what he would have said if he’d had time to think about it. Would it have been any different? Would he have thought of something better to say, something that didn’t fall so flat the moment it left his mouth, something that could have actually helped?

Would Jon have said something better?

“All right,” Oliver replied softly, bringing Martin back from his thoughts as he stood up from his chair. “Thank you for listening, anyway.”

"Y—you don't have to leave. If you—if it would help to talk some more."

Oliver shook his head. "I think I'd rather be alone."

“If you need anything—if we can help—you know where to find us.”

Martin wasn’t sure if Oliver even heard him.

“What the hell was that?” Tim asked loudly, once Oliver was out of sight.

“Nothing,” Martin answered.

“That wasn’t nothing. You knew that man. You knew what he was going to say.” Tim pointed at the door, waving his finger for emphasis. “And then you—”

“Tim, I can’t explain it right now.”

He turned his finger on Martin. “I don’t know what’s going on, but I don’t like this.”

“I’m sorry. I wish—” His phone, which he had set on the table, buzzed at him. It was a message from Jon, asking if everything was ok. “Let’s go back now, all right?”

Tim shook his head in disbelief. They didn’t speak on the walk back.

***

Jon jerked up from his desk when they walked in, which was now covered in numerous hand-written notes and manila folders. Martin suspected he’d maybe been taking an unintentional nap. “How did it go?”

“Fine,” Martin answered. “Did you eat?”

“Not—not yet.”

“Here,” Martin said, tossing the rest of his sandwich onto Jon’s desk. “I didn’t finish it.”

“Oh.” Jon peeked under the wrapper. “You barely ate this at all. Are you sure you don’t—”

“Yes.”

“All right, well—thank you.” Jon took a quick bite and set it aside as he resumed reading.

“Well?” Tim said.

Martin ignored him.

“Are you going to tell him about your friend?”

“What friend?” Jon asked, eyes still on the paper in front of him.

“I didn’t catch his name, actually,” Tim replied. “But I do know it wasn’t”—he pulled out the now-crumpled contact form— “Antonio Blake.”

“What?” Jon immediately stopped what he was doing.

“Jon—”

“You saw Oliver Banks.”

“Oliver Banks.” Tim deliberately overpronounced the name. “That’s right. Thank you, Jon.”

“Tim—”

“How could you miss that?” Jon stood up.

“It was fine! Nothing happened. I would have—”

Jon didn’t even need to speak to cut him off; the look in his eyes was enough. “We need to talk.”

“Please,” Tim cut in. “One of you talk, at least.”

“In private. Come on,” Jon said, once again taking Martin by the arm. Rosie was back at her desk now, but Sasha had temporarily stepped out, and they spoke in her office with hushed voices, without bothering to turn the light on.

“Jon, it really was fine, I—”

“Stop.” Jon reached up to take Martin’s face in his hands. “It’s ok. I just want to know what happened.”

“Nothing, really. He—he’s had a couple dreams, that’s all. He wanted to talk about it. He wanted to know if there was anything he could do to—to help them. I told him he couldn’t. I felt bad for him.”

Jon closed his eyes and breathed out, then opened them to look at Martin again.

“Jon, I don’t see what the big deal is. I mean, what does he even do? He sees people’s deaths, and wakes up other people’s”—he paused— “Archivists.”

“It’s not funny. Or that simple.” Jon let go and turned to face the wall. “Martin what if—what if he had seen your death?”

“Well then—at least I’d know? I guess?”

“Or what if he’d seen Tim’s? Or—or mine?”

Martin could sort of see Jon’s point then—but only sort of. “Ok, but—I still think we weren’t really in any danger. Yes, I messed up, and I should have caught that, but—”

“It’s too dangerous,” Jon interrupted. “You can’t do this again without me. And—and neither can Tim.”

“Oh really,” Martin responded. “And why do you—”

“It’s not just Oliver,” Jon broke in again. “I found some things in the—in the interviews Sasha did. Do you remember the thing we called the Anglerfish?”

“Yes?”

“And do you remember Laura Popham?”

“Um—”

“She went caving with her sister and—”

“Oh, right. Lost John’s Cave.”

“They were in there, in the interviews. Already. In just two months.”

 Martin was starting to understand Jon’s reaction.

“And I was hoping it was just those sorts of things,” Jon continued, “and no… avatars, but if Oliver Banks is already connected to the End—”

“I see.” Martin stepped closer to Jon to put an arm over his shoulder. “All right, I get it. Things are happening fast.”

“Well, most things.” Jon sounded a little put out.

“Wait.” Martin almost laughed, but not because he found it funny. “Wait, are you upset because you aren’t connected to the Eye yet?”

“Upset isn’t the right—”

“Now who’s jealous of Oliver Banks?”

“Technically that would be envy, not jealousy—”

“Technically yes, but that isn’t the—”

“—and I’m not,” Jon finished. “I just—I feel like I know it’s coming. I’d like to get it over with.”

“Right.” Martin rolled his eyes, but only because Jon couldn’t see it in the dim office. “So what do we do now?”

“First, if there are more interviews to be done, they could be important, but—we do them together. You and me.”

“There are. And fine. If Sasha is ok with it.”

“And then I keep going through Sasha’s notes. And then I go back before that, just to—”

“Jon, you’re going to exhaust yourself.”

“Then I do.”

“No. It doesn’t do anyone any good if you—”

They were interrupted by Sasha’s voice.

“Jon? Martin?”

“Yes,” Jon answered. “Sorry, I needed to speak with Martin, so we borrowed your office.”

“That’s fine, but you didn’t need to do it in the dark,” she said, switching on the light. “So I was just talking to Tim, and it sounds like today was eventful?”

“That’s not exactly what I said, but I suppose that’s the polite version.” Tim followed her into the office.

“Well, I have something to report, too.” Sasha sat down behind her desk. “I know I said I was going to get back on regular archive things today, but… well, let’s just say I got curious, and may have found a back door on the web to access certain matters of official police business.”

“Really?” Tim said, impressed. “That almost sounds like someone’s misbehaving.”

“I’d feel bad about it, but let’s also say I wasn’t too pleased with the way a certain missing persons case was handled.”

“Good for you.”

“Thank you, Tim.” Sasha did seem very pleased with herself. “But that brings me to my next point. Tim, I know you have some… contacts at some of the local police stations who might be able to—supplement the information I’m getting? I could use your help with that.”

“Sure, boss,” Tim said. “And that should work perfectly, actually, because I believe Jon was just getting ready to forbid Martin from going on any more interviews.”

“That is not—” Jon took a deep breath and started over. “I would like to go with Martin on any further interviews, if that’s agreeable.”

“I mean—that’s fine, and I certainly don’t want anyone going out alone,” Sasha answered, “but what about catching up with everything here? It seemed like you felt that was pretty important.”

“I’d like to keep doing that too. I might need to put in a few extra hours.”

Sasha sighed. “I was afraid you’d say that. Maybe? Let’s see how you’re doing next week.”

“Sasha, I’m—”

“—already worn out, and a very bad judge of your own health.” Martin nodded in agreement, and shrugged without sympathy when Jon glared at him. “For the rest of this week, if you come in, you’ll both stay here. Jon, you can keep going through my notes, and Martin—would you mind helping me catch up on some of the filing and patron requests? I don’t even want to think about how far behind we are. Those other interviews have waited this long, they’ll wait a few more days. Especially if Tim is able to help follow up with the police angle.”

“Of course,” Martin answered. Even if Jon didn’t think he needed to take it a little bit easy, Martin was more than willing to acknowledge his own limitations—and sometimes Jon’s, even if it wasn’t appreciated. “Oh, and Sasha—we’ve got therapy tomorrow morning, so we’ll probably be a little bit late.”

“Good,” Sasha replied. “And for now, don’t take any of those notes home, Jon.”

Jon stared daggers at Martin, but he didn’t regret it—especially not after Jon fell asleep on him on the couch during dinner a few hours later.

Chapter Text

Martin convinced Jon to spend their “therapy time” the next morning at the store. In addition to picking up more substantial amounts of food, he needed a few pieces of clothing to make it through until he could get his stuff (well, sort of his stuff) from storage the following week. Plus, while trying on a shirt he wasn’t sure about, he realized he desperately needed razors. He hadn’t thought about it much, but the hair on his face had stopped growing during the apocalypse, and now the beard that had always been too patchy for his liking was coming back with a vengeance. He joked with Jon that between having to eat every day and shave, there were some things about the apocalypse that had been pretty convenient.

Jon didn’t seem in the mood for the joke.

He tried to avoid looking over Jon’s shoulder too much over the next few days; he didn’t want to get on his nerves any more than he already was, and it was just easier if he wasn’t around to find things to get worried about. It turned out not to be that difficult. Sasha hadn’t been exaggerating about being behind on the archiving work. There were several carts full of items waiting to be processed and returned to the shelves, not to mention a folder full of requests from researchers that had to be pulled and prepared for viewing or to be checked out. A few boxes had also come in from patrons for archiving; there was one, Martin noted with distaste, marked “Lukas.” The more familiar Martin got with the material in those boxes, the more he realized that the Institute’s existence had always depended on self-important human beings with money, and not so much on the interference of fear entities.

At any rate, he kept busy, and only saw Jon at work when he brought him tea in the afternoons. Tim wasn’t around during those hours—Martin assumed he was out investigating the police activity Sasha had stumbled onto—so they were able to talk in relative privacy. Jon told Martin about a few more familiar stories in Sasha’s notes, but there was nothing that suggested the existence of other avatars. Martin told him about the Lukas files; Jon sighed, then commented that he wasn’t sorry Sasha had to deal with the Lukas family instead of him.

Their evenings were short that week. Martin cooked at night; he wasn’t great at it, but he knew enough to make some simple meals that were filling and didn’t need a lot of prep. They sat and ate together, largely in silence, but it didn’t feel like a bad thing. Jon managed to eat everything on his plate, and Martin hadn’t seen him do that for a very long time, if ever. He took it as an unspoken thank you when Jon leaned into him afterward, closing his eyes and gradually sinking to rest his head on his lap. He nodded off while Martin finished eating, his food balanced on the arm of the couch so he wouldn’t disturb him.

He was conflicted. It hurt to see Jon so worn out. As much as Jon’s power had terrified Martin in the end, it hurt to see him without it now. Not that Jon would admit it or talk about it, but Martin could only imagine he must feel more helpless than ever.

On the other hand, it felt nice to take care of him. Jon had never really allowed it to this extent before, and Martin liked it. He knew it was selfish, but he couldn’t help it. It felt like Jon needed him, actually needed him, and that felt good. Martin liked the weary relief in his eyes when he brought him tea. He liked that he ate the food he made for him; he liked that he didn’t protest when Martin brushed the hair back from his face while he dozed off afterward. He liked that Jon let him help him out of his clothes when it got so late that he finally had to wake him for bed.

He liked Jon’s helplessness, he realized. He did not like that he liked it.

***

Although he hadn’t fully thought it through, Martin had been vaguely looking forward to the weekend. He woke up around the same time he always did, but with no plans to get out of bed. The sun grew bright behind the blinds while he watched Jon sleep, and even though he wasn’t tired, he stayed. It wasn’t because he didn’t want to risk waking Jon; given how hard that was right now, he doubted he could do it accidentally. Instead, he stayed because it was finally sinking in that he had never expected to have this kind of time with Jon again, where they could be warm in bed and feel safe and just exist together. He stayed simply because he could.

When Jon began to stir, Martin moved closer to coax him back sleep. It worked for a little while, their legs tangled up together, Jon’s face sheltered from the daylight against Martin’s neck—but eventually, he did wake up.

“What time is it?” Jon’s words were barely intelligible, lost in the collar of Martin’s shirt.

“It doesn’t matter,” he answered.

That had the opposite effect of what he’d intended; Jon sat up abruptly, pulling away to look around in confusion at the growing light. “It’s late.”

“I thought you could use the sleep.” Martin watched as Jon rubbed his eyes and turned to push his feet slowly over the edge of the bed.

“I’m sure I could.”

“Well, then… stay?” Martin reached over and placed a hand on the small of Jon’s back. “You heard Sasha—you are not allowed in the office again until Monday.”

“And I’m sure she meant well.”

“Jon, what are you—”

“I might have brought some of her notes home with me.” Jon stood up, leaving Martin’s hand to fall to the bed. He made an uncomfortable face as his back popped. “I… pulled a few things from the archives as well.”

Martin frowned. “Did she say you could?”

“She didn’t say I couldn’t.”

“And let me guess, you forgot to ask.”

“Martin, I know you’re looking out for me, and I really do appreciate it, but I’m worried. I’m worried about what we don’t know.” Jon exhaled shakily, and Martin realized he wasn’t going to win.

“Fine.” He threw the covers off himself as well. “I don’t suppose there’s any chance I could talk you into getting breakfast first?”

Jon looked at Martin for a long moment, trying to decide what to say.

“Right. Never mind.”

“I’m sorry. I… Thank you, Martin. For understanding.”

Martin just nodded as Jon headed out of the bedroom with clothes in hand. What exactly was I picturing, anyway? he asked himself. Eggs and bacon and mimosas, a day on the couch? Of course, that was ridiculous.

He put on a pair of trousers.

“Jon?” he called. “I’ll make some porridge, and then I’ll—I’ll help.”

“It’s all right,” Jon called back. “You can sleep.”

“I don’t want to sleep. I wanted you to sleep, but I guess that’s off. So food, and then—well, what can I do?” He stopped into the sitting room on his way to the kitchen. “Maybe I can read something for you?”

Jon looked put out for a moment, but quickly shook it off. “Yes. Yes, of course. I’ll—I’ll pull some things for you to go through.”

“Ok.” Martin headed to the kitchen, feeling comforted that he could be helpful. Maybe Jon would even agree to take Sunday off.

Of course, it didn’t go that way. In fact, the next morning Jon set an alarm on his phone for the first time since they had been there. Martin was already up, trying to let Jon sleep, and the cheerful little alarm tune left him with a disproportionate sense of rejection. He pushed it down, though, and tried to remember what Jon was going through.

Again, he volunteered to help, and again Jon gave him a stack of papers. He made tea; he made sure Jon ate and stood up every now and then. He sat on the couch and leaned over the coffee table to write while Jon sat at his desk. He took notes on anything that sounded vaguely familiar or might help them understand the state of things.

At least he’s letting me help, he told himself. He stayed convinced of it most of the day, until it was almost time for supper. He started to ask Jon what he wanted to eat, and realized he’d fallen asleep. When he got up to wake him, he happened to look down at what Jon had been reading—and recognized one of the files he’d worked on the day before.

“Jon.” Martin touched his shoulder, and Jon sat up immediately.

“Hm?”

“Why were you going through that one? I read it already.”

Jon looked down at the paper in front of him, trying to remind himself of what it said. “Oh, I—I must have forgotten. Put it in the wrong pile, I mean.” He pushed it up onto another pile.

“No, you didn’t.” Martin pointed to a notepad also directly in front of Jon, which he had clearly been taking notes on before he fell asleep. “It says right there that I looked at it, and it didn’t tell us anything we didn’t already know.”

“I suppose I was—double checking.” Jon didn’t meet his eyes, and his words landed like a punch to the gut.

“You—you’re re-reading everything I did.”

“I’m being cautious.”

Something finally snapped.

“That’s it.” Martin reached out and grabbed a stack of notes, pulling them away. “This isn’t good for you. You can’t keep going like this.”

“Martin—”

“No.” He pulled an empty folder off the desk, cramming the notes inside it, trying not to look as childish as he felt. “Even if you won’t admit it, you don’t have the strength for this. You’re going to have to learn to take breaks, and you’re going to have to accept help. Even if it’s just from me.”

He hadn’t intended to sound so hurt, but it was clear from Jon’s expression that he had.

“That’s not fair.”

“What is?” Martin demanded, waving the folder in the air. “Jon, at some point, you have to stop feeling responsible for everything. There’s no apocalypse here, and maybe there never will be.”

“Yes, but there was, and there could be—”

 “We’ve been through this. None of it was ever your fault, and I don’t—”

Jon stood up, ignoring a piece of paper that slipped off the desk as he did. “This is all because of me, because of things I did. Things I chose. If I hadn’t—”

Their voices grew louder and more insistent as they interrupted each other.

“No, it isn’t! And I mean—I know you’ve convinced yourself it’s going to happen because you want it so bad, but what if you never connect to the Eye again? What if it doesn’t want you anymore?” Those weren’t the words he’d intended to use, but they worked. “Or—here’s an idea—what if you tried to let it go? Would it be so awful, to just live like—”

“No! I won’t let it go. I can’t. The fears wouldn’t be here if I had just—”

Jon cut himself off this time, and the unexpected silence was painful, much worse than the shouting.

“If you had just what?” Martin asked quietly.

Jon looked down at the floor in an attempt to surrender, to leave well enough alone, but Martin didn’t accept. “I didn’t ask you to save me, you know. You could have let me die.”

Jon looked as stricken as Martin felt. “That’s not what I was going to say.”

“But it’s true, isn’t it? Why didn’t you just let me go, if surviving was such a terrible option?”

Jon didn’t answer.

“Look, if you were so determined to do it—to burn the world down, march everyone to their deaths—you would have had to feed me to it eventually. That’s how it worked, right?” Martin was pouring salt in wounds now, his and Jon’s, and it all stung the same. His eyes burned with tears he refused to let fall. “And while we’re talking, you could have just told me what you were going to do. And yes, I would have gone along kicking and screaming the whole time, but it’s not like there was anything I could have actually done to stop you. Why did you lie to us? Why did you lie to me?”

Jon collapsed weakly back into his chair. “It wasn’t meant to be a lie.”

“What does that mean?” Martin rubbed at his eyes with his forearm.

“When I said it, I intended to do it. I intended to go along with what you all decided. I thought I could.”

“And?”

“I couldn’t sleep,” Jon said. “It felt wrong. It was wrong.”

“You could have woken me up, Jon! We could have talked about it.”

“I tried.”

Martin took a small step back. “What?”

“I tried to wake you. You were having another nightmare, and I—I couldn’t. I had to watch. I had to sit there again, knowing how terrified you were, trapped in it, just like it had happened again and again and again, and I hated them for it. But then… I realized I could stop it.”

“Wait—stop what? The nightmares?”

“They were part of it too, weren’t they? They were fear.” Jon’s eyes were wide now, his pupils dilated and unfocused. “I could have stopped them.”

“But letting the entities go would have—”

“But I could hurt them. I could hurt the things that did it to you, that made you suffer. It didn’t matter if you hated me. It didn’t matter if you couldn’t stand the sight of me, because I could—I could still protect you. And in that moment, it made sense. It felt right.”

Martin’s blood ran cold. “Jon.”

Jon refocused on Martin. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“That’s—you would have just been giving my nightmares to someone else.”

“You didn’t deserve them. And once it was done, no one else would ever have to—”

“Jon, I—” Martin swallowed. “I couldn’t have lived like that. I—I didn’t tell you, because I just kept hoping—I was going to ask you to kill me. If—if we got stuck there. In that world.”

Jon sat up straight in his chair, and Martin realized it was the first time the thought had ever occurred to him. “Kill you?”

“Like—like you did with the other avatars. I didn’t want to live in that world, like that. Living off other people’s fear. Trading mine for theirs. That’s—that’s awful.”

“It wouldn’t have mattered if you had asked. I wouldn’t have done it.” Jon shook his head decisively. “I don’t even know if the Eye would have let me. Losing you would have destroyed me. I would have—”

“What?” Martin wasn’t sure he wanted to hear the rest, but he had to. “You would have what?”

“If I had lost you, I—I would have been the same as Jonah Magnus. There would have been nothing left of me. You were the only thing that—”

“So that was it, then. You needed me so you could destroy the world.” Heat rushed back into Martin’s face. “Extension of the Archivist and all that rubbish. That’s why you wouldn’t let me die.”

“No!” Jon slammed his palms down onto the desk in front of him before standing up again. “No, that’s not why. I just meant that the Eye wouldn’t—”

“Jon, you were planning on keeping me like—like a pet!”

“That is not what I said. Stop telling me what I said.”

“How is it different? You just said you didn’t care if I hated you. You wanted me to leave you there, by yourself, while everything went to shit. Just as long as you could—what, check in on me from time to time, make sure I was having pleasant dreams?” He choked back an angry sob. “Why was it ok for you to leave me, but if I—”

“You don’t understand!” Jon pressed both hands to the desk and sent everything that remained there flying. “You can’t understand because you’re not the one who—who—"

Jon stopped and took a deep breath. They stared at each other.

“We’ve been through this. There’s no point.”

Martin watched as he walked to the closet, opened it, took his coat out and began to put it on.

“Jon, wait.” He felt awful. “Where are you going?”

“Out.”

“But where?”

“Just out.”

“You—you haven’t even eaten, you’ve got to be hungry. What if—” Jon continued to button up his coat as if he wasn’t listening at all. “Fine. Fine, go out then. I could—I could use some time alone.”

Jon froze, then his shoulders slumped. He started to undo the buttons on his coat. Martin had never seen him break so quickly.

“Jon, I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Didn’t you, though?”

“No, of course not. I really just meant…” He thought carefully about his next words. “I meant that I could use some time by myself, but that’s not the same as… you know. Honestly. I could—I could try writing. It’s been forever since I’ve even thought about it.”

Jon didn’t answer, but he did stop unbuttoning his coat.

“Jon, it’s… people can be apart sometimes. They should be apart sometimes. It’s—it’s normal.”

“We’re not normal,” Jon said, finally turning to face Martin.

“Couldn’t we try?”

They looked at each other from across the room, the floor littered with notes and files and folders. The anger had gone from the room; it had been replaced by uncertainty.

Jon finally answered. “If I go… If I go, do you promise to be here when I get back?”

Martin hesitated. He wanted to, but something didn’t feel right.

“No,” he finally answered. “No more promises. We’re awful at them.”

Jon opened his mouth to respond, but then closed it again. He nodded slowly.

“But I will be here, because—because I want to be. Is that enough?”

“Yes. That’s enough.”

And then Jon was gone.

***

Hours later, well after dark, Martin woke on the couch to the sound of the key turning in the lock. He sat up, and could see Jon’s dim outline as he closed the door behind himself.

“Jon?”

“Yes.” He thought he heard relief in Jon’s voice, but maybe he just wanted to.

“Are you—ok?”

“I am.” Jon came around to the couch, but when Martin started to move his legs off the other cushions so Jon could sit, he stopped him. He sat down on the edge of the cushion in front of Martin instead.

“Where did you go?” Martin asked, before he realized Jon might not want to tell him. “I mean, if you—”

“The pub down the street.” Martin recognized the self-deprecating amusement in his voice.

“The pub.” Martin repeated. “You—drank?”

“No.” Jon sighed. “Well, I had one drink. And a few cigarettes. And… and I ate.”

“You ate.”

“You were right. I was hungry.”

“Ok then.” Martin started to laugh, quietly, in disbelief. “I hate to say it, but maybe get mad at me more if you’re just going to go out and take care of yourself?”

Jon shook his head, at himself and at Martin’s comment. “Did you write?”

Martin shook his head now too. “I tried, but I wasn’t really feeling it. I did listen to some music, though. I started wondering if all the songs here are the same as where we came from.”

“Oh.” Jon tilted his head visibly in the near-dark. “Well… are they?”

“Yeah.” He felt around for his phone. “I mean, I think so. I didn’t come up with any songs I couldn’t find, at least. But it’s weird when you start listening for differences in specific ones. I mean, I’d hear something that maybe sounded a little off? And then I’d listen to it again, and I couldn’t decide if it was always that way or if it really is different here. Like, just a note or two, not really enough to—my phone’s on the table, can you—”

Jon handed his phone to him, and in the process their fingers brushed together. It sent a little shiver down Martin’s spine, and it took a moment to understand what had happened; he never noticed little things like incidental touches anymore, but this one surprised him. He forgot about the phone and reached for Jon instead, cautiously, until he was sure Jon was reaching back for him. They came together in a hesitant kiss, but it was followed by others that grew quickly in their intensity. Martin wrapped an arm tightly around Jon’s waist, pulling them both down; Jon’s hand pressed against the back of his head, fingers curling into his hair, drawing him close. Each time one of them started to pull away, the other encouraged them back. They kissed each other until they were out of breath.

“I’m sorry,” Jon said, once he had recovered enough to talk. “I’m so sorry. You were right. I said awful things—”

“No.” Martin stopped him with one more brief kiss. “I’m sorry. I'm glad you talked to me. I was trying not to push, I wanted to give you space, I don’t know why I can’t—”

“You were fine. You—you were good.” Jon shifted so he could lie comfortably in Martin’s arms, and laid his head against his chest. “I’m the one who can’t have conversations.”

“Well, it doesn’t help if I start yelling about it as soon as you try.”

Jon’s shirt had become completely disheveled, and before Martin realized he was doing it, his hand had migrated up Jon’s side to the scar on his chest. Jon made a half-hearted attempt to turn and move it away, but when Martin didn’t yield easily, he didn’t fight him on it.

“Are you all right?” Jon asked.

“Yeah.” Martin pressed his face against the top of Jon’s head, breathing in familiar comfort. “You?”

Jon nodded.

They slept on the couch that night.

Chapter Text

The only word Martin could think of to describe the way he felt that morning was hangover. He woke up even earlier than usual and extricated himself from beneath Jon, who was oblivious to the outside world. At least they had managed to communicate something, although it wasn’t the way he would have preferred to do it. At least they had made up, although he knew the actual fallout likely remained to be seen; arguments like that always seemed to twist their way back around.

He was still processing everything Jon had told him, and not for the first time wished he knew what had come from Jon on that last day, and what had come from something that wasn’t Jon. Martin still couldn’t believe he'd wanted to destroy the world—not really. The idea that everything might have been different, that he might have been able to save Jon from that decision if he had just woken up that night, was hard to process. On the other hand, now that they were here, he had a new appreciation for Jon’s insistence on not letting the fears out. It was bad enough that they were responsible for the end of just two people in one dimension. The damage wasn’t just theoretical, and of course Jon had likely understood the possibilities in a way Martin couldn’t have before.

If he was being very, very honest, though, the thing that hurt the most was what Jon would have been willing to do to him. Before, it had felt like abandonment; Jon had been willing to leave him. Martin's hurt had been that simple, and that selfish. It wasn’t that he didn’t rationally understand how it could be reasonable, or an act of strength or even love, if Jon really thought it was what he’d needed to do. It was that he himself could not have been that reasonable or strong about it. He didn’t believe he could have made a decision that would have led to them being apart, and like he’d told Jon—it had hurt that Jon could.

Now, though, he realized Jon had never seen it that way. Jon had sincerely believed that becoming the pupil of the Eye would not have changed him, that he wasn't sacrificing himself. He had believed that they could have still been together. He’d said that at the time, hadn't he? The words he'd pushed away in the moment came back to Martin: We can be together, here. Until it’s over. And then—when the tower had begun to fall—Jon had tried to send him away, but Martin understood now that even that hadn’t been a separation. Not for Jon, the way he was then. Jon would have kept Martin living in that world, whatever the cost, while he tortured himself driving it to its end.

Of course, it was also possible that the Eye had such a hold on Jon at that time that none of those thoughts had really come from him at all—but if that was the case, there was no way Martin was going to allow him to do anything that would help him reconnect to it. He wouldn’t help Jon lose himself again. Whatever he wanted to do here, there had to be another way.

He had no idea how to approach any of this, and he certainly didn’t want to confront Jon with it when he woke up, so he decided to focus on something else instead—like his neck. It hurt. He supposed that made sense, given how he must have slept. After an unsuccessful attempt to stretch it out, he moved on to pick up the papers that were still on the floor. It hadn’t felt right to pick them up while Jon was gone; he’d wanted the reminder of why Jon wasn’t there, so maybe he wouldn’t let things get so heated the next time. He’d told himself he’d pick them up later, but then he’d fallen asleep and Jon had come home and it just hadn’t happened.

By the time he needed to wake Jon, Martin had decided that, for now, he was going to continue to do whatever Jon would allow to support his efforts. He didn’t imagine there was any chance Jon would slow down of his own accord, and at least that way he could make sure he was ok. The worst-case scenario would be if Jon started keeping secrets.

Jon was tired that morning. Martin could tell Jon had the same emotional hangover that he did, but it seemed like more than that. He occasionally stopped to stare distractedly into nothing. He took so long in the shower that Martin had to check on him twice, and ended up finding things to do in the bedroom until Jon was done. He was worried when Jon slipped his arm through his on their walk to work. That wasn’t a normal thing; Jon seemed to be relying on him to keep walking. Martin asked if he was ok, and Jon nodded absently in a way that wasn’t particularly comforting.

The fact was that he seemed to be getting worse, not better.

***

They were somehow only a little bit late, not that anyone was paying attention. Martin had to enter some updates in their online system, so he spent the morning at his desk. Tim was back from his investigation and Sasha was in her office, and despite his worries about Jon it was almost a nice morning with the four of them together. He wondered if he might be feeling a little too comfortable; he didn't particularly want to have Jon's level of anxiety and guilt, but it didn't feel right to be having a nice time.

As he worked, checking records and following up on notes he’d made the previous week, he discovered another reason for concern. He realized for the first time that some memories of this world had blurred into others, his real memories, with no specific moment of revelation. He very clearly recalled several weeks spent tracking down some files that had been returned to the main library instead of the archives, and he didn’t realize until he was shaking his head over the enormous waste of time that it had only happened here.

Although it was an unimportant memory, it brought up a lot of questions. They still didn’t know exactly what had happened to the Jon and Martin from this world, and clearly they were connected somehow. What if Martin stopped being able to tell the difference between memories from the two worlds? Or worse, what if memories from this world were replacing memories of the one they came from? What if that was why it was so easy to feel occasional moments of contentment—because he was actually forgetting what had happened?

Just to reassure himself, he started going backward through his memories from the moment they had arrived here. The tower, the panopticon, Annabelle Cane; his slowly expanding terror as Jon had grown more and more drawn to it all. The fear domains, all of them, but especially the corpse roots and the apartment fires and the domain that belonged to him—where people suffered without even the comfort that another living being knew or cared for their existence.

The cabin in Scotland, where everything had gone irretrievably wrong. He meant to keep moving back through his memories, but he got stuck on this one. How had it all happened? He had left Jon alone, for one thing. Maybe he should have stayed, but he couldn’t have known. Jon had been trying not to know things, which should have been right. Avoid using evil powers. It still seemed like it should have been right. That was the worst part, wasn’t it? Every wrong decision looked like the right one. It had been so much worse for Jon, of course. If Peter Lukas had been able to see into Martin like Jonah Magnus could—if he had not pushed it just a bit too far—Martin could have very easily been the one to set off an apocalypse. Instead, he was thrown into the Lonely, unwittingly sealing Jon’s fate in the process. He wondered if he had—

An upsettingly familiar voice broke through his thoughts. Martin was so deeply distracted that at first, he thought he had manufactured it himself, out of his memories. When he looked up, though, he was met with the site of not only Peter Lukas, but also Elias Bouchard, and it took him a second to remember where he was. He started to stand up, but somehow had lost track of his physical surroundings, and managed to get tangled up in his chair. He ended up on the ground.

He could feel the entire room focus in on him, but he couldn’t look away from the two men in front of him. Peter was almost exactly as he remembered him, while Elias could not have been more different—it was hard to believe he was the same person. Of course, in most ways, he wasn’t. Peter chuckled uncomfortably while Martin continued to stare, and turned to the man standing next to him. “It seems we’ve disturbed your assistant.”

“Martin.” His name, spoken nearby, finally brought him out of his stupor. He looked up expecting to find Jon, but found Tim instead.

“Martin,” he said again, “are you all right?”

“Yeah.” He looked around. Sasha had come to the door of her office to see what was going on; Jon had gotten up too.

“I keep saying we need to replace that chair.” Tim laughed nervously and reached to help Martin to his feet. It felt like it took forever to stand up.

“Yeah. Yeah, that chair, it’s, um…” Martin’s words were swallowed up by silence as he turned his eyes to the floor.

“Looks like we’re ok here, then.” Elias clapped his hands and turned back to Peter. “Shall we continue?”

Peter took one last discomfiting look at Martin before they continued into Sasha’s office. She gave Martin a concerned glance as she ushered Elias and Peter in, and pursed her lips as he shook his head. She closed the door behind them.

“Martin, are you—” Jon started to ask.

“I’m fine.” He really was more embarrassed than anything, and set about righting his chair so he could retreat back into his data entry as quickly as possible. “I—I’m sorry.”

Jon started to say something else, but was interrupted as Elias came back into the room, setting Sasha’s door against the jamb. “Everything all right?”

“Yep.” Tim patted Martin on the back, just hard enough to startle him again. “Everything is perfectly fine.”

Elias nodded, looking curiously from Tim to Martin to Jon. “Well, in any case, I want to apologize. I meant to come by last week to see how the two of you were doing, but, well… as you all know, I hate this place and avoid being here whenever possible.” He spoke the last part under his breath and grinned, the sarcastic sort of grin that doesn’t reach the eyes. It was a look Martin could not recall ever seeing on Elias’s face before in his life, but somehow it fit. “Still, I should have checked in. I’ll catch up with you soon. And Martin—get a new chair? That’s embarrassing.”

And with that, he disappeared back into Sasha’s office.

“Well,” Tim said as he leaned back against Martin’s desk. “I’ve seen some reactions to Peter Lukas, but I think that is my new favorite.”

“Sorry.” Martin could feel how red his face was.

“Martin, are you—are you really ok?” He looked over to see intense concern on Jon’s face, and he knew Jon wasn’t asking about his fall.

“Yeah,” he replied, as reassuringly as he could. “I—I really am.”

Jon didn’t seem convinced, but Tim got Martin’s attention again. “Let’s get lunch. You need a break.”

“Oh, I—I would, but I brought mine today.” He gestured toward the paper sack on the corner of his desk. “I have to leave a bit early, so I thought I’d work through lunch.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, I have to go pay some fees and pick up some stuff my old apartment building put in storage.”

“How are you getting there?”

“I was going to take the tube out,” Martin replied, realizing he hadn’t thought it through entirely. “I guess I hadn’t planned for getting back, but it’s just going to be some clothes and stuff for now. I can get a cab if it’s too much.”

“I’ll drive you,” Tim announced.

“Oh, no, thanks. I appreciate it, but—”

“It’s really not a problem.”

Martin considered; having a car really would be a lot more convenient. He didn’t know how much stuff was in storage, and he definitely didn’t know how it had been stored. Maybe it wasn’t even packed. “Are you sure you don’t mind?”

“Not at all. Besides, I want to talk with you.” Seeing the look on Martin’s face, he added, “No more questions. Mostly, I want to apologize properly for last week.”

“Well… yeah, ok. If you really don’t mind.”

“Nope. See you after lunch.” Tim headed for the door.

“Thanks,” Martin called after him.

As soon as Tim was gone, Martin turned back to Jon.

“When I asked this morning, you said you didn’t need help.” It was a statement, not an accusation, but Martin felt like he had to defend himself.

“I don’t! You heard him—he was really insistent. And he does have a car.”

“I can still go,” Jon said.

“It’s not a big thing.”

Jon bit his lip.

“Jon, you’re not feeling great, and I know how important it is to you to—to do your work. It’s fine.”

“You’re important, too.” Again, this was merely a statement, and again, it provoked too strong a reaction from Martin. This one, though, he tried to cover up.

“Yeah, well—I know that. You don’t have to prove it. And—if you’re not busy, or sleeping, you can help me put stuff away when I get home. Deal?”

Jon sighed, but agreed. “Deal,” he said, before turning back to his desk.

***

Martin ended up being very thankful for Tim’s help, and especially for his car. After they stopped by the rental office and he paid his fees, the storage lot was farther than he had imagined. Additionally, while most of his things were in bags, they were heavy contractor bags and there didn’t seem to be any logic as to what had gone where—if he’d come on his own, he would have had to spend a lot of time dumping things out and rearranging all of it to make it manageable. It would have been a pain, even if he had ended up calling a cab. As it was, though, Tim was able to help him with the heavier bags, and he didn’t have to sort everything out on the spot, so they finished with plenty of time.

“Let me get you a drink on the way back,” Tim offered, as he closed the boot on the final bag. “I still owe you an apology.”

“Tim, you just did me a huge favor. You don’t need to—”

“That was helping a friend. Apologies are measured in drinks.”

Martin considered. He did want to go. “Do you mind if I check on Jon?” he asked.

“Go right ahead,” Tim said. “I’ll wait in the car.”

Martin pulled out his phone, and thought about texting, but decided to call. Jon should be home, and that meant there was a good chance he was asleep. The phone did ring a bit long before he picked up.

“Everything all right?” Jon asked, and Martin thought he did sound like he may have just been roused from a nap.

“Yeah. I was actually just calling to ask you that.”

“Well, I’m home.”

“Good. Um… We got done a bit early, and Tim was asking if I wanted to grab a drink. Would you mind if I did?”

“Not at all.”

“Are you sure? Did you eat yet?” Martin asked. He kept his voice low so Tim wouldn’t overhear, although he didn’t exactly know why.

“Not yet.”

“I left one of those frozen meals on top in the freezer for you. Will you eat it?”

“Oh. Yes, of course. Thank you.”

Martin cringed at what he was about to say, but did it anyway. “Would you make it now?”

There was a pause. “Martin, are you serious?”

“Yes? I mean, you don’t have to, but I’d feel better if—”

“Fine.” Jon sighed, and Martin heard the sound of the freezer door opening a few moments later. “I’m doing it. Stop fretting and go have a drink.”

“Ok.” He was relieved. “Jon—thanks.”

“Go.” The call ended, and Martin couldn’t help but smile.

“OK, we’re good,” Martin told Tim as he climbed into the passenger seat. “Sure you won’t let me get it, though?”

“One hundred percent,” Tim answered. “How’s Jon?”

Martin debated whether he should give the polite answer or the real one, and went with something in between. “He’s… ok? To be honest, I’m a little worried about him.”

“Me too.” Tim started the car. “He wasn’t looking good last week when I was around.”

“Yeah?” Martin asked.

“He just seems tired,” Tim continued. “I mean, he’s always tired, ever since I’ve known him, but this is different. Tired and… distracted, I guess. Not like him.”

Martin nodded in agreement. “I’ve been trying to get him to take it easy, but—”

“He doesn’t care much for that, does he?”

“No. No, he does not.” Martin snorted, and Tim gave him a little grin as they headed out.

Soon they were sitting together at a table with a couple of beers in front of them.

“So,” Tim began, “I am officially apologizing for how I acted last week. I was a dick.”

Martin sighed. “No, you weren’t. You were worried, and Jon and I haven’t exactly been easy to—well, easy to anything.”

“Forgive me anyway?”

“If you insist,” Martin replied. “I forgive you, I guess.”

“Thanks. Cheers,” Tim said, holding up his glass. Martin obliged with a clink, and took a polite sip while Tim gulped down about half of what was in his glass.

“And for the record, I still don’t believe that you’re telling us everything, but—well, I imagine you have your reasons. I got to thinking over the weekend,” Tim said, after he had wiped his mouth off with his arm. “Sasha asked me not to say too much, but you know I was looking into some police records last week.”

Martin nodded. “Yeah, did something turn up?”

“Sasha was right. There was more. More than people had come to talk to us about.”

“For instance?”

Well… for instance, there was a kidnapping case about a month back. It turned out to be related to this cult that’s apparently been around forever, but never really done anything before. Not anything worth anyone’s time, anyway. I won’t get into details, I promised Sasha, but some of the officers thought they saw some things that… just shouldn’t have been possible. Not one or two officers, like a lot of them. And they lost some people.”

Oh god. He remembered when Basira had been called out on that mission. Martin wanted to ask questions, confirm his suspicions, but after what had happened with Oliver Banks, he didn’t want to push it again. “That’s horrible.”

“And here’s the real kicker.” Tim stopped to take another big drink. “There have been enough of these incidents that they’ve started asking the officers to sign a form saying they won’t talk about it. There’s been sort of an upset over it, actually. It’s all got lots of them pretty nervous, but no one is willing to make any outside statements, either. Not officially.”

Martin nodded again. This was really bad, but if it was happening, it was better that he know. He would tell Jon too, of course.

“Well, anyway, the point was I got to thinking—I know you and Jon disappeared around the same time all of this started. I’m not sure what to make of any of it, but whatever is going on… whatever you went through or feel like you went through, I understand why you might not want to talk about it.”

Martin knew he should say again that couldn’t remember, that he was sure it was nothing like that, it was probably completely unrelated—but he couldn’t. For one thing, it was a terrible lie. Everything Tim had witnessed—the way they had disappeared, the time they were gone, the way they had shown up again—it all fit together. For another thing, he knew he’d already said too much the last time they were out, and if he kept trying to lie he’d just look like an ass. Mostly, though, Martin hated lying to friends, and he couldn’t pretend anymore that this Tim didn’t feel like a friend.

So instead, he just nodded again, and took another sip of his beer.

“Well, if you need anything, I’m here.” Tim finished the remainder of his glass. “Speaking of which—where are we bringing your stuff?”

“Oh.” Martin realized he and Jon had never actually explained their living situation, and he felt the color rise into his face. “Jon’s flat?”

“I figured as much.” Tim leaned toward him. “So is that a long term situation, or—?”

Martin didn’t know how to answer that, because he realized he didn’t know the answer. When they’d first gotten here, of course, they had just needed somewhere to go, and Jon had clearly wanted him there. Since then, he’d been so worried about Jon that he hadn’t questioned whether or not he should stay; it had just felt obvious that Jon needed him there. He had never actually asked him though, had he?

“I—I don’t know,” he stammered. “I guess we hadn’t talked about it.”

“Oh, god, relax,” Tim groaned. “If Jon didn’t want you there, you’d know. Subtlety is not his strength.”

“Sure.” Tim was basically right, of course. Still, they had been operating in survival mode for so long that maybe Jon hadn’t even realized not living together was an option. Mostly, though, it just wasn’t how people were supposed to move in together. They weren’t supposed to do it because they were scared.

Martin took a much longer sip of his beer, and was grateful when Tim changed the subject.

***

Miraculously, Jon was awake when they got back. He offered to help carry the bags upstairs from the car, but Tim and Martin both insisted he should let them take care of it, and he did seem relieved once he realized how heavy they were. Martin thanked Tim profusely for the help—it really would have taken a lot longer without him—and Tim said again he was happy to do it, and that he was looking forward to getting drinks with both of them sometime soon, when Jon was up for it.

“What did he mean, when I’m up for it?” Jon asked, after he was gone.

“Jon, everyone can tell you’re…” Martin considered what word to use. “Tired.”

“Is it really that bad?”

Martin wanted to ask Jon if that was a joke. Instead, he went with, “Yeah. It is.”

“I didn’t realize.” Jon was nervous. “Do you think Tim suspects anything?”

He decided not to mention that Tim very definitely did; it would only add stress, and that was not what Jon needed right now. He took a different route.

“Tim’s concerned, that’s all. You’re his friend and he’s worried.”

“Am I?”

“Yes. You are. I know there are a lot of complicating factors, and no, he’s not our Tim”—Martin stumbled a little over those words— “but in the simplest terms, he is Tim, and he is our friend.”

Jon sighed. “I’m not sure how friendly he would feel toward me if he knew what I’ve done.”

“What you—” Martin started to protest, but he reconsidered. He’d had enough arguing last night, and as obvious as his own responsibility for everything seemed to him, he doubted Jon would agree. “Never mind. How are you doing?”

“I’m all right,” Jon answered. “Good enough to help you sort through some of this.”

“Oh, Jon, I was just talking, you don’t have to—”

“I want to.” Then, with a slight smile, he added, “I certainly can’t let Tim take all the credit.”

“Right.” Martin shook his head, but also ended up smiling. “So, I’ll warn you—there’s not been a lot of organization. I maybe had to grab a little more than I actually intended.”

Ultimately, they dumped most of it onto the sitting room floor and began to sort everything into piles. Clothes Martin needed, things that could go to the office, some things they could use in the kitchen, stuff to go back to storage. As they sorted, Martin told Jon what he’d learned from Tim, which he suspected was related to the People’s Church of the Divine Host. He also told him about the police officers who had recently been sectioned. Jon nodded in concern while he spoke, but didn’t say much.

Before long, they had sorted out most of the obvious things. Martin was left going through a few boxes that had come along, containing mostly papers and legal documents and breakables and other things that couldn’t easily be thrown into bags.

“Want me to put some clothes away while you’re going through that?” Jon asked.

Martin cleared his throat. “Actually, it kind of came up when I was talking to Tim, and um—well, I realized we never talked about how long I would be staying here.”

“What do you mean, how long?” Jon seemed completely confused.

“Well, I kind of just… moved in. And we never talked about it.”

“What?” Jon asked again.

“You know, normally people talk about this. Moving in together.” Martin shifted uncomfortably in his spot on the floor.

“What did you want to talk about?” Jon asked.

“I mean, this is your place. I know I lost mine, or he lost his, or whatever, and this made sense when we got here, but—”

“Do you not want to be here?”

“What? No, I do, of course I do, but I just assumed it was what you wanted, too.”

“Because it is what I wanted.”

“I just hadn’t asked, that’s all.” Admittedly, Martin was relieved, but it still didn’t feel quite right. “I mean, we kind of had to be together before, and we have more time now to think about things, and I want this to really be a choice going forward because I do want to—well, I know I’m already on your nerves with the—”

“Stop. Listen to me,” Jon said. “I want you here. As long as you want to be here. I choose this.”

“Ok.” Martin stopped trying to explain himself, even though he wasn’t sure Jon really understood. He wasn’t trying to convince Jon he should move out, after all. He just wanted a sense of normalcy, to stop feeling like they were hurtling toward some inevitable doom. He didn’t want every moment to count; he wanted a future. He wasn’t sure how to put that into words, though.

“Can I help pay rent, at least?”

Jon got to his feet and grabbed a stack of shirts that were closest to him. “I really don’t care. At this point, money seems—beside the point.”

“Definitely in the shaving and eating category,” Martin agreed. “Still…”

“If it makes you comfortable, yes, of course.” Jon headed toward the bedroom, and Martin turned his attention back to the boxes in front of him.

He made it most of the way through with no trouble. Most of the things in the boxes could go back into storage; a few things, like his birth certificate, he would keep. And then he found a copy of his mother’s death certificate. He didn’t even have to look at the date to know; he remembered. It had happened here on the exact same day it had happened for him. Everything about it had been the same, actually. Not just when she passed, but all of it; everything about his relationship with her had been exactly the same. He didn’t understand why he felt so much disappointment.

“Martin?” Jon touched his shoulder. “What’s that?”

“Hm?” Martin glanced back and up at Jon.

“It’s just—you’ve been looking at it for five minutes. You haven’t moved.”

“Oh. It’s, um—well, look.” It was easier than saying it. He held it up until Jon recognized it.

“Ah.” Jon set down the clothes in his hand and sat down next to Martin.

“I guess—” Martin sighed. “I guess it was all just so—maybe I’d hoped that they had something to do with it, you know? The—the fears. But they didn’t. They weren’t here then. It was just how she was. And maybe it was how I was, too. Maybe I—maybe I was the reason.”

“No.” Jon leaned against him, and gently rested his hand on the back of his shoulder. “You did nothing wrong.”

“Do you know what Elias showed me? Or Jonah, I guess? While you were—”

“I heard the tape, yes.”

“It was true, wasn’t it? She hated me.”

“She—she was ill, Martin. She loved you when she was well.” Martin nodded, and Jon leaned in even closer. “But just because she loved you doesn’t mean she was a good mother.”

“No. She wasn’t, actually.” Martin closed his eyes, and tried to just appreciate Jon’s presence, his warmth. “She was awful.”

Jon nodded.

“You know, I’ve never told anyone that.” Martin already felt ashamed. “Well, anyone except me.”

“Oh—right.” Jon knew what he meant.

“But it wasn’t her fault.”

“Does it matter if it was?”

“Yes. It does.” Martin tried to ignore the tear that squeezed its way out through his eyelids, because trying to stop them only ever seemed to bring more of them. “Jon—was the other part true too? Do I really look like my—like him?”

Jon hesitated, but eventually answered. “Yes. But that doesn’t mean you’re anything like him.”

“Do you know what he was like?”

“Yes. It was an accident, but I—” Jon paused. “I thought I needed to know what Elias could do, and, well—I couldn’t control it that well then. I saw more than I meant to. Is there anything you want to know?”

Martin felt another hot tear slide down his face, and tried to ignore that one too. “Am I like him?”

“No,” Jon said quietly. “Not at all.”

“Then I don’t need to know anything else.”  A third tear fell, and a fourth, and he couldn’t ignore it anymore. He raised his arm to wipe his face, but Jon stopped him.

“Sorry. It’s been a long day,” Martin mumbled. “I’m—”

“No.” Jon turned Martin’s head toward him, and wiped his cheek with his thumb. “Don’t apologize.”

“Oh, come on. I’ve seen you cry once, and it was because—”

Jon kissed him.

“Jon—”

“Hush.” Jon crawled over Martin to straddle his lap, and kissed him again. Everything that had been swimming around in Martin’s head—their argument, Peter, his mother—it fell away, and all that was left was Jon. He let himself really breathe for the first time that day, resting his face against Jon’s shirt as they held each other.

“I love you,” Jon told him, when Martin looked at him.

“I love you too.” He turned his face up so Jon could kiss him again.

They stayed there until Jon’s hand gradually dropped from Martin’s face to his neck, and eventually down his arm, and Martin realized he was falling asleep.

“You awake?”

Jon didn’t answer him, and Martin didn’t particularly want to let go—so he picked him up, shifting Jon’s arms to his shoulders and then wrapping his own arms around Jon’s waist. He’d never done it before, but it was surprisingly easy; Jon was disturbingly light. Jon woke up enough to have a moment of panic when Martin stood up, and tightened his grip on Martin’s neck, but quickly relaxed and let himself be carried him to the bedroom.

“You all right?” Martin asked after he set him down on the bed.

“Mm.” Jon turned to lie on his side, and Martin brushed back the hair that had come loose.

“Jon, I’m really worried about you.”

“I’ll be ok,” Jon replied, catching Martin’s hand as he closed his eyes again. “I have you.”

Chapter Text

Over the next few days, Jon continued to struggle. He remained insistent on going into the Institute every day, but even with Martin’s encouragement he had trouble finishing entire meals.

“It’s all right,” Martin told him more than once. “I know you’re trying. Just keep trying.”

Jon would nod. If they were at work, he would catch Martin’s hand between his, just below the edge of his desk, and Martin would quietly tell him about his morning. At home, he would lie back on the couch with his head in Martin’s lap. Martin would come up with something to talk about, unrelated to the entities or the archives or anything that had happened to them. He started saving up topics that occurred to him just so he could have them on hand: a movie he remembered, a funny reddit post, a weird bug he found in the stacks. It wasn’t like Jon really cared; he watched Martin talk more than he listened, anyway. He seemed contented, and that was what mattered. Sometimes he was able to eat more afterward, if he didn’t fall asleep.

***

“Are there still more interviews to be done?” Jon asked Martin one morning, late that week, as they were walking to the office.

“I don’t know,” Martin answered. “I imagine there are. I don’t think Tim’s followed up with any since the ones we did. And I think Sasha’s been around the office the whole time.”

Jon nodded.

“Wait.” Martin reached out a hand to stop him; they faced each other on the pavement. “You're not considering doing them, are you?”

“I am.”

“Why?”

“Because I need to do something different.” Jon took Martin by the elbow and urged him to keep walking. Martin sighed, but did as he wanted.

“Is it—” Martin measured his tone very carefully and started over. “Is it because what you’re doing isn’t—working?”

“Reconnecting to the Eye, you mean?” Jon looked up at Martin. “No, that’s not why.”

“But also, it isn’t working. Right? You would tell me, wouldn’t you?”

“Nothing’s changed,” Jon confirmed. “But that really isn’t it. I’ve… I’ve run out of information. I’m just going further and further back, through anything describing events and people involved in all of it, and it’s pointless. There was nothing here before we came. Nothing real.”

“Yeah?” Martin asked, recalling that he had done most of the talking between them that week. “I assume you’ve looked into—well, let’s start with Jonah Magnus. What was his deal?”

Jon shrugged. “Him, Robert Smirke, Mordechai Lukas—I’ve looked into all of them. They all existed, they were obsessed with the same ideas and concepts, perhaps because of the pull from our dimension… but there was nothing on the other side of those ideas. Not here.”

“I see.” Martin nodded. “And you think the interviews will give you more?”

“Maybe. It’s the only evidence we’ve had of real connections with individuals. You met Oliver Banks. Tim’s discussions with his police contacts—it was Callum Brodie, by the way. They won’t officially release his name, but it was easy enough to find on social media. There's no Maxwell Rayner, but that doesn't seem to be stopping the Dark at this point.”

“So that’s what you want to do, then—look for avatars?”

“Yes,” Jon answered. “They pose the greatest threat, and I think they require the most—advancement in their patrons.”

Martin considered. “You’ll let me go with you?”

“I won’t even pretend I could manage alone right now,” Jon said. “I could go with Tim, I suppose, but he wouldn’t go if you said no. That means it’s your decision.”

“Jon.” They were coming upon the Institute now, and Martin stopped him one more time. “Can I ask—if you just let go of all this—what would happen?”

“What do you mean? Happen how?”

“To you. What would happen to you? Would you get better? Would you get worse? I know you don’t know, but—what does it feel like?”

Jon considered. “You’re right, I don’t know. But it also doesn’t matter. I can’t just let go. I need to do what I can, whatever that might be. Don’t ask me to let it go. Please.”

“All right.” Martin had already assumed the answer would be something like that. “Then we do the interviews.”

“Thank you,” Jon said quietly, as Martin put his arm around him before walking into the building.

***

Martin asked Sasha if they could do the interviews. She seemed surprised, but was agreeable enough, probably because Martin was the one doing the asking—it provided an implicit indication that Jon was feeling well enough to go, and Martin felt a bit like he had lied to her just by asking. Tim was a little more skeptical when Martin asked him for the contact forms. He ignored Martin and addressed Jon directly across the office.

“You know, Martin and I could still go.”

“No,” Jon said. “It’s too—it’s better if I’m there.”

“You sure?” Tim tried again. “Look, I don’t really know what the issue is, but if you’re worried about Martin, don’t be. Frankly, he’s doing much better than you are, and we’ve—”

“That’s not it. I just want to be there myself.”

Now Tim looked back at Martin and raised an eyebrow, and Martin shrugged.

“All right then,” Tim said, and reached for a drawer on his desk. “There’s a couple that will bring you down toward Crawley, if I remember, and a couple more that are spread out up north.”

“Can I look at them?” Jon said. “I’d like to see what they’re regarding.”

“Knock yourself out,” Tim said, handing them to Martin.

There were no names they recognized, and Jon didn’t think any of them looked particularly promising, but Martin was able to get ahold of two of them and set up appointments for that afternoon. The discussions were frustrating for everyone involved. For one thing, Jon hadn’t quite come to terms with the fact that things went very differently when people weren’t compelled to tell their stories, and Martin had to keep reminding him to be patient. For the same reason, it was hard to tell what was what; one of the stories might have been legitimately Corruption-related, but it could have also been a very bad case of health code violations combined with an active imagination.

“How did you know before if they were real or not?” Martin asked, as they were headed back on the train. “Like, in the beginning?”

Jon leaned back in the seat next to him with his eyes closed. “Well, when they were written down, there was the fact that I couldn’t record them except on the—on the tapes.”

“Right.” Martin frowned. “Obviously we’re not doing that again, but maybe we could try recording on our phones or something and seeing if it works?”

Jon gave a slight nod of his head. “Maybe. We don’t know if it will be the same, though. We don’t really know why that was. Maybe it was all Web, from the beginning.”

“True.” Martin turned it over some more. “Well, when you were talking to people directly how did you know?”

“I just did,” Jon sighed. “I didn’t think of it as anything more than a feeling until later.”

“And you couldn’t tell today?”

“No. Not even a hint.” Martin was relieved to hear it, although he opted not to share that with Jon.

They rode in silence for a while. Martin was surprised to see Jon had not fallen asleep when he checked on him.

“What are you thinking?” he asked.

Jon opened his eyes and turned to Martin, then to the back of the seat in front of him. Martin prompted him again.

“Jon? What are you thinking?”

“Come to Hill Top Road with me.”

“What?”

“Come to Hill Top Road with me,” Jon repeated.

“Why?”

“I need to know if I can feel anything there.”

“Why there?”

“When we came here—” Jon stopped and thought for a moment. “It’s hard to explain, but it’s where the separation—the barrier between us and them—would be the weakest.”

“Then it sounds like we shouldn’t go there.” Martin turned in his seat, and Jon finally looked at him. “It kind of seems we should actively avoid going there. Like, ever.”

Jon took Martin’s hand in his. “I just need to know. You—you could be right. About the Eye. Maybe it’s not coming back for me. Maybe it’s done with me.”

Martin breathed out slowly, a careful, measured exhalation. “And what if it is done with you?”

“Then…” Jon paused again. “Then I need to accept it.”

“And if it isn’t?”

A little bit of life came back into his voice. “Then it isn’t, and like I’ve been saying, it’s better to know and get on with it.”

Martin wasn’t sure he agreed, but he kept silent.

“Come to Hill Top Road with me,” Jon entreated him again. “Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” Martin exclaimed loudly, and a woman two seats up across the aisle looked back at them. “Oh—sorry. Sorry.”

He waited until she had smiled and turned back to try again, more quietly. “Tomorrow? Really?”

“Yes. In the morning, first thing. Tell Sasha we have therapy.”

“If we go—” Martin sighed. “If we go and you don’t find what you’re looking for, will you—will you try to let it go? I don’t mean everything, we can talk to Tim and Sasha, we can do whatever you want, just—will you try to live without it?”

Jon considered, a troubled look in his eyes.

“I’m not asking for a promise, Jon—I don’t want one. I’m just asking what you’ll do.”

Jon took a deep breath. “I’d like to try. I think I would try.”

“All right.” Jon had won. Martin squeezed his hand, more to reassure himself than anything. “I’ll go with you. Tomorrow morning. I’ll tell them when we get back.”

“Thank you.”

Then next time Martin checked on him, Jon had fallen asleep.

***

Jon’s alarm went off the next morning right around sunrise, before Martin’s usual waking time. Martin was surprised by how much energy he seemed to have; he wanted it to be because he was feeling better, but he suspected Jon was running on fumes and willpower.

“Not going to shower first?” he asked, when Jon stepped out of bed and immediately went to the closet.

“No,” Jon answered. “I’d like to leave as soon as we can.”

“Well, you are going to have breakfast,” Martin grumbled, sitting up and trying to blink away the sleep.

“Martin—”

“That’s not debatable. I couldn’t get you to eat anything last night.” They had ended up taking a cab back from the train station, and Martin had worried for a moment that he was going to have to carry Jon up the stairs. “Use some of that energy to—go pour yourself some cereal or something.”

“Fine.” Jon started to leave the bedroom. “Do you want anything?”

“Nope.” Martin groaned as he started to stand up.

“Well, if I have to, then you should—”

“I ate dinner last night. And part of someone else’s dinner that I didn’t want to go to waste. And it is way too early right now, and—”

“Fine. I get it. I’m going.”

After Martin was dressed, he joined Jon to find him scraping at the bottom of a bowl of cereal.

“How full was that?” he asked, suspicious.

“Overflowing.” Jon regarded him from his seat on the couch.

“Really?”

“No. I don’t know, normal?”

“Look, I’m sorry,” Martin sighed. “I’m still really worried, ok?”

Jon softened his gaze. “No, I’m sorry. I’m—I’m nervous. I just want to get this done.” He put one last spoonful into his mouth, making chewing and swallowing seem like extremely difficult tasks. “Are you ready?”

“As ready as I’m going to be,” Martin said. “Let’s go.”

The train ride out was long, and they had to switch to a bus line in Oxford. They barely spoke, but it wasn’t a particularly uncomfortable silence. Part of it was probably the early hour, although Jon seemed more awake and alert than Martin had seen him in days. He was probably anxious about what they would find; Martin was, at least, so it was easy to imagine Jon was feeling the same.

When they arrived, they stood together, side by side, staring at the front door. The house that occupied the property was the same as he had imagined it from when the other archive staff had visited it before the apocalypse. Apparently built as student housing, no one had ever actually moved in. The front porch was covered in cobwebs. Martin broke the silence they had maintained during the walk from the bus station.

“I don’t like this.”

“Me neither,” said Jon.

“Yes, but—I mean I don’t want to go in.”

“I understand. You can wait for me out here.”

“No, that—” Martin looked down at Jon, who continued to stare at the house. “I don’t want us to go in. Either of us.”

They let the silence take over again. It went on long enough that Martin wondered if they could just stay on the front lawn indefinitely, if he didn’t say anything; it seemed like it might be the most reasonable option. Unfortunately, Jon did eventually speak again.

“Martin, I really do understand if you—”

“No. If you’re going in, I’m—I’m going too.”

“I am sorry.” Jon started to step toward the house, but Martin caught him by the arm.

“Wait. Where is—where is Annabelle? Where has she been?”

“What?” Jon asked, turning to look at him.

“I know we haven’t talked about it, and maybe this is a bad time to bring it up—but she came here with us, didn’t she? To this dimension.”

“Presumably, yes.”

“Where would she go, if not—if not here? I mean, even without what you said about it—just look at it. It’s got to be crawling with spiders.”

Jon furrowed his brow before responding. “She could be here. It’s possible.”

Martin’s pulse quickened. “Well then—wouldn’t we want to not be here? Isn’t that a good reason to stay out?”

“I’m not concerned.” Jon shrugged, leaving Martin in disbelief.

“Can I ask why not?”

“It’s just a theory, but—” Jon walked a few paces and sat on the front step. “I think—I think the entities are getting stronger, regaining their power, in the order that the fears evolved and separated from one another. The dates I’ve pieced together from Sasha’s notes, the avatars—”

“What?” Martin was dumbfounded. “What do you mean?”

“Right. When I—after I killed Jonah, there was a, um…”

“A statement?”

“Yes.”

“Of course there was.” Martin shook his head and moved to take a seat next to Jon.

“I’m sorry I didn’t—”

“It’s all right.” It still hurt every time he remembered Jon had gone up to the tower without him, and Jon knew it. “Go on.”

“They were born in our dimension. They grew there, as one being at first. Then, as animals and humanity developed and changed, and their fears became more specific, more distinct, so did the entities themselves. The Hunt, the End, the Dark—they were first.”

“I see.” Martin thought. “And we’ve seen Oliver Banks and now Callum Brodie. What about—”

“I suspect we want to avoid anything having to do with Daisy, if we can.”

Martin’s eyes unintentionally drifted to the scar that still stood out vividly on Jon’s throat before he caught himself. “And where does the Eye fit in?”

“Soon. If I’m right.”

“Ok.” Martin now realized there had been a deeper layer to Jon’s recent desperation. “Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

“I honestly thought it wasn’t important. But now—you brought up Annabelle, and—”

“Right. So where does the Web fit into this theory?”

Jon considered. “If I’m right—if I’m right—we have time. If she is here, she’s likely much weaker than I am. She would have more to fear from us than the other way around.”

Martin sighed. “Any chance we can just burn the place?”

“Tempting.” Jon grinned just enough for Martin to see it. “In the long run, though—”

“Yeah, yeah—it would probably just make things worse.”

“Shall we?” Jon asked, starting to rise to his feet.

“If you have to.”

“I do.”

The front door gave way at a light touch; the knob and deadbolt were completely useless. It seemed like the sort of place that had been broken into so many times that the owners had simply stopped replacing them. The inside of the house was at least as covered with webs and dust as the front porch.

“Well,” Martin said, “I hate this.”

“I don’t love it.” Jon reflexively reached for Martin’s hand. “Come on.”

They walked further into the depths of the house, which was quite large. There were multiple small rooms, which made sense for student housing, and a larger sitting room; it looked like there was a kitchen in the very back. He was so busy looking up to make sure he didn’t accidentally walk into anything, that he jumped about a foot when Jon stomped his heel against the floor.

“Jon, why would you—”

“Spider,” Jon said.

“Oh. Carry on, then.”

“Remember when you used to get upset with me for—”

“Don’t.”

Jon squeezed his hand, and Martin had the odd feeling that Jon was somehow more comfortable in this moment than he had been for a while. They looked around them from what appeared to be roughly the middle of the floorplan.

“Should we go upstairs, or—”

“Look,” Jon cut him off, and pointed to the floor. Beneath the dirt and footprints of previous trespassers, Martin could see an unmistakable pattern in the wood stain that ran across multiple boards, beyond the edge of the room they were currently in. It gave the appearance of a long, dark, jagged crack. He may not have noticed it if he hadn’t been looking for it, but he couldn’t see anything else now.

“Do you think that’s—where it is?” Martin asked.

“Your guess is as good as mine.” Jon started to pull Martin toward it, but Martin stayed where he was.

“Do you really have to stand right on it?”

“Just give me a moment.” Jon slipped his hand out of Martin’s before he had a chance to protest. Martin held his breath and gave him five seconds, then ten seconds.

“Anything?”

“Wait.”

Twenty seconds. Thirty seconds. He was counting each of them.

“Jon—”

“Wait. Please.” Jon was growing tenser, more anxious.

A minute.

“Jon, I don’t—”

“I told you to wait.” Jon snapped at him this time.

The momentary sting was quickly replaced by concern; that just wasn’t like Jon. He bit his lip, unsure what to do. If he insisted on interrupting him, tried to convince him to leave, Jon might not feel like he really gave it enough of a chance—or worse, he might blame Martin for the failed attempt to find whatever power he was seeking. He’d be too kind to say anything, of course, but they would both know.

He decided to continue waiting, as long as he could make himself. He pressed his hand to his mouth as a reminder. The house was so quiet; it occurred to him he should have been able to hear sounds from outside, but something about the place seemed to be swallowing them up before they could reach them.

In the stunted silence, Martin had the sudden feeling they were not alone.

Before he could make up his mind to disrupt him again, Jon spoke.

“There’s nothing,” he said meekly.

“What?” Martin asked.

“There’s nothing,” Jon said again. “I don’t feel anything. I really thought—” He cut himself off, his expression a mix of loss and confusion and sadness, and Martin was filled with a deep, distressing pity for him.

“Hey,” he said, crossing to Jon, forgetting his trepidation toward the mark on the floor. It seemed meaningless now, nothing more than an ugly accident at the lumber factory. He pulled Jon into his arms. “It’s going to be all right. We’ll figure it out.”

Jon didn’t answer, but he allowed Martin to hold him, eventually letting the weight of his head fall against Martin’s chest.

“I’m sorry,” Martin said quietly.

“Are you?”

“Yes,” Martin answered. “Part of me is relieved, I’ll admit, but I don’t want you to be miserable, Jon. Honestly, I don’t. We’ll do whatever we need to do to help make this better, ok?”

Jon fell silent again, and in that silence Martin remembered the feeling he’d had just before Jon had spoken.

“Jon—can we get out of here? Sit outside? We can talk there. On the porch, even. I just have this feeling like—like we’re being watched.”

“What?” Jon pulled away enough to look up at his face.

“Not like—watched, I don’t think that even feels like anything. I just mean—like, regular being watched. If that’s a thing.”

Jon concentrated for a moment, but quickly gave up. “All right. We can go.”

Martin felt a second wave of relief wash over him. It’s over, he thought to himself, at least for the time being. He released Jon from his grasp, turning him gently toward the door—the faster they could get outside, back to the fresh air, the better for both of them.

 A few steps, though, and Jon stumbled. Martin, instinctively reaching to support him, assumed at first that he had stepped wrong or tripped over something—but that wasn’t right. Jon was heavy in his arms, and Martin nearly fell himself trying to stop Jon from hitting the ground.

Ok. Martin collected his thoughts as quickly as possible as he gently set Jon down. He’s fainted. That wasn’t great, but it wasn’t entirely unexpected, given how he had been feeling and his inability to eat. I just need to give him a minute and he’ll come around.

That wasn’t right either, though, Martin quickly realized, because Jon had stopped breathing.

Shit, shit, shit. He had taken a CPR class many years ago, but he hadn’t thought about it in almost as long. What were the steps? He knew Jon wasn’t choking, and he remembered something about checking for a pulse, although he didn’t remember if you were supposed to do that right away or—

Do something.

He reached for Jon’s neck, pressing two fingers against his carotid artery. He waited.

I’m doing it wrong.

He readjusted. Still nothing.

“Shit.” Panic started to well up inside him again. Breaths? Chest compressions?

Call for help.

He pulled out his phone and started to dial, but quickly realized he had no reception. He held it up, moving it around, even standing again to see if he could get a signal, but no matter where he moved he couldn’t get a single bar of service. He thought about going outside to try there, but couldn’t stand the thought of leaving Jon alone in this place.

Chest compressions.

He knelt next to Jon, placing one hand on top of the other the way he thought he remembered. He pressed the heel of his palm against Jon’s sternum, just inches away from the scar he had put there only months ago.

Don’t.

The scar where he had driven a knife through muscle and maybe bone—he didn’t think it was supposed to be so easy to do that, but the cracking sound—

Don’t, not now.

—the cracking sound and then suddenly it had been so much easier, the knife went in and there was that single gasp of pain, and then he’d pulled the knife out because he couldn’t stand to leave it in, but all the blood came with it—

I killed him.

Jon was dying. The tape unspooled; the tower crumbled around them, and Martin held on. Jon lay dead in his arms as the world disappeared around them, and he held on.

He held on for so long.

God, it hurts.

“Martin—”

I’m so sorry.

“Martin, let go.”

Martin opened his eyes and tried to remember where he was. His pulse was racing.

“Martin.”

He was sitting on the floor with Jon—Jon needed him to let go. He did, and Jon immediately took a deep breath. Martin still couldn’t quite remember where they were.

“You were dead.”

“No,” Jon answered, still breathing hard. “No, I just blacked out. I think I’m ok.”

“No. I killed you. There was—there was the knife—where did it—”

Jon, understanding, reached for Martin’s face. “Look at me. We’re at Hill Top Road. We came here together.”

“What?” Martin tried to remember, and eventually the details of their current situation came back to him. He looked around at the house. Jon was so pale. “Oh god. Jon, are you all right?”

“I think so. I think I just blacked out.”

“You weren’t breathing. I swear you weren’t breathing, and I couldn’t find a pulse—”

“Are you sure? Or were you…”

“I—I think so?” Although now that he thought about it, Martin realized he couldn’t be completely sure. “Maybe?”

“It doesn’t matter. I’m—I’m ok now. I’m breathing.”

Martin looked around again. He hated this place. “Let’s leave. Please. Right now.”

“Yes. Yes, of course.”

It was harder to help Jon to his feet than either of them expected. His energy from earlier in the day had vanished almost entirely, and he leaned hard against Martin as they walked toward the door. The porch, which had previously seemed as dreadful as the house, now felt like a sanctuary as the sun streamed onto it through the support columns. It was almost unbelievable that nothing stopped them from reaching it, and Martin collapsed onto the wooden deck as soon as they did.

He made sure Jon had a relatively comfortable spot to lie, and then dragged himself to the steps, pulling his knees into his chest and blocking the light from his eyes with one arm. He stayed like that until he’d relaxed enough to reach into his pocket for his phone again. He had a little reception out here, at least. He scrolled through his contacts until he’d pulled up Sasha’s number.

“Hi Martin,” she answered cheerily. “Everything going all right?”

“Sasha, hey,” he said, trying to keep his voice calm. “Listen, I’m sorry to do this—”

“Martin, I can barely hear you. Is everything all right?”

“Yeah—it is. Mostly.” He was too miserable to think up an actual lie. “Jon’s not feeling well today. I think—I think we’ll need the whole day off.”

“Did you say—is Jon ok?”

“He’s—” He looked at Jon where he lay in a patch of sunlight, eyes closed, taking shallow breaths. “He’s—I don’t know. He’s not great.”

“I’m—I’m sorry to hear that. Do you need anything?”

“No. We’ll manage.” He wasn’t sure that was true, but he had no idea what kind of help he could even ask for.

“You’re breaking up, but—please keep me updated? I’ll check in later.”

“All right.”

Martin ended the call.

Chapter Text

“Jon, take the pills.”

Jon, wrapped in a blanket and staring out over the railing of the flat’s small balcony, stayed silent.

“Fine, I’ll just wait.” Martin set the vitamin bottles and the glass of water on the sturdiest-looking part of the railing, and shifted the second chair enough so he could sit down.

“You’re going to get cold,” Jon said.

“Yeah, probably.” Martin was dressed in a light jumper with only a t-shirt beneath it. It had been warm enough earlier in the day—the weather was getting nicer—but as the sun started to go down it was cooling off.

“Your choice.” Jon picked up his lighter from the small table between them and lit another cigarette, and they sat together as the sun continued its journey below the horizon. It really was beautiful, Martin thought. He hadn’t taken the opportunity to observe any part of nature in a long time. There was something nice about taking in the colors that spilled across the sky—deep yellows and oranges that gave way to pinks and purples, and eventually a dark glowing blue that was only barely distinguishable from black.

Martin wrapped his arms around himself.

“At least get a coat,” Jon said.

“At least take those pills.”

“God, you’re stubborn.” Jon readjusted in his seat to pull his legs up under the blanket a little more.

“Pot and kettle, Jon.”

“Why should I take them? You heard the doctors, there isn’t anything actually wrong with me. They’re just grasping at straws.”

After an hour or so on the porch at Hill Top Road, Martin had calmed enough to make the decision to go to A&E. Although Jon had protested, the fact was that he had been too weak to do anything about it, and Martin only felt a little bad taking advantage of that. As he’d said then, he couldn’t believe he hadn’t insisted on doing it before; he’d become so used to not being able to get help, that he hadn’t really considered it until then. He wasn’t going to mess around anymore, though, especially now that he realized he might not always be able to help on his own.

After hearing about Jon’s recent fatigue and his fainting episode, the healthcare staff had run a lot of tests. They’d hooked him up to monitors, measured things, done blood draws. Martin had to admit Jon’s description of their conclusions wasn’t far off—they didn’t find anything explicitly wrong with him. There was no diagnosis they felt comfortable giving, although they had pointed out a few possibilities that they should monitor. And they’d recommended the vitamins, of course.

“They did say you have nutritional deficiency—”

“—minor nutritional deficiency—”

“—and your vitamin D levels were actually quite low.” Martin shivered involuntarily in the cool night air.

“God damn it, Martin.” Jon fidgeted with the lighter on the table, but didn’t actually reach for another cigarette. “Will you take the blanket, anyway?”

“Will you take those pills?”

“They won’t help with anything,” Jon protested. “We both know that. This is ridiculous.”

“Speak for yourself,” Martin countered. “I’m not assuming anything about what will help. Beyond that, given how you’ve been eating, they can’t hurt. And finally, yes, I am being ridiculous, and I don’t care.”

“I didn’t say you were being ridiculous.”

“No, I said it. I’ll own it. I am being ridiculous, because I don’t want to lose you, and I’m scared. I don’t want to lose you now any more than I did when we were walking through an apocalypse together, or when you were being kidnapped by actual monsters every week, or when you were taking unannounced holidays in coffins or whatever.” Martin shivered again. “Look, it’s just not that hard to take them, Jon.”

“Well, when you put it that way, I’m behaving like an ass,” Jon sighed.

“Now I didn’t say that,” Martin replied. “I’m not trying to ignore what you’re feeling Jon, and I know there’s not a quick fix for any of it. It’s just that it’s—it’s such a small thing, and if it helps, at least it’s something.”

Jon grumbled.

“And not to bring this up again, but—I mean, it might help if you would just talk to me?”

Jon shook his head. “I can’t. When I try to put it into words, I—it never comes out right. I sound like a—well, a monster.” Jon seemed to shrink back into the blanket even more. “Or maybe I am one, and I can’t face you knowing it.”

“Jon…” Martin hesitated, but decided to finish the thought. “I’ll be honest with you. I’ve asked myself if—if you are.”

Jon turned to him. “And?”

“And I don’t think so,” Martin said simply.

“Why not?”

“To be completely clear, it’s not the most rational reason. I just don’t think I could love you like this if you were. You’re just not bad. You’ve only ever wanted to do the right thing. You’ve only ever wanted to protect people, to protect me, even if—” Martin cleared his throat. “Even if we haven’t always agreed on what that looks like.”

“I see,” Jon said softly, turning to look over the railing again.

“So, if you don’t want to talk, that’s fine.” Martin leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees, blowing warm air into his hands. “But in that case, it’s vitamins and freezing myself.”

“May I ask a favor first?” Jon said, eyeing the glass of water warily.

“Depends on the favor.”

“Will you make me some tea?”

“Of course.” Martin was relieved; that was one thing he imagined he’d always be happy to do. “But you’ll take those pills if I do?”

“Yes,” Jon said. “You’ve made your case.”

He reached down to kiss Jon’s head before he walked back into the kitchen, and noted with comfort that Jon leaned into him as he did.

***

That was Sunday evening. Since they’d returned from A&E, Jon had spent most of the time before that afternoon sleeping. He’d been restless, and Martin had slept on the couch for a few nights to try to let Jon get as much sleep as he could. Of course, he had woken anxiously every few hours needing to check on Jon, so he was more than ready to go to bed after their discussion on the balcony. He ended up turning in before Jon, so he was a little surprised to find him already awake and sitting back against his pillows when he opened his eyes on Monday.

“Hey,” Martin said, moving closer to rest his face against Jon’s hip, throwing an arm over his legs.

“Hey.”

“Did I keep you up?” Martin asked.

“No.”

“What time did you get in bed?”

“I don’t know exactly. Not that long after you. I’m just not that tired. Maybe I finally slept enough.”

“That makes one of us.” One night of sleep hadn’t done Martin as much good as he had hoped.

“I’m sorry.” With his eyes still closed, Martin felt Jon’s hand come to rest on his head, gently rubbing his scalp just above his ear.

“I’m going to have to cut my hair soon.”

“I like it,” Jon said, gently tugging at a few strands. “I mean, I like it shorter, too. I guess I just like your hair.”

“Flatterer.” Martin yawned, then pressed his face into Jon even harder for a moment before rolling back to his side of the bed. “Just so long as you know it’s not getting you out of those pills. Do you want to shower first?”

“Actually, I was thinking I might not go in today.”

“Really?” Martin sat up to look at Jon. “How are you feeling?”

“Better.” He picked at an invisible spot on the quilt. “It's more that I’d just—I’d like some time to think. If you’re ok with it.”

“Yes, of course I’m ok with it. I’ve been trying to get you to take it easy ever since we got here. We can—” He stopped when he saw the look on Jon’s face and realized what he was actually asking. “Oh, you meant—just you. Yeah, no, of course that’s fine. That’s great.”

“Are you sure? I mean—if you want to stay too—”

“No,” Martin interrupted. “No, it’s really fine. It’s not a problem. I mean, I know I’ve been really irritating with the—”

“That’s not it,” Jon said reassuringly. “It’s really not. I’m—I’m glad you’ve been here for me. It’s just my mind’s been so—and it finally—I feel like I can gather my thoughts.”

Martin nodded. “I get it. I do.” He did, mostly. “Would it be ok if I called to check on you?”

“I’m sure I’d worry if you didn’t.”

So Martin went in by himself. He told Tim and Sasha the truth, mostly; Jon had blacked out after therapy, of course, not in an abandoned house in Oxford where there existed a possible gap between dimensions and realities, but the part about going to A&E and Jon staying home to recover was straightforward enough.

“Glad something slowed him down,” Tim said, and Sasha gave him a look. “Well, something was bound to happen, and at least Martin was there. It could have been worse. He was pushing himself too hard.”

“You’re not wrong,” Martin agreed, and Sasha patted him soothingly on the shoulder.

He went in by himself the next day, too. Jon seemed to be doing well enough. They didn’t talk much; Martin was tired and Jon seemed lost in his thoughts. Martin wasn’t sure what Jon was doing most of the day, though it didn’t seem to be much of anything. He was eating—well, drinking the nutrition shakes Martin had picked up for him—and Martin suspected he was sleeping a little, based on how the bed looked when he came home. Jon managed to eat solid food at supper again that second night, and reached protectively for his half-empty plate when Martin assumed he was done.

“Sorry,” Martin said with his hands up in apology, leaning back into the couch. “Does that mean—maybe you’re feeling better?”

“I think so. Starting to.” Jon stretched out his feet to rest them on the bottom ledge of the coffee table. For an instant, Martin already missed the feeling of Jon falling asleep against him—but this was better, he knew. He pushed the mournfulness away.

He went in by himself again on Wednesday. A little after noon, Sasha joined him and Tim in the assistants’ office.

“Want to come to lunch?”

Martin assumed she was asking Tim, but when he didn’t hear an answer, he glanced up to find both of them looking at him.

“Oh—me?” Martin asked.

“Yes,” Tim replied, grabbing his jacket off the back of his chair. “Might be nice to take up some old habits again.”

Martin didn’t have to think for too long to figure out what Tim was referring to; memories from this world came easy now. Not long after his mother had died, they’d started going out for lunch together once a week. It had almost certainly been for his benefit, but no one had ever admitted that to him; instead, they’d all acted like it was a spontaneous idea that for some reason had never occurred to any of them before. Martin had been so grateful for the company that he’d simply accepted it without thinking about it too hard.

“We’ll miss Jon, of course,” Sasha added, “but he can come with us next week.”

“Oh, whatever,” Tim said, elbowing Martin good-naturedly as they left the office together. “This just makes up for those times Jon couldn’t wait and stole Martin out from under us.”

Martin remembered that, too; there had been a few times when, despite their best intentions, he’d been overwhelmed by the thought of lunch with the whole group. Jon had somehow understood and anticipated those days, and had come up with some reason he had to go early, asking Martin if he’d wanted to join. They hadn’t said much when it had been just the two of them, nothing important, but that had sort of been the point, hadn’t it? It was a nice memory, anyway, and Martin was glad he had it now. He wondered if Jon had remembered it yet.

***

Lunch was pleasant enough, if a little bit awkward. Martin hadn’t spent much time with Sasha, at least not compared to how much time he’d spent with Tim, and he could tell she was being careful with him. She was polite, keeping the conversation easy, deliberately avoiding topics that held anything other than surface interest. After he finished eating, he decided to ask her some things he’d been wondering about, and hoped she’d chalk up anything strange about it to him being a little thrown off from last week.

“Sasha,” he asked, setting his fork down, “do you—like being the head archivist?”

“What do you mean?” she asked, leaning toward him slightly over their table.

“Do you like it? Is it a good job? Is it—is it how you thought it would be?”

Sasha crossed her arms in thought. “Well, I’m not really sure how to answer that. I mean, the Magnus Institute has its issues, I suppose. It’s an academic joke, of course, but it’s not like the respect of my peers was ever that important to me.” She laughed at herself. “And some of our benefactors are… well, a bit full of themselves? But I suppose that’s true anywhere. I am quite happy with the job security, and it pays well enough for what it is. Plus I’m actually using my degree, which is more than I can say for most of my classmates.”

“Have you ever—wanted to leave?”

Sasha frowned slightly. “No—no, not really. Why?”

“No reason,” Martin said as casually as he could. He couldn’t exactly say just wondering if you’re trapped here. “Just been doing some thinking, I guess.”

“Well,” Sasha said, “I’ll admit the job’s felt a little bit different lately. Hard to say exactly how… I guess I’ve been struggling a bit with—well, I’m still not sure how to handle the—incidents, I suppose? It doesn’t make any sense, but it feels like I’m responsible for the people who come here to talk to us. Like I should be keeping track of their stories, somehow. I just don’t know what to do with them. Honestly, I’ve just started asking them to write everything down. I feel bad, but I just can’t listen to some of them. I’ll have nightmares.”

“Oh. They’re still coming in, then?”

“Sometimes. Not every day, but enough.”

“I—I didn’t know. Does Jon know?”

“He’s been there for a few, yes.”

Martin took a few sips of water. Jon hadn’t mentioned that specifically, but it probably wasn’t anything.

“What about—what about Elias? He doesn’t seem too fond of the Institute. Why does he stay?”

“You’ll have to ask Tim,” Sasha said, poking at what was left of her salad again. “They’re best friends.”

Tim laughed. “We are not best friends. However, I do think you should spend a little more time with him outside of work. You’re missing out.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Oh, come on.” Tim poked her arm playfully with the tines of his fork, and she batted him away. “He and Allan are a trip.”

“Exactly,” she replied.

“What I meant was, they’re funny. Especially Elias.” He turned to Martin. “Now the key to understanding him is to recognize that he has money—and also that he hates money, even though he has no idea how to function without it. And people with money, he especially hates. But at some point, I suppose, his father wore him down, and he has now accepted his position in life with as little grace and composure as he can.”

Martin thought back to what little he knew about Elias Bouchard, the actual Elias Bouchard, from his own world. “That… makes sense, actually.”

“And it makes him a pain in the ass when I need something,” Sasha added. “But on the positive side—he does leave me alone to do my job, for the most part.”

Martin remembered Allan’s name too; Martin remembered he had died after finding an old book in the other world, many years ago—but not here. “So Allan is—his roommate?”

Tim raised his eyebrows. “That, Martin, is none of our business.”

“What?” Martin was genuinely confused before he realized what Tim was getting at.  “Oh—oh god, no, I didn’t—”

“However,” Tim interrupted him, “if you find out let me know, because I believe Sasha will owe me 10 quid on that day.”

“Doubtful,” Sasha said, grinning over the phone she was now scrolling through. “Very doubtful.”

Martin could feel his face turning red, so he was grateful for the distraction when Sasha leaned forward with her phone.

“Speaking of working at the Magnus Institute—look at this,” she said, attempting to angle the phone so both Martin and Tim could see at once. “I cannot get over how much she’s enjoying her retirement. I never thought she’d leave, but then it was like she was just up and done one day, and she never looked back.”

It took Martin a moment to understand what she was showing them, but it was a picture of Gertrude Robinson—a Facebook picture. He might not have known it was her, if it wasn’t for the name posted above it. The biggest difference was that in every picture he’d ever seen of her, she’d been wearing her hair in the same tightly-pulled grey bun; here, she was wearing her hair down, and it flowed softly past her shoulders. The next most obvious difference was he didn’t think he’d ever seen her smiling in a picture before, and she looked quite happy in this one, drink in hand, next to an equally-cheerful looking older man who had been holding up the phone to snap the photo. The caption read catching up with an old friend.

Sasha pointed at Martin to emphasize his surprised reaction. “See, that’s what I’m saying. I guess you just never know.”

“Who—who’s in the picture with her?” Martin asked.

“Oh right, I forget you never met him in person. That’s Jurgen Leitner.” She shook her head. “I didn’t think she was that fond of him, really. Must be another retirement thing.”

Jurgen Leitner—what was his connection to the Institute here? It’s not like he would have been living in the tunnels, there was just no—

The realization hit him like a ton of bricks. The Leitner Room. In this world, the Magnus Institute was home to every book Jurgen Leitner had ever collected. He had collected them, of course, only his library had never been destroyed because there was nothing to make that happen. When he’d decided to downsize in his later life—when he didn’t feel quite the same sense of pride in them—the archives had been the perfect home for his books. Of course, up until now, it meant nothing except a new collection and a nice endowment for the Institute.

What did it mean now?

“Are you ok?” Sasha asked. “You look—”

“You look like you just got run over,” Tim finished.

“Sorry.” Martin pulled his hand away from his mouth; he hadn’t even realized he had put it there. “I just—I just remembered something. It’s, um…”

“Do you need to get back?” Sasha asked after a moment of silence.

“Yeah,” Martin answered, apologizing with his voice. “Yeah, if you don’t mind. You can stay, if you want—”

“No, I’m done.” Tim took one more drink to empty his glass. “Sasha?”

She shrugged. “I’m ready.”

“Thanks,” Martin said. “I—there’s something I need to take care of for Jon.”

***

After they got back, Martin tried to look busy at his desk, hoping they’d think that he was taking care of whatever it was online. He took the opportunity to review the records in the system, and was comforted to note that nothing in the Leitner group currently had any special notations connected to it. All of the books were, at least in principle, on the shelves, and no one had requested access to any of them. He’d been hoping that was why his attention hadn’t been drawn to any of them previously, and it seemed like he’d lucked out. It was an obscure collection, and there were a lot of restrictions on them at Jurgen Leitner’s request; not just anyone could come in and browse them, and only a very specific set of research purposes qualified for special permission to remove them from the library.

He relaxed a little, and then waited for an opportunity to leave the office without attracting attention. He had to wait a while, but eventually Rosie came in with something for Sasha to review. A moment later Sasha called Tim in to her office, and Martin took the opportunity to leave. He just didn’t see a reason to risk drawing anyone else’s attention to the Leitners, especially since it seemed they were all but forgotten as they were.

He walked out past Rosie’s desk and back into the stacks; the room really was quite out of the way, buried deep in a corner of the shelving units. It wasn’t a large room, and if you weren’t looking for it, it would have been easy to miss. Even the sign above the door, emblazoned with the word Leitner, was barely distinguishable from the metal door frame behind it. The room was kept locked, but as an archival assistant Martin had a copy of the key. He held his breath and turned it.

Walking into the room was anticlimactic; it didn’t feel like much. There was no threatening aura; there was no sense of danger. It felt like nothing more than a small room full of musty old books, like many other small rooms of musty old books Martin had been in before.

He took a quick look at some of the titles on the shelves. At first glance, he didn’t see any he had heard of before, but of course he hadn’t heard of most Leitners. He continued to look, straining his eyes at words written on faded spines, occasionally pulling one gingerly off the shelves to check the front cover; he just needed something to prove to himself he wasn't overreacting. Finally he found one he knew: a thick, black paperback labeled The Boneturner’s Tale. Martin felt a shiver run down his back as he involuntarily jerked his hand away from it.

He closed the door to the room and pulled out his phone. Thankfully, he had service, and he immediately dialed Jon’s number.

“I ate,” Jon said when he picked up.

“No,” Martin said. “Well, yes, I’m glad, but—”

“Martin, are you—what’s going on?”

“I—I don’t know how to tell you this. I’m…” Getting Jon to remember for himself was going to be much easier than explaining it.

“Are you ok?”

“Yes, I—well, all right. At lunch, Sasha showed us a picture of Gertrude Robinson. On Facebook.”

“Oh,” Jon sounded puzzled. “I knew she had retired, but I hadn’t thought to—”

“Well, that’s not it. She was with someone in the picture.”

“Who?”

Martin took a deep breath. “Jurgen Leitner.”

There was a prolonged silence before Jon spoke again. “Oh. God.”

“Yeah.”

“You’re there, aren’t you? Right now.”

“Yes. I’m—I’m not sure what I should do.”

“First, don’t touch anything.”

Martin didn’t respond.

“Ok—don’t touch anything else, then.”

“All right,” Martin said.

“Damn it. I should be there. I should be there with you.”

“No—no, it’s fine. I just—what should I do?”

 “I don’t know.”

“Can I—ok, can I destroy them?”

“What do you mean?”

“Like—” Martin swallowed. “Ok, I’m sure this isn’t the best idea, but—what if a fire were to start in here? Or—something?”

“Do not,” Jon commanded. “Martin Blackwood, I have never been more serious in my life, do not do anything of the sort.”

“Ok, ok,” Martin said. “I said it probably wasn’t a great idea—"

“Some of those books would—let’s just say burning them would not have the desired effect. Or wetting them down, or chopping them up, or—”

“All right, all right. I get it. I mean—that’s not surprising, I guess. So what do I do?”

“Did you check the system? Are any checked out, or reserved, or—?”

“No,” Martin answered. “I mean, yes, I checked the system, and they’re all—they’re all here, in theory. No one’s asked for any of them.”

“Ok.” Martin heard the relief he’d felt earlier echoed in Jon’s voice. “That—that’s good.”

They sat in silence for a moment, before Jon spoke again.

“You’re—you’re not going to like this, but—I think you should go. For now.”

“And just leave them all here?”

“Yes. Believe me, I’m just as frustrated as you, but I don’t think there’s another option just yet. They're relatively protected there, and hopefully they’ll continue to not draw attention.” He paused, and then added softly, “Right now, I just want you out of there.”

Martin sighed. “Right. Ok. Um… I guess… I can at least set up an alert so I get notified if anyone puts in a request?”

“That’s a good idea. And I’ll—I’ll keep thinking. Are you leaving yet?”

“Right after we get off the phone. Just in case. I don’t want to attract attention if someone else is down here.”

“All right. Message me when you’re back at your desk.”

“Sure.” Martin hung up, disappointed there wasn’t more to be done, but Jon was almost certainly right—it would be much too easy to do damage instead of prevent it, if he acted rashly.

Before he left though, he had one more thing he wanted to do.

***

That night, when Martin got home, he found Jon on the small balcony in back again; that was what he’d been hoping for. He grabbed the small metal trash bin out of the toilet in the hallway and stepped outside, closing the door behind him.

“Martin,” Jon said, stamping out a cigarette in the ash tray on the small table as he stood up. “You startled me. You’re early. I'll come in.”

“Sorry, didn’t mean to—I should have said something. Actually, I wanted to catch you out here. I brought you something.” He set the bin he’d brought out with him on the balcony, between the two of them.

“It’s a trash bin,” Jon observed.

“Well, that’s only part of it.” He picked up the lighter Jon had left on the table and handed it to him.

“If this is commentary on my smoking habit, I think the ash tray is big enough. Besides, I don’t plan to keep—”

“No—no, that’s not it. I don’t care about the smoking. Well, I don’t love it, but that’s really not it.” Martin sighed. “Look, I know you said not to touch anything in the Leitner Room, but—well, here.”

From behind his back, he brought out a small, square book; he could see Jon didn’t need to read the title to recognize it in the dim evening light.

“Martin,” he whispered. “I—”

“Don’t say anything. Don’t think, don’t open it. Just—take it. Burn it. This one should be fine. I can do it if you don’t want to.”

Jon reached a hand toward the book, running his fingers hesitantly over the scribbled black spider webs illustrating the otherwise plain white cover. He spoke as if he were in a dream. “Yes. I imagine this one would be ok.”

“Light it,” Martin encouraged him, reaching for the hand that held the lighter to pull it closer. “Now.”

It seemed too easy; he was afraid it wouldn’t catch, or that Jon would change his mind, or any number of other things would go wrong—but nothing did. The cardboard cover caught beautifully, the yellow-orange flame spreading elegantly out from the corner in less than a minute, swallowing the book front and back.

“Now let go,” Martin said, as the flame began to spread, and Jon nodded. They dropped it together into the trash bin, and Martin watched as the title words A Guest for Mr. Spider were consumed, slowly, letter by letter. They watched together, transfixed, until the fire burned itself out and all that was left was a smoking pile of ash.

“You shouldn’t have done that for me,” Jon said quietly. “Going through the shelves—taking it out—it could have been dangerous.”

“Yeah, well, you said the web was probably still weak, and—” Martin reached for Jon’s arm. “Anyway, it’s done now.”

“Thank you,” Jon stepped carefully around the trash bin, and then his arms were around Martin’s waist and his face was in his chest. “Thank you.”

Chapter Text

Jon returned to work the day after they learned about (or more rightly, remembered) the Leitners. Martin had very mixed feelings about it. Even though Jon was eating again and getting enough sleep and making a show of taking his vitamins, Martin wasn’t sure he’d ever feel like he had taken enough time to recover. More than once, he found himself daydreaming about what it might be like if Jon just decided he was never going back to the Institute. Sure, Jon had said it wasn’t an option, but that was before—well, before now. Maybe, if things weren’t going like he’d assumed, he could be convinced to work somewhere else and finally get away from all of this. Or maybe work nowhere, if he wanted. Martin could make that work. He’d taken care of two people on one job before.

On the other hand, the Leitners had really shaken him. It felt like the Institute was sitting on a bomb that could go off at any time if someone took a wrong step—and most of the people walking on it didn’t even know it was there. If it ever had felt as simple as just leaving, it certainly didn’t now. And as long as that was the situation, he needed Jon there. They all needed Jon there.

He’d actually assumed Jon would head straight for the Leitner Room when he got back, but he didn’t. When he asked him about it, Jon’s answer was that Martin had already been there, and there wasn’t any point. That caught Martin off guard—after all, this was the man who not even two weeks ago had re-read every document Martin had tried to read for him—but when he pointed that out, Jon shrugged.

“Maybe I’m trying something different.”

Martin gave him a look. “Really?”

“Why not?” Jon gave what passed for a smile with him this week, and Martin felt like he had to accept it. “Besides, we don’t want to risk drawing attention to them. I think that’s the worst thing we could do.”

The rest of the week was mostly uneventful. Even Jon spent some time in the stacks helping out with client requests, which they somehow had still not caught up on. The only thing that stuck out was that once, on his way out of Sasha’s office, Martin found Jon at his desk going over several page of hand-written text and decided to ask him about it.

“So… Sasha said that people were still coming by with—stories, I guess?”

“Yes.”

“Is that one of them?”

“Yes, I’ve been reviewing them. Sasha really doesn’t like reading them herself, so I’m—” He looked up at Martin. “What?”

“I just didn’t realize. That’s all. That—” Martin frowned down at the papers in front of Jon.  “That looks an awful lot like… well, a statement.”

Jon followed Martin’s eyes back to his desk. “I suppose it does. I hadn’t thought about it.”

Martin found the resemblance vaguely troubling, though he couldn’t put his finger on why it stood out to him. Nothing had changed, really, it was just about what it looked like. There were certainly enough other pressing things happening.

“I’m sorry I didn’t mention it,” Jon said, putting his hand on Martin’s arm.

“No, it’s—it’s fine. I guess I should have assumed people were still coming in… I don’t know why it’s bothering me.” He shook his head and squeezed Jon’s hand briefly before turning to head back to the stacks. “I know you’d tell me if there was anything serious. Well, it's all serious, but anything we could—you know what I mean.”

“Martin, I—"

“No, it’s really all right. I’m just worried about everything, I guess. Sorry for interrupting.”

“You weren’t,” he heard Jon say behind him as he left.

Otherwise, though, things almost seemed to be looking up. Even Tim, spotting Martin on a ladder while reshelving some heavy volumes, commented that Jon looked better.

“I mean—I feel like he does?” Martin agreed, straining to make room on the shelf at an awkward angle without dropping the book in his hand. “I think some—time off—actually did him some good.”

“Or maybe he was so heartbroken about missing our lunch together that he decided he couldn’t stay home another day.”

“I’m sure that was it, Tim.” Martin rolled his eyes as he finally managed to squeeze the book onto the shelf.

Tim was ready to hand him another volume from the cart when he paused, looking up at Martin and down at the cart again. “Wait, was that number—did it end with .5268 or .57?”

Martin looked back at the book he’d just placed on the shelf. “Let’s see—damn it, it was .57.” They hadn’t been paying attention, and they’d managed to miss the poorly placed divider on the cart. Now Martin was going to have to get the book back out of the shelf he’d only barely managed to squeeze it onto, although that maybe explained why it had been so difficult in the first place.

“Sorry,” Tim said. “That was my fault.”

“No, not really. I could have caught it too.”

“Be careful.” Tim shifted to the other side of the ladder as Martin leaned precariously toward the book that now didn’t want to come back out. “You know, Jon’s lucky to have you to take care of him.”

Martin was glad he could blame the color in his face on his efforts to pull the book.

“Are you taking care of yourself?”

“Um—what?” He almost had it now. “I guess? Yes? What are you getting at?”

“Just that I’m still here to listen. If you want to talk about—what happened.”

The book finally came loose, and Martin barely managed to hang on to it and keep his balance on the ladder—but he did. “Here,” he said, tossing it down to Tim once he’d regained his footing. It was his only answer.

***

Even the weekend felt better. He was finally relaxing a little bit about the Leitners—after all, they’d been there for several months and nothing had happened yet, and they were flagged now if anyone asked about one. There were very few people with a key to the room—just the others in the archives and maybe Elias—and none of them were likely to take a sudden interest in them as long as they didn’t attract it.

Jon stayed in bed with him. They went to the store. They made breakfast together—well, Martin made breakfast, but it was a real breakfast with eggs and bacon, and Jon watched him make it with more admiration than it deserved. At some point, Martin borrowed Jon’s trimmer, the one he used on his beard, and finally gave himself the haircut he'd been needing. It felt nice; it felt like a normal thing to do. Afterward, he checked on Jon in the sitting room and found him reading.

“Reading anything important?” Martin asked from the doorway.

“Just a book,” Jon said, briefly holding up a small, worn paperback that Martin recognized from his bookshelf. He walked up behind the couch to look over Jon’s shoulder.

“Like—a normal book that regular people read?”

“A normal book, at least,” Jon said, temporarily closing the book on his thumb to look at Martin. “Oh. You did it. Your hair, I mean. It looks—it looks great.”

“You think?” Martin ran his hand over the shortest part, where he could feel the bristle of the fresh cut against his fingers. “You know, I think I finally found a couple grey hairs this time.”

“Get over it.” Jon lifted his thumb to check the page number and then let the book close entirely before turning to rest his head on his arms on the back of the couch. “You do not get to talk about grey hairs.”

“I wasn’t complaining, I was just mentioning it,” Martin protested. “And I like your grey, it makes you look—”

“Do not say distinguished,” Jon groaned. “Everyone always says that.”

“All right—I won’t.” Martin bent down to kiss Jon instead. Jon started to kiss him back, but Martin stood up. “No, I don’t want to distract you.”

“Oh.” Jon raised his eyebrows. “Is that how it is?”

“Yeah. It is. It’s been forever since you’ve read just a book, and—well, it was something you said you missed.” He kissed Jon one more time, but this time on the top of his head. “And… thank you.”

“For what?”

“For—for trying.”

Jon looked surprised for a moment, and then his face softened. “Martin—”

“Nope,” Martin said, backing away from the couch. “We’re done here. You read. I think I may actually go give poetry another shot.”

“Really?” Jon asked.

“Yeah.” Martin shrugged. “Some of my—his—notebooks were in the stuff from storage. Thought I might go through them and see if it’s any good. It’s not like I was doing a lot of writing—well, there.”

“All right.” Jon sat back on the couch, but turned to look at Martin one more time before opening his book. “You know—if you write anything you like, I’d—”

“Oh, don’t worry, I would never put you through that,” Martin joked. “Just—enjoy your book.”

Martin didn’t end up writing anything—just a line or two that he didn’t like anyway—but going through the notebooks was fascinating. He remembered writing most of the poems in them. For some of them, he could even pinpoint exactly what he had been thinking about when he wrote them, or what had inspired them. He wasn’t afraid anymore that he was losing memories; he found he could navigate memories from the two existences almost side by side now, if he tried. It wasn’t a perfect description, but it was sort of like comparing two different edits of the same document.

He didn’t really identify with the version of him that had written the poems in that notebook. In a way, they annoyed him; it felt like going back and reading things you wrote as a child. He had outgrown them, maybe. He felt like there was simultaneously so much more and so much less to everything he’d tried to capture than he’d understood at the time.

Still, that didn’t stop him from wishing he could have been that person, or stayed that person, or become that person—he wasn’t sure how to think of it, but there it was. He’d liked writing that poetry; it had made him happy, inane as it was. He wanted to like writing it again.

***

Of course, Monday brought another unexpected turn of events. It started with Elias walking into the assistants’ office while Sasha was briefing them on the day’s activities. He looked tired after the weekend, which Martin realized was typical for him, but also vaguely enthused.

“Everyone,” he announced, “I’ve brought someone by that I’d like you to meet. A candidate for our new archival assistant position.”

“Wait,” Sasha said, crossing her arms. “What new position?”

“The one you asked me to advertise.”

“Well, yes, but that was like eight and a half weeks ago. Things were—different. We have Jon and Martin back now, thank god. And you never got back to me, so I just assumed you were ignoring me.”

“I have never once ignored you.” Elias shook his head at Sasha in feigned shock. “And to prove it—you just told me last week you were still behind on the archiving work, and that you weren’t comfortable following up with the reports we’ve been receiving.”

“Technically what I said was that I don’t think we should be dealing with them at all, they’re really not what an archive—”

“And as I told you, although only god knows why, some of our patrons are quite interested in those reports. So, we will keep dealing with them, but this”—Elias held up a finger—“is where our candidate comes in. Look, Sasha, I really think you’ll like this—and as always, I promise you’ll get final approval.”

“All right,” Sasha threw her hands up. “Bring them in.”

“Rosie,” called Elias, “please show her in.”

In the next moment, Martin found himself staring at Melanie King.

“Melanie,” he said, surprised.

“Oh—” Melanie turned to look at him, and her lack of recognition brought him back to the moment. “I’m sorry, have we met?”

“Um,” Martin stammered. “Well—no. I guess maybe I just—feel like I know you? From your YouTube channel.” He laughed uncomfortably.

“Oh, right,” Melanie appeared equally uncomfortable. “I get that sometimes. Um—well, not all that often, actually. Sorry, tell me your name?”

“I’m—I’m Martin Blackwood. I’m one of the assistants here.” He belatedly stepped out from his desk to shake her hand, and she smiled again.

“And I’m Tim Stoker.” Tim’s relative comfort as he also shook Melanie’s hand seemed to put her at ease, at least until she rested her eyes on Jon. He was still sitting at his desk.

“Jon,” Tim prompted him.

“Hm? Oh, right, I’m—”

“I’m guessing you’re Jonathan Sims,” Melanie said.

“That’s—” He seemed mildly surprised. “Yes. I am.”

“My partner, Georgie—Georgie Barker—she’s the one who saw the ad. Said she’d heard someone she used to know might be working here, and well—anyway, we talked about it, and eventually she convinced me to put in my application.”

Jon realized she was waiting for him to say something. “Oh,” he managed.

Her smile faded slightly. “Well, nice to put a name to a face, anyway.”

Elias gestured toward Sasha. “And this is Sasha James, our head archivist.”

“Hello, Ms. King,” Sasha said warmly as she stepped forward. “It’s lovely to meet you.”

“You too.” Melanie took the hand Sasha offered to her. “Mr. Bouchard—Elias—was just telling me about the work you do here, and if you don’t mind, I’d love to chat with you about it.”

“Of course,” Sasha said, leading the way to her office. “Come on in.” Elias followed behind, and they closed the door behind them.

Martin immediately pulled a chair over to Jon’s desk, leaning close and speaking quietly so that Tim couldn’t hear. “What do we do?”

Jon considered. “Nothing, I suppose.”

“But, well—can she—I mean, if she signs a contract, will it be like—”

“No,” Jon shook his head. “No, definitely not.”

“Are you sure?” Martin was still worried. “How can you—”

“I’m sure,” Jon said definitively. “No one’s getting stuck here. Look—that was all Jonah Magnus’s doing, completely. He doesn’t exist here, and when he did, he certainly didn’t have the ability to trap people in his employment.”

“Hm.” Martin still wasn’t entirely convinced.

“Martin, it’s fine,” Jon said, taking his hand. “If it weren’t—if I had any doubt—I’d stop it. I’d find a way. I wouldn’t let her go through that again.”

Martin nodded; Jon’s confidence, at least, gave him confidence. He went back to his desk and continued organizing his tasks for the day, although he was so distracted he hadn’t made much progress when Sasha’s door opened again. She walked out and closed it behind her, leaving Elias and Melanie inside.

“What do you all think?” she asked.

There was a brief silence, and then Tim spoke up first. “It’s a surprise, for sure, but if having someone else around helps you out, I’m all for it.”

“Well, she certainly doesn’t have the sort of background we usually look for, but as Elias pointed out, she has a lot of investigative experience.” Sasha leaned back to sit casually on the round desk in the middle of the office. “Normally that’s not something you’d need in an archive, but as long as we’re being asked to start following up on some of these statements—”

“I can follow up on those,” Jon interrupted. “She doesn’t need to—"

“Jon, onsite research and interviews are exactly what she does.”

“Yes, but as you’ve said, her credentials aren’t—”

“Oh, you’re a certified private detective?” Sasha asked with a note of sarcasm.

“I just meant for an archive—”

“I understand, and credentials are important, but I think we can also all agree that Martin, for example, has become an excellent assistant.”

Tim snorted. “Jon, I dare you to argue.”

Jon ignored him.

“Anyway, Jon,” Sasha continued, “I haven’t forgotten you’re interested in the statements too—I was going to ask you if you wouldn’t mind helping Melanie get adjusted. You know, help her out a bit. That’s assuming we go ahead with the offer and she accepts.”

Jon thought for a moment, then sighed. “All right. Yes.”

“Good,” Sasha said. “Martin, any thoughts?”

“Um—no,” Martin said. “I’m sure she’ll be—she’ll be fine.” Jon had said it would be fine.

“All right,” Sasha said, standing up. “I’ll tell Elias to make the offer.” She disappeared back into her office.

When they came back out, Melanie was smiling and chatting happily to Sasha about an episode of Ghost Hunt UK she and her crew had filmed in Glencoe. Part of Martin was still very nervous for her; the Institute clearly wasn’t the safest place in the world, even if she wasn’t caught there. Another part of him, though, maybe a bigger part, had missed her, and he would be glad to have her around—and seeing her and Sasha together gave him hope, somehow.

“Oh,” Melanie turned just before she and Elias left the office together. “Jon, Sasha mentioned that you’d be helping me get comfortable with things around here, and well—I’m looking forward to working with you.”

“Yes, of course,” Jon said, not looking up from his desk.

This time her smile vanished. “I’m sorry, did I—did I do something to offend you?”

Now Jon looked up. “What? Why would you say that?”

“It’s just—I feel like you already don’t like me.”

“I—no,” Jon said. “I’m—”

“He’s been ill,” Sasha said. “He’s still recovering. Please excuse him.”

“Oh,” Melanie said, but she looked doubtful. “In that case, I hope you feel better.”

“Right,” Jon nodded. “Thank you.”

After she left, Sasha turned to the assistants. “As you may have gathered, she’s already accepted the offer, and she’s quite happy about it. She’ll be starting on Thursday, and I’d like to suggest that instead of lunch this week, we go out to dinner that night to welcome her. Please try to make it, if you can.”

Martin wasn’t sure if he was dreading it, looking forward to it, or both.

***

“Ready for supper?” Martin asked when they got home that night.

“Actually, first—I was wondering if I could ask you for—something.”

“Sure,” Martin said. “What is it?”

“Would you cut my hair for me?”

“Oh, I don’t think so.” Martin crossed his hands in front of his chest for emphasis. “I’m no good with scissors. I mean, I could try to trim the ends if—”

“I meant like yours. Well, not exactly like yours, that’s just—” He cleared his throat. “I want it short.”

“Why?” Martin asked, taken back.

“Would you hate it?”

“No!” Martin said immediately. “No, that—it’s just a big change.”

“Yes, exactly,” Jon agreed. “I think that’s why I want to do it. I mean, I won’t insist if you don’t—”

“No, it’s—if you’re sure, I’ll do it.”

They brought one of the chairs from the balcony into the bathroom. Jon reached back to pull the tie out of his hair, but Martin got there first. He tugged it loose, straightening out the strands that got caught on Jon’s shoulder.

“Are you sure you’re ok with this?” Jon asked again. “I think you’re more attached to it than I am.”

“Not really,” Martin lied, thinking about how he’d taken to brushing it out of Jon’s face while he’d been so out of it. He did kind of miss those moments. “I mean, it doesn’t actually matter how I feel, but—well, ok, give me a moment to say goodbye.”

“Whatever you need,” Jon said with amusement.

“No—no, I’m good.” Martin sighed and pulled it back again, this time into a low, loose ponytail. “So we’re absolutely going to get hair everywhere. I usually just take off my shirt and then jump under the shower afterward, but we could try a garbage bag or something—”

“I don’t mind.” Jon started to unbutton his work shirt, but then stopped. “You’re ok with it?”

“Why wouldn’t I—oh.” Martin suddenly realized he hadn’t seen Jon without a shirt on since the hospital after Hill Top Road, evidently not wanting to expose his scar again. “Jon, it’s—it’s fine. Sorry I didn’t realize before now.”

Jon still hesitated; Martin bent down and kissed him, reaching to undo the button under Jon’s fingers as he did. “Really, it’s fine. Just don’t black out.” He was trying to add some levity, although he wasn’t sure he pulled it off.

“I think I can manage that.” Jon finished unbuttoning the shirt; Martin took it from him as he pulled off the t-shirt underneath, and tossed them both out onto the bed. He deliberately avoided looking directly at Jon’s chest so as not to worry him.

“You’re really, really sure about this?” he asked, twisting his hand into the ponytail. “I mean, once this is gone—it’s gone.”

“Yes.”

“All right.” Martin took a deep breath, and with the scissors they’d borrowed from the kitchen cut his way through Jon’s hair, just above the tie. “There it is.”

“Oh god.” Jon wasn’t even looking at the hand Martin was holding up—he was looking at his reflection in the mirror and the uneven chin-length mop of hair that was left behind.

“We could leave it like that.”

“Don’t you dare.”

“I’m kidding. Here.” He set the hair down on the counter. “Although it is kind of rugged. With your beard, you’ve got a sort of lumberjack thing going on there.”

“Right—very rugged. Until I stand up.”

“Nothing wrong there. You’d be the world’s most adorable hipster lumberjack.”

The look Jon gave him in the mirror said everything.

“All right, all right—here we go.” The trimmer buzzed to life, and bit by bit, the remaining length fell away.

“Where did you learn to do this?” Jon asked.

“Oh—I had a—a friend who taught me years ago. I used to cut his hair.”

“A friend?” Jon asked.

Martin realized he’d stumbled over that pretty badly. “A boyfriend.”

“You can say that, you know. You don’t have to hide it.”

“No—I know.” Martin stopped cutting for a moment to switch out the guide. “Or I assumed, I guess. It’s just that we’ve never really talked about any of that stuff. Well, I know Georgie, obviously—knew Georgie? But that kind of just happened. It felt weird just now.”

“Well, next time it doesn’t have to.”

“Thanks. I—I really do appreciate that.”

Jon nodded. “I’m sorry that—we really did everything backward, didn’t we?”

“Couldn’t be helped.” Martin flicked the trimmer on and off to make sure the new guard was attached properly. “I mean, there are definitely things I wish were different, but it’s not like I regret it.”

“Me neither,” Jon said.

“Besides, we’ve got time to make up for it now.”

Something about the sad smile Martin saw reflected in the mirror made him lean down and press his mouth to Jon’s bare shoulder. It was nice for a moment, but he quickly found himself spitting out hair clippings. “Ok—I do regret that.”

“Oh god, sorry.” Jon turned to try to help him brush some of the pieces off his face.

“And that is why we took the shirt off in the first place,” Martin said when they had gotten most of it, still grimacing. “Anyway, I’m almost done here—just want to get a little more off the top.”

Jon nodded and turned back to face the mirror again, and Martin continued, mulling over the day’s events.

“Jon,” Martin said, “what was with you and Melanie today? You really did seem like you didn’t want to talk to her. Are you that upset about her working on the statements?”

“No, it wasn’t that. I mean, I don’t like it—I’d rather handle it myself, or with you—but that wasn’t it.”

“But I’m right, aren’t I? There was something.”

Jon hesitated, but finally answered. “I think it’s better to—try to stay unattached.”

Martin turned off the trimmer again. He couldn’t believe he hadn’t seen it before. “That’s why you’ve never taken Tim up on drinks, too, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Jon, you—you need friends.”

“They don’t need me. And they certainly wouldn’t want to be friends with me if they knew what I brought here.”

“Jon—”

“It’s just better if I keep my distance.”

“Well, I disagree. And I hope you'll at least come to dinner on Thursday.” Martin could see there wasn’t a point in arguing at that moment. He turned the trimmer on for one last touch up, but didn’t spend much longer on it—he was pretty pleased with it, overall, and it was easy to ruin a good cut by being too picky.

“What do you think?” he asked when he was finished; he was actually nervous to hear the answer.

“It looks great,” Jon said, turning his head in the mirror to look at both sides. “I can't believe you did this.”

“It really wasn’t that hard,” Martin answered, but now that he knew Jon liked it he had to admit he was feeling pretty proud of it.

“Do you like it?” Jon asked.

“I do.” Martin set the trimmer down and stood back to look at it from farther away. “I’m definitely going to have to get used to it—but I mean, this is easier now.” He stretched his fingers out to scratch the back of Jon’s head.

“Oh,” Jon said, tilting his head back a little. “That’s—that’s quite nice.”

“You know—” Martin started to say, but then stopped as he felt himself blushing.

“What?” Jon said. “Everything all right?”

“I just—I know we don’t usually say stuff like this, but… well, I’ve been staring at you for thirty minutes straight, and you—you’re really quite good looking.”

Jon looked at Martin with his mouth slightly open, but quickly regained his composure. “You don’t have to say it. It’s obvious that's what you think.”

“Well.” Martin dropped his hand indignantly. “In that case, maybe I—”

“I mean, I can’t think of anything else that would have attracted you to me, so by process of elimination—”

“Oh, shut up.” Martin leaned in and kissed Jon hard, pressing his hands into the now-short hair at the sides of his head. It had been a while since they’d really kissed, maybe since they’d made up after their argument, and Jon returned it with equal insistence. “I can’t believe you turned that into an insult.”

“Sorry. You’re right, I’m not used to it.” Jon kissed him again, gently this time. “Shall I try again?”

“All right, but me too.” Martin tilted Jon’s head up by the chin. “You’re hot.”

Now it was Jon’s turn to blush, but only for a moment. “So are you.”

“No, you can’t just say that. You really are hot, I’m—” Martin cut himself off, realizing the hypocrisy of what he’d started to say. “All right, this is hard.”

“Maybe just back to this again?” Jon reached to kiss him one more time.

“All right. Until we get more practice, anyway.” He couldn't help running his hand through Jon's hair as their mouths came together again.

He could definitely get used to it.

Chapter Text

Thursday came around quickly. Martin was already on his way out of the office to head back to the stacks and pull some new requests when Melanie arrived, but he had a moment to say hello to her and try to make up for his awkwardness from Monday. She seemed happy enough; she wasn’t bothered by the fact that they didn’t have a desk for her yet and she would have to sit at the conference table they all shared for the time being. Martin left just as Sasha asked Melanie and Jon to join her in her office.

“You’ll be civil to her?” Martin had begged Jon on the way in that morning.

“Yes, of course,” Jon had reassured him. “I’m not trying to make problems. I’m trying to avoid them.”

“Then you’ll go to dinner tonight?”

Jon sighed. “It’s really that important to you?”

“Well, yes?” Martin had answered. “I mean—but not for me, for you. And them.”

Jon had stayed silent, so Martin continued.

“Look, it’s not like I’m going to be mad if you don’t go. It’s just, now that—well, you need people, Jon.”

“I have you.”

“And I appreciate that.” Martin had squeezed Jon’s hand. “But it looks like we’re going to be here a while, and I’m not enough. Not in a bad way, it’s just—you need connections. And at some point… we’re going to have to tell them something.”

“What do you mean?” Jon had seemed surprised.

“Well, we can’t—” Martin found it hard to believe Jon hadn’t considered it at all. “They all know something’s happening. I mean, it’s pretty obvious. They’re kind of at the center of it. And we don’t have to tell them everything, but it’s not like it’s going away, and they deserve to—”

“I’ll go to dinner,” Jon had said abruptly. Although it had sounded very much like a way to avoid the new topic Martin had just brought up, he let that go; there was plenty of time to figure out how they would approach it. For the moment, it was enough that Jon was going to go to dinner with them. He had brushed his hand over the back of Jon’s head, a new form of thank you he’d already picked up in the couple of days since he’d cut Jon’s hair. At least Jon didn’t seem to hate it.

Martin spent a lot of the morning in the stacks, and when get got back to the office both Jon and Melanie were gone. Tim was at his desk, though, and Martin asked him how things were going with Melanie.

“Good, I think,” Tim shrugged. “Jon’s showing her around the archives. She seems pretty driven. Just wanted to get to work. I tried telling her there’s not really anyone she needs to impress here, but I guess all that Ghost Hunt UK enthusiasm is real. Did you see the episode they did in Glencoe that she was talking to Sasha about last week?”

“I’ve actually never seen an episode.” Martin sat at his desk to update some information in the system about the collection he’d been working with that morning. “Probably should watch a couple now though, huh.”

“I thought you—when we met her on Monday, you said you felt like you already knew her from her YouTube channel.” Martin looked up to find Tim staring at him thoughtfully, a pen held up to his mouth.

“Um—did I say that?” He quickly looked back down. “I mean, I knew who she was. I’ve seen pieces of episodes here and there—and promos, you know, search history—”

“Right,” Tim answered. “I know I keep saying it, Martin, but any time you want to talk.”

As usual, Martin didn’t answer him. Tim was getting more insistent; these days, Martin could sneeze and Tim would ask him if he wanted to talk. He almost felt like Tim was probing to see what would get the biggest reactions out of him, so he was trying not to react at all. It wasn’t like he could blame Tim for it. He and Jon were going to have decide soon what, and how, they were going to tell everyone what they knew about the entities. Some of it, of course, might depend on what happened with Melanie, and how quickly she started seeing connections across incidents and statements. It’s not like any of them could just figure it out—fear entities simply weren’t a logical explanation, and never would be, and if he and Jon did things right, none of them would encounter them directly. However, the more they saw for themselves, the more sense it would make, and the easier it would be to explain.

Jon would come around, he was sure. Jon wanted to limit the damage more than anyone. He was doing better, much better than Martin would have given him credit for in his current situation. He was trying. He’d get it. Maybe just bringing it up that morning had been enough to start him thinking.

He didn’t end up crossing paths with Jon and Melanie for the rest of the day. When it was their usual time to leave, he headed back to the office, only to find Jon wasn’t there yet. He waited a little while, but eventually messaged him to see what was going on.

Sorry. Lost track of time, Jon wrote.

A moment later, he got a second message: Might stay late. Ok to meet at dinner?

Martin wasn’t sure if that meant things with Melanie had gone great or awful, but he imagined it was one or the other.

See you there. He put his phone in his pocket after hitting send, but it buzzed again.

You sure?

Yes, he wrote. He knew Jon didn’t like writing long text messages, so he resisted asking if he was ok. Instead, he tried to add a little more context so Jon would get that he wasn’t upset: Thanks for coming tonight. And then, on a whim, something he rarely messaged—Love you.

Jon wrote back almost immediately. Love you too.

He was headed out the door when he ran into Melanie rushing back to the office.

“Oh—hey,” she said, composing herself. “Martin.”

“Hey.” They stopped uncomfortably on opposite sides of the doorway. “Um—how was your first day? Sorry I didn’t get a chance to talk with you earlier, I think we just kept missing each other.”

“It was… good,” she said. “Well, I mean—it was a lot. A lot to take in about the archives and the Institute. And I know I’m going to mostly be researching these statements, I guess you call them? But we didn’t even have a chance to look at those today. I mean, Jon told me a little bit about them—”

Martin nodded, not sure what to say.

“And—well, maybe this is too forward, but—I just can’t get a read on him.”

“You and everyone else,” Martin said.

“Glad it’s not just me, I guess. It’s just—at first, I thought he didn’t like me. I mean, Georgie—my partner—told me she and Jon used to have a thing, and at first I thought maybe it was because of that? She said they didn’t end things on great terms. But then—it was so long ago, and he did ask about her, and he just doesn’t seem like he’s like that. It didn’t really fit.”

Martin coughed. “I’m pretty sure that’s not the issue.”

“Yeah. Well. There’s definitely something,” she sighed. “If you have any ideas—but oh—I’m running later than I thought I would. I told Georgie I’d go home first and come back to dinner with her. Sorry for dumping all that on you, it’s just been a long day and—well, a good one, I’m glad to be here—”

“Of course,” Martin smiled.

“Like I said, it was just a lot. And Jon is—a lot. Anyway, see you at dinner?”

“Looking forward to it,” Martin replied, taking his cue to leave. He wondered briefly what Jon was doing; it wasn’t like him to stay late to do archiving work, but it had clearly been a long day. Maybe he just needed some time in the shelves to think.

***

Martin got to the restaurant just as the host was showing everyone to the table. He had drilled into his head on the way over that he had to act as if he didn’t know Georgie. He had definitely managed to overthink the situation of meeting your new coworker’s significant other in the process, but showing up as they were sitting down probably helped by adding its own element of awkwardness. He had to lean across the empty chair he’d deliberately left for Jon between him and Georgie in order to shake her hand, and ultimately he figured he hadn’t even given Tim an excuse to ask him if he wanted to talk about something.

There was something about Georgie that he couldn’t quite put his finger on. She was Georgie, for sure; there was no mistaking it. She wasn’t exactly the same, though, either. He realized that she, like Tim, was someone whose life had already been significantly affected by the fears at the time he’d met her, even by the time Jon had met her. Here, that had never happened. How would losing their sense of fear actually affect someone? Clearly, it would, but Georgie hadn’t been fearless in the way people usually use that term—

Before he could put any more thought into it, though, Jon showed up.

“Sorry I’m late,” he announced, as quietly as he could while still apologizing. He tried to slide inconspicuously into his seat, but Georgie stood up before he could.

“It’s so good to see you, Jon,” she said.

“It’s good to see you too.” He held out his hand to shake hers, and she took it for a moment, but quickly pulled him into a hug. Martin was relieved to see that Jon hugged her back after only slight hesitation. “I wasn’t sure how you’d feel about seeing me again.”

“Everything’s good,” she reassured him, pulling out of the hug to rest her hands on his shoulders. “I hope you feel the same.”

“Of course.” Jon smiled, a small but genuine smile, and Martin felt like he had done the right thing to make sure they sat together. Tim and Sasha were chatting quietly about the menu, and Georgie took the opportunity to start catching up.

“So you’ve met Melanie, obviously,” Georgie said, slipping her hand into Melanie’s as she did. “I heard you spent quite a lot of time together today.”

“Yes,” Jon said, picking a menu off the table. “I think I may have overdone it, actually.”

“It’s fine,” Melanie said. “Really. I just—have a lot to learn, that’s all. I’ll manage.”

“Don’t worry.” Martin was starting to relax. “If I could catch on—I’m sure you’ll be giving tours of the Institute next week.”

“Oh—Georgie,” Jon interjected. “This is Martin. He’s—”

“Yes, Melanie introduced us right before you—”

“—my boyfriend.”

“Oh!” This exclamation came from Melanie, not Georgie. They all turned to find her with her face in her hands. “Oh god, I didn’t know.”

“What?” Georgie asked. “What’s wrong?”

“I just—oh no—”

Martin realized she was referring to her comments about Jon on the way out, and tried to reassure her. Given how Jon often affected people, they hadn’t even been bad—just honest. He redirected. “Don’t worry, you didn’t keep him late—Jon loves working late. He hasn’t gotten enough of it lately.”

She looked up at him, clearly still very embarrassed. “I—”

“Really,” Martin assured her, “it’s fine.”

“What?” Georgie seemed very confused.

“I just—ran into Martin on the way out of the office—and I was late to meet you and I wasn’t really thinking, and—well, Jon didn’t say anything!”

“I’m sorry?” Jon also seemed very confused, and Martin patted his hand on the table.

“Jon likes to make boyfriend announcements at—interesting moments.”

“Do I?” Jon asked.

“A little.”

Melanie laughed, then covered her mouth again. “Sorry. That’s just—that’s something I would do.”

“It absolutely is,” Georgie said. “Remember that time when we—”

“Oh god,” Melanie said. “I know where you’re going with that, and please wait until I’ve been here at least—two weeks to tell that story?”

“All right, I suppose.” She smiled at Melanie then turned back to Martin and Jon. “So—did you two meet here? Well, not at the restaurant, obviously—I mean, at the Magnus Institute?”

“Yeah,” Martin said. “We started working in the archives at the same time.”

“Was that five years? Six years ago?” Georgie asked. “I think that’s when I heard you’d switched to the archives.”

“That’s about right,” Jon confirmed. “Around the same time you got serious about What The Ghost, I believe.”

“And let me tell you, that has been a ride,” Georgie sighed. “But it is how I met Melanie, so I’ll call it a draw.”

“A draw? Only if I’m the bad part,” Melanie said, “which I’d rather not be.”

Georgie shook her head. “What about—did you two start dating right away, or—?”

“Oh,” Martin said. “No. Definitely not.”

“Really? What happened? I mean, if—”

“Yes, what did happen?” Tim asked, loudly rejoining the conversation.

Martin sighed. “Tim—”

“What?” Tim pulled his chair closer, and put his arm around Martin’s shoulder. “I am all ears.”

“Oh, stop,” Sasha said, tugging at Tim’s sleeve. “You’re being awful. Sorry, everyone. We may have had a drink or two at the bar before everyone got here. Tim—”

Fortunately, the server arrived just then to take their drink orders; the moment was forgotten, and the conversation moved on. The rest of the evening passed more or less uneventfully, with lots of questions from Melanie about the archives and its history. Interestingly, she was familiar with the tunnels under the institute, and the connection to the old Millbank Prison. She had been considering doing an episode on Robert Smirke’s architecture at one point before she had quit Ghost Hunt UK. Martin started when she mentioned the tunnels and the prison—he hadn’t even thought about them yet—but Jon must have, because he calmly reached for Martin’s hand when it came up, rubbing his palm. Tim’s knowledge of Smirke’s architecture was apparently every bit as intact as it had been in the other dimension.

Eventually, as dinner was wrapping up, the conversation turned to Melanie’s reasons for interviewing at the Magnus Institute. “I’ll admit, I am curious,” Sasha said, tipping her glass of wine slightly toward Melanie. “I didn’t really think it was my business, so I didn’t ask when you came in, but if you’d like to talk about it—I would love to know why you quit the show. It seemed like it was going great.”

Georgie whispered something to Melanie, but Melanie waved her off. “It’s fine,” she said. “It’s going to come up eventually anyway. And I’d kind of rather tell it while you’re here.”

“All right,” Georgie said, leaning back in her chair with her hand on Melanie’s shoulder.

“So—” Melanie began, setting her empty glass down on the table. “First, I just want to say that I could not believe it when you said you wanted me to work on these—statements that people have been coming in to make. The thing is, I—well, I really could make my own statement. Something happened at one of our shoots. At Cambridge Military Hospital. Just over a month ago. I wanted to look into some—well, there were reports of a—a grey lady? You know, a—a type of—”

“A ghost,” Tim said, moving the conversation along.

“Right. Basically.” Melanie paused, and reached for her glass of water.

“You don’t have to tell this,” Georgie said.

“No—I want to,” Melanie continued. “I don’t need to go into all the details, but—well, we needed someone to fill in for our sound engineer, and Georgie suggested someone she knew. Sarah.”

“I still feel awful.”

“No, it’s fine. I mean, I checked her out, she seemed ok to me too. But once we were on the road, it was just weird from the beginning, and—well, long story short, I swear to god—ugh, you’ll all think I’m crazy—”

“We won’t,” Tim said, causing Jon to look over at him before returning his attention to Melanie.

“Well, some things happened, we were alone and she didn’t even know I was there, but it was like she was picked up and thrown into a wall. I mean, that’s not that weird, there are lots of explanations for that kind of—but anyway, she was injured, and then I saw her—I swear—peel her skin off her own arm.” She said this last part under her breath and in a rush, like she was in a hurry to get it out. “Like a—like a glove. It was hanging in this strange way, and it was like she peeled it right off and then—put it back on. Fixed it. With—with a staple gun, for god’s sake. And she was apologizing to someone—or something—the whole time.”

Everyone was silent. Martin remembered how Jon had responded to Melanie’s story the first time he’d heard it; this time, Jon simply stared down at the mostly empty plate in front of him in silence.

Melanie started again. “I’ve heard so many people’s stories, and—well, yes, some of them might have elements of—truth, I suppose, but if I were listening to my own story, to be honest I wouldn’t believe it. Before you ask, I did have footage of it, but it just didn’t turn out well, of course. And I tried at first to convince myself I was overworked, needed a break, I was stressed—all the things everyone says—but that just wasn’t true. I mean, those things were probably all true, but also it happened. I know it happened. And I just…” She sighed. “I was so scared, I just acted like it hadn’t. Pretended I hadn’t seen it, and dropped her off the next day and never said a thing.”

Georgie rubbed her arm gently.

“I acted like I was ok, and maybe I thought I was, but things just fell apart after that. No one on my crew wanted to work with me anymore. It really hurt, you know? After all the work I did, how hard I fought for that show—”

“It’s all right,” Georgie said.

“Yeah.” Melanie took a breath. “I just kind of took a break for a bit, and that’s when Georgie mentioned the ad, and—I answered. So that’s it.”

“Of course,” Georgie said, “when I suggested it, I had no idea that your esteemed academic institution was investigating actual incidents now. I was hoping it would be more of a desk job.”

“But it’s better, Georgie, it’s what I do.”

“I know, but I can’t help that it makes me nervous,” Georgie sighed. “Especially since these people—their stories are so—recent. It’s not war ghosts, Melanie.”

Martin looked at Jon, but Jon was staring down at the table again.

“So. Do you all think I’m crazy now?” Melanie asked.

“No,” Tim said. “Not at all. Whatever this is—you’re not the only one. Something’s—”

Tim didn’t finish because the server came to sort out their bills, and by unspoken agreement they didn’t return to the topic afterward. They toasted Melanie with whatever was left in their glasses, and eventually they stood, grabbing their jackets and bags and whatever else they had brought with them. Sasha hugged Melanie and Georgie; Georgie turned to hug Jon again.

“I hope we have a chance to do this again before too long.”

Jon didn’t answer her, but returned the hug.

“See you tomorrow, Jon?” Melanie asked, as she double checked that her phone was in her bag.

“Yes, of course.” Jon nodded.

“Apologies in advance if I'm a little—well, hung over."

"No worries about that, you'll fit right in." Tim waved as he and Sasha headed toward the door, and Melanie smiled after him.

"Oh, and Martin—I really am sorry for—well, you know.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he smiled. “It was nice to meet, well, both of you, I guess. Have a good night.”

“You too,” Melanie said, as she walked out holding on to Georgie’s arm.

***

They didn’t really talk on the way back to Jon’s flat—not until they got to the door.

“Thanks again for going,” Martin said.

Jon nodded, fishing in his pocket for his keys.

“You all right?”

“I don’t—I don’t know,” Jon said. He stopped searching and leaned back against the doorframe, slumping forward a little.

“Jon.” Martin stepped up to wrap his arms around Jon and pull him close. They embraced in the doorway of the of the flat.

“That was hard,” Jon said.

“I’m sorry.” Martin pulled him even closer, pressing his face against the top of his head. “But Jon, you can’t—you can’t just cut yourself off from them. You feel that, right?”

“I don’t know what I feel,” Jon mumbled.

“Hey.” Martin tried to lift Jon’s face up from his chest, but Jon wasn’t having it. Martin gave up and put his arms back around him. “It was good to see Georgie, right?”

“Yes.”

“But?”

“But I don’t deserve good. Melanie’s story—what’s happened to Sarah Baldwin—everything Tim’s read in those statements, all of that—things that haven’t even happened yet, to them, to other people… It’s my fault. I hurt them. And I’m going to hurt them more.”

“No,” Martin said firmly. “It was never your fault. You’re not hurting them, and you’re not going to. You’re going to protect them. I know it’s scary that you can’t just know everything anymore, and you can’t control everything, but it doesn’t matter. We just need to work out a way to tell them what’s going on. That’s all. They'll listen. The way they listened to Melanie at dinner."

“Martin, I—”

“Shh.” Martin dug into his own pocket to find his keys, and clumsily unlocked the door while still holding Jon with his other arm. “No more tonight, love. You need to rest.” He’d never called Jon that before—or anyone, when he thought about it—but it felt good. It felt comfortable.

Chapter Text

Martin tried not to push Jon too much over the next week. He hadn’t realized quite how hard dinner would be for him, so he tried his best just to be supportive and not ask for anything else right away. It was continuing to weigh on him more heavily that they were going to have to explain some things to the rest of the archival staff soon, but he could give Jon a little more time.

He was surprised, though, when Jon asked him if it was ok to go into the office on Saturday after they woke up.

“Why? I mean, ok, but—why?”

“I’m behind,” Jon said. “I didn’t want Melanie to start looking into the statements yet, so I kept her busy with other things—but then I didn’t get to—”

“You’re not going to be able to keep her away from them forever.”

“Exactly.” Jon curled his legs up beneath the sheets, and Martin could see he was worried.

“That makes sense, I suppose.” Martin found his way over to Jon under the covers, so he could reach out a hand to touch his side; Jon pulled himself closer to rest his head on Martin’s shoulder. “Are you sure you’re ok, though?”

“I’m… good enough.”

“Can I help? Want me to go with you?”

“No.” Jon shook his head. “I’ll only be a few hours. I’ll be back by lunch.”

Jon was true to his word, and even brought lunch home for them. He napped a bit in the afternoon, but it wasn’t the same as when he couldn’t stay awake—it was a normal kind of tired, and the nap was the kind of thing Martin felt like people were supposed to do on a Saturday afternoon.

The next week, Jon resumed working with Melanie; he began to stay late in the evenings or work at his desk after coming home, but he ate and got in bed when Martin did, and Martin didn’t see that he had much room for complaint. Not much changed with respect to Jon’s relationship to the others in the office; although Martin had hoped he might join them for lunch on Wednesday, Jon stayed in the office, again to catch up on a few things. Martin accepted it. Things would be different after they worked out what they would say to the other archive staff, and they could all talk more openly. Maybe then Jon would even find it easier to socialize with them; maybe he would finally let some of his burden go.

At lunch, Melanie was feeling more comfortable with her role, and Martin knew Jon had given her some statements to read. However, she was also already frustrated with her lack of progress, which thankfully didn’t seem to have anything to do with Jon. She didn’t seem to be focused on him much at all, actually, which was maybe the best possibility for the moment.

“It’s just—they’re all so lacking in detail, it’s hard to follow up with anything. And if I try to get back in touch with the person who made the statement, I either can’t get ahold of them, or they don’t want to talk anymore.”

Martin remembered feeling that way too, when he had been investigating statements for Jon. And then you get lucky with one, and you get trapped in your apartment by a walking parasite infestation for two weeks. He shivered, but no one noticed; they were all listening to Melanie.

“You know—I never had that kind of trouble with Ghost Hunt? I mean, sometimes it was hard to stop people from talking. Everyone wants to talk about their famous ghost siting. Even if they didn’t actually have one and had to make it up.” She sighed.

“What do you think of the statements, though?” Sasha asked. “I told Jon I had to stop reading them after a while. They were giving me the creeps. Do you think they’re… legitimate? Real?”

“I don’t even know what real means. And it’s hard to know, just reading instead of talking to someone, but there are a few that—well, it seems that the people who wrote them really believed them, at least. Some of the details they add… Did you read the one from the man who claimed he killed the exact same spider over and over again? I can’t seem to get ahold of him, and I am not a psychologist, but apparently he was planning on moving because of it, and unless he way outright lying that just—”

“Wait,” Martin interrupted. “You said—spider, right?”

He must have had a look on his face. “You’re afraid of spiders now?” Tim asked. “I could have sworn you were the one defending them in the office when—”

“Let’s just say I’ve lost my fondness for them.”

“Oh, sorry,” Melanie said. “Didn’t mean to—”

“No, it’s fine. I was just wondering—how long ago was that one?”

“Last week, I think?”

“Like—he came in last week?”

“I think so, yeah.”

“Does Jon know about it?”

“I assume so. He was the one who gave it to me.”

Martin nodded, and wondered why Jon hadn’t said anything to him. It had to be a sign that the Web was getting at least a bit stronger. Was that why Jon had started working more again?

“Need to talk?” Tim asked.

“No, Tim,” Martin answered, “I don’t need to talk.”

Tim shrugged.

***

Martin waited two more days, until Friday, to say anything to Jon. He waited until after the others had all left the office.

“Working late again tonight?”

“Actually, I don’t think so.”

“Really?” Martin was surprised. “That wild goose chase this afternoon took it out of you, huh?” Jon and Melanie had attempted to track down a few of the statement-givers that afternoon by knocking on doors, and Melanie had gone on at length about her disappointment in their lack of success when they got back.

“I’m not sure you actually want to catch the geese when—”

“Fair enough.” Martin sat on the edge of Jon’s desk. “Jon, why didn’t you tell me about the—the spider statement? Last week?”

“Carlos Vittery.” Jon, who had stood to organize his desk, sat down again. “I take it Melanie mentioned it?”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t know.” Jon stared down at the desk in front of him. “I really don’t know. I wanted to.”

“When did he come in?”

“Last Thursday. When I was showing Melanie around the archives. And by the time I saw it on Friday, it was too late.”

“What do you mean, too late?”

“He was already dead.”

Martin’s breath caught. He had forgotten that detail, that Carlos Vittery had died not long after giving the statement—but now he remembered. He had choked to death. He didn’t remember that it had happened that quickly, but there was no reason to think Jon was wrong.

“Oh, Jon. I’m sorry.”

Jon shrugged. “I have no reason to think I could have stopped it. If I had known, what could I have done? Told him? That would only have added to his fear. Suggested he stay with a friend? Invited him back to our flat? I can’t imagine any of that would have changed things either, not really.”

Martin realized Jon must have run through a thousand scenarios in his head, and he had chosen to go through it alone. His heart hurt.

“Jon—”

“It’s fine.”

“It’s not. Jon, we have to tell them.” He leaned down to kiss Jon, who hesitated for a moment, but then allowed himself to kiss Martin back. “You can’t keep doing this by yourself.”

“It’s not fair to involve them.”

“They are involved, Jon.”

“You don’t understand.”

“Then help me understand.” He kissed Jon again. “Talk to me.”

Jon drew back. “Is that really what you want?”

“Yes.”

They stared at each other. Several times Martin got the feeling Jon was about to say something, that he was just on the verge of opening up—but he didn’t, and the moment passed. Martin sighed.

“Let’s go home.”

Jon nodded, standing up again—but then his face brightened slightly as something appeared to occur to him. “No. Let’s go get some food.”

“Jon, we just went shopping, we don’t—”

“No, not shopping, I meant—let’s go out.” He took Martin’s hand in a way that would have been comical, except that it was so serious. “On a date.”

Martin didn’t know how to answer that. It was not what he had expected Jon to say. “Um—”

Jon looked at him expectantly for a moment. “You do know what a date is, right?”

Jon’s sarcasm snapped Martin out of his trance. “How would you know? Maybe I don’t.”

“Exactly,” Jon squeezed his hand. “We never got to. Just—say yes.”

“Fine. Yes.” Martin shook his head, but couldn’t help smiling. “You know, we’ve gotten lunch together loads of times. Like, there and here. I mean, not since we—but—”

“That doesn’t count. They weren’t dates—not real ones, maybe they should have been, but I was—” Jon cut himself off. “You deserve a real date.”

“I deserve—?” Martin sighed. “Never mind. Where are we going, then?”

“I don’t know. Where do you want to go?”

“Jon—you can’t ask me on a date, and then make me responsible for it.”

“Fine. What sort of food do you like?”

“This is ridiculous. You know what I eat—”

“But I mean, that we don’t usually get. That I don’t know you like. What about—what about sushi?”

Martin shrugged. “Sushi’s fine.”

“Do you like it, though?”

“All right, I don’t actually know. I’ve only had it a couple of times.”

“Really?”

“It’s expensive!” Martin defended himself. “Flat full of canned peaches here, remember? Always brought my lunch?”

“Yes, well—this is on me.”

“Is—is that a joke?”

Jon shrugged, and Martin caught a hint of that actual smile that had become much too rare.

“Very impressive.” Martin didn’t know why this date idea was so suddenly important to Jon, but it clearly was—and he would go along with anything that brought Jon this close to being happy. “Don’t think I’ll go home with you just because you’re paying for dinner, though.”

“Of course not,” Jon answered. “You’ll go home with me because I’m so charming. Come on.”

***

Martin did really like sushi, it turned out. They got some kind of chef’s special that came in a serving tray that looked like a boat. It had several different kinds of rolls—the only kind of sushi Martin had had before—and nigiri, and then some raw fish. Martin avoided the latter for most of the evening without realizing it, until Jon noticed he hadn’t tried it and insisted.

“It’s sashimi. Technically it’s not sushi,” Jon told him as he picked out a few pieces to put on Martin’s plate.

“What’s the difference?”

“Well, technically, sushi refers to the rice. A lot of westerners just assume it means the fish.”

“Huh.” Martin picked up one of the pieces in his chopsticks. “What’s this one?”

“That’s salmon.”

“All right, here goes.” He popped the whole piece in his mouth; Jon had already explained to him that was the only acceptable way to eat sushi—and Martin assumed that applied to sashimi as well. “Wow. That’s amazing. Kind of just—melts.”

“Right?” Jon went to put another piece of salmon on Martin’s plate, but he moved it out of the way.

“No—I’ve got like, five other pieces you gave me. You eat that.”

“I’ve had plenty. And we can order more.”

“We’re not ordering more. This was like—sixty-five pounds. You know I was joking about impressing me, right?”

“It doesn’t really matter, does it?” Jon gave up and ate the other piece of salmon himself. “It’s just money.”

“Yeah, I know. But we still need it. We have to pay for that flat I’m going back to with you.” Martin moved his plate back in front of him. He pointed to a different piece, a white fish. “What’s this one?”

“I think that one’s—fluke, maybe?”

That was delicious too. “Is any of this not amazing?”

“Not really.” Jon helped himself to one last piece of nigiri that was sitting alone on the tray.

“Which one was that again? That sauce—I remember it was kind of sweet.”

“Eel,” Jon said. “Unagi—that’s freshwater eel. Anago is saltwater eel.”

“Oh, of course. Wouldn’t want to confuse my eels.” Martin set down his chopsticks to pour himself another tiny cup of sake. He’d never had that before tonight either, but it agreed with him. Secretly, he was enjoying Jon’s sushi explanations; it was the first time since they’d been here that he’d seen him focus so intensely on something that didn’t involve fears or statements or his own guilt. “More?”

Jon eyed the carafe warily, but then scooted his cup toward Martin. “Well—maybe just one more.”

“There you go.”

Jon took a small sip, and looked at Martin reproachfully as he drank his like a shot.

“Yeah—I know,” Martin said, as he set the cup back down on the table. “But I’ve done pretty well tonight with fingers and chopsticks and taking one bite and not using the soy sauce, and you know what? Not sorry.”

“All right then.” Jon finished the rest of his cup in one swallow as well, and Martin let himself laugh.

“Didn’t imagine you were one to give in to peer pressure.”

“Depends on the peer, I suppose.” Jon reached over and touched Martin’s arm.

“Jon—this is great, but—what’s going on? Why? Why right now?”

“I told you. You deserve a real date.”

“Ok, and that—why is it me that deserves it? Why don’t you? Or—us? Why don’t we—”

Suddenly Jon was kissing him, and even though Martin wasn’t necessarily a big fan of kissing in public, he badly wanted to kiss him back. They were in a quiet back corner of the restaurant anyway—it wasn’t like it would attract a lot of attention. He leaned in, closing his eyes, listening and feeling for Jon’s breathing as he did. It was nice just to be able to kiss Jon, and not to feel rushed or scared or like they were trying to fix something that was wrong, and he wasn’t sure he’d ever get used to it. He kind of hoped he wouldn’t, actually. He hoped he would never stop trying to anticipate the way Jon would move his head when he pressed against him a certain way, that he wouldn’t ever get too accustomed to the scratchiness of Jon’s beard on his face, that—

Martin realized that Jon had stopped kissing him, although he hadn’t exactly pulled away; he felt the invisible weight of someone standing by the table, who he assumed was the server. That’s awkward. He could tell by the way Jon sighed that he was even less happy about it.

“I’m sorry, do you—”

Then he realized that something was very wrong.

“Didn’t mean to interrupt. I just saw you out enjoying yourselves and wanted to say hello.”

Martin knew that voice too well. He turned, speechless, as Annabelle Cane sat down at one of the empty chairs at their table.

She smiled at him, and turned to face Jon. “Did you get my little gift last week?”

“I assume you’re referring to Carlos Vittery.” Jon was calmer than Martin would have expected; somehow, he was able to meet her eyes. Martin wasn’t, so he looked at Jon.

“Good,” she said. “Just wanted to send you a little thank you for—finding one of my favorite books in that archive of yours.”

Martin felt his hand tighten around the dinner knife from the silverware set that lay unused on the table; he hadn’t realized he’d reached for it. Annabelle laughed softly, then sighed.

“Oh, Martin—I didn’t think you were the sort to play with knives. Especially not after the little show you two put on for me when you came to visit.”

His hand uncurled; he set his palm flat against the table.

“Hill Top Road, you mean,” Jon said. “You were there.”

“Of course. I so appreciate that you came by. I’m sorry I wasn’t in better shape for receiving guests.”

Martin continued to keep his eyes on Jon, and concentrated on breathing; it was getting harder as the moments were passing, and almost as if he’d received some invisible cue, Jon turned to Martin.

“Let’s go.”

It hadn’t occurred to Martin that leaving was an option, and when Jon told him they could go a wave of relief crashed over him. Of course, Annabelle wouldn’t want to cause a scene in a public restaurant, any more than they did.

“I came here to tell you something. Don’t you want to hear it?”

“No.” Jon shook his head and stood up, and Martin did the same. “I really don’t.”

They began to walk toward the front of the restaurant, but Annabelle stayed seated at the table.

“Archivist—if you—”

Martin turned swiftly, struggling to keep down the anger in his voice. “Don’t call him that.”

“What?” Annabelle looked at him with a mixture of surprise and curiosity.

“He’s not the Archivist.” Martin didn’t know why it was so important to him, but it was. “There is no Archivist here. That’s done.”

A smile slowly spread across Annabelle’s face as her eyes shifted back to Jon, standing behind him. “You haven’t told him.”

“Annabelle, what are you on about? He—” A cold sort of understanding started at the top of Martin’s head and swiftly made its way down his neck, his spine, to his feet and toes. He turned to look at Jon again. “Jon, what is she talking about?”

Jon stood frozen. “I—I’m sorry.”

Martin couldn’t say anything, but he didn’t know what he would say if he could.

“I—I tried to tell you. Once I realized it—I did try.”

Warm feeling started to come back to Martin now, but not the pleasant kind. It emanated from his gut and spread outward, a nauseating mix of anger and sadness and even loneliness. It spread up into his throat, and in the moment before he spoke he wasn’t sure if he would vomit or form words. In any case, he didn’t choose what came out.

“Well, you should have tried harder.”

Jon opened his mouth, but a moment passed before he spoke. “Please come home. Come home with me. I’ll tell you everything.”

Annabelle spoke from behind them. “Or you could come back and talk with me.” He wanted to tell her to shut up, to piss off, but he already knew he wouldn’t.

“Go home, Jon,” he said instead.

“Martin, please don’t.”

“I—I need to stay. I’m sorry.”

He turned and walked the few steps back to his seat, and let the dead weight of his body sink into it. Jon followed him, sitting down in his seat as well.

“Jon—go home. You don’t need to stay for this.”

Jon shook his head, reaching for Martin’s hand which he had balled up into a fist on the table. He was too ashamed to pull it away.

“Oh, come on.” Annabelle smiled as if they were old friends who had just happened to run into each other. “There’s no need for all this drama. I just want to talk.”

“You knew,” Martin said. “You knew what would happen, in the tower. You knew what we would do.”

“I only gave you information—proper information, at that. I couldn’t possibly have known what you would do. I just knew what you might do. And you could have figured that out for yourselves with a simple conversation.”

Jon’s grip faltered, but Martin was starting to get over his initial shock, and he strengthened his hold on Jon.

“It wasn’t enough, to get the entities out. You wanted Jon out with them. Did you know this would happen?”

Annabelle shrugged. “Honestly, I don’t know what you have to complain about. You two were quite lucky with your—situation here.”

“What does that mean?”

“Oh, you know—you simply merged with your counterparts. I had to take care of mine a different way.”

“You killed her,” Jon said quietly.

Annabelle looked at him coldly. “It’s not like I enjoyed it, but I certainly couldn’t have two of us running around. And you can stop your fumbling, Archivist, you know it’s all spiders in here.” She patted the scarf she wore loosely wrapped around her head. “And not to be too rude, but you are a long way from what you were.”

“Wait. What do you mean we merged with them?” Martin asked.

“I would have thought you’d figured that out already.” Annabelle sighed. “You—the two of you—are each both versions of yourselves. You were so similar that you couldn’t both be here, in the same space, so you just—became one person.”

“Then why—why am I me?” Martin pressed. “I mean, why do I feel like—”

“Well,” Annabelle said, “consider. If you—Martin—had all the memories and experiences of the Martin from this world, who had never been touched by the Great Fears, never fallen into the Lonely, never lived through an apocalypse—and had all the memories and experiences of the Martin from that world who had—who would you be?”

Jon exhaled through his teeth.

“Sure. Ok,” Martin continued. “But then what about you? Why didn’t you merge with the other Annabelle Cane?”

“We were not at all the same. The Annabelle Cane that lived here never came to be in the other world. I was her, once—and then we destroyed her. I was born from her, but I’m not her.”

Martin took a deep breath. “What about Jon?”

Jon’s grip on his hand tensed.

“What do you mean?”

“What about Jon? He’s obviously been—affected by the Eye. Shouldn’t he be—like you?”

Shouldn’t he be a monster?

“Why should he be like me? We’re all different, just like the Fears themselves. The Mother of Puppets birthed me from a girl who shared my name, but she’s gone now. The Distortion—calling itself Michael and then Helen, a parasitoid of the Spiral that eventually wears out its host and needs another. And then there were those like Simon Fairchild or Peter Lukas, still primarily human but with immense gifts from their Patrons. I used to think the Archivist was like them.”

“And now you don’t?” Jon asked.

“No, I don’t.” Annabelle shook her head. “The simple fact that you’re here means you’re more than that. The fact that you are also the Jonathan Sims from this world means you are human. You would have had to be when you came here. Simply put—you are both. And I don’t mean half of each, I mean both.”

“How?” Martin asked.

“I don’t know.” Annabelle shrugged again; he could tell she was starting to tire of answering his questions. “How are any of us? It makes sense, though. The Great Eye simply consumes. It doesn’t comprehend. It can’t; it’s not capable. But the Archivist—that’s the missing piece, the humanity that it needs to truly know and understand fear and terror. So the Eye preserves his humanity. And the other part—who knows. Perhaps it’s a result of the Watcher’s Crown, being marked by all the fears, starting the apocalypse and the power required to do it—or maybe from when he became the Pupil of the Eye—or maybe it always was.”

Martin steeled himself one more time. “Could Jon—could he have—could he have rejected it? Here, I mean. Not been both.”

Jon answered him before Annabelle could. “It doesn’t matter, Martin. I didn’t want to reject it.”

“I just need to know.”

“Hmm.” Annabelle looked thoughtful. “That’s hard to say. Clearly, both are part of him now. I’m sure he could live without the part of him that comes from the Watcher. Of course, Martin, you could live without your arm, your tongue, your eyes—learn to live well, even. Could you reject them?”

Martin was quiet.

“Well then—I’ll say what I came here to say. Your earlier implication that the Archivist being here is… advantageous to the Web is, of course, true. He still has all the potential to call the Fears down and then release them to other dimensions, leaving this world free of them.”

“I won’t,” Jon said. “I’ll never let them out again.” Something about the resolve in Jon’s voice was chilling. It reminded him of his fight with Jon outside of Jonah’s office in the tower, and the way Jon had explained his decision to become the Pupil of the Eye. Now it was Martin’s turn to waiver and Jon’s turn to tighten his grip.

“And I imagined you might feel that way, knowing what you know now. So here’s what I have to say—you can be done, if you want. If you choose to leave it alone.”

“What do you mean, I can be done?”

“Let’s just say there are other ways for the Mother’s—apotheosis to be realized. She no longer needs you. She doesn’t need me, I'm afraid. We’re artifacts of her plan now, if we choose. Although it is disappointing to come so close and end up here… I'm tired, and time means nothing to her, really. What is another hundred years? Another thousand years? We’ve learned so much. We’ve rattled the doors, and when the Fears do ultimately leave this dimension—which they will—they’ll be free.”

“Why would you come to tell me this?”

“To call a truce. If you let me live out my life, I will let you live out yours. Both of you. Don’t seek me out, don’t go looking for trouble, and there will be no lighters, no tape recorders, no phone calls—I won’t even send anymore gifts.”

“This is what you came here to say?”

“Yes.” Annabelle nodded. “And while I feel this is quite generous of us, I’d prefer you don’t give me your answer now. It will be clear enough what you decide. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I'm feeling rather fatigued—please accept my apologies for disrupting your evening.”

Martin felt sick as he watched her walk away, but he refused to look at Jon. He didn’t know what he could say, but he couldn’t think of anything he would want Jon to say, either. There just weren’t words. He sat for a long time, staring into the distance but not really seeing, feeling the pressure of Jon’s hand in his and not knowing what it meant. Nothing meant what he thought it had, really.

He felt lost.

Chapter Text

Martin finally pulled his hand away. “We should pay.”

“I did.”

“Oh.” He still couldn’t bring himself to look at Jon. “I didn’t see.”

“I know.”

“Thank you.” It seemed like the right thing to say before he did, but afterward it hung awkwardly between them.

“Do you…” Jon cleared his throat. “Do you want to leave?”

“Sure.” He didn’t want to stay.

Now that it was later in the evening, it was cool enough outside that he didn’t feel terrible for jamming his hands into his pockets as they walked to the tube station. He took the window seat on the train, staring out into the darkness of the tunnel as if he were watching scenery go by. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to talk, or even that he was avoiding an argument; after all, arguing seemed to be one of the few ways that he and Jon actually managed to communicate with each other. It was that he still didn’t know what to say.

Jon surprised him by speaking first.

“You’re angry.”

“Yeah. I’m angry,” he answered.

“You have every right to be.”

“I mean—I’m not angry at you.” He finally looked at Jon, who was eyeing him with skepticism. “All right, I’m not just angry at you. I’m angry at the whole situation. I’m angry at her. And I’m—I’m angry at me.”

Jon nodded.

“And I feel stupid.”

“You’re not—”

“I am. And I’m sad,” he added. “I’m sad I can’t fix this.”

“It’s not your job to fix it.”

“It’s not yours, either. But that doesn’t seem to make a difference.”

Jon didn’t answer him, and he went back to looking out the window. They didn’t exchange any more words until they were almost at the front door of the flat, where Martin finally knew what he wanted to ask first.

“When did it happen? When did you—know it was back? Was it after Hill Top Road?”

Jon unlocked the door and opened it, waiting for Martin to go in before he answered him.

“It was. But not right away—it was that next week. I don’t even know if that had anything to do with it.”

“Ok. Ok. So that next weekend, when—and that haircut, and this—this stupid date—” Jon recoiled. “All of it, it’s all been, what—a distraction?”

“What?” Jon started to step toward him, then stopped. “No—no, it wasn’t.”

Martin drew in a breath and swallowed. “But it wasn’t real.”

“It was.” There was a kind of desperation in Jon’s face that Martin hadn’t seen for a while—like he had something to prove. “It’s what I could give. I don’t know how much time we have, and—”

He couldn’t hold it in. “Jon—why didn’t you just tell me?”

A moment passed, but Martin was determined to wait for an answer. Jon finally gave it.

“Because you were happy.”

“Happy? I was worried sick about you most of the time.”

“That was still better, though, wasn’t it?”

“What do you mean?”

“When I was—” Jon paused. “You liked taking care of me. You liked that I had to rely on you. You liked that I couldn’t—

“Don’t.”

Jon didn’t.

Martin was suddenly conscious that they had never moved away from the front door. Jon’s last point had knocked some of the energy out of him, but going to sit somewhere else didn’t seem right. He sat on the floor instead, leaning against the back of the couch. Jon reciprocated, leaning on the wall behind him. It was dark in the flat, they hadn’t turned on a light, but they could still see each other well enough from the lights outside the window.

“Look—at least I knew it was wrong.”

Jon sighed. “It wasn’t—it wasn’t wrong. I did need you. And it—it was sweet. I’m glad I have you. It was just—”

“I know. I know what it was.”

In the quiet that followed, guilt that had lain dormant until then writhed its way down to his stomach. It settled in, weighing heavy inside him until Jon broke the silence again.

“Earlier, what you said—you were right.”

“About what?”

“That I should have tried harder to tell you.”

“Jon—I was upset.”

“You weren’t wrong.”

“Yes, I was.” Martin sighed. “I mean… I know you tried to tell me. Well, now I do. But I would have listened if—honestly, I just thought you were going to apologize again or feel bad for everything, and—”

“And you didn’t want to hear that.”

“No, I—” Martin stopped. I didn’t want you to feel that was what he started to say, but he was interrupted by the recollection of his mother, telling him to go put the kettle on to make a cup of tea. He’d grown to hate it right along with the oolong, the way she avoided having to talk with him about anything that might have really mattered, replacing it with something that only roughly resembled comfort.

Words he’d once spoken to himself came back to him. At best, it’s a plaster. At worst, a muzzle.

He was exactly the same as her. The guilt that had awoken started to twist its way back up, into his chest and around his lungs.

“Martin, you’re not—it’s different. You’re not the same.”

“Jon!” Martin’s face flushed. “That’s not suddenly ok now, you know?”

“I’m sorry,” Jon mumbled. “I didn’t mean to. It’s not—it’s harder to control than I remember.”

“Yeah. Great.”

It got quiet again; Martin distractedly tapped his fingertips on the floor, looking up at the ceiling.

“Ok, so… what else? What’s it—what’s it like?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean—ok, so do you need to read the statements?”

Jon took a small breath. “Yes.”

“Is it—” He forced himself to look at Jon. “Are you ok? I mean… I know they used to really take it out of you.”

“I’m…” Jon met his eyes, which seemed just as hard for him. “Sometimes they do.”

“Ok. Will you—will you check in with me if you’re reading one and I’m not around?”

“Martin—”

“Look, I’m not asking for a promise. I’m just—I’m just asking if you will.”

“I don’t know.” Jon returned to staring at the floor. The answer hurt, but Martin was relieved for the excuse to break eye contact.

“What about… have you compelled anyone?”

“No.”

“Could you?”

“Yes. Well, probably. Depending on the person.”

Martin nodded. “How hard is it to—know something?”

“It’s, um… not easy. Not as hard as it was at first—before—though. And more things… slip through.”

“Accidentally.”

“Yes.”

Martin realized the muscles in his shoulders and neck were starting to cramp from how he'd been holding them. He exhaled and leaned back against the couch when something occurred to him. “What about Melanie?”

Jon looked up at him again. “What about her?”

“You’ve been sending her after dead ends, haven’t you? That’s why she hasn’t found anyone to talk to. You knew she wouldn’t.”

Jon didn’t answer.

“So that’s a yes?”

Jon nodded reluctantly.

“Good.”

Jon sat straighter, looking at Martin again. “Really? I wasn’t sure if you’d—I mean, I know you want them to know about… about everything.”

“Yeah, I do, but—but everything’s different than I thought.” He couldn’t keep the tinge of resentment out of his voice, but he pushed ahead. “They still need to know, but… it’s different. I’m glad she’s safe.”

The gratefulness he saw so plainly reflected in Jon’s face did two things. It made Martin want to go to him, to bridge the short distance between them and put his arms around him, and try again to convince him everything would be ok. It also stirred the guilt that had begun to recede quietly back into his subconscious, pushing him to think further through everything that had happened, what he might have missed, what he might have done. Those thoughts were coming faster now that he was over his initial shock. They had more to talk about.

“Jon, I’m—I’m sorry I stayed to talk to Annabelle tonight.”

“Are you?”

He hadn’t expected that bit of harshness, and he tensed up at the words. “Well, I—”

“Never mind,” Jon stopped him. “I know why you did it.”

Martin sat back again. “I am sorry, though. I mean, I’m sorry it hurt you.”

There was another short round of silence.

“Jon, why do you think she came to talk to us? Or—talk to you, really?”

“It’s obvious, isn’t it?” Jon slumped back against the wall. “She won and she came to gloat.”

“Has she?” Martin asked. “I mean—yeah, we’re here, but—this wasn’t exactly what she wanted. It’s not what she wants in the end, anyway. And gloating, I mean—that really doesn’t seem like her.”

“We have no idea what seems like her, Martin.” The pure bitterness in Jon’s voice was almost a welcome break from the sadness that had dominated his tone until then. “That’s really her whole deal.”

“Maybe.” Martin kept pushing. “Still—I just think—do you really think she was trying to—call a truce? Whatever she said?”

“No,” Jon answered. “I think she came to see the look on my face when she told me they didn’t need me anymore.”

“I don’t think so.”

“No? You don’t think the Fears will find their way out of here eventually?” It was not meant as a legitimate question.

“Ok—I don’t know, but—” Martin tried to choose his words with care. “Yeah. It seems possible.”

“Therefore, she came to gloat.”

“But Jon—” He could feel the frustration creeping into his voice. “I mean—she has to know you won’t just accept that. You’re not planning to let it go, right?”

“Of course not.”

“Exactly. And she has to know that. It’s almost like—it’s almost like she was trying to push you to do something. To not let it go. Why?”

Something about Jon’s demeanor changed; he stiffened slightly, or shifted his balance, and Martin’s thoughts began to converge. The way Annabelle had talked about time—of course she was right, the Web didn’t care, and so she didn’t either. It was very clear her own life didn’t matter to her, any more than it served the Web.

So why would she show up and deliberately remind Jon that if he did nothing, the entities would escape?

It brought to mind something Jon had said earlier, something he had ignored in the moment.

I don’t know how much time we have.

“Jon, what have you been doing?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, when you’ve been staying late in the office. When you’ve been working here, writing. What have you been doing? If I open that drawer”—he gestured vaguely behind him toward the desk—“what will I find?”

“I’d prefer you didn’t,” Jon said quietly.

He measured his words. “I’d prefer you tell me.”

Jon shrank into himself; he wrapped one arm around his chest and pulled his knees in, and brought his other hand up to his mouth.

“Jon.” Martin couldn’t stop the slight shake in his voice this time; he hoped he was wrong. “Please. Tell me what you’ve been doing.”

“All right.” Jon spoke from behind his hand. “It’s—it’s a ritual.”

It wasn’t the answer Martin had wanted to hear, but it was the one he had expected. “To start another apocalypse?”

“I—” Jon was breathing harder, and Martin could see the effort he was making to push through his words. “Yes. Not—not exactly the same, I could end it faster, and there would be less—”

“How? From memory?”

“No. Well—some. Some of it—there are a couple of—of Leitners—”

“Jesus Christ, Jon!”

“I only used ones that were safe—”

“Safe? Do you realize that a giant fucking eyeball fear monster is telling you which ones are safe?”

“I meant that I could control—”

“I don’t believe you.”

There was a beat of silence. “Martin please, I’m—”

“No, I mean—I literally don’t believe you. I don’t believe you could do it.”

“Martin—”

“Look, I get what happened before. I didn’t agree, but I get it. You’d lost everything. They used you and they took everything that mattered to you. They took Sasha, then Tim, and then Daisy, and you had to watch what it did to all the others—”

“And you,” Jon said.

“—fine, yes, but—Jon, this is not that. This is—they’re all here. They have a chance. And whatever you think happened before—this is a real choice. And they care about you, and you care about them. I just—I don’t think you could do it. I don’t believe it.”

Jon face slid down into his hand until his eyes were covered. “I don’t know. I don’t want to. Probably I couldn’t. Probably I won’t. But I wish I could. If it gets bad enough, maybe I can. And I need to—to be ready. I just can’t—I just can’t let them—”

The quick hitch of breath that followed made Martin forget what he had been about to say, if he’d had any words to say. He crawled to Jon’s side, slipping one arm around his back and the other around his chest, awkwardly trapping the arm Jon had wrapped around himself. Jon’s face ended up pressed against Martin’s throat, where his breath continued to catch as he fought to stop crying.

Martin wanted to tell him it was ok—that it would be ok, that they could still fix it—but he remembered the last time Jon had finally broken down that had only made him withdraw again. He was starting to really understand that it wasn’t ok for Jon, and probably never would be. He couldn’t bear to think what that meant for him, especially not right then, but he knew enough to not make that mistake again.

He said the only comforting thing he could think of that he was sure about, that he had been sure about for a long time now.

“I love you.”

Jon reached a hand up to Martin’s neck, where he pressed the pads of his fingers firmly against his skin.

“I’m here.” Martin spoke softly against Jon’s hair. He could tell Jon was still struggling, still trying to gain control, but he seemed to have relaxed a little; his body wasn’t quite so rigid as Martin held him.

***

Eventually Jon was calm. They’d shifted so that he rested with his back against Martin’s chest, and Martin’s back was against the wall. His arms were around Jon’s waist, and Jon’s arms rested comfortably on top of his as he leaned back into him.

“So.” Jon’s voice was raw. “I’ve finally become a monster.”

“No.” Martin pressed his mouth gently against his ear. “You haven’t.”

“Yes, I have.”

“No. I mean—I still don’t think you could do it, but—now that we’re here, and we know what’s out there—you don’t want them to get out again. That would be terrible. It doesn't make you a monster.”

Jon shifted slightly; Martin impulsively tightened his grip, then made himself relax again.

“To be clear—I don’t think you’re responsible for what happens a hundred years from now, or a thousand years from now—and I’m definitely not in favor of ending the world over it.”

“Martin, it just—it doesn’t matter how long from now it is. If it’s ten thousand years from now and they escape, and poison a thousand dimensions—more than that, maybe—if I could have ended it, it’s my fault.”

Martin tightened his grip again, this time deliberately.

“Maybe there’s another way.”

Jon turned so his forehead was against Martin’s cheek. “Martin, I know you want to think that, but—”

“Yes, and I know, the world doesn’t care what I think.”

“I should never have said that.”

“I mean, it hurt—but it was true.”

“I’m sorry.”

“That’s not the point. The point is—I still don’t think Annabelle would have turned up just to brag. I think she needs something. She doesn’t want you to have time. I think she’s trying to push you into acting, and maybe—maybe, if you did, it would all turn out the same. But worse, obviously.”

Jon’s fingers, which he had been absentmindedly brushing over Martin’s forearm, were suddenly still; Martin realized that possibility hadn’t occurred to him.

“But maybe—if you don’t, but if you keep trying—keep looking for it—maybe there is another way. One she’s scared of. A path she doesn’t want you to take.”

“Hm.” Martin could tell Jon wasn’t sold on it, but he had heard him, and that was enough for the moment.

“Jon?”

“Yes.”

“I’m—I’m going to tell them soon.”

Jon nodded. “I understand.”

He kissed Jon lightly on the forehead, and slid his hand up to his chest, where he slipped his fingers into the gaps between the buttons of Jon’s shirt. He could feel the scar, his scar, through the thin fabric of Jon’s t-shirt; beneath that though, around it, he could feel the rise and fall of Jon’s chest.

“Jon.”

“Yes?”

“Let me know if you’re reading a statement and I’m not around?”

Jon sighed. “All right.”

Chapter Text

“Wake up.”

Martin opened his eyes to the immediate sensation of a headache, followed by the slightly less immediate sensation of pain in his back. On top of falling asleep against the wall, he’d probably overdone the sake a bit. Or maybe he hadn't. Maybe he just didn’t feel good.

“Ugh.” He could tell from the light coming in through the window that the sun was just starting to come up. Jon stood in front of him, holding out his hand.

“Come on.”

Martin took the hand and got to his feet, but had to lean against the wall for balance as soon as he was up. Jon reached for him.

“I’m all right.” Martin moved Jon’s hands away.

***

It was very late when Martin woke again. He’d managed to sleep most of the pain out of his back, but his head still hurt and his mouth was dry. His back was to Jon’s side of the bed, and he assumed Jon would be gone by this time—at least in the other room, if not at work—but just as he’d decided he really was alone, he felt movement behind him.

“Hey.” His voice felt scratchy. “I didn’t think you were here.”

“I am.” Jon’s hand touched his back under the covers. “How are you?”

“I’ve been better.” He felt Jon move closer to him, and the pressure from his touch grew stronger. “No—I mean—I’m fine. I’ll be fine. You don’t have to worry about me, I’m just talking.”

Jon pulled himself closer still, until his chest was pressed against Martin’s back, and his legs were curled into the space behind Martin’s. Martin reached for Jon‘s hand in spite of himself, pulling his arm tighter.

“Do you want breakfast?” Jon asked.

“Sure. Just give me another minute and I’ll—I’ll go get it started.”

“I didn’t ask if you wanted to make it. I asked if you wanted it.”

“Oh.” He squeezed Jon’s hand. “That’s really—nice—but honestly, I don’t. Want breakfast. But thank you.”

“Ok.” They lay in silence for a few minutes before Jon spoke again. “Do you want—some time?”

“What?”

“By yourself, I mean.”

“Not particularly.” That was actually the last thing he wanted. At the same time, though he didn’t want Jon to feel like he had to stay. “But if you—”

“No.” Jon shook his head against Martin’s shoulder blades.

“Look, if—hang on.” Martin rolled over to face Jon. “What I’m trying to say is—you don’t have to keep doing this for me.”

“Doing what?”

“Acting like—well, like this is all real. Like it matters. Like—like we have a future.”

Jon lay still for a moment, then reached for Martin’s face. Martin couldn’t help it; he clasped Jon’s hand in his. He so desperately didn’t want to be alone, yet he couldn’t stop offering Jon the chance to leave.

“Martin.” Jon spoke softly, so that even if they hadn’t been alone only Martin would have heard him. “I don’t know what’s in the future, but this—us—is real.”

Martin sighed. “I don’t mean—it’s just that I feel stupid.”

“Why?”

“Well—you know, like—when I got worried about us moving in together. I wanted it to be for the right reasons and all that, blah blah blah, but really—who cares. It’s not like it’s forever because—we don’t have forever. You never thought we did.”

“It wouldn’t be any different.”

“You don’t know that though, because it’s never been any different for you.” Martin closed his eyes and concentrated on the feel of Jon’s hand on his face. “And—and you don’t even want it. It doesn’t bother you. And that just—hurts.”

Jon was silent.

“And yes, I know, I’m being incredibly selfish and it’s wrong for me to even want that, I get it—”

“It’s not wrong.” Jon’s lips closed over his. He kissed him back, but only for a moment.

“Jon, I want you to know—nothing’s changed. I’m going where you go. Wherever that is.”

“I know.”

“And whatever happens, I’ll—I’ll stay with you. Until I can’t. And then—”

“Please. Not—not now.”

Martin opened his eyes.

“And there is—there is one thing I won’t do again.” He let go of Jon to touch his chest, to touch the place his hand could find now without even searching for it.

Jon nodded. He pulled Martin’s hand away from him, and pressed his fingers to his mouth.

***

Martin was tired at work on Monday. Despite spending more time in bed than usual over the weekend, he had somehow slept much less. Melanie wasn’t in yet; Tim and Sasha were chatting in the assistants’ office when they arrived. Sasha looked up and broke away from the conversation when she saw them.

“Morning. Just so you know, maintenance just got here—they’re doing their quarterly check on the tunnels today. So if you see them around the archive—that’s why.”

Martin nodded. Since their first dinner all together with Melanie, Martin had realized—remembered—that there was nothing secret or hidden about the tunnels here at all; there never had been. Sure, they were a historical oddity, and as Melanie’s interest in them had suggested, their connection to the prison had long made them a source of rumored paranormal activity—but mostly, they were a safety liability to the Institute. So, while they were generally off limits, the maintenance crew performed regular upkeep.

He sat at his desk and tried to concentrate on something—anything—but he wasn’t very successful. There were some new requests in the system for research materials, but he wasn’t feeling particularly excited about those just yet; maybe he’d get to them later in the day. He checked on the Leitner group in the database, just in case something had gone wrong in the notification system he’d set up, but no—those were all still checked in and on the shelves.

He looked over at Jon; he seemed busy enough.

“Jon,” he called over, trying not to disrupt Sasha and Tim. “Is there—anything I can help with?”

Jon shook his head without looking up. “Not really.”

Martin slumped back into his seat. For all the futility he might have felt before, in the other world—he had never felt this completely directionless. Or useless.

“Wait,” Jon said. He started to shuffle through some of the files on his desk. “Actually, if you want to, there is something you could take a—”

“Jon, it’s fine.” Martin shook his head. “And don’t do that. Any of—what you just did.”

Jon looked at him with slight confusion, then looked back at his desk after he realized what Martin meant. He hadn’t even realized he’d been picking up Martin’s feelings. “Sorry.”

“It’s—I know.”

He had just about decided that prepping those research requests was better than sitting in the office after all when a man walked in, looking extremely pale. Martin didn’t recognize him, but the badge and lanyard around his neck indicated he was part of the maintenance team.

Sasha immediately broke off her conversation with Tim. “Can I help you?”

“I’m sorry—there’s no one at the front desk and—we need to call the police.”

“What?” Sasha straightened up and set the folder she’d been holding on Tim’s desk. “What’s going on?”

“There’s—” He wiped at his face with his hand. “We found a body down in the tunnels.”

“Oh.” Sasha’s eyes grew wide. “Oh.”

“Ma’am—I’m sorry—we really should—”

“Right, come on.” She was walking for the door, taking the man gently by the arm to go use the phone at Rosie’s desk. “Tim—get Elias. Call him or—or go find him if he doesn’t pick up.”

“Right.” Tim already had his phone in his hand and was pulling up Elias’s number.

“Oh god.” Jon was already at Martin’s side, pushing him toward the door. “Come on.”

“Jon, what’s—”

“Have either of you seen Melanie?” Sasha asked as they emerged, worry spreading visibly through her features now. The man who had come into the office was speaking into the phone next to her. “You don’t think she would have—I mean, she doesn’t even have a—wait, you’re not going down there, are you?”

“We are,” Jon said, pushing ahead. Behind them, out of the corner of his eye, Martin saw Tim head out of the office in the opposite direction.

“Jon,” Martin said, “what is—” Jon was already walking past the small maintenance crew; they had gathered outside the trapdoor that led into the tunnels and were talking in low voices to one another. They fell uncomfortably silent as they watched him head down the steps, and Martin had to pick up his pace to catch up with him.

“Hey, Jon—come on—”

“This is bad,” Jon said. “I’m—I’m sorry. I should have—”

“Jon.” Martin was still struggling to keep up with him as Jon followed the curve of the tunnel walls ahead of him. “Tell me what’s going on. It’s not Melanie, is it? Please tell me—”

“It’s not Melanie.”

Martin was relieved, but only for a moment; that meant it was someone else.

“Jon—”

“You’ll understand when you see.”

Martin started to ask Jon again to tell him when they arrived at the first junction in the tunnels, and Martin did understand. On the floor, in front of them, was the body of Elias Bouchard—exactly as it had been left when Jon had killed its most recent occupant.

“Shit.”

“Martin.” Jon turned to him and reached for both of his hands. “Whatever is about to happen—don’t forget where we are. Don’t put yourself in danger.”

“Why would I put myself in danger? What are you—”

“Please.”

“Jon, I don’t know what you’re—”

“Shh.”

Martin heard Sasha’s footsteps coming around the curve of the tunnel.

“Jon?” she called. “Martin?”

“We’re here,” Jon said flatly, just as she came into view.

She walked slowly toward them, with her eyes on the sprawled figure on the ground; the recognition registered on her face just after she reached the spot where Jon was standing.

“Oh god.” She turned toward Jon without thinking, and wound up turning into his chest, her hand over her mouth. Martin made eye contact with him over her shoulder; Jon looked as if he wanted to say something, but nothing came out. He had just raised a hand as if he were going to attempt to comfort her when she turned back toward the body.

“Who would do this? What was he even doing down here?”

Martin glanced back toward Jon again; he seemed lost in his thoughts.

“I—I don’t understand. This doesn’t make any sense. What—why is he dressed like that?” She moved as if she were going to step closer, and then thought better of it. “Oh god.”

Martin couldn’t decide what to do; he had just made up his mind to reach for her arm when they heard more footsteps coming down the tunnel hallway. Sasha gasped when they were joined by Tim and Elias.

“Elias? But I thought—”

Elias looked at her, then from her to Jon and Martin, and finally to the body.

“What is this?” he asked, looking around at all of them again. “Is this—some kind of joke?”

Tim also looked around, ultimately meeting eyes with Martin. “What’s going on?”

“I—” He couldn’t see Jon—Sasha was standing between them—but he recalled the words he had spoken right before everyone had joined them. “I don’t know.”

“Is it—real?” Elias asked, stepping even closer. For a moment, Martin thought he was going to touch the body, but he didn’t. “Look, I’m going to be completely honest with everyone. I might—I might be high right now.”

“Jesus.” Sasha held her hand to her mouth again.

“It does—it does look like me, right?”

No one answered him.

“But the eyes are wrong.” He stooped down to look into the face that Jonah Magnus had stolen for himself. “Those—those aren’t my eyes. You all see that, right? Those aren’t my eyes.”

Martin thought he had felt every kind of uncomfortable feeling there was, but this was proving him incorrect. He felt sick.

“Elias,” Tim finally spoke out. “Maybe you should—”

He didn’t get to finish his sentence, though, because the man who had first come to tell them about the body had arrived with several uniformed officers in tow.

“Don’t say anything unless you have to,” Jon said quietly, having made his way over to Martin. “Let—let me talk.”

Martin didn’t know what that meant exactly, but he thought he didn’t like it.

“All right everyone, out of the way. Let us through.” With a small tug at his sleeve from Jon, he stepped back toward the wall as Daisy and Basira made their way through the small group of officers. They all watched as Daisy knelt down next to the body, inspected it for a moment, and then frowned. Martin didn’t know anything about murder scenes, but he knew there had to be a lot wrong with this one.

“Is this where he was found? Has anyone moved him?”

No one responded, and Basira spoke up. "All right, people. She asked if anyone’s moved him."

The man from maintenance who had brought the police down shook his head.

Daisy surveyed the group, and her eyes quickly focused on Elias. She looked back down at the body and up at him.

“Do you know him? Is he a—brother?”

Elias shook his head. “I don’t have a brother.” He started to move toward the body again, but Basira stepped forward to block his path.

“All right, everyone—let’s go.” Daisy nodded her head at an officer behind Martin, who stepped forward and began to take pictures. “Back upstairs. Come on.”

Tim fell in step with Martin and Jon.

“I don’t understand.” Martin could hear Elias talking to Sasha behind them. “Is it real? Is it a real—”

Martin glanced over at Jon, who was deep in thought again. How is this possible? He supposed the body could have come here when they did. Given that it was in the tunnels, it wasn’t surprising that no one had found it before now. What was surprising was that it seemed to be in exactly the same condition it had been when he had last seen it months ago; if he didn’t know better, it could have just happened.

Had the Eye done this? And if so—why?

When they got back out to the front office, they found Melanie there arguing with yet another officer. Rosie was standing silently a few feet behind her.

“—I’m just asking for you to tell me something. Look, are my coworkers here? I’m—” She visibly relaxed as she saw the group come into the front desk area. “Oh, thank god. Are you—”

She stopped when she saw the looks on their faces.

“Go home, Melanie,” Sasha said. “I’ll be in touch later.”

“Oh—ok.” She frowned. “Are all of you all right?”

Sasha shrugged. “Go on. You too, Rosie.”

The two women looked at each other, and did as Sasha asked.

“All right,” Daisy asked. “Who’s in charge here?”

Sasha looked at Elias, who still seemed to be in more shock than the rest of them, and sighed. “I guess—I guess we are.”

Daisy peeked into the assistant’s office. “Is that another office back there?” When Sasha confirmed, she waved another officer out, who brought Sasha and Elias back to Sasha’s office. Martin heard the door close behind them.

“You. Your work crew found the body?”

The man from maintenance nodded yes.

“All right. Get their story,” she said to the other two officers who remained. “And you three”—she indicated Martin, Tim, and Jon— “come in here with us.”

They entered the assistants’ office; the three of them sat at the conference table Sasha had been using for a desk, and Daisy and Basira stood, jotting down occasional notes. They started with some basic questions, asking about their role at the Institute and what they had been doing that morning. As they spoke, Daisy’s eyes kept settling on Jon in a way that made Martin very nervous.

Eventually she addressed Jon directly. “We came out here before, a few months ago. You weren’t here.”

Jon nodded.

She turned to Martin. “You weren’t here either.”

“No, he wasn’t.” She looked at Jon again, raising an eyebrow, before turning to Tim.

“Were these the two you had called about? That were missing?”

Tim looked at her with a disgruntled expression. “Yes. Thanks for all your help with that, by the way.”

“Were you two off together?” Daisy asked, having turned back to Jon.

“Yes.”

“Look, it—it ended up being nothing.” Tim said. “You were right.”

“I’m not asking you.” Daisy didn’t look away from Jon. “Where were you?”

Jon started to answer her, but she cut him off.

“Wait. Both of you. On three.”

What the hell. Martin really didn’t like this now; it was clear that Daisy had somehow already zeroed in on Jon.

“One—”

Shit. He grabbed on to the first thought that popped into his brain, and thought it very, very hard.

“Two—”

He hoped Jon would understand this was an appropriate time to break the rules.

“Three.”

“Visiting his grandmother,” Martin said, at the same time Jon said, “My grandmother was ill.”

“Hm.” Daisy seemed almost disappointed; obviously she didn't know Jon's grandmother had passed. Martin noticed that Tim didn’t so much as blink at their story.

“It was—something of an emergency,” Jon said.

“So you two are—a couple?” Basira asked.

“Yes,” Jon answered.

“Did you know that when you reported them missing?” Daisy asked Tim, without taking her eyes off Jon.

He shrugged. “Can’t blame them for not wanting to feed the office gossip mill. Look, it really was just bad communication.”

“I see,” said Daisy. “So—tell me about this.” She drew her hand across her neck, indicating that she was asking about the scar her counterpart had left behind. “Looks like someone didn’t like you.”

Jon’s chest rose just a little faster than it had to that point; it may have been imperceptible to anyone else, but Martin saw it.

“He was attacked,” Martin said, defensive. “It wasn’t his fault.”

“Martin.” Jon spoke his name sharply.

“When did that happen?” Daisy asked, ignoring the exchange.

“Not recently,” Jon answered.

“And what about the other scars?” Basira asked, waving her hand vaguely over her face. “The—the small ones?”

“Bug bites.”

“Bug bites,” Daisy repeated.

“Yes,” Jon said acidly. “Bad ones.”

“Well,” Daisy said, closing her notebook. “I have just a few more questions, and I think perhaps—just to help things go a little more smoothly—you should come down to the station with us.” It was clear she was referring specifically to Jon.

“Really?” Basira asked. Her concern wasn’t lost on Martin.

“Wait,” Martin interrupted again. “Why? He hasn’t done anything.”

“I’m not saying he has,” Daisy answered, unbothered. “I just want to talk to him, and I find we get better cooperation there.”

“You can’t do that!” Martin was indignant. “You have no reason!”

“Martin—”

“I do have a reason.” Daisy cut off Jon’s warning outburst as she turned toward Martin. “He is a witness to a crime scene, and I have more questions. Although now I wonder if maybe you should be the one to come with us.”

Martin froze. The look in her eye wasn’t right. It hinted at what he’d seen in her when they’d finally found her in the apocalypse, right before she’d turned on Jon. He was trying to decide what to say when she turned away from all of them, suddenly appearing uncomfortable.

“Hm.” She shook her head.

“Are you all right?” Basira asked.

“I—I’m fine.” Her actions didn’t match her words, though. She shook her head again, and squeezed her eyes shut for a moment.

“You don’t look good.” Basira put a hand on her shoulder. “Maybe—maybe call this quits for today?”

“I don’t—I don’t—ugh.” Daisy held her hand up to her forehead as she sat on Tim’s desk, which she had been standing in front of.

Martin remembered himself and looked over at Jon again; Jon had a fierce look of concentration on his face, and Martin understood.

He wouldn’t, he thought.

But he is.

“All right, come on.” Martin thought Basira looked almost equal parts relieved and worried as she took Daisy by the arm. She turned to the three of them as she began to get her up from the desk. “We have your contact information—we’ll be in touch.”

Martin waited until he heard Basira explaining the situation to the officers at the front desk on their way out to face Jon.

“What did you do?” he hissed.

“What I had to,” Jon answered through gritted teeth.

“What did you do?” Martin asked again.

“I—I showed her what Calvin Benchly experienced in his last moments. After she tracked him down.”

“Have you—have you done that before? Did you know that you could?”

“No. I guess I got lucky.”

“Lucky?” Martin was rapidly forgetting to keep his voice down. “Do you—do you know what that feels like? To have someone—”

“I do, actually,” Jon said coldly. “In fact, I know what every awful thing that can happen in the world feels like.”

Martin hesitated; he hadn’t considered that. “Then—then that’s worse, that you would do it anyway.”

Jon stood up. “Did you want to go with her?”

He started to say no, of course not, but he didn’t get it out; Jon lost his balance and began to crumple to the ground. Martin reached out and caught him, forgetting his other emotions as he pulled Jon into him for support.

“I’ve got you,” he said, not sure if Jon was even conscious to hear him. “I’ve got you.”

He lifted Jon up just long enough to get him to the sofa, where he tried to lay him down as comfortably as possible. He knelt at Jon’s side, and ran his hand over his damp hair.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“It’s all right.” Jon struggled to open his eyes. “I don’t know if—but I wasn’t going to let you—”

“Shh,” Martin picked up his hand and stroked it gently. “Rest for a bit.”

Jon closed his eyes, and soon appeared to be sleeping.

“Well.”

Martin turned his head to find Tim facing him, now sitting on the conference table.

“Tim.” He hadn’t exactly forgotten he was there, but at some point he had stopped caring.

“You need to tell me what’s going on.”

Martin looked back down at Jon.

“Martin—you looked—you looked scared of him, just now. Before he fainted.”

“I am not scared of him.” Martin dropped Jon’s hand and turned on the floor to face Tim. “I have never been scared of him. I’m—I’m scared for him.”

“Really.”

“Yes, really.”

“You know what that was about down there, don’t you?” Tim spoke quietly enough that the officers who remained in the nearby rooms wouldn’t hear. “In the tunnels. That body was real, wasn’t it? But you—you knew it wasn’t Elias. You weren’t even surprised when we showed up.”

Martin thought back—no, of course they hadn’t been surprised.

“I’ve given you a lot of time, Martin. Look—Sasha and I—we know you and Jon never went to the hospital. Well, not right after you showed up again, anyway. You did the next time, but—in Oxford. Why were you in Oxford that day? You certainly weren’t in therapy like you said.”

 Martin stared at Tim, shocked. He and Sasha had known even more than Martin had realized—and they’d known it since the beginning.

“And then—all the other stuff—how did you know that guy we met? Oliver Banks? You knew exactly what he was going to say. And then—you, and Jon—sneaking around the Leitner Room—”

“Wait, how do you know that?”

“We have security cameras, Martin.”

Of course they did. Martin knew they did. He could have smacked himself.

He tried to sound reproachful. “OK, but—why were you watching us on them?”

“Because you were sneaking around.” Tim shook his head. “Look, this—today—it’s gone too far. Whatever you know—whatever you can tell us—please. It’s time.”

Martin looked over his shoulder at Jon one more time, resting peacefully.

He wondered if he would lose him after all, after everything they had been through—after everything Jon had been through. He didn’t want to.

They needed help.

“Ok,” he said simply.

“And I realize—I really do—that whatever you’ve been through must have been—”

“I said ok.”

“Oh,” Tim said. “You did. Sorry.”

“Can you—can you help me get Jon home? I don’t want him to—to be here anymore.” He swallowed. “Then I’ll tell you everything.”

Chapter Text

“Damn.” Tim stood up and looked down at Jon lying on the bed, where he and Martin had just deposited him. “He is really out of it.”

“Yeah. That—that happens.” Martin decided it was a little cool in the bedroom, and pulled the blanket over Jon. When he looked up again, Tim was staring at him in a very specific way that he decided to ignore. “Thanks for helping me get him back here.”

“Well, you definitely weren’t getting any help from him. So… are we still doing this?”

“Yeah.” Martin took one last look at Jon; at least he still looked peaceful. “Let’s, um—let’s go to the sitting room. Can I get you some tea? Or—”

“No.” Tim shook his head as they made their way back out of the bedroom. “Can I ask—are we doing this now because Jon is knocked out?”

“No,” Martin said immediately, then thought a little more. “Well—mostly no.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means—” Martin tried to think of the best way to say it. “Look, he knows we have to tell you. I just don’t get the feeling he—I think it’s better if I do it.”

“Better for who?”

“I—” Martin sighed. “Look—we can wait until he wakes up, if you want.”

“Nope.” Tim sat on the couch and turned to Martin. “That’s all right.”

Martin grabbed the chair from Jon’s desk and brought it over to face Tim. As he did so, he realized he’d thought through how to tell certain parts of the story quite a lot, but others not nearly as much. One thing he hadn’t really thought about at all was how to start.

“Are you sure you don’t want tea?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Fine. Ok—ok. So.” He took a deep breath. “Five years ago—about—we all started working in the archives together. Sasha applied for the head archivist job and she got it; she asked you and Jon to take assistant positions, and I interviewed for the third one and—well, Sasha gave me a chance. Right?”

Tim raised an eyebrow. “Right…”

“And since then—I mean, we’ve done, like—pretty normal archive stuff. And sure, the Institute is a bit off, like—the stuff people want us to store for them and the research and all that, but it’s been fine, right?”

“Um…”

“I mean compared to what’s been happening since—since Jon and I disappeared.”

“Yeah, ok. I’ll give that to you.” Tim continued to look at him expectantly.

“Ok. Ok. Well—it happened a different way, too. Some—somewhere else.”

“Ok.” Tim sat back and crossed his arms over his chest.

“And look—no matter how I tell this—it’s not going to make sense until I really get it all out. So—”

“I’m listening.”

“Right. It’s just that it’s—”

“Martin.”

“Ok. So five years ago, in this—other place, we all started working in the archives. Only—only Sasha wasn’t the head archivist, Jon was.”

Tim shifted his weight on the couch, but didn’t uncross his arms. “You know he applied for the position? I’m not supposed to—no one knows I know that, actually. Not even Jon.”

“Huh.” Martin hadn’t been aware. “I mean—I didn’t know either, but that makes sense.”

“Does it? We all knew Sasha was applying, and she was way more qualified. Nothing against Jon, just—objectively, she was.”

“I mean that it makes sense given—well, ok, we’ll get to that. So you know the people here that started coming in to talk to us—the interviews and the—the statements, the written ones—the thing is, there, that was what we did. It was what we’d always done at the Magnus Institute, in the archives. The written statements, they went back years. Like, two hundred years and then some from before the Institute existed. And we researched them and filed them and we all just—it was normal.”

Tim was listening, which was all Martin could ask.

“So we—we didn’t necessarily believe all of them—though maybe we did more than we said—but then—Jane Prentiss happened.”

Martin told him everything he could remember about it, everything that he could organize into sentences, and Tim’s expression stayed almost the same the entire time. He realized Tim was still trying to decide what to make of it when he got to the part about Sasha being replaced, because even after hearing about what happened to him and Jon with the worms, that was really the first time Tim’s face changed.

“Wait.” Tim finally interrupted him. “This—this happened, or—”

“Yes,” Martin said, “and I know, it doesn’t make sense yet—”

“But—this happened to you? Us? Sasha?”

“Yes.”

“When, though? When you—disappeared, or—”

“No. That happened at the end. Just—”

“Ok. Ok—but Sasha, she—she changed? She became this—”

“No. She—she was replaced. Sasha—” He didn’t like thinking about it now any more than he ever had. “Sasha died. She was gone. And none of us knew.”

“But if none of us knew—”

“Well, that’s not entirely true, Melanie knew, sort of. And then later Jon figured it out, but—well, there’s more. Just—just listen.”

“Does this come back to—to now, though?”

“Yes. In the end, it—it will.”

Martin took another breath and continued; Tim seemed much more invested now than he had been initially, and that unfortunately made it a little harder to tell the story. He eventually got to the part about Tim and what happened to Danny.

“Wait.” As soon as Tim realized where it was going, he leaned forward, uncrossing his arms. “Start over again.”

So Martin started over again, and this time he got all the way through to the end before Tim interrupted him.

“Why Danny? Why would that happen to him?”

Martin shrugged, then regretted it as he realized what a casual gesture it was. “I don’t know. It’s not really clear why—why anyone.”

“But what did he do? Why?”

“Tim, he didn’t do anything. He was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“Why didn’t I stop it, though? Did I say why I didn’t at least stop him from going back? I mean, he came to me.”

“Tim—” Martin stood up from his chair and sat next to Tim on the couch. “You didn’t know. You couldn’t have.”

“But if this happened—this happened?”

“Yes. It happened.”

“I would have known something wasn’t right. He came to me. How hard would it have been to—to just stay up with him?”

“Tim, that’s not how they work.”

“They. The—the fears?”

“Yes. And the people and the—things—that serve them.” Martin ran a hand over his face before continuing. “They manipulate you. They—they trap you. Like they trapped all of us at the Institute.”

“So you said. So what—I just let it go? I went to work at the Institute but then just forgot about it?”

“No. Not at all. Actually, after that, you—well, ok.” He told Tim everything he’d learned about the Unknowing, everything that Basira and later Jon had told him about it.

“Good,” Tim said, after Martin told him how it had ended. “At least I knew how to go out, anyway.”

Martin cringed as the memory of cleaning out Tim’s desk after Peter Lukas took over the Institute hit him all over again. Tim might have seen it, or maybe he didn’t, but either way he sat back on the couch again and seemed to collect himself.

“Go on. I still don’t know where this is all going. And you still haven’t said anything about why Elias was doing all this. Why he was trapping everyone into working at the Institute for the—the Eye?”

“Yeah. Right. Well—he wasn’t. Not really.” Martin continued the story, explaining how he had done his best to try to protect everyone after Peter had taken over the Institute, but ultimately hadn’t done anything at all except fall into another trap. He explained how Jon had woken up and his abilities had been stronger, how Jon had done everything he could to keep everyone safe and to prevent any further rituals—but in the end, that too had all been a manipulation. He told Tim how he and Jon had learned that Jonah Magnus had been operating through the successive heads of the Magnus Institute.

“So—Elias, then—”

“We never met him. Not really.”

“Ok—go on. So Jon came after you, and then what?”

“We left. We went as far away as we could get quickly.”

“You and Jon—together?”

Martin had left out some of the more personal details of the story, but Tim had read between the lines. Martin nodded.

“Fair enough. Go on.”

“Well—it wasn’t far enough. Jonah knew where we were—”

“Well, yeah—”

Martin sighed. “—and he used Jon to trigger an apocalypse. It turned out that everything Jon had been doing—all the avatars he'd confronted, all the things he’d done to try to save us, the rituals he’d been trying to stop—they’d all marked him. He’d been marked by every single entity, and Jonah used that to start an apocalypse. He unleashed all the fears.”

“What?”

“Like—the world ended. It was just fear. Everywhere. People were trapped in these domains and they couldn’t leave them and they just lived their fear. And the Eye—watched it all. Through Jonah.”

“What? I’m sorry, I just—”

“Literally the end of the world. I can’t really say it any differently. Like there was one where everything was on fire, and another one that was just a giant carousel but—well, never mind that—and oh god, once we had to jump off the side of a cliff—”

“All right, I’ll just—accept that, I guess?—I did not think that was where this was going—but ok, how did you say Jon started this exactly?”

“He didn’t. Jonah did.”

“Ok but—he used Jon—how?”

“He sent a statement. And Jon read it. He still needed to do that. Obviously we didn’t know it was from him—we thought Basira sent it—”

“Fuck. Really?”

“Yeah, well.”

“And you didn’t stop him?”

“I wasn’t there. Just—for a moment. I told you, they always had this way of—”

“Never mind. But I still don’t get it. You said this all happened. So… why are we here?”

“It didn’t happen here. It happened—I’m getting there.”

He skipped most of the journey through the apocalypse; he picked up again when they got back to London and reunited with Melanie and Georgie. He explained how they had found Jonah, and how Jon had realized he had the option to take over the apocalypse in Jonah’s place.

“And—what?” Tim asked. “End it?”

“No.” Martin shook his head. “He couldn’t do that. We weren’t sure what he could do exactly, but he knew he couldn’t do that. He could maybe—shift things around. Maybe make it not so bad for—for some people. For a while.” He deliberately didn’t explain exactly what that meant, and very deliberately left out the other option Jon had eventually arrived at.

“So—did he?”

“Not—not then. We didn’t exactly see eye-to-eye on—that.”

Tim nodded.

Martin decided to skip some other details too. “Well—not long after, Annabelle Cane—”

“The—the spider person?”

“Yeah. She told us about another way. A way that we could end it. By—by letting the fears out.”

“Out? Out where?”

“There was a—a crack. A gap. Um—between dimensions. That place—where all this happened—it turns out it was just one of who knows how many realities.”

“Ok. Why would she tell you that, though? Didn’t they like it there?”

“She said—she said at the time that, eventually, that whole world was doomed. In the end, the—well, Death—the fear of Death—would kill everything, and the entities would remain alone with nothing left to—to feed them. And obviously she didn’t want that.”

“Oh.” Martin could see that the wheels in Tim’s head were starting to turn; he’d have to pick up the pace a little bit more if he wanted to tell it himself.

“So—we voted.”

“You voted.”

“Yeah. And we voted to let them out. To end it.”

“Right. Ok—makes sense, I guess, but—what did that mean? I guess you would get rid of them, but—then where would they go?”

Martin paused a moment. “We—we didn’t know. We talked about it a lot but in the end—we couldn’t know, and we knew the people in that place were suffering. And the other option was Jon taking over. Given that he couldn't stop it, that didn’t seem like it should be a real option to—to most of us. Well, some of us.”

Tim glanced back in the direction of the bedroom. “I can see that. Ok—so you voted to let them out. Did you?”

Martin considered what he should say; he opted for the short version. “Yeah. Yeah, we did.”

“And what happened? Did the apocalypse end?”

“Jon says it did.”

“What—what does that mean?”

“Jon and I—we—we ended up here.”

“Here? What do you mean?” Tim narrowed his eyes and looked hard at Martin.

“Jon and I ended up here. On the—in front of the Institute. And you found us. Eventually. After a couple of months, I’m guessing.”

Tim didn’t move for about thirty seconds, then his eyes went wide and he jumped up from the couch.

“No. No no no no—”

“Yeah.”

“What happened to the Jon and Martin that were here, then? Where did they—”

“We're them, too. It's really hard to—”

“Wait. Did they—the—fears, the entities, whatever you call them—did they come here too?”

“Yes.” Martin looked down at his feet.

“And that’s why all this—no. No. Did you—did you know? Did you know they would end up here?”

“I told you we didn’t.”

“You didn’t know what would happen and you all just decided to send them on out? Like a big goddamn gift to—to—”

“We didn’t know. And—” Martin took a breath. “We didn’t all decide that. Jon—Jon didn’t want to.”

“But he let you. And anyway, it doesn’t count if he only didn’t want to because he got to be some kind of—what, apocalypse god?”

“It wasn’t like that that.”

“All right, what was it like then? Explain.”

“He didn’t really want to do it. It was—he would have—”

“I would have ended it.” Martin on the couch, and Tim in front of it, both turned their head toward the hallway where Jon was now standing.

Tim answered faster than Martin could. “Martin said you couldn’t end it.”

“I couldn’t make it go away. There were other ways to end it.”

“Jon—”

“Don’t protect me, Martin. Not—like that.”

Martin looked at Tim’s face again; he was deep in thought.

“It was your decision, then?” he finally asked Jon.

“Yes.”

“Why did you let them out?”

Martin interrupted. “I told you, we voted, and—”

“Martin,” Jon said gently, and Martin stopped.

Tim waited.

“I tried to keep them there, but I didn’t—I didn’t plan for everything. And in the end, there were—sacrifices I wasn’t willing to make. That I still wouldn’t make.” He met Martin’s eyes, and Tim also turned slowly back to Martin.

“Jesus Christ.”

Martin continued to hold Jon’s eyes, but he could see Tim furiously typing into his phone next to him. For the first time ever, he vaguely wished that he could know what Jon was thinking. It would have almost been worth it.

“Jon—”

“It’s all right.” He was still speaking in the same soft voice. “It really is. It was time. But I am—I am going to have a cigarette.” Jon walked out to the balcony, and a few moments later the faint smell of smoke wafted in through the door. Everything felt like it had slowed down for Martin; Tim seemed able to move at an impossibly fast pace as he answered his phone and started shouting into it.

“Just—just come over here,” he was saying, as Martin began to make sense of his words. “No, you need to hear this from them, there’s no way I can—well if they’re closing the place, it sounds like you have to leave. No, just come straight here. Sasha—no, believe me, none of it matters. None of it. Just leave.”

He hung up his phone and looked blankly at Martin for a moment; he started to say something, but then shook his head and held out a finger toward Martin.

“No. No, there are some things I need to hear from him.” He started out toward the balcony, and Martin stood up.

“Tim—leave him alone. He’s—”

“It’s fine,” Jon called into the flat. “I’ll—I’ll talk to him. It’s ok.”

“Damn right, you’ll talk to me. I need to—” One of them closed the door to the balcony and Martin could only hear Tim’s general intonations; he could barely hear Jon at all. In a moment he gave up trying to listen, and sat down on the couch. He leaned back and closed his eyes, and tried not to have too many thoughts for the moment; he didn’t open them again until he heard an anxious knocking at the front door.

“Come in,” he shouted, and Sasha opened the door just wide enough to poke her head in; once she saw Martin, she walked in and closed it behind her.

“Tim said I should—” She stopped as she focused on Martin’s face over the back of the couch. “Martin, are you all right?”

“No,” he answered.

“Look, I’ve—” she came around to the other side of the couch and set her bag on the coffee table as she sat down. “They’ve closed the entire Institute while they’re investigating the—I just have no idea what to do right now. Tim called, and he’s been sending messages since then, but to be honest I don’t understand any of them. I’m lost.”

“Yeah.” Martin nodded, then dropped his forehead into his hand. “I just told Tim about—everything.”

“I gathered that,” Sasha said. “He seems—upset.”

“Yeah, well, he should be.”

“That’s him outside with Jon?”

“Yeah.”

“Hang on.” Sasha walked to the back door that led to the balcony and opened it. “Tim, I’m—”

“Oh god. Sasha. Oh shit.” Clearly whatever they had been discussing had not calmed Tim down at all. “We are so fucked.”

“Tim, I can see you are upset, but—”

“No. Upset does not even begin to describe what I am right now. I am—I am leaving. I need to leave.” He walked toward the front door.

Sasha started to follow him. “Tim—”

“Let him go,” Jon said.

“Fuck off,” Tim said, then turned to Martin. “You too. Screw both of you. Sasha, just—call. Call later.”

He left, slamming the door behind him.

“I’m sorry,” Sasha said, sighing. “I don’t know exactly what’s going on, but—”

“No,” Jon said, “he’s right to be angry.”

“Do you—think you can tell me whatever you told him?” Sasha asked.

“I can tell you,” Jon said, and then looked to Martin. “Are you all right?”

“No,” he said again. “How are you feeling? You were pretty out of it.”

“I’m—I’m all right, actually.” Jon took a seat next to Martin on the couch, and picked up his hand. “You don’t have to stay here for this. If you—”

“Yes, I do.”

Jon nodded. Sasha went to sit on the chair Martin had brought over earlier, and Martin protested. “No, Sasha—I can sit there—you can—”

“No, stay there.” Sasha smiled weakly. “I’ll be fine here.”

It wasn’t quite like listening to a statement—Martin could have interrupted if he’d wanted to—but Jon’s voice held that same contradictory combination of emotion and detachment it always had when he’d been reading a statement. The end result was that he seemed to explain everything twice as well in half the time that Martin had, and Sasha had remained drawn in and silent until the end.

“Tim should have heard it from you,” Martin mumbled, while Sasha took a moment.

“No,” Jon said. “I think—I think Tim needed to hear it from you, actually.”

Martin started to ask him what he meant, but Sasha broke her silence.

“So—now what?”

“Wait,” Martin said. “Aren’t you mad?”

“I’m—” Sasha considered. She looked tired, maybe in shock, but not angry. “I don’t know. Don’t get me wrong, this—sucks—but… I don’t know. What would I have done? I mean—” She laughed awkwardly. “I guess I would have died—”

Martin flinched.

“No—no, I’m sorry. I just meant—I really don’t know how to deal with this—there weren’t any right answers, were there?”

“If there were, I never chose them.” Jon absentmindedly reached for Martin’s hand again, and looked at him briefly when Martin held on to it harder than expected.

“I mean, I know why Tim’s angry,” Sasha continued. “But in the end, you—you really did save all those people.”

“I’m not sure I’d say—”

“But you did,” Sasha said. “Yes, they went through something awful, and I’m sure they were worse for it, but—their lives still had value. They still wanted to live, didn’t they?”

“Yes,” Martin said.

“And here—I know it’s already cost a lot—but we still have a chance. Don’t we?”

Neither of them answered her.

“Fine, but—I have to believe we do,” Sasha said. “I mean, Jon—even the—the Eye—it can’t see into other dimensions, right? And the Web probably—probably didn’t really anticipate all of this, right?”

“No,” Jon said. “It doesn’t work like that. At least not for the Eye.”

“So maybe—just maybe—things are different enough here that—I need to think.” Sasha pressed her knuckles to her mouth for a moment. “Jon, I imagine you still have some—influence over this situation?”

Martin looked at him, and Jon nodded. “Some. Yes.”

“How exactly do you plan on using it?”

“I don’t know,” Jon replied. “One way or another, I don’t—I need to make sure they don’t get out again.”

“Understood.” Sasha continued to press her hand to her mouth. “But we have time, right? Some, at least?”

Jon nodded again. “Yes. Of—of course.”

Martin squeezed Jon’s hand again.

“All right. Give me—give me a day or so just to—to really absorb all this. Then we’ll talk it out. Tim—oh, hang on.” She checked her phone, and scrolled down through a few messages that had gone unchecked while she’d been listening to Jon. “He says he’s going to visit Danny.”

“Good,” Jon said.

“Anyway, he’ll come around.” She thought a little bit more. “And I guess we should tell Melanie, and—and Elias.”

Jon stiffened. “Do you really think he—”

“After what he went through today, he—he deserves to know.”

Jon didn’t exactly relax. “Yes, fine. All right.”

“Will you two be all right if I go? Just—like I said, to gather my thoughts?”

For some reason they were both looking at Martin.

“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I’ll be all right.”

“I’m glad you told us,” Sasha said, standing to grab her bag from the table. “I know that took a lot. And Tim—he really will come around.”

Jon walked with her over to the door and she said something quietly that Martin couldn't hear; then she left, and Martin crumbled into the couch.

***

“Come to bed.”

Martin, who had been doing his best to bury himself between the cushions and the back of the couch ever since Sasha left, turned over to face Jon. “I can sleep out here tonight, if you want.”

Jon knelt to be at eye level with him. “Why would I want that?”

“I don’t know.”

Jon sighed and crossed his legs to sit on the floor. “Martin—what did you think would happen when we told them?”

“I don’t—I mean, of course Tim is mad, but—Ok, I guess I really wasn’t actually thinking about how they would react at all. I just thought it would be better to have it out. That it would feel better.”

“Does it?”

“Obviously not.”

Jon nodded, and reached out to touch Martin’s face. His touch was comforting, which Martin had somehow not been expecting.

“I mean, Tim was bad—but at least it felt—”

“It felt right. That he was angry.”

“Maybe. It’s just that when I was telling it to him, and I was hearing myself say it—I’d really forgotten how bad it was. I mean, I hadn’t forgotten, but—I guess I’m not living it anymore. And that’s not fair. It’s not fair to the other Sasha and the other Tim and everyone else we left behind. I just guess I feel—”

“Guilty.”

“Hm.” Martin closed his eyes, concentrating on the feel of Jon’s hand. “And then Sasha—it’s like she just didn’t get it. I mean, no—I think she got it. She heard all of it and I think she believed it, but she should have been angry? At least—a little.”

“She still might be. They both have a lot to process.”

“Sure, but—she was so optimistic. She just doesn’t know. She never felt—”

“She just said what you’ve said.”

“I know. And when I heard her say it—it made me wonder if that’s how you think about me when I… I mean—we were both there, but you went through so much more than I did. I felt—I felt sorry for her.”

“Martin,” Jon said, “I have never once felt sorry for you. Worried, or—or sad, or—but no, never pity.”

Martin opened his eyes to look at Jon again.

“Are you mad that I told them?”

“No. I told you I understood. It was time.”

Martin sat up, and Jon moved to sit next to him.

“What are we going to do?” he asked.

“Go to bed,” Jon answered.

“I meant—”

“I know what you meant.” Jon touched his leg. “We let Sasha think. She tells Melanie and Georgie and—Elias, and Tim makes up his mind about what he wants to do.”

“And then what?”

“We talk.”

“Jon—” Martin sighed. “I don’t want to push, but—how does this all end up different from before?”

Jon pulled his hand back. “I don’t know. Maybe it doesn’t.”

They sat a little while longer, until Jon stood up and held a hand out for Martin. “Let’s go to bed.”

“All right.”

“Wait,” Jon said, after Martin got up. “Would you—would you eat something first? I didn’t want to interrupt you earlier. I thought you could use a moment.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“You know, Martin—you are a bit of a hypocrite.”

“Yeah, I know.” He put his arm around Jon’s shoulders and kissed his head, and was briefly pulled back in his memories to the day he’d cut Jon's hair for him. That was all he wanted; just that—or, well, a future where some days got to be like that one.

Why was that so much to ask for?

“But I love you.”

“I love you too,” Jon answered.

Chapter Text

Martin’s phone buzzed; he didn’t bother opening his eyes. He felt Jon lean toward the coffee table from where he sat underneath Martin’s legs.

“It’s Sasha,” Jon said. “Do you want to get it?”

“Not really.”

The phone continued to buzz.

“Do you… want me to get it?”

Martin realized she would probably just call Jon’s phone next anyway. “Yeah. Yeah, sure.”

Jon picked up on speaker. “Hey, Sasha.”

“Oh—oh, I thought I called—oh. I did.” There was a pause on the other end. “Is he—is Martin ok?”

“He’s—he’s here. He can hear you.”

“Martin, um—how are you?”

Martin still didn’t open his eyes; he started to answer, but he hadn’t spoken loudly for a little while and his voice was gravelly. He cleared his throat. “I’m ok.”

“All right.” There was another pause. “Jon, how are you?”

“I’m—I’m fine.” Jon moved the phone to rest it on Martin’s leg from its spot on the table, and now Martin did open his eyes. He guessed it was about mid-afternoon from the light in the sitting room. “What’s going on?”

“I was calling to tell you—” There was yet another pause. “Jon, I have to ask, do you already know what I’m going to say?”

“Oh,” Jon sat back against the couch. Martin sighed, but shook his head and shrugged when Jon looked at him. He hadn’t meant anything by it, or if he had, he didn’t know what it was. “I—no, not really. Although if you wanted, I could—”

“No, that’s all right. I think I prefer—well, I was calling to say that the police have allowed us to open up the Institute again. But not—”

“Not the archives,” Jon finished. “Or the tunnels.”

“Right. And I was thinking—they’re not going to be there investigating or whatever tonight, and while it’s closed to the public, maybe—we should meet there. All of us.”

“Who is all of us, exactly?”

“Well, I talked to Melanie and she’s told Georgie, and they have some questions… and I talked to Elias. I’m not sure exactly where he is with all this, he didn’t say much, but I’d like to invite him. Obviously Tim is still gone, but—anyway, what do you think? Would you come? Both of you?”

“Hold on.” Jon muted the phone and turned to Martin.

 “What?” Martin asked.

“Do you want to?”

Martin sat up, crossing his legs to face Jon. “Is this my decision?”

“If you want it to be.”

“I’m—I’m not sure.” Before Jon answered him, though, he reconsidered. “Wait. Is it safe? Won’t the cops be watching or something? If they’ve closed it off—I mean, it’s probably not on the honor system.”

Jon went quiet and Martin could tell he was doing more than just turning it over—he was reaching out for something. “I think—for the moment—that could work in our favor.”

Martin waited to see if Jon would offer more of an explanation, but wasn’t particularly surprised when he didn’t. “Fine. If it’s safe, it’s your decision.”

“I can’t promise it’s safe, but—it’s as safe as anything else.”

Martin nodded and closed his eyes again. He didn’t bother listening to the end of the conversation. It was fine, really. Going was no worse than not going.

***

When they arrived that evening, there were two signs that the archives were closed; one was the crossed lines of blue tape reading “POLICE LINE: DO NOT CROSS” at the top of the stairs, and the other was a literal sign taped to the banister indicating that the archives were closed until further notice. Martin carefully lifted up one side of the tape.

“After you,” he told Jon.

“Thanks,” Jon said, stepping gingerly over the lower piece of tape.

As they entered the office, Sasha, Melanie, and Georgie, who had arrived before them, fell silent around the conference table. Jon and Martin stood awkwardly, almost apologetically, until Sasha attempted to bridge the discomfort.

“Thanks for coming,” she said.

Jon nodded, and Martin turned his gaze toward the floor. He hadn’t noticed until that moment, but the rug, the same generic office rug that wasn’t quite the right size to fit under the conference table, had the same exact stain on it that it had in the other dimension. It came from some time before the rug had come to be in the assistants’ office, and Martin had no idea what its origin was, but that really wasn’t important.

Nothing was going to be any different.

“Martin.” Jon said his name with an emphasis that indicated it wasn’t the first time he’d said it, and Martin looked up to find Jon already sitting, with an extra empty chair pulled over to the table for him.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, making his way to the seat. This put him between Jon and Melanie; Georgie was on the other side of Melanie, and Sasha was to the other side of Jon. Between the five of them, they took up just about all the room they could comfortably have at the table.

Sasha spoke again. “Well, I don’t know if we’re still waiting for Elias, but—we might as well go ahead. Jon, I told you on the phone that I talked to Melanie and Georgie, and they had some—questions they wanted to ask.”

“Of course,” Jon said. Martin glanced at Melanie’s face to find the steely, unyielding expression she had worn so often when he had known her before. He realized he hadn’t missed it. Georgie, on the other hand, looked worried. He had seen that expression on her as well, but there was something different about it now. Maybe it was a hint of the fear she could still feel here.

“To be fair,” Georgie started, “Melanie has some questions. I really don’t think we should be here. I’m—I’m really only here for her.”

“You feel like it’s safer to stay away,” Jon said quietly.

“Well—yes, frankly. Melanie’s already been through enough, and honestly—it just doesn’t feel like we can really help. It feels like—like we can only get hurt. And that just doesn’t seem—responsible.”

“That could be true.”

Melanie broke in. “Wait, before we—"

Melanie stopped speaking as Sasha sat up; they all followed her gaze to find Elias standing in the doorway. He looked small, Martin thought. Tired.

“Sorry for being late. Didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“No—no, you didn’t. I wasn’t sure if—well, I’m glad you’re here. I’m sure we can—” Sasha looked around at the table, trying to figure out where they could most easily squeeze in another extra chair.

“I’m fine. I’m—I’m fine here.” He sat on the corner of Tim’s desk, facing the group.

“Are you sure?”

“I think I’ll just listen, if that’s all right.”

“Yes, of course. That—that’s fine.”

Martin could not have explained exactly what it was he noticed, but something about the way Jon was sitting changed just slightly, and Martin realized Jon couldn’t see Elias from his position at the table. He leaned in close to him.

“Do you want to switch seats?” he whispered.

Jon looked at him long enough that Martin realized he was considering, but then shook his head. “No. No, I’m all right.” Despite his words, his fingers grasped Martin’s below the edge of the table, and Martin realized that he’d maybe inadvertently overestimated Jon’s level of comfort with this situation.

“Everything all right?” Sasha asked.

“Yes,” said Jon, and then after a moment, “thank you.”

“Go on, Melanie.”

Melanie looked from Jon to Martin, and then back to Jon again. “What do you want?”

“What?”

“What do you want? Why did you tell us all this?”

“I—I don’t want anything.” Jon looked back at Melanie in confusion.

“Then why did you tell us all this?”

“It was me. I thought we should,” Martin interrupted. “It didn’t feel right to keep hiding it.”

“Well then, let me ask a different question—why didn’t you tell anyone for so long?”

“When everything—when we first—” Martin hadn’t really planned on doing any talking, and he wasn’t prepared. He stopped and gathered his thoughts, then started over. “After everything happened, it took a while for things to—to come into focus. For a bit we could only remember the—the other place, and we weren’t sure where we were, or if you were all you—and then after we understood everything, well, it was just complicated. After what happened in the tunnels yesterday though—it was just—it was time. Probably past time, I don’t know.”

“Hm.” Melanie’s expression didn’t change. “So what are you going to tell us we should do, now that we know?”

Tell them to do? Martin looked at Jon; this wasn’t really a question he had anticipated.

“Nothing,” Jon said.

“Nothing,” Melanie repeated. “No advice for defeating these—fear powers, whatever they are? No explaining to us how we have to help you become more powerful so that you can—”

“No.” Martin felt a bit of anger when he realized what she was implying. “No, it—it’s not like that. Jon—Jon’s not—”

“No.” Jon squeezed his hand. “No advice. No—requests.”

“Sasha said—Sasha said that in the other world, the Institute—was like a trap, I guess. Like once people worked there, they couldn’t leave. They had to serve these things.”

“Just one of them. Just the Eye.”

“And you were in charge.”

Martin started. “What?”

“Jon was the archivist there instead of Sasha. And he had some kind of power. And—” She looked directly at Jon. “You still have it now.”

“That’s true,” Jon said.

“It was Jonah,” Martin blurted out. “It had nothing to do with Jon. Jonah Magnus was in charge of the whole thing. It was all him, he was the one who set it all up, who trapped everyone into working for him, and—”

“Right,” Melanie said. “Jonah Magnus, the—the old dead guy who started the Institute.”

“But he wasn’t dead there,” Martin snapped. “He was—”

The pressure of Jon’s fingers on his changed, and he stopped.

“He was Elias,” Melanie finished. “Or Elias was Jonah. Something like that.”

“Jonah—” Jon turned his head to look at Elias, who was still sitting quietly on the edge of Tim’s desk.

“It’s all right,” Elias said. “Say whatever you need to say. I’m fine.”

Jon turned back to the table. “Jonah killed Elias. And used his physical body to stay alive and run the Institute.”

Melanie looked like she was about to say something else, but then she glanced at Elias again and seemed to change her mind.

“Ok, look—what I really want to know is—what if—what if I do try to—help, somehow. Am I—am I already trapped here? And would it—would I really just be working for this—this Eye?”

“You’re not trapped here,” Jon said. “None of you—none of us—are. But that’s not really what you want to know, is it?”

“What do you mean?” Melanie asked.

“You want to know if you can trust me.”

Melanie thought. “Yeah. Yeah, I guess I do.”

Jon contemplated for a moment. “I don’t know.”

“Jon.” Martin couldn’t help it. “Yes, of course you can trust him. Jesus Christ, Jon.”

“Hm.”

Silence fell momentarily over the small group, until Georgie spoke again.

“All right. Let me—it sounds like, there, Melanie and I did everything we could to—to avoid it. To stay away. And clearly that didn’t work out, but—well, I’ve already said it, I’m inclined that way now. So tell me. How did I feel about it? In the end?”

Martin bit his lip; his frustration with Melanie and Jon’s back-and-forth left him. He remembered their conversation on that last night as well as he imagined Jon did.

“What?” Georgie said. “Be honest.”

Jon took a breath. “You regretted it.”

“Oh, of course she did,” Melanie countered immediately. “Look, Georgie, maybe I do want to at least—but that’s just—I don’t want you to make any decisions because of him. How do you know if you can trust him? Even he said—and how do you know he’s even really your Jon?”

“How do I—”

“Oh, I don’t mean—” She turned awkwardly to Martin. “I don’t mean her Jon, I just—”

Martin put a hand to his forehead. “I don’t think anyone thought—”

“Wait.” Jon let go of Martin’s other hand to hold up a finger, and everyone stopped talking. They listened to the silence until Jon spoke again. “You can come in, Basira.”

Sasha stood up as Basira, arms crossed and looking slightly disconcerted, entered the assistants’ office.

“Oh,” Sasha said, “I know the archives are off limits—we were just—”

“It’s all right,” Basira said. “I’m not here to arrest any of you.”

“Oh,” Sasha said again, slowly sinking back into her chair. They all stared uncomfortably. “Then, um… why are you here?”

 “I saw you were all here”—she pointed to a corner of the room, where Martin couldn’t actually see anything but had to assume there was a camera of some sort installed— “and I suppose I wanted to—try to find out more about what happened the other day.”

“And to ask about Daisy,” Jon added.

Basira looked at him, apparently trying to make up her mind about something, but then she nodded slowly. “Yeah. And to ask about Daisy.”

“Oh,” Sasha said one more time. “Hang on, I’m sure we can find somewhere for you to—”

“I’ve got it,” Elias said, grabbing Tim’s chair and bringing it out from behind his desk for her to sit on. They all turned awkwardly toward her from their seats at the table.

“Well,” she said, “I don’t find myself in this situation often. This is not exactly how I imagined this going down.”

“Sorry.” Martin found himself apologizing for the situation. “If you want, I could—”

“Oh, no, it’s fine.” Basira waved him off. “It’s good for my hubris, anyway. So look—we’ve been getting a lot of very strange reports lately. I have a feeling you know what I mean. And we’ve had some incidents ourselves, but—the point is, some of the people who came to us mentioned they had talked to you all here at the Magnus Institute. They had this idea that you all studied things like that here, or—or something. And then yesterday, you clearly knew something about whatever had happened down there in the tunnels. At least, you two did.” She turned to Martin and Jon. “You two and the other one—you know, the hot one?”

“Tim,” Jon said, then looked at Martin. “I don’t—she said that once in—”

Martin put his hands up. “Why is everyone doing this tonight? I really—I’m really not that sensitive.”

“Right,” Jon said. “Sorry.”

“Anyway,” Basira continued, “when I remembered about the missing person thing and thought about the timing, and just—it felt like there might be some connection. So when I saw you were all here, I thought that instead of reporting it, I’d just come see what I could find out. And if—well, if you did know something, then—yeah.”

“And do you still want to talk about Daisy now?” Jon asked.

“Yeah, I think so. It’s just—she’s my partner, you know? And—it’s hard. I feel bad.”

“Go on,” Jon said. “Tell us.”

Martin recognized something in his tone.

“Jon.”

Jon turned to meet his eyes.

“It’s all right,” he said. “She wants to talk.”

Martin wasn’t sure if it was all right, but Basira certainly didn’t seem bothered.

“So here’s the thing. Like I said, Daisy is my partner. I’ve worked with her for years now. We put our lives in each other’s hands all the time. I don’t know how to describe that to someone who’s never experienced it. I think the point is, we trust each other. More than most people will ever have to trust another person. And I’ve worked hard to earn that trust. I know her. Don’t get me wrong—she’s not perfect. She’s always been—determined, and sometimes that’s maybe pushed her to take things out of step or—I don’t know. But she’s always wanted justice. That’s always been important to her. Trying to make things right. Or at least as right as they can be. I mean—you see a lot of bad stuff on the force, really bad stuff, and there are some things that nothing will ever make right, but—you know.

“After everything started happening though—around the time you reported these two missing—something changed in her. And it’s been getting worse. There are some days when I feel like I don’t know her now. At first, I thought it was just the stress of dealing with the incidents, signing the section forms, all of that, but—then I started seeing it. That look in her eyes. I’m sure you saw it yesterday. That’s not her. Not really. Lately it’s like it doesn’t seem to matter to her whether she’s even got the right person. And then—she’ll disappear for days sometimes. She’s done that before, but she’s at least always told me where she was going or what case she was investigating. Now I have no idea. And the worst part is that I don’t think I really want to know. I suppose that makes me kind of a shit partner.

“You know, I really don’t know why I’m saying all of this. Don’t repeat it to anyone—if you do, I’ll lie. I just—I want it to stop. I want whatever’s happened to her to stop.”

Jon nodded. “And what have you figured out so far?”

“Well, let’s see. There’s some kind of monsters here. And they have something to do with you.” She looked at Jon and Martin.

“Close enough,” Jon said. “What else do you want to know?”

“What’s their purpose?”

“Fear. They create it, and they survive on it.”

“Ok, and—what do they have to do with Daisy? Why are they messing with her?”

“Technically, they’re not,” Jon answered.

“What does that mean?”

“It means—Daisy is drawn to them. One of them, in particular. It’s called—it’s called the Hunt.”

“Does she know about the—the Hunt? Is she aware of it?”

“Not directly.”

“So she doesn’t know what she’s doing.”

“No.”

“And is she—is she afraid?”

“No,” Jon shook his head. “She—she’s happy, I suppose. She likes it. But if she knew, and she could choose—she wouldn’t choose it.”

“I see.”

They waited a moment.

“Is there—anything else you want to know?” Jon asked.

“Not really. Not unless there’s something I can do. I’d rather not keep things from Daisy. Just—are you trying to stop it?”

“Yes,” Sasha answered.

Martin felt a small pulse from the lump still lurking in his gut.

“To be completely honest,” Jon said, “it’s not likely we can.”

“But we’re going to try,” Sasha said.

“Good.” Basira stood up from her chair. “What do you need from me? Obviously I’m somewhat limited, but I might be able to help with something.”

“What do you think, Jon?” Sasha asked.

“Maybe—keep the archives closed. Officially. For a while. If they’re open, and we’re here—they’ll only be a target.”

“Easy enough,” Basira answered. “Speaking of, though—try not to come back here. I can’t guarantee I’d be the only one watching. Or even that I’d be able to warn you if—if someone else were interested.”

“Got it,” Sasha said. “Anything else, Jon?”

“Not at the moment. If we need anything else, though—”

“Here’s my number.” Basira was already writing on a pad of paper on Tim’s desk. “That is my direct number, but—be careful. I don’t know what’s going to happen between now and—whenever.”

“Understood.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to—stick around?” Sasha asked. “I’m sure we’d—”

“Better not,” Basira answered, setting the pen back down on the desk. “But I’ll do what I can. And really—don’t stay here too much longer tonight, either.”

“All right,” said Sasha. “Thank you.”

“I haven’t done anything yet.” Basira headed toward the door. “Save your thanks.”

“That was strange,” Sasha said, after Basira had left. “Jon, did you know she would come?”

“I knew—I knew Basira was in charge of watching the archives. And I knew she was worried about Daisy.”

“I see,” Sasha said.

They sat in silence for a few moments.

“So what are we doing?” Georgie asked. “Are we—are we really going to try to stop it?”

“Yes,” Sasha said again, even more insistently than the first time.

“Sasha,” Jon said softly, “I don’t—”

“I know, you’re not sure we can.”

“Hang on,” Melanie said. “Jon, do you—do you know we can’t stop it? Or—or are you saying that because you couldn’t before?”

“I don’t—” Jon looked down at his hands, where they had come to rest on the table. “No. I don’t know that we can’t stop it.”

“Then we have to try,” Sasha said. “Think about it. There’s no apocalypse here. Jonah Magnus isn’t here. Most people—other than us—don’t even really know these things exist. These rituals, they were all deliberate, right? Somebody had to choose to start them. And we know so much more than you did. Maybe we can find a way.”

Jon answered with silence; Martin turned to stare at the wall.

“At least say you’re with us, Jon. If the rest of us try. At least be on our side. You too, Martin.”

Jon sighed. “Yes, of course I’m on your side. If that’s what you choose.”

“Martin?”

He turned back to find Sasha looking at him expectantly.

“Look—it’s not like I’m—”

Jon took his hand. “This is what you want, isn’t it?”

“We need you, Martin,” Sasha added.

Need. He remembered telling Jon once that they didn’t need him—that Jon didn’t need him. His own words echoed in his head. Everyone’s alone, but we all survive.

They didn’t all survive, though, did they?

“Fine.” He still didn’t believe they needed him, or even that having him around would change anything—but he wouldn’t abandon them, either. “I’m—I’m here.”

“Good.” Sasha said. “Melanie? Georgie?”

“What do you think?” Melanie asked, turning to Georgie.

“Well,” Georgie said, “I know I don’t want to have any regrets. And I do trust Jon. But Melanie, I meant it, you’ve been through so much already, and—”

“We’re in,” Melanie said. “For now, at least.”

“All right,” Sasha said. “Elias?”

They all turned toward him.

“Hm.” He smiled faintly, almost inwardly. “Sure. Why not?”

“That’s all of us, then. And I’ll get Tim back here as soon as he’s ready.”

“So—now what?” Georgie asked.

“I—” Sasha frowned. “I don’t know. I suppose we can’t stay here much longer, though. We’ll have to come up with another meeting spot.”

Elias cleared his throat. “Are we safe?”

Everyone turned to Jon in a way that Martin found very familiar.

“Safe—how?” Jon asked.

“Are we safe? When we leave here—will we be all right?”

“That’s complicated.” Jon thought. “I suppose we’re relatively safe, for the moment. That could change any time, though, and I wouldn’t necessarily know if it did. And once Annabelle—understands that we’re—”

“Annabelle is the—the Web lady?” Sasha asked. “The one that came here with you?”

“Yes,” Jon said.

“I guess what I’m wondering is—would we be safer if we were together?” Elias asked.

“I don’t know.”

Martin thought about the time after the Unknowing, and before he’d ended up in the Lonely. Certainly the other assistants had all felt safer staying together. Probably they had been. And Martin, well, he hadn’t really been that concerned about his safety then, had he? He’d sort of just been waiting for something to—

“Yeah,” he said. “Probably.”

Jon nodded.

Elias continued. “Well, if you want—and I can understand if you don’t—you all can come and stay with me and Allan. I’ve certainly got enough spare rooms to go around.”

“To be honest, I wouldn’t mind,” Sasha replied. “I mean—I know Melanie and Georgie have each other, and Jon and Martin, but I—yeah. If it’s ok.”

“Of course it is. What about the rest of you?”

“We—have a cat,” Melanie said.

“That’s fine. Bring the cat.”

Melanie and Georgie spoke in whispers to each other for a moment, and then turned back to the rest of the group.

“If Sasha’s going, we’ll go,” Melanie said, slipping her hand into Georgie’s.

“Thanks.” The relief was evident in Sasha’s voice. “Martin? Jon?”

“It’s up to you,” Jon said, turning to Martin.

“We’ll go.” Martin was almost surprised to hear the words come out of his own mouth; he certainly hadn’t made anything like a conscious decision.

“All right, then.” Elias stood up from Tim’s desk, and Martin thought he saw some relief in him as well. “It’s a bit out in the country. Who has a car?”

***

Martin was trying, but the one small duffel bag he had wouldn’t quite fit everything he wanted to bring. They had an hour or so to pack before Elias was coming to pick them up, and he knew it really wasn’t a big deal—it wouldn’t be that hard to come get something else if he needed it—but that didn’t temper his frustration. If he managed to get his toiletries in the bag, then there were a couple of shirts that just didn’t want to let the zipper close; he could fit the shirts, but then—did he really need more than one pair of pants?

“Ugh.” He let the shirts drop to the floor and slumped back against the bed.

“I have room,” Jon said, from his seat on the floor next to Martin. His suitcase was neatly packed already, and he’d pretty much been watching Martin struggle for five minutes.

“It’s not—hang on, I can do this.” He unpacked the duffel bag again. It was more of a gym bag than anything actually meant for traveling. He’d never gone anywhere when his mother had still been living with him, and then after she had moved out, he still didn’t like being too far away from her. The bag had really only ever served for overnights—which he’d done less often than he might have, too.

Once again, he came up short on space. It was those two shirts.

“God damn it.”

“Just put them in my suitcase,” Jon said.

Without answering, he leaned forward and put all his weight on the small stack of clothing that was already in the bag with one arm, and tried again to jam the shirts in on top of them.

He stopped when he felt Jon’s hand on his elbow.

“Martin—do you want to do this? Do you want to go?”

He sat back on his calves. “I don’t really have a choice, do I?”

“Of course you do.”

“Jon—you know I’m not going to stay here if you’re going.”

“That’s not what I meant. If you want to stay—I’ll stay here with you.”

Martin leaned back against the bed again, and Jon did as well. Their arms met at the shoulder.

“Do you mean that?” Martin asked. “Would you be mad?”

“I wouldn’t be mad. Martin, you—you waited for me. In Scotland. You waited for me to be ready. I’ll wait for you.”

Martin nodded; Jon shifted his weight to rest against him, and Martin slipped his arm just behind Jon’s back.

“So this is that, then? This is us leaving the cabin again?”

“Maybe.” Jon let his head fall against Martin’s chest. “Maybe not. Maybe it comes to nothing.”

“You know, this—kind of reminded me of packing to go there. To the cabin. Except—” His throat caught.

“You don’t have to talk about it.”

“I want to, though.” Martin took a breath. “Talking to you—it always makes me feel a bit better, at least. I know you’re not like that, when you—just give me a moment.”

“Take all the time you need.”

Martin looked around the room, as much as he could without pushing Jon away. The bed, the dresser—he hadn’t been there that long, but the amount of time was irrelevant. Despite the questions he’d had later about their living situation, it had stopped being Jon’s bed the moment he’d gotten there; it was their bed. Their dresser. Their bathroom. It was silly to even care about sharing most of these things, but it had mattered. It was what he’d wanted. And as much as Jon could, it was what he’d wanted, too. Martin knew that.

“I was—maybe it was selfish—but I was happy when we went to that cabin. Or maybe—maybe just hopeful—but it had been so long since I’d had any hope, it felt like happiness.”

“Me too,” Jon said.

“And I’m—I’m sad now.” Martin laughed in spite of himself.

“What’s funny about that?” Jon asked.

“Remember when we argued about expressing your emotions, and I asked you how you felt about the apocalypse, and all you said was—sad?”

“Oh,” Jon smiled too, now. “I do remember.”

“I’m—I’ll do better. I feel hopeless. Worse than hopeless, when I think about how we felt then, because it was so different. We still thought we could stop it. Call it off. Now, it’s—it feels like it’s just the end. And we’re walking into it.”

“Not necessarily. It could—they could all decide there’s nothing we can do, and we’ll be back here in a week.”

“But if we are—isn’t that—isn’t that just as bad? Doesn’t it just go the same place, with one more failure behind us?”

“Martin, we really don’t have go. Not yet.”

Martin thought. He didn’t want to leave. But he also knew if they stayed—while everyone else was together, scared, groping for answers—it wouldn’t be the same. It was over, either way.

“Jon?”

“Yes,” Jon answered quietly.

“I’m—I’m glad we had this.”

“Me too.”

Chapter Text

Martin took the front seat for the ride out to Elias’s house. He wasn’t sure if that was what Jon preferred, but it felt like it put less pressure on him to engage with Elias. He supposed he could have made some excuse to sit in the back seat with Jon, which is what he’d really wanted to do, but that would have made what was already a very awkward occasion even more awkward; after all, Elias was doing them a favor.

He wished he’d thought before to ask Jon how he actually felt about Elias. There was no guarantee Jon would have wanted to talk about it, but he should have offered him the chance. Martin could tell Jon wasn’t comfortable around Elias, but then again, neither was he. It wasn’t Elias, necessarily—it was more about the fact that when he looked at him, he couldn’t help but see Jonah Magnus, at least for a moment.

This brought up a bigger question that Martin had thought about but had no way to really ask Jon, and that was how much he operated on what Martin imagined most people did—memories, experience, reasoning things out—and how much he operated on knowing and feeling things most people couldn’t feel. During the apocalypse it had been almost exclusively the latter, based on how incapacitated Jon had been when separated from the Eye, but he knew Jon didn’t have nearly the abilities he’d had then.

On the other hand, there had been times recently when Jon had acted on Martin’s feelings without even realizing he’d been doing it; Martin suspected it had happened more times than he knew. Was it just with him that happened?

Only half conscious of it, he turned to check on Jon in the back seat.

He’d basically succeeded in putting the thought of their bond from the Lonely out of his mind since their first big argument here. Jon had just gotten so sick, and then—well, everything else, and he’d basically filed it away, undigested, a concept he didn’t quite know what to do with. Now, as Martin watched Jon stare distractedly out of the car window and into the night outside, the thought reinstated itself.

What did it mean, now that they appeared to be heading down the same path as before? Although he detested the whole idea, maybe he was somehow essential to Jon being able to start another apocalypse—or maybe, if Jon did end up starting one, Martin was essential to whatever his plans might be afterward. Could he use that somehow to—to help keep Jon safe?

As soon as the thought occurred to him, the guilt poured in from wherever it tucked itself away. Trying to protect Jon always felt so much like working against him, and he hated it, but he still hadn’t found another way. The guilt compounded with a familiar frustration bordering on anger—no, it was anger—as he reminded himself that even if he came up with something, even if he did manage to find some small foothold of power in this situation, it would almost certainly backfire. Everything—every plan, every measure of protection he or Jon had tried to take—always had.

He realized Jon had stopped staring into the darkness outside of the car and was now looking at him.

Martin took a breath to say something—he wasn’t sure what—when Elias spoke for the first time since they’d gotten in the car.

“Everything all right?”

“Um—yeah,” Martin said, turning back around in his seat. “Yeah, it’s just late, and I—I guess I’m tired. Sorry for not being more helpful.”

“Oh, I’m fine. I do this drive a lot.”

“Yeah, I—I guess you do.” Martin glanced back again to see Jon had returned to looking in the direction of the window. “I mean, every day, right?” It was an incredibly stupid question, but Martin felt obligated to make some effort to keep the conversation going.

“Well—mostly. Every now and then I stay in the office overnight.” Elias turned and caught Martin’s eye, but the resulting discomfort seemed to be mutual, and he quickly returned his eyes to the road. “Or, I suppose, more often I just don’t come in in the first place. Sasha pretends to hate it, but I think we all know she’s happier when I just stay out of the way.”

Elias laughed at his own self-derogatory remark, and Martin tried to be polite with a quick hm. He hadn’t spent a lot of time around Elias here; he’d actually done his best to avoid him, simply because he was his boss, and Elias had seemed fine with that. It was the same way he’d tried to avoid Jon before—before he’d turned out to be Jon. Sasha had always been Sasha, she’d gone out of her way to make him comfortable, but—well, in any case, he didn’t think that laughing about Elias being a shit boss was the best way to forge a relationship. He had no idea how to interact with him under the best of circumstances, and therefore tonight was a lost cause. Thankfully, Elias seemed to arrive at the same conclusion, and let the conversation drop.

Martin turned to imagining the scenery that might be outside the car for the remainder of the ride.

He assumed they had arrived when Elias turned the car off the main road, and the surface beneath the car began to crunch. They drove a short way down this gravel lane before Elias stopped the car and pulled out his phone and opened an app.

“Looks like Allan gave up on me tonight,” he said. “Give it a minute… and… there.”

Several flood lights lit up the drive that curved around in front of an impressive country house; it was an impressive house to Martin, anyway. Elias hadn’t been joking when he’d said he had enough bedrooms to go around. His surprise must have shown on his face.

“The outside’s the best part,” Elias said, as he pulled the car around near the front door. “I really don’t even use most of it. It was a family place. No idea why I hang on to it, other than—well, it works.”

“Did you grow up out here?”

“Here?” Elias asked. “No—not really. We lived in town. We came here sometimes, I guess. Mostly my father rented this one out. I sold the London place as soon as he died, and meant to do the same with this one, but—well, it's been twenty years—twenty-five, almost? Christ—and here we are.”

“Right,” Martin said, even though he had no frame of reference at all. His mother had died with nothing but what she’d kept with her in the care home. He supposed he was grateful for that; he’d barely found the fortitude to go through the couple of boxes they had returned to him. “Well—thanks again for having us all out here.”

“Oh—it’s, um—” Elias paused. “It’s the least I can do.”

“It’s not.” They turned to look at Jon.

“Sorry?”

“I’m just saying it’s—it’s not the least you can do. It’s rather far from it, actually.”

“Well—” Elias paused again. “Look, I’m feeling sort of—”

“They’re here.”

“What?”

Headlights flashed down the drive.

“Oh, the girls,” Martin said. “Guess they left around the same time we did.” Elias and Jon were already getting out of the car by the time he finished his sentence, clearly also not eager to have a real conversation for the moment.

“Park anywhere,” Elias told them as they pulled up. “You see where Allan’s parked, and we’re not expecting anyone else.”

“Tim,” Sasha said from the back seat. “He’ll be here. Well—in a day or two.”

“He’s been here before. He’ll figure it out.”

They managed to get everything out of the cars in one go, with Elias bringing Georgie’s bags, and Georgie carrying a padded crate that emitted an occasional small sound of distress. Georgie caught Martin looking toward the crate as they walked toward the house.

“He’s not fond of car rides, I’m afraid. Do you—like cats?”

“Oh, I just like animals,” Martin said, wondering why he was suddenly feeling shy. It was interesting, feeling something like a normal emotion in the middle of all this. He couldn’t decide if it was a waste of energy or a relief. “Never really had a pet, though.”

“Well, this is the Admiral. He’s pretty friendly, at least when he’s not in the car, so—”

“Oh yeah, Jon’s told me all about him.”

“Is that so?” Georgie asked, turning to look at Jon.

“I, uh—did get to know him a bit. Before. There, I mean.”

“Right,” Georgie said, shaking her head. “It’s going to take me a while longer to get used to this.”

“All right,” said Elias, as they walked through the front door. “I know it’s late, so if you all don’t mind I’ll save the tour for tomorrow. I was thinking it might be best if you all stayed on the first floor, but there are other rooms on the second floor. That’s where Allan’s room is. My bedroom’s down there”—he pointed to hallway on the right— “and I was thinking you all could stay here.” He led them down a hallway in the opposite direction.

“There are three rooms. Sasha, this one’s just got a double. It’s the smallest room, and you’d have to use the bath across the hall here—well, I mean, there are others, but that’s the closest. If it’s ok with you—”

“Oh, yeah,” Sasha looked both tired and appreciative. “Honestly, it’s much bigger than my room at home. It’s—it’s great. If you all don’t mind, I might head off? Try and get some sleep?”

“All yours. Oh—that door at the end of the hall, that’s a linen closet. If any of you need an extra blanket or towel or anything.”

“Thanks,” Sasha said. “For all of this. Goodnight.”

They headed just a little further down the hall as Sasha closed the door behind herself. “As for the other two rooms—Melanie and—Georgia—”

“Georgie.”

“Right, I’m—I’m sorry—Georgie—I was thinking if you didn’t mind sharing the hallway bath with Sasha, this room has a super king. Or the other one’s a king, but it does have an en-suite shower. And again, there are other rooms upstairs if—”

“I’m ok with this one,” Melanie said. “Georgie?”

“Sure. Unless you two—?” She looked toward Martin and Jon.

“Oh, I don’t—I don’t think we care?” He looked at Jon, who by now also seemed quite tired. Jon shook his head. “I mean, we’ve been sharing a double, and I guess before that we just slept on the ground somewhere, you know, when we could sleep, so…”

He trailed off as he realized everyone was looking at him with slightly wide eyes—even Melanie, who had been avoiding eye contact since they had arrived. He hadn’t meant to say quite that much.

“Well,” Georgie said quickly, releasing some of the tension, “if you’re really fine with it, honestly, the Admiral’s a snuggler, so… yeah. We wouldn’t mind the extra space.”

“Here, I’ll—” Elias picked up Georgie’s bags again from where he had temporarily set them on the hallway floor, and glanced at Jon and Martin. “Are you two all right? It’s just the last door down that way.”

“Thank you,” Jon said, surprising Martin.

“You’re welcome,” Elias said, before turning to help Melanie and Georgie get settled.

Like Sasha, their room was also much bigger than the one they shared at home. Not only did the king fit in it—it would not have in Jon’s flat, as the double just about took up all the room left after the dresser and the side tables—there was also an armchair to one side of the bed and a small writing desk in the corner. He remembered Elias commenting that his father used to rent the place out.

“Bit formal,” Martin commented as he set down Jon’s suitcase, which had been the heavier of their two bags. “Big, though.”

Jon nodded and handed Martin’s bag to him before sinking on to the end of the bed. Martin took a moment to sit next to him.

“You all right?”

“Yeah.”

“Tired? Want to go to bed?”

Jon nodded. They undressed; they knew which sides of the bed belonged to each of them without asking. Just as Martin was about to pull down the sheets, he realized the only switch to turn off the light was near the door. Jon was already in bed, so he got up to turn it off. He looked at Jon as he did; his eyes were already closed.

“Jon?”

“Hm?”

“Do you feel safe here?”

“Like I said before—we’re as safe here as anywhere.”

“Do you feel safe here? With Elias?”

“Oh. I—” Jon paused, opening his eyes. “I do.”

“Ok.” Although he felt like maybe there was more to it, one of Jon’s short answers was going to have to be good enough for tonight. Martin turned off the light and felt his way back to the bed. Once under the covers, he reached out to find Jon. He realized he was glad that the king wasn’t that much bigger than their double. He felt Jon turn toward him in the dark.

Outside, through the conduit of the hallway and the walls connecting their rooms, he heard Melanie’s raised voice, too muffled to understand. She continued for a few minutes, her words occasionally peppered by some also-muffled comment from Georgie, and then there was silence again. A small part of him found comfort in it, even if Melanie was agitated. It was familiar; it was something outside of himself and Jon that he knew and still felt he could trust for what it was.

“I wonder what she’s on about?” Martin asked, yawning.

He didn’t expect Jon to answer, so he was a little surprised that he did. “That’s her business. Or—hers and Georgie’s.”

“Oh. I didn’t mean—I wasn’t really asking. Just talking.” Jon’s comment had, however, reminded him of what had happened on their ride over in the car.

“Jon, can I ask you about something? I mean—if you need to sleep—”

“I’m fine.”

“In the car tonight—when you—looked at me. Did you know what I was thinking?”

“What you were thinking? No.”

“What I was feeling, then?”

“I’m—” Jon started to move away from him, but Martin reached out to touch his arm and he stopped. “I’m sorry.”

“Look, I—I’m sure you didn’t mean to. Just please, talk to me. You—you can’t help it, can you? Sometimes.”

Jon was quiet; Martin could hear him breathing, feel him struggle with the tension in his body. He gave him a minute. “I don’t like it,” he finally said.

“I know you don’t. Is it—just me? Or are you always feeling everyone’s feelings?”

“It’s just you. Of course, it’s just you. You know why.”

“I see.” He sat with that for a moment, letting it sink in as he alternated the pressure of his fingers against Jon’s arm. He knew he was fidgeting, but Jon didn’t seem to mind it. Maybe it was helping. “What did you feel tonight?”

“You were—you were feeling guilty. You always feel guilty, but this was… sharp. And you were angry. And—” Jon shifted under his hand, but didn’t pull away again. “And it had something to do with me.”

“I wasn’t angry at you.”

“You don’t owe me an explanation.”

“And I’m not going to give you one, other than that. I just—I want you to know that.”

“You know—it’s all right if you are mad at me. I would understand.”

“I know. But I’m not.”

Martin let that settle for a moment before speaking again. “Jon is this—new? I mean, different this time?”

“Sort of,” Jon said. “During the apocalypse, I suppose I—gravitated that way. To your feelings. But everything—everyone—was so loud then. I knew you didn’t like it, and there was always something to drown it out.”

He stopped and cleared his throat. Martin waited.

“Now… Now it’s like when it gets quiet, and all at once you can hear your own heartbeat, feel your pulse radiating through your body. And then you try to stop hearing it, stop feeling it, and—”

“And you can’t,” Martin finished. Jon’s words were becoming painful, although he wasn’t sure for which one of them. “Yeah. All right.”

“I should have told you before.”

“I know why you didn’t. It’s—it’s ok.” Martin said. “I’m sure my feelings are no picnic for you either.”

Jon moved again, but this time it was toward Martin, into his chest. The covers slipped down from his shoulder as he did, and Martin reached for them, pulling them back up. Carefully, so he would not disturb them again, he slid his arm down around Jon’s waist.

They slept.

***

Martin was disoriented when he woke up. It took a moment to remember where he was; the darkness confused him. There were windows on two sides of this room, yet both were covered with heavy curtains instead of blinds, and very little light actually came in. He sensed it was still early, but he wasn’t sure how early until he checked his phone. He hadn’t slept especially late, which wasn’t surprising given how much sleep he’d forced on his body over the last couple of days—but Jon was gone.

Jon’s clothes from the previous day were neatly placed on his side of the bed, so he’d taken the time to get dressed. Martin took that as a sign that he didn’t need to worry. He stood up and stretched, then peeked out of the curtains of the closest window. He couldn’t even see another house from where they were; the lawn extended off into the distance, with the occasional tree adding some variety to the landscape. If they wanted to be away from other people, it looked like they had achieved their goal.

He left one of the curtains open for the little light it provided, and found the small bag with his razor and toothbrush before heading to the bathroom. They had been so tired that they hadn’t even looked at it the night before. It was spacious, with two sinks and a large shower with a hinged glass door. Jon had already been in that morning—either he had been exceptionally quiet or Martin had slept very hard, and he would have believed either. He was slightly amused at his compulsion to use the other sink, the one Jon had not used.

After he had finished up and gotten dressed, he cautiously opened the door and looked down the hallway. No one was there; it was quiet. He closed the door gently behind him and headed back in the direction of the foyer they had walked through when they had come into the house; he imagined he’d find some kind of main room nearby. He passed Georgie and Melanie’s room, and then Sasha’s room; both doors were still closed.

As he drew closer to the foyer, he heard low voices from a room to the other side of the hallway. They sounded conversational, comfortable even. He quickly realized one of them was Jon, and as he continued to walk toward them he recognized the other as Elias. He froze just as he reached the doorway, not sure if he should interrupt; before he could really catch any of the conversation, however, Jon spoke out to him.

“Martin? Is—is that you?”

Is that me, Martin thought, right—but even if they had been alone he wouldn’t have called him on it after their conversation the previous night.

“Um, yeah,” he said, stepping with embarrassment to the edge of the foyer where they could see him. “I wasn’t trying to—I just wasn’t sure if I should interrupt. I can head off, if—”

“Come on in,” Elias said, looking cheerier than Martin could recall seeing him recently. He and Jon were seated in a very proper pair of armchairs, with a small side table situated between them; Elias sipped coffee from a mug as Martin entered. “I was just telling Jon about my father, which is apparently the only thing I know how to talk about when someone is forced to spend more than five minutes with me.”

“Oh,” Martin said, not sure what else to say. The room had a high ceiling and was almost uncomfortably large; there was a fireplace that didn’t appear to get much use, more armchairs, and a sofa with a large rectangular coffee table in front of it. There were windows and a large set of decorative doors in the back of the room—presumably leading to the back lawn—but like the windows in the bedroom, they all let in much less light than Martin felt like they should.

“Coffee? Tea?” Elias asked.

“Um—I’d love some tea. I can get it though, if you tell me where the—kitchen is.”

“Back that way.” Elias pointed behind himself to another doorway Martin had failed to notice. “Through the breakfast room. I’ve got one of those machines that does the whole coffee-espresso-tea-blah blah-whatever thing. Well, really, it’s Allan’s, but he finally broke me down and I started using it. Help yourself.”

Martin looked at Jon, trying to discern whether he was all right. “Go on,” Jon said, gesturing back toward the kitchen with a nod of his head. He did seem ok, Martin thought. He seemed calm, anyway.

Martin headed back to grab some tea. He had trouble thinking of it as making tea—he had a dislike for these machines, they never really boiled the water properly—but it would more than make do this morning. He automatically set out two mugs from the selection on the counter, and only when he was in the middle of adding milk did he realize he hadn’t noticed whether Jon already had one. Fortunately, he did not, and he enthusiastically reached for the cup when Martin set it in front of him.

Martin sat on the sofa, the option closest to the armchairs, but he still felt separated from Jon and Elias. It was like the furniture was spread too far apart to make up for the vastness of the room, and hadn’t quite succeeded.

“Did you sleep ok?” It took a moment for him to realize Elias was talking to him.

“Oh—yeah. Yeah, I guess I did.” Martin rubbed the side of his neck. “I actually wasn’t sure what time it was when I woke up. The curtains keep it pretty dark in there.”

“Ugh.” He had just meant to imply that it was good for sleeping, but apparently it was a sore spot for Elias. “Worst thing about this place—it’s so dark. And it really didn’t have to be, you know?” He took another sip of his coffee. “Sometimes I think my father really preferred—oh, never mind. I’ve had enough of his ghost already this morning.”

Martin took a sip of his tea in the brief but uncomfortable silence that followed; he was saved from having to think of something to say when the front door closed loudly. He turned to look toward the foyer, but no one was there.

“Oh, that was just Allan,” Elias said. “He usually heads in about now.”

“Oh. Does he—know we’re all here?”

“He’ll figure it out.”

“What, you didn’t tell him?”

“Nah. He’ll ask if he cares. He’s always pretty wrapped up at work this time of year.”

“What—what does he do?” Martin asked.

“He’s a professor at the University here in Kent.”

“Oh. In Canterbury.”

“Yeah.” Elias, who had been holding his coffee cup quite comfortably between his hands until this point, set it down on the side table. “Actually, to be completely honest—I mean, he is very wrapped up, he just gets that way—but I wasn’t sure I wanted to involve him in all this. You don’t—you don’t happen to know if Allan was all right there? In the—other dimension?”

Martin opened his mouth before he knew what he was going to say, and then turned to Jon. It was clear neither of them had expected this question, and Martin felt both guilty and grateful when Jon took the responsibility for answering it.

“He—no. He was not all right. He died. A long time ago, before you did. Did you—want to know about it?”

Elias sighed. “I just—had this feeling, I guess. I don’t know. Will it help if I know? Help him, I mean?”

“I have no idea,” Jon said.

“Huh.” Elias leaned forward in his armchair and clasped his hands together, contemplating, and then turned to Martin. “Would you want to know, if you were me?”

Martin shook his head, holding up his hands in front of him. “Oh, if Jon doesn’t know if it will help, I definitely don’t. I—”

“I know. But what—what would you do?”

“I guess—” Martin looked at Jon, who shrugged. “I’m not saying it’s right, and honestly, I’m probably the worst person to ask, but—yeah, I’d want to know.”

“Ok,” Elias said, sitting back against the chair. “Tell me.”

“He was… consumed. By a—through—a Leitner.”

“A Leitner?” Elias was confused. “Like—Jurgen Leitner?”

“That’s what we called his books,” Martin explained. “The books from his collection.”

“The collection in the archives right now,” Elias asked.

“Yes.”

“And Allan was—consumed—by a book.”

“Well, they were different there—” Martin started to say, but he was cut off by a burst of laughter from Elias.

“Of course he was.” He continued to laugh, but his laughter became more strained. “That would be exactly how Allan would go in a world full of monsters.” He leaned forward, and the laughter came to a gradual stop as he rested his head in his hands, elbows supported by his knees.

“I’m—I’m sorry,” Martin said, knowing exactly how little it helped.

“No, no—it’s—it makes perfect sense. It just—does,” Elias said, before finally raising his head. “So, what do you think—I keep him away from the Leitner collection? That’s easy enough. He’s never been to the Institute in his life.”

Martin and Jon met each other’s eyes again.

“It’s never—it’s never simple,” Jon said slowly. “I don’t know if it means anything, but it was a long time ago. Certainly the entities had an interest in you there that they didn’t here—that they don’t. That can’t—that can’t be a bad thing. For you or Allan.”

“I’m sorry,” Elias said, sitting up again. He sighed, reached for his coffee, and resumed holding the mug with both hands. Martin realized it was the way a person holds a hot drink when trying to warm their fingers, even though there was no way it could be that hot anymore.

“No need to apologize,” Martin said. “It’s—it’s a lot.”

“Tell me—tell me about Jonah Magnus. And me. I want to hear it from you.”

Jon took a long sip of tea; Martin was glad he had made it for him. “You already know the basic story. What do you want to know about it?”

“Well, ok. Why me? Why did he choose me?”

“I suppose… I suppose you did have a certain profile. You had the right social status to run the Institute. Your—experience with Allan may have primed you in some way. And—” he stopped.

“What?”

“There was no one watching you. Well, no one who—”

“No one who cared.”

“No. No one who—who would—object too strongly if you changed. Slowly. Dedicated yourself to the Institute. Became Jonah.”

“I see.” Elias turned his cup in his hands.

“On the other hand—you weren’t the only one he could have chosen. Not at all. In a very real sense, you were just unlucky. In the wrong place.”

“Sure.” He continued to focus on his cup. “Was it—was it fast, at least? For me?”

Jon sighed. “No. No, it was—long. And slow. And—terrifying.”

Martin shuddered just a little at Jon’s words; he wondered if Jon hadn’t taken it a bit far, but Elias stayed perfectly calm.

“I see,” Elias said again. “Do you think—I know you said I was in the wrong place, but—is it possible that—maybe that’s not true? Maybe that was—my purpose?”

“Your—purpose?” Jon looked directly at Elias. “What—”

“I just think—I never understood why I went to the Institute in the first place. I mean—I kind of did, I thought I’d take a low-level research job, waste some time, do something that would have pissed off my father a bit—but I never really understood why. Not really. And I ended up doing everything he wanted anyway.”

“Well—I’m only guessing, but I think there must have been some sort of pull between the two dimensions, and maybe—”

“And maybe my real reason for existing was there, in that other dimension, to be—that. Some sort of useless, waiting husk that Jonah Magnus could crawl into and—”

“No,” Martin interrupted him. “That’s not—”

“But it makes sense. Just like Allan being eaten by a book. It would explain some things—why I couldn’t just walk away from all this. It would explain why I could never find anything else to go to. If that was why I exist, and it was finished years ago—”

“Jon, please—”

“No.” Jon’s face was pale, and there was an edge of controlled anger in his voice. “That’s not a thing. It is no one’s purpose to serve them. No one exists specifically to suffer and—”

They were interrupted by the sound of voices drifting through the foyer from the hallway; a moment later, the remaining houseguests appeared.

“Morning, everyone.” Sasha seemed very refreshed compared to the previous night; Melanie and Georgie, standing behind her and talking quietly to each other, seemed maybe slightly less refreshed. When no one responded, Sasha’s cheeriness faded slightly. “Is—is everything ok?”

Elias took a deep breath and sat up; smiling, he set his now-empty coffee cup down on the side table. “Everything’s fine. We’re fine.”

Georgie yawned, having missed the nuances of the exchange. “Well—we were wondering—had anyone thought about breakfast yet?”

“Yes and no,” Elias said, standing up. “I thought about the fact that I hadn’t thought about it until this morning. I have some stuff here if anyone’s starving, but we’re going to need to go out before too long. There are a few small places nearby, but I’m thinking we’re better off going to the Sainsbury’s in town and stocking up. I can—”

“Georgie and I can do that,” Melanie said. “You’re letting us stay here, we can at least pitch in and help out with food.”

In the end, Melanie, Georgie, and Sasha all ended up leaving for the store, with plans to bring back several days’ worth of food. After they left, Elias, façade crumpling, turned back toward Jon and Martin.

“I’m sorry for—that. Before they came in. It’s very easy for me to think too much.”

Martin waited to see if Jon would say something, but he seemed very lost in his own thoughts.

“It’s—it’s all right.” He was, again, very aware of how little these words helped.

“I hope you don’t mind if I take a moment.”

“No. Not at all.”

“Help yourself to—whatever. Anything.”

“All right. Um—thanks.”

Elias stuffed both hands into his pockets as he walked out of the room, back toward the direction of his bedroom. He left his empty coffee cup sitting on the side table next to Jon, who remained sullen and withdrawn. If Martin could have easily reached over to touch his arm, physically remind Jon of his presence without disrupting his thoughts too much, he would have, but the couch was too far away from the chair.

He was pretty sure Jon knew he was there, regardless.

He turned back to his cup of tea. It had gone quite cold by now, but he drank it anyway.

Chapter Text

The rest of the first full day ay Elias’s house passed in relative isolation; Martin had a feeling it wasn’t unintentional that Melanie, Georgie, and Sasha spent so long away from the house when they went to the store. Jon seemed intent on mulling over whatever thoughts their talk with Elias had put in his head that morning; Martin tried to break him out of with conversation a couple of times, but ultimately he felt like more of an annoyance than a help. He went back to their room and scrolled through social media until his brain couldn’t process posts anymore. When everyone came home from the store, he helped put the groceries away, but he couldn’t come up with much to say even when Sasha pulled him aside to ask him how he was. All right was the only thing he managed.

When it got late enough that he realized everyone was not likely to be eating dinner together, he made a sandwich for Jon and brought it to him in the great room. They were alone; he leaned over to set it on the table next to the armchair.

“Hey,” he said, lightly kissing the top of Jon’s head.

“Hm?” Jon looked up, and Martin redirected his attention to the sandwich. “Oh—thank you.”

“Take a bite, while I'm here.”

Jon did as Martin asked, still too distracted by his thoughts to make a fuss. “Did you eat already?”

“No,” Martin shook his head. “I’ll have something later. When I’m hungry.”

Jon gave him a look that Martin now understood well, but he simply squeezed Jon’s shoulder as he turned to leave.

“Wait, Martin—are you—” Jon grabbed his hand before it slid away. “I’m sorry. That I’ve been like this.”

“I get it,” Martin said, as reassuringly as he could. “I know this isn’t easy for you.”

“That isn’t the—” Jon sighed and let Martin’s hand drop, along with his thought. “What are you doing?”

Martin answered the question more generally than he knew Jon had intended it. “Waiting.”

“I think we all are,” Jon said. “But I was actually asking—”

“I know. And I don’t know what I’m doing. I was just going to head back to the bedroom, I guess.”

“All right. I’ll—I’ll be in before too long.”

Martin lay awake for a long time that night, even after Jon had fallen asleep.

***

When he woke in the morning, Jon was propped up on an elbow and looking at him.

“What’s going on?” Martin asked, slightly alarmed, trying to shake off the sleep.

“Nothing,” Jon said.

“Try again.”

“I just meant—nothing new.”

“Oh.” His eyes drifted closed, and he promised himself he wouldn’t let them stay that way very long. He felt Jon’s hand brush his cheek and travel gently up to his hairline; the feeling roused something in him.

“Wait,” he said. “Was I dreaming?” He had the vague impression he had been, although he couldn’t really remember it. He’d been looking for something, maybe. Trying to get somewhere, or find someone. Maybe someone had been lost. It was the kind of dream that made you feel like you hadn’t slept at all, and the more he tried to remember the more disquieted he felt.

“You were,” Jon said.

“But—wait, it wasn’t—”

“No,” Jon shook his head, pulling his hand back. “It was your dream.”

“Oh.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine.” They both knew it wasn’t fine, but there wasn’t anything to be done about it. Martin closed his eyes one more time, but his mind wandered as he felt Jon breathing next to him, and he opened them again sharply. He couldn’t believe he hadn’t thought about this before.

“Jon?”

“Hm?”

“Do you—you need the statements, right? You need to read them?”

“I—more or less.”

“So yes, then.”

Jon nodded reluctantly. “Yes.”

“And? How are you—doing that?”

“I brought a few with me when we left the archives.”

He sat up, prompting Jon to do the same. “I thought you were basically out of statements. I mean, they don’t really go back that far here.”

“There were—well, there were a few I’d just—skimmed before. I’m sure if I give them a proper read—”

“Jon.”

“I’m doing fine.”

“But what about when you’re not?”

Jon didn’t answer him.

“Jon.”

“Stop doing that.”

“Oh come on, you Martin me all the time.”

Silence fell between them again.

“Ok—what if—” Martin had to try several times to give voice to his thought. “If you need it—really need it—could you ask me to give you a—statement?”

To be fair, he hated the idea himself, and the pit he felt in his stomach was firmly reflected in Jon’s reply. “No.”

“Why not? You basically just asked Basira for one. I’ve given you one before. A few, depending on how you count. It—it wasn’t that bad.”

He ignored the part about Basira. “Absolutely not. That was—that was before. I don’t—I don’t even know that you can really give me a statement at this point.”

Jon was still a terrible liar.

“Look it’s—it’s not like I want to do it, ok? I really don’t. I just meant—what if you get really sick?”

“Then I get sick.”

“Jon—”

“It is not an option.”

“Look, I get that you don’t want—but we’re doing this together, and we need to weigh both—”

“No.” Jon slipped to the edge of the bed and was standing before Martin realized he was getting up.

“No what? We’re not doing this together?”

“Not that.” Jon pulled on the pants he’d worn yesterday, and grabbed a fresh shirt from the drawer he’d thrown them in.

“Oh,” Martin said, watching Jon head toward the bedroom door. “Good to know.”

Jon began to open the door, but then closed it. He did not turn to face Martin. “I realize that—” He stopped again.

“Go,” Martin said. He wished he was saying it for Jon—offering Jon time to gather his thoughts—but he knew he wasn’t. He knew was saying it out of hurt. Worse, Jon knew that was why he was saying it; he had to know. Either way, though, he supposed it achieved the same end.

After Jon left, he took a quick shower; Jon was not back when he was done, nor had he expected him to be. He got dressed and headed toward the kitchen. No one was in the hall or in the great room; Jon had probably gone for a walk, and it was just as well. He rummaged through a couple of cabinets and triumphantly emerged with a kettle. It wasn’t even electric, it was the kind that you set on the stove, and that was perfectly all right with Martin. It will boil water properly, he thought.

He had no intention of repeating the previous day; despite how big the house was, he had already started feeling claustrophobic. After his tea was ready, he left through the back door in the great room, walking across the relatively modest back porch to stepping down to the back lawn. Like the side lawn, it was expansive; unlike the side lawn, there were more than a few trees dotting the view. In fact, as Martin walked down and out on a dirt path cut into the lawn, he realized there was what amounted to a pretty legitimate wood behind the house. Not far in there was a small creek—so small that the little bridge passing over it seemed ridiculous and unnecessary—but it was scenic, nonetheless. A wooden bench, upkept with enough frequency that it remained sturdy if not pristine, stood nearby.

I would have liked this, Martin thought, as he sat down on the bench. I would have written poems about this.

Spring was finally in effect. The trees weren’t green yet, but they were starting to sprout small leaves; a few had tiny buds with hints of pink and white protruding from their smaller twigs and branches. It wasn’t exactly warm outside, but it was comfortable as the light shown through the trees in a mottled pattern on the leaf-covered ground. He sipped his tea and watched how the sun hit the water in the little creek. In some parts it shone straight to the bottom, and he could see small rocks and pebbles and silt; in others, it seemed to dance as it reflected off the top of the water.

It helped, to sit and breathe. After a while, he started to notice birds chirping in the trees, and the sounds of small animals—probably squirrels—rustling in the leaves. It reminded him how when he and Jon had come here, the first sign that they were really somewhere, that there were things that mattered here, had been the sound of birds chirping.

He was glad they were here, he realized. He was glad they were here because they were alive—or more accurately, because Jon was alive, and Martin was with him. They were together. That was what Jon had given him when he’d told him how to end it, and despite himself and everything they had brought with them, he was still grateful for it. He couldn’t help it. He didn’t let himself think about it much further than that; he had a feeling there would be plenty of time for that when they all finally started talking. He could decide then what he’d be willing to do again, what he regretted. There would be plenty of time for regrets. It’s not like having a plan had really helped before. Jon had done what he had done; likewise, Martin had done what he had done.

At least now they knew what mattered to them.

He wasn’t sure if he dozed off or just got lost in his thoughts and the woods, but when he finally checked his phone he was taken back by how late it was. He’d come out mid-morning, and it was already mid-afternoon. He hadn’t meant to stay away for that long—what if Jon was—well, no, Jon could pretty much figure out where he was, and he supposed technically any of the rest of them could message him, but it just didn’t sit well with him that he’d stayed out there for so long.

When he got back in, he found Jon alone, on the sofa in front of the fireplace; like the day before, it seemed no one was particularly eager to tackle the big conversations yet. Martin was glad, for several reasons.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hey.”

“Mind if I join you?”

“If you’d like,” Jon answered, not looking at Martin.

Martin took him at his word and sat down next to him. The sofa was wider than he was used to, and he felt like he was just a little bit too far away; he moved closer to Jon, and awkwardly ended up straddling two cushions.

“I didn’t mean to push so hard this morning,” he said. “I’m not saying it’s settled, but—”

“Wait,” Jon said. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“No, I mean wait. I’ve been thinking of the words to explain.”

“You don’t have to.”

“Martin—”

“Ok. I’m listening. Take your time. Just didn’t want to push again.”

“I—” Jon paused. “It’s difficult.”

Martin started to tell him it was ok, but changed his mind. Instead, he reached for Jon’s hand. Jon looked down as he did, watched their fingers intertwine, and seemed to find the words—some words, anyway.

“I—like—the statements. Or I don’t, actually, but—I do. Does that—do you understand?”

“Not totally,” Martin said honestly. “But I guess I really can’t. I’ve seen how they affect you, though. I know they help. I know you feel better after you read them. You—like feeling people's fear. But I mean, I know you don't, too.”

“Do you know how I felt after we spoke with Elias yesterday?”

“I—you seemed upset.”

“I was. What he was saying was terrible, and wrong. But also there was that part of me that felt—it felt—”

Martin hadn’t realized that. “Jon—you don’t have to say. Please. I—I get it.” It’s not your fault, he wanted to add, but he stopped himself.

Jon nodded and cleared his throat. “I never want to feel—I never want to feel that because of you. And if I don’t—if we don’t—I can still tell myself I wouldn’t. I can tell myself that it’s not so bad. That I’m not so bad. That I can still be—”

Jon’s next words caught, and Martin automatically wrapped his arms around him, the gesture made clumsy by the empty mug he was still holding. “It’s—it’s all right. You still—you heard him, you know—ok, this isn’t about that, really, but—I’m sorry. This isn’t helping. Let me—” Flustered, he somehow managed to set his mug down on the coffee table without entirely letting go; he turned his head to kiss Jon’s mouth, then kissed him again.

“I’m all right,” Jon said. He did not look all right to Martin.

“If I—if I got you some tea, would that—would you like it?”

“I—yes.”

Martin stood up, grabbed his mug to bring back to the kitchen, and then bent down to kiss Jon one more time. “Wait, did you—were you done? I don’t want to—”

“Martin, tea. Please.”

“Ok. All right.” The coffee machine that didn’t really boil water would have to do; in his heart, Martin knew Jon couldn’t really tell the difference anyway. It was the fastest cup of tea he’d made in a while. The supply of coffee cups that had been on the counter had dwindled, and Martin simply rinsed out the one he’d used rather than go searching for a clean one. It wasn’t like that had never happened at home.

As he walked back through the breakfast room, he heard a voice that wasn’t Jon’s, and based on volume alone he was pretty sure they weren’t happy. Just before he turned the corner, he realized who it was.

“—and here’s Martin with the tea,” Tim said. “Are you all on holiday? Having a nice time out in the country? Where is everyone?”

“Tim?” Sasha, who must have been in her room, had also heard Tim and spared Martin from having to answer him. “You didn’t tell me you were coming out today. I could have warned everyone.”

“What is going on? I thought you’d be at least halfway to figuring this out by now, and here everyone’s hiding. What are you all even doing?”

“Coping, Tim. Adjusting to the situation. Which is exactly what you’ve been doing, if you don’t mind me pointing it out. Welcome, by the way.”

Tim took a deep breath, looking as if he were going to resume at full rant volume, but then let it out again. “Ok, fine. That’s fair. But I’m here now. Get everyone. Come on.”

“Tim—”

“Look, is there a reason not to?”

Sasha sighed. “Fine. Hold on. I’ll go get Melanie and Georgie.”

Tim dropped the oversize bag he was carrying right where he was, and walked back in the direction of Elias’s room. “You two—stay.”

“Where would—” Martin was pretty sure Tim wasn’t listening, since he was already shouting Elias’s name in the hallway. He turned to Jon and pressed the mug into his hands. “Here. Sorry, I was hoping—”

“It’s all right. This is—this is good.”

Within a couple of minutes, everyone had converged on the great room. They stood, ignoring the awkward furniture. Georgie and Melanie stood back from the group a little way, Georgie’s arm over Melanie’s shoulder; Elias, in a t-shirt and a pair of gym shorts, seemed much more relaxed than the last time Martin had seen him.

“All right, Tim. We’re all here.” Sasha crossed her arms and implied she was waiting for Tim to speak.

“Well—don’t look at me. What are we doing about this?” He turned to Jon and Martin.

“Tim.” Sasha’s voice was stern, but Martin realized Georgie and Melanie had also turned to look at them.

“Oh, come on. Don’t act like the rest of you don’t feel the same way. At least I’m being honest about it.”

Sasha snorted. “I don’t feel that way, Tim. I think I can honestly say—”

“Sasha,” Melanie interrupted. “Tim has a point.”

Sasha closed her mouth as she turned to face Melanie; Martin instinctively took a half step closer to Jon.

“I’m just saying—they brought this here. We didn’t have anything to do with it. And if they aren’t fixing it—”

“What Melanie is saying,” Georgie said, with a quick look at Melanie before she turned back to Jon, “is that the two of you are the most familiar with—this. And if you don’t have any suggestions to stop them—it’s not likely that the rest of us are going to come up with something on our own.”

Melanie frowned. “That’s not exactly what I was—”

“Melanie, please.” Georgie squeezed her arm, and Melanie stopped, although she didn’t look happy about it. “Jon, is there—is there a point to this?”

Jon took a breath before he answered. “I’m—I’m not sure there is.”

“A point?” Tim broke into the conversation again. “You all want a point? Ok, here it is. I just went to go visit my brother. I had every intention of telling him about this, right after I figured out how, and—you know what? I didn’t. I didn’t figure out how. And I’m not going to. I’m never going to tell him about this. We’re going to fix it. You want a point? Danny’s the point. And—and Sasha’s the point.”

Sasha face softened slightly as Tim gestured toward her. “Tim—”

“Jon, Martin’s the point. Surely you understand that.”

Martin started to protest. “Tim, you’re missing the—”

“I’m not missing anything. You are. You’ve given up. Both of you have given up. And at some level, I can understand that. You got beaten, really badly, and I’m sure it hurts. But I can’t give up. I am not going to give up as long as I have Danny—as long as we have Sasha. I understand that you’ve been through this, and maybe you want to be done. But we’re here too, and we haven’t had a chance. And I hate it, but Georgie’s right, we can’t do this without you. For better or worse, Jon is the only one with any real power in this situation. You can’t just sit back. Give us our chance.”

Martin did everything but literally jump in front of Jon. “Hey. No one is sitting back and—”

“Martin,” Jon said quietly, touching his arm.

Unable to silence himself, Martin turned to Jon instead. “He has no idea—”

“They deserve to feel like they’ve had a chance.”

Martin had more to say, much more—but he wasn’t prepared to say it in front of everyone. Tim seemed momentarily surprised, but quickly recovered. “Thank you.”

“Where do we start then?” Georgie asked.

“I have a proposal,” Sasha said. “I don’t know about the rest of you, but I could use an actual meal. So—I’ll go start putting something together, and maybe we can have an early dinner after everyone takes a break.”

Georgie nodded. “What are you going to make?”

“I—” Sasha sighed. “I have no idea.”

“That’s what I thought,” Georgie said. “I’ll help. Melanie, want to come sit in the kitchen?”

Melanie looked pained. “I—I guess?”

As the three of them headed in that direction, Elias, who had really only watched everyone else talk, started back toward his room.

“Nope,” said Tim, grabbing his arm in both hands and redirecting him. “We are headed outside for some fresh air.”

Elias shrugged. “You know, I don’t really remember my mother, but I imagine you—”

“Funny, boss,” Tim said. “Move it.”

Martin thought this was extremely strange, until the two of them passed by him. Martin wrinkled his nose after they were gone.

“That smell—was that—”

“Yes,” said Jon.

“Everyone always has to tell me, I can never—never mind. Jon, what—what was that?”

“Um—weed? I though that’s what—”

“No. Back there. I know you don’t think we can stop the fears.”

“Oh. I don’t.”

“So then why—”

“What Tim was asking isn’t unreasonable. I wanted a chance—even if all I learned from it was that there never was one. Of course they want theirs.”

“And ok, I’m glad you’re considering them. I mean, I kind of asked you to. I just don’t like—I don’t want that pressure on you.”

“Hm.”

“What?”

“You mean you don’t want them pushing me, because you’re afraid of how that will end.”

“It’s—” Martin swallowed. “It’s both, all right?”

Jon was quiet for a moment, then moved toward the couch. “Sit with me?”

“Yeah,” Martin said. “Yeah.”

***

They moved the chairs and the couch out of the way and spread out on the floor. Martin had to admit it was a better use of the space. Now that some of the tension in the group had been so forcefully broken, there was again a sort of comfort in the conversation, in the company, at least at first. It didn’t feel so empty and dark.

“So… I was thinking about where to start,” Sasha said, after everyone was settled. “And maybe—we should start with the options you talked about before—in that other place—for what to do. Talk about them together, so there’s no misunderstandings.”

“Ok, but it’s important to keep in mind that—that was different,” Jon said.

“How?”

“There was—there was an apocalypse.”

“What about before the apocalypse?” Georgie asked. “Did you ever think about destroying the entities then? Getting rid of them or whatever?”

“No. Not really.”

“That’s weird, honestly,” Melanie said. “I would think that would be the first thing you'd consider. Why not?”

“A lot of reasons, I suppose.” Jon considered. “Mostly, they were just the way it was. We were much more worried about the people and the—things they acted through. And once we really understood, we were simply trying to avoid an apocalypse.”

“Think about a bad storm,” Martin added. “You don’t stop the weather. You just try to make sure there aren’t any trees that are going to fall on your house.”

Jon turned to look at him.

“What?”

“That—that’s a good metaphor, actually.”

“Why does that always surprise you?”

“I—”

“So,” Melanie said, “one option is to deal with it and just try to avoid the worst.”

“Yeah,” said Martin.

“No,” said Tim. “Danny, Sasha, Elias—all of that—that all happened before the apocalypse.”

“And you,” Jon added, but Tim did not acknowledge it.

“But they didn’t know about the—entities,” Sasha pointed out. “We do. That could change things.”

“But some people knew about them. Jonah Magnus knew about them,” Tim said. “I don’t think knowing about them is points in favor of dealing with it.”

Georgie spoke up again. “Jon, you also said you tried to avoid the apocalypse—objectively the worst part, if we're trying to avoid the worst—and well, obviously it happened. So what about that? Could it be avoided this time?”

“I don’t know.”

“What do you think, though?”

“My belief is—no. No, I don’t believe it can be avoided.”

“But it could take a long time,” Martin said. “And people might—might figure something out that we don’t know now.”

“So you do think it could be avoided?” Georgie asked Martin.

“I, um—” he glanced at Jon, whose face did not change. “Maybe.”

“All right,” Sasha said, redirecting the conversation. “So option one, live with it and try for the best.”

“No,” Tim shook his head.

At least Tim and Jon can agree on that, Martin thought.

“It’s an option,” said Sasha. “We’re just laying out options. So after the apocalypse—that’s when you thought about destroying the fears themselves.”

“Destroying them?” Jon said. “No, not really. I don’t think that was ever a possibility.”

“Then—what?”

“There were, in essence, two options. Open the door to the other dimensions, let them go—or don’t.”

“We’ll come back the first one. If you hadn’t let them out—then what?”

“Then Jon became god,” Tim interjected.

“That isn’t fair,” Martin responded. “What you have to understand is—”

“Wait, I have been wondering about that,” Melanie said. “How exactly would that have worked?”

Jon replied before Martin could continue. “Well—first, to be clear, there was another choice. We could have let things go on. Just let the apocalypse continue as it was. That—seemed bad.”

“Ok.”

“Otherwise, I—we—could kill Jonah.” Martin’s stomach twisted in a way he hadn’t anticipated, and he set down his fork. “The Eye would then choose me as a replacement.”

“Because Jonah was in charge before that?” Melanie asked.

“In charge? No.” Martin thought he could hear a slight scoff in Jon’s voice, although he could have been imagining it. “It was never his place.”

“But it would have been yours?”

“Yes. More so, anyway. I—I couldn’t stop it, but I could have—changed it. Redirected the suffering.”

“So you would have actually been in charge of—torturing people. Choosing which people to torture?” Georgie frowned. “Forever?”

“Not forever. It would have ended eventually. Death is one of the fears.”

“Well, that’s messed up.” Melanie wiped at her mouth with a napkin. “If you were going to do that, it almost seems like it would have been a kindness to end it faster.”

Martin almost choked.

“Food goes down the other tube, Martin,” Tim said, unaware Martin hadn’t been eating.

“Right. Sorry.”

“Ok,” Sasha said, “so another option you considered was—taking over from Jonah. Making the apocalypse—better, I guess.”

“Is that what you heard?” Tim asked.

“In any case, that’s not something we need to consider,” said Sasha. “There’s no apocalypse.”

Martin’s chest tightened.

“So the last option—also after the apocalypse—was to let them out.”

“Right,” Jon said quietly.

“And ultimately, that’s what you chose.”

“Yes.”

“No,” Martin said. “It’s what the rest of us chose.”

“In the end, I chose it too.”

Silence fell over the group; Martin realized they were waiting for one of them to say more. He willed the tightness in his chest to dissipate.

“So the thing about that is—we didn’t really know. At the time, we’d only just learned there were other dimensions. And we still had no idea—what was in them. Or if there were other entities just like ours already out there, and maybe what we did didn’t matter so much. All we knew for certain was that we could end the apocalypse in our world. This—sending them here—we really didn’t know.”

Next to him, Jon remained silent.

“I’ve been thinking,” said Tim slowly, “and—given the options—if we could send them somewhere else again—that really doesn’t seem like the worst thing.”

“We’re not making any decisions right now, Tim.” Sasha was firm. “We’re just laying out options.”

“And if the options we are laying out are do nothing, Jon becomes god, or we get rid of them—getting rid of them seems reasonable. Why should we be the ones to live with them?”

“For one thing, as Jon said, this is a different situation. For another, we are not done with our options. There—there must be others. We're just starting with what they considered before.”

“Sasha, that—that’s hopeful,” Melanie said, choosing her words carefully. “But I’m kind of wondering if Tim isn’t right.”

“Melanie." Georgie sounded slightly reproachful. "Think about that, though. It’s not like they just disappear into the air. They—they go somewhere else. That’s how they got here.”

“But maybe they’d go somewhere—I don’t know, somewhere where they couldn’t really do any harm.”

“No.” Martin felt them all shift their attention to Jon when he spoke, but he continued to stare down at his plate. “They wouldn’t go somewhere next time. They would go everywhere. An infestation of fear, affecting thousands of worlds. I won’t allow that.”

“Now, how do you know that?” Tim asked.

“I just do.”

“Through your creepy monster powers?”

“Yes.”

“Let me guess which option you want, Jon,” Melanie said.

Martin jerked his head up. “You really don’t get it, do you? I mean, of course you don’t, but—”

“Stop.” Sasha dropped her fork onto her plate with a deliberate clang. “All of you. We’re taking a break. Eat your food.”

Martin looked back down at his plate; his whole body was tense. He felt Jon touch his arm.

“Eat,” Jon said softly. “Come on.” He broke off a piece of a roll on his own plate, and chewed and swallowed in demonstration. Something about watching Jon do it helped, and he was able to relax enough to get down a few mouthfuls of the dinner that seemed to have turned to cardboard. He had been hungry when they had sat down.

Ten minutes passed in silence, except for the clinking of forks and glasses; eventually plates were emptied, and Sasha cleared her throat.

“Are we all—ready? Does anyone need a longer break?”

No one answered.

“All right. Then—I want to ask something. To Jon and Martin.”

Martin looked at Sasha and then at Jon.

“Go ahead,” Jon said.

“I think—I know a few of us have been—what actually happened? At the end?”

“Yeah,” said Tim. “I have been wondering about that.”

“Tim—”

“I’m being nice.”

“Good. Stay that way.”

Jon looked at Martin, asking permission with his eyes. Martin steeled himself and nodded.

“We—those of us who had survived—we talked. And it was decided that we would let them go. Martin would kill Jonah, severing the primary link between our world and the fears; Georgie, Melanie, and Basira would blow up the gas main underneath the panopticon, destroying the tower and what remained of the archives. That would release their power, and allow the fears to access the—the gateway to the other dimensions.”

“But it didn’t quite go like that,” Tim stated.

“Correct. I changed my mind.”

“Why?” Tim asked.

“Because I couldn’t live with it. It wasn’t right.” Martin was grateful he left out the part about his nightmares.

“So you snuck up by yourself, stabbed Jonah and—took over.”

“Yes.”

“But then you changed your mind again. Why?”

“I hadn’t accounted for everything. I didn’t realize that they could blow the gas main without my—help. There was—there was—” Jon stopped. “I don’t remember how they did it, honestly.”

Martin could never quite remember that part either. All he remembered was that he had told them to go ahead and do it. “It was my fault.”

“It wasn’t your fault.”

“Ok—just—what happened?”

“I told them to do it,” Martin said, “and then I went up after him. I didn’t think he’d—I thought I could stop him. I thought—I thought we could still leave. But we couldn’t. He couldn’t. He was part of it.”

“So they blew it up, and you lost control?”

“No. I could have kept them there. I could have. I was strong enough. If—” Jon looked at Martin and stopped. “I just changed my mind. I let them go.”

Tim ignored the finality of Jon’s tone. “But why? How? And why was there so much blood? You said it was yours. Granted, you also said you didn’t kill anyone and you very much did—”

“He didn’t count,” Jon said disdainfully.

“Agreed, but that—that didn’t all come from Jonah. What happened?”

Jon sat back. “That is between me and Martin.”

“It’s ok,” Martin said. “You can—you can tell them. I just—I have to—I need another break.” He felt dizzy as he stood up; there wasn’t enough air.

“Martin?” Sasha started to get up too. “It’s all right, we don’t have to—”

“It’s fine. You should know why things are like this.”

He meant to go to their bedroom, he really did, but somehow he found himself in the hallway bathroom instead. Tears began to fall as soon as he closed the door; he sat on the toilet, the only real seat available.

“Jesus,” he said out loud to no one, as he wiped at his eyes with his sleeve, willing it to stop. For once he was glad that Jon knew how he felt; Jon would stay, and he would tell them.

You bastard. His own words. He understood now why Jon had done it, but it still hurt. Understanding didn’t undo the past and what he had felt then. The moment he had seen Elias’s body on the ground—the moments afterward as the realization had dawned on him—

You bastard. He still didn’t know how much of Jon had been left then, how much would be left again if it came down to it. Maybe less this time. Maybe none. How long could a person stand up to something like that?

You bastard. In his mind, he felt the pressure of a body giving way at the point of the knife, heard Jon gasp as it entered his chest. He was so tired of feeling it, so tired of hearing it, and it was always there—it was part of him now. He could ignore it sometimes, most of the time, even, but it was always there. It was always just below the surface, just waiting for a moment like this one. He would always know now what it felt like to take the life of a person, the person, who loved him. It was the only thing he had said he wouldn’t do, yet in the end it had been the only thing he could do.

It had just gone so wrong.

He breathed; he tried to breathe. Breathe in a square, he told himself. He didn’t know where he’d learned it—maybe the internet. Probably the internet. He breathed in, held it; breathed out; held it. In, hold; out, hold. Slowly, gradually, he was able to take full breaths. He almost had control again when there was a knock on the door.

“Hang—hang on,” he said. “Sorry, I should have—”

“Martin?” It was Melanie. “Can I—can I come in?”

“Um—”

“Please?”

“It’s unlocked.”

Melanie slipped in and closed the door behind her; she walked slowly to the edge of the tub and sat down. They looked at each other for a long moment.

“I’m so sorry,” she said.

“Don’t be.”

“I just—I didn’t know.”

“We didn’t tell.”

“But I should have known. I mean, not the details, but—of course it had to be terrible. I think maybe I didn’t want to think about it.”

“What do you mean? Think about what?”

“I think—I think it was easier to imagine that you were hiding things because—well, Georgie said Jon wasn’t like that, but—” She shook her head. “When it comes down to it, I just didn’t want to think about how bad it could be, how bad it could get. I wanted to think I’d already seen the worst. I can’t imagine if Georgie—god. I’m just so sorry.”

“Me too.” He went to take another deep breath, but this one hitched at the top.

“Wait—hang on. I’ll be right—just hang on.” Melanie slipped out again, but quickly reappeared, this time with a large ball of black and white fluff in her arms. “I know this might be a bit silly, but—I don’t know. He really helped me after I—I mean, it feels like nothing now, but at the time—”

“It wasn’t nothing. I mean, that’s kind of the thing. It’s all awful.” Martin watched as Melanie set the Admiral down on the bathroom floor. The cat was cautious for a moment; he sniffed at the edge of the tub where Melanie had resumed her seat, then at the cabinet under the sink. Then, with no warning at all, he plunged his face against Martin’s legs, running his whole body along them before turning around and doing it again.

Somehow, Martin smiled.

“See?”

“Yeah.” He reached out a hand, and the Admiral sniffed it before he began to rub his face against it furiously. “Is he—is he purring?”

“Yeah. He’s weird,” Melanie said. “It’s pretty great. I didn’t think I was a cat person before I moved in with Georgie, but—he’s changed my mind.”

“I can see that.” He dangled his fingers above the Admiral’s face, who swatted at them with a soft paw. “Is Jon—ok?”

“Oh, yeah. He’s fine. He had a moment, but—he was talking to Georgie when I came to look for you.”

“Good.” He pulled his hand back, and the Admiral quickly switched his attention to something in the corner of the room that Martin couldn’t see. “Listen—are they still—do you think I need to go back out?”

“Oh—no. Not if you don’t want to. I mean, they’re still talking, but I think everyone’s had enough of the serious issues for tonight. Even Tim.”

“I think—I think I might go to bed early. Do you mind excusing me to everyone?”

“Not at all,” Melanie said, gathering up the Admiral; he protested with a small squeak. “I think they’ll all understand.”

“Thanks, Melanie. Sorry for the trouble.”

“No trouble.” She opened the door, and they both stepped out into the hallway. “Goodnight, Martin.”

“Goodnight.”

He took one more deep breath, and headed back to their room. He was very, very tired.

Chapter Text

“Martin.”

Martin lay in the bed, bleary eyed. Despite how early it had been, he’d fallen asleep almost as soon as he’d laid down after his conversation with Melanie in the hallway bath; he hadn’t even gotten undressed, just crawled under the covers in his clothes. He stayed still, not sure if he’d actually heard Jon say his name or if he had imagined it.

“Martin,” Jon said again, and this time he knew it was real.

“Jon?”

“I need you to listen to me.”

“What are you doing? Why are you—” Jon sounded like he was somewhere near the bedroom door, and Martin couldn’t see a thing. “Turn on the light.” He started to sit up.

“Wait.” Martin froze. Jon had an edge of concern in his voice that made Martin much more nervous than if he were yelling. “Don’t—don’t move. Just listen.”

“Jon, what’s going on?”

“I—I’d rather not say just yet. It’s probably fine.”

“Oh, god damn it. Can you—can you at least—” He sputtered out. Arguing would make this take longer, and that didn’t seem like a good idea.

“You’ll—you’ll be fine. I’m being cautious. Will you trust me?”

“I—do I have a choice?”

Do I ever have a choice?, he thought, but didn’t say out loud.

Jon sighed. “Yes. If you need me to tell you, I will, but—yes.”

Oh. Martin hadn’t expected that answer, and somehow it made not knowing easier. “It’s fine. I trust you.” He knew it came out sulky, like a child agreeing to a chore, but that was the best he could do in the moment.

“All right. Move to my side of the bed, but—stay under the covers.”

“Jesus.” Martin slowly and cautiously did as Jon said, half expecting to make contact with something in the dark, or to feel a weight on the bed, but there was nothing.

“Now—put your feet on the floor. Try not to move the covers too much.”

He swung his feet around under the blankets, slipping them out until he was sitting on the edge of the bed. He kept his hands in the air, not wanting to touch the quilt.

“You’re doing—you’re doing great, Martin. Now stand up. Slowly.”

The drop in his blood pressure reminded him that he had just been woken from a deep sleep; despite standing slowly as Jon asked, he had to concentrate to make sure he stayed steady.

“Now walk toward me—normal, but—slow.”

Martin sighed.

“Please,” Jon said.

“All right, all right.” Martin walked slowly toward the doorway; his eyes were starting to adjust, and he could see the outline of Jon in the dim light from the hallway.

“Stop.” He was probably about five feet from Jon.

“Jon—what is—" Despite the darkness, he was pretty sure he would have been physically aware of anything between him and Jon at this point.

“One big step. One big step, and then—”

Only partially conscious that he was doing it, he looked down.

“Oh shit.” Although he couldn’t see the floor directly in front of him, the hallway light was just bright enough to see a thin, broken line that cut across the floor near the corner of the door frame.

That line was moving. Crawling, in fact.

“Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.” Martin cleared the remaining distance between himself and Jon in a single leap, heart suddenly pounding. “It’s spiders, isn’t it—shit, shit—”

“Martin, my—”

“Oh. God.” He hadn’t realized how hard he had grabbed for Jon, and he immediately loosened his grip; Jon, still facing the bedroom, continued to hold Martin. “Is that it? Just that? Or is it—”

“I think—I think that’s it. If she were going to do worse, I think she would have done it already.”

“That’s not actually all that comforting.” Martin took a moment to breathe in Jon’s arms and let his heart slow before he looked down at the floor again. Now that he was in the hallway and could see better, he realized the line of spiders was moving away from their room, not into it. He couldn’t help himself; he turned back to the room and flipped on the light.

“Oh.” There were at least a dozen crisscrossing lines of small black spiders moving back and forth across the room; they were on the floor, the walls, the bed. They were walking right over where Martin’s sleeping body had been lying until just now. After a moment he was able to trace their origin to a single spot, a corner of the room where the ceiling and the walls met. They appeared to be coming down from the room above them, although the crack they entered through must have been very tiny.

“Come on.” Jon put his arms around Martin’s waist again, gently pulling him back from the door. He hadn’t quite turned away when they heard a voice down the hall.

“Jon? Martin? Are you all right?” He looked to find Sasha in the hallway, with Georgie not far behind. “We heard shouting and thought we’d—Wait, what is that? Is that—ants?”

Martin noticed that as the line of spiders drew away from their door, they broke off in two directions—one line went into Sasha’s room, and the other went into Melanie and Georgie’s room.

“It’s spiders,” Jon said, in the same calm voice he’d used when waking Martin. “Get everyone else from the—”

“The Admiral,” Georgie said, panicked, and ran to the door of their bedroom. Martin started to shout at her to wait, but Jon put a hand on his chest.

“It’s all right.”

Georgie screamed from inside the room.

“Jon, she doesn’t sound—”

“Georgie?” Melanie burst into the hallway. “Geo—”

“He was eating them.” Georgie came back out, cat tucked under one arm while she brushed furiously at various parts of him with her available hand. “That’s disgusting.”

Martin exhaled, relieved.

“What is going on?” Melanie looked into the room Georgie had just left. “Oh my god. Spiders aren’t supposed to do that.”

“No,” Jon said, continuing to move Martin back toward everyone else. “No, they’re not.”

Elias and Tim had joined the group by the time Jon and Martin reached the middle of the hallway.

“What the hell.” Elias walked past Georgie and Melanie’s room, peering in as he did; he threw open Sasha’s door when he reached it and did the same. He looked back at everyone else as he reached Jon and Martin’s door. “That—that is weird, right?”

“Yes, that’s fucking weird,” Melanie answered. “Jon, this is—this is her, right? The woman that—”

“Annabelle.” He merely acknowledged her name, carefully lending no weight to it. “Yes. Well—I can only assume. She’s—she’s good at concealing herself, but—this seems like a clear message.”

“What’s the message? That she doesn’t like us?” Melanie asked, having turned to swipe at Georgie’s arms as she continued fussing with the Admiral. “Too bad. Let her show her face instead of this nonsense, and we’ll see how she likes us with my boot up her ass.”

Martin stifled an incredulous laugh; the thought was ridiculous. He was reminded that Melanie knew virtually nothing about Annabelle.

“What?” Melanie asked, annoyed. “Did you ever try it?”

“I—I can’t say that I did.”

“Hm. Maybe you should have.”

“Elias.” Everyone looked up when Jon said his name; Elias was walking toward the stairs that went up from the foyer.

“I’m going up to get rid of them.”

“Is that safe?” Sasha asked.

“Well—” Elias spoke more quietly this time. “Allan’s up there too, and since we haven't heard anything from him—I figured it was ok.”

“Yes,” Jon said. “It’s ok.”

“I’ll go with him,” Tim said. They watched as the two of them disappeared up the steps.

“Back to the sitting room then?” Sasha asked. “Until, um—that’s done?”

Martin walked slowly, letting everyone else go ahead so he could have a private moment with Jon. “They really don’t get it.”

“No.” Jon shook his head. “Are you surprised?”

“No,” Martin said, “and I’m glad they don’t. I’m just thinking—that means that message was for you. Us.”

“Yes.”

“Ok, so then—why? What is she telling us?”

Jon shrugged. “That she’s aware of what we’re doing. That she knows where we are, and that we haven’t accepted her—truce.”

“OK, but—” Martin swallowed. He still hadn’t bought into her offer, but Jon’s interpretation seemed otherwise valid. “Why didn’t she do worse? That was—that was almost nothing. From her, that was a joke.”

“I’m not sure she could do worse, actually. Not here. Not without me knowing, and possibly exposing herself. She’s likely still recovering.”

“So you think she’s letting us know that she’s still weak? Why would she do that?”

“Who knows. It’s not like it’s made her vulnerable.”

Martin frowned. “That’s not like her, Jon. She’s nothing if not deliberate—she’s always had a reason for everything. If that’s true—if that’s the best she can do, or even if she just wants us to think that—she’s let us know on purpose.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying—I still think she’s trying to push you.” He rushed ahead, trying to get the words out before Jon could tell him he was wrong. “If you know that she’s still getting stronger, that it will get worse, that might push you to act too soon and—”

“Martin,” Jon said, taking him by the hand. “If that is the case—if she’s pushing me—what would you have me do?”

“I’d have you wait,” Martin said. “Just wait. Don’t do what she wants. Whatever comes out of this—give it time.”

“Wait?” Jon repeated. “Give it time, while she gets stronger and murders all our friends? Or worse?”

“No.” Martin tried to sound confident, although he could feel his argument slipping. “No. We’d protect them. You’d protect them.”

“How?” Jon asked. “I can’t. Not after a certain point.”

“But—”

“Never mind. Let’s say we could protect them,” Jon continued. “What about everyone who isn’t them? Everyone she can already reach? Well, her and the Web and all the other fears. What about Carlos Vittery and Oliver Banks and—”

“Bad things happen,” Martin said. He knew now that he had lost, but he kept talking. “No, it’s not good. It’s wrong. It’s still terrible. But bad things happen even in a world with no entities, with nothing to live off the fear, with just—”

“Not these things.” Jon turned Martin’s hand over, enveloping it on both sides with his own. “These things—they’re my fault.”

Martin lowered his head. There it was—the conviction he could never shake.

“Martin, look. I don’t know that we have an option other than waiting. I have no intention of—of ending things, not right now. It doesn’t solve anything. It doesn’t stop anything. It doesn’t save our friends, not in the end. It doesn’t save you.” Jon traced the tendons on the back of Martin’s hand lightly with his fingers. “But I will never—never—let them out again. And when it comes to that—when it’s time to choose—”

Martin nodded, but did not look up again.

***

As it turned out, it was incredibly easy to destroy the spiders. Tim and Elias had discovered a massive nest in the room above the one Jon and Martin were staying in. Elias had grabbed a supply of insecticide from the attic and they had started to spray, prepared to run when spiders inevitably scattered, but that didn’t happen; they hadn’t diverged from their path at all. That was when Tim and Elias had realized the spiders weren’t just walking out of the nest, but also into it. They were coming back to the second-floor room from one of the bedrooms below, re-entering the nest, and waiting until they received some silent cue that it was time to leave again. The two of them had then stopped and watched as every single spider, without fail, returned to the nest to die in its turn.

“Fucking creepy,” Tim said, after he had recounted it, “but it did make things pretty easy.”

“So,” Sasha said, as they once again found themselves on the floor of the great room. “I take it no one wants to go to bed just yet.”

“Not anymore,” Melanie said. She leaned over Georgie’s shoulder to rub the Admiral’s ears as he sat contentedly in her lap.

“Martin, are you ok?” Sasha asked. His face reddened as everyone turned to him.

“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I think so.” He’d almost forgotten about the way he’d left the group earlier that evening.

“Do you mind if I ask some more questions, since we’re here?”

“We’re fine,” Jon said, and she redirected her attention to him. Martin was grateful.

“All right. Let’s start with Annabelle. She came here from the other dimension, right?”

“Yes.”

“And so did you—part of you, and Martin, also.”

“Yes. That’s—yes.” Close enough.

“And that’s it? Other than the entities?”

“Yes. I—I believe so. Well, also the—the body.”

“Right. Do you know how that all worked?”

Martin recognized Jon’s expression; it was the one he made while trying to simplify something complicated that already made complete sense to him. “We were connected to them—the entities—us to the Eye, Annabelle to the Web—in such a way that when they were expelled, we were too. Or really, they were expelled, we were dragged along with them.”

“Just the three of you were connected like that?”

“Yes. Our connections were—very strong.”

Sasha nodded. “What about the dimensions themselves? What do you know about them?”

“Not much. I only—saw them, for lack of a better word—for a moment. Or—the equivalent of a moment. Time doesn’t really—never mind. It was—it was a lot. Even for the Eye.”

“So there were very many of them. Dimensions, I mean.”

“Yes. More than I can attempt to describe. Infinite doesn’t—it’s too simple.”

“Are they all like this one? With versions of us, I mean, and—”

“No.” Jon clearly found the idea absurd. “Well—some of them are. But so many more are—different. I think. Different people. And—not people. And then—”

“You know who loves this shit?” Elias sat back on his hands, oblivious to his interruption.

“Um—who?” Sasha asked, after realizing he was waiting for a guess.

“Allan. Allan loves this. He can talk about it all day.”

“Talk about what exactly?”

“You know, alternate universes, wormholes, interdimensional travel—I mean, this is pretty much his thing.”

“Oh my god.” Tim smacked his own forehead with an open palm. “Go get him.”

“Right now?” Elias grew hesitant. “It’s pretty late. Maybe we could—”

“We both know what kind of hours he keeps, and anyway, his light was on when we were upstairs. He’s awake. Just—go get him.”

Elias looked at Jon, who shrugged. “It’s entirely up to you,” Jon said.

Elias hesitated a little longer, then stood up. “All right. Ok.” He disappeared up the stairs.

Sasha turned to Tim. “Care to explain?”

“Allan’s a physics professor. Theoretical physics. And he’s brilliant, and he does love this shit. I mean, he doesn’t really do it at work, it’s not the sort of thing that gets funding unless you’re Stephen Hawking, but—anyway, he’s obsessed with it. Manages to bring it up every time I’m around him. I can’t believe I didn’t think about it.”

“Oh. I suppose maybe he could tell us something helpful. That is, if he doesn’t think we’ve collectively gone mad.”

“Oh, he absolutely will, but he’ll pretend he doesn’t,” Tim reassured her.

Several minutes later, Allan was there. He fit a certain academic stereotype almost perfectly, at least in appearance; roughly the same age as Elias, he was completely grey, and had several days’ worth of beard growth that would have driven Martin crazy. Although barefoot, he was still dressed from the day in a pair of khakis and a rumpled polo shirt, and Martin suspected he might end up wearing them the next day as well if nothing interfered.

“Hello, everyone.” He stood outside the group, awkward but cheerful enough, given the time and circumstances.

Elias stood next to him and pointed out each of them in turn. “So this is Jon, Martin, Georgie, Melanie, Sasha, and—you know Tim.”

“Wonderful,” Allan said, following Elias’s lead in stepping carefully between Jon and Martin to join the semi-circle they had formed on the floor.

“So what has Elias told you?” Sasha asked.

“Not much, only that you are all engaged in a deep conversation regarding the nature of the universe itself, and I thought, it’s only 12:30 in the morning.” He smiled, but the expression quickly faded as he looked around again at the group. “I see we’re tackling the easy questions tonight.”

“Here’s the thing,” Sasha said. “We’re dealing with something that—well, frankly, isn’t all that believable, unless—unless you’ve experienced some part of it.”

“I’ll play along.”

Sasha took a few seconds to gather her thoughts. “All right, here goes. Several months ago, a number of very powerful entities from another dimension entered ours, and—they live off our fear. And Jon and Martin sort of—well—versions of them came here, too, and now they’re both of themselves, and they experienced all of this in that other dimension and—well, if we don’t find a solution, then—um—humanity is doomed.”

Allan looked around at the group again; he had a very different look on his face this time. “I’ll admit that’s not exactly what I was expecting—” He looked at Elias, who nodded slowly and then shrugged. “All right. Let’s start with these entities. Tell me about them.”

“Jon, you’re probably the best one to—”

“Yes, all right.” Jon cleared his throat. “Like Sasha said, they are extremely powerful. Just to give you an idea—some people in the other dimension thought of them as gods. They aren’t, of course, but—they aren’t exactly part of our reality, either.”

“So—they had their own dimension as well?”

“No. They were from our dimension—the other one. They were born there, and they co-evolved with us, I suppose. But not really with us, it was—it’s hard to describe. They weren’t—physical, maybe that’s the way to say it. Not in any sense I’m aware of.”

“Hmm.” Allan furrowed his brow. “I assume you mean you couldn’t see them, or touch them. In that case, how did you—well—know about them?”

“We didn’t, for a long time. Most people never did. They acted through things—people, animals, objects—and then, later, I—”

“Jon communicates with them,” Tim interjected.

“One of them,” Jon corrected him. “Insofar as they are separate. And—sort of.”

“Really?” Allan asked. “What’s that like?”

“It’s, um—” For a moment, Martin really understood what Jon had to accomplish when asked to explain things; he could not imagine any single way to sum up Jon’s relationship to the Eye. “Well, for one, I can—I can know things. Things I couldn’t know otherwise.”

“Really?”

“Ask him something,” Elias said.  

“All right. Is my research assistant going to show up in the morning?”

“Oh—well—that’s the future. I can’t know that because—well, I assume because it hasn’t happened, and therefore doesn’t actually exist. But”—he thought for a moment— "she didn’t show up today. In fact, the last time she came in was Monday.”

“Ok. From the past, then—what street did I grow up on?”

Jon paused, concentrating. “Technically there were several, but you’re thinking of Church Street. You stayed there a bit longer than the others, and it was the one you liked best. There was a park nearby where you learned to ride a bike.”

“And what was the name of our dog when we lived there?”

Jon concentrated again, a little longer this time. “There wasn’t one. But you had—rabbits. Hm.”

Martin decided to intervene, as he was pretty sure Jon would keep going until he hurt himself. “Ok, look, this does take a toll on him, and tonight’s already been hard enough.”

“I’m fine.” Jon looked at Allan, who was regarding him with renewed interest. “Anything else?”

“That’s more than enough. I’m—I’m quite impressed.”

“Oh,” Elias said, “also we found my body in the tunnels under the Institute the other day. Well, not my body, but—you know, my body from the other dimension.”

Allan looked at Elias with concern. “Ok, I’m—I’m not sure what to do with that, but—ok. We’ll come back to it. So these beings, they’re not from another dimension, and you can’t physically interact with them—not directly. But you—and maybe others—can interact with them, say, mentally, and they can influence the physical world.”

“Yes,” Jon said. “Yes, I think that’s fair.”

“What I’m getting at is that everything that makes up the universe—everything we are aware of—is classified as either matter or energy, and the two are equivalent in a sense. Well, there’s also evidence of dark matter and dark energy, but—never mind about that for now. And although there’s been no evidence of it, it isn’t impossible that there could exist some sort of life form that, rather than being made up of physical matter, is made primarily of energy.”

“Oh. That’s what a lot of people think ghosts are,” Melanie said.

Allan nodded. “Of course, there are some problems with the idea of energy beings. For one thing, energy, as we define it, is always associated with motion and change. Light, for example, which has no mass, transmits energy as a function of its momentum alone—but it must always be moving. Or we can define potential energy, which does not require momentum, but is always associated with a physical body. And for energy itself to be sentient in any way—well, it’s not clear how that would work. If there were sentient energy beings, they would be so different from us that it’s unlikely we would recognize them at all, except through the ways in which they interacted with the physical world. That sort of goes along with what you’ve said so far, as I think about it, but—tell me, when they left the other dimension and traveled here, was there any sort of medium involved? Some sort of physical matter?”

“Yes,” Martin said, surprised that he knew an answer. “The tape.”

“The tape?” Tim asked. “What tape? Like—sellotape?”

“No, like cassette tapes. The actual tape inside them. There was—”

“You didn’t mention that before.”

“Well look Tim, there was a lot to explain, ok? And that was—”

“It’s fine,” Tim said. “Go on.”

“I’m not sure I follow,” Allan said.

“Yes. Tape. Um, so—there was a crack, a gap, in our reality that led to the—the space between the dimensions, so to speak. That seems to have been a natural occurrence—”

“It’s possible,” Allan said.

“—but the tape, that was—that was something Annabelle did. The recordings on the tape were—relevant to the entities. It allowed them to bridge the gap without destroying themselves. It was—I honestly don’t know how she—”

“Annabelle put spiders in our upstairs guest room, by the way,” Elias said. “That’s why Tim and I were up there earlier.”

Again, Allan looked at Elias with concern. “You’ve been having a time of it, haven’t you?”

“Pretty much,” Elias said. “Sorry for not mentioning it sooner.”

“Quite all right,” Allan said. “This does explain some things. Just so long as you know you could have told me.” He looked at Elias a little longer before turning back to Jon. “Annabelle, she’s—one of them?”

“No, but she—she serves one of them.”

“So she is a physical being that they act through.”

“That’s—yes.”

“All right. So let’s see—this gap existed, the physical medium of the tape was placed there—how did they get to it?”

 “Well—I suppose—we destroyed their other physical means of attachment to our world, and they were forced out the only way they could go. Into the gap.”

“How did all of that happen, exactly?”

“Well—you have to understand, there was an apocalypse, things had shifted, time and space didn’t necessarily—” Jon sighed. “Gas main. We blew up a gas main.”

“Oh.” He now gave Jon the same look of concern he had given Elias earlier, and the conversation momentarily quieted.

“This is—this is good,” Sasha said. “I mean—it’s good to have another perspective on this. Thank you.”

“Well, quite honestly, I’m not sure what to make of it, but—” He stopped. “You all really believe this, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Sasha said. “And if you don’t mind humoring us a bit longer—well, the reason we’re all in your house, and perhaps this is obvious, but—given that we do believe these entities are here, we’d like them not to be here.”

“Understandable. It would be bad for us, wouldn’t it?”

“Yes. So let’s say that we were able to—push them back toward this gap again, somehow. Would there be a way to—direct them? Make them go somewhere specific?”

“Hm.” Allan rubbed his hand over the stubble on his face. “Without really knowing more about them, but assuming we’re on the right track—I’m guessing we’d need access to the tape. Think of the way a wire conducts electricity. If they are sentient in some way, maybe they could choose their path along it, but—”

“I see.” Sasha frowned. “Jon, is that—is that even a possibility? Getting to the tape?”

“No,” Jon said. “I don’t—I don’t think so. Not for us.”

“Right.” Sasha, who had been crossing her legs, moved to stick one of them out in front of her. She took a moment to flex her foot, and then straighten it again. “Ok, what about this? And please understand, I have no idea how any of this works and I’m only throwing out ideas—could we move everything else? Like us? And leave them here? I mean—Jon and Martin came here, and Annabelle came here, and—the body.”

“Maybe,” Allan said.

“What—really?”

“Well—assuming this is all true, then it’s already been proven that physical matter can be transported from one dimension to another, because—like you said, it’s been done. Of course, the situation would be reversed from what we were just talking about. If energy requires matter to move across dimensions, matter most likely requires energy. In fact, I’m certain it would. Moving across dimensions is not the same as moving across space, of course—but the principle would be the same.”

“How much energy?”

“I can only assume enormous amounts.”

“Like—I don’t know, a nuclear bomb?”

“Well, how much mass are you talking about?”

“Humanity. The world.”

“A nuclear bomb would be a mere drop in the bucket. It would barely register.”

“Hm.”

The group fell silent again. Martin didn’t really know how to feel about any of this; he imagined the others were feeling the same. Allan’s thoughts on all of it made sense, at least as far as he understood them. In the end, though, it didn’t really present any new options, did it? Messing with the tape was almost certainly impossible given that Jon, even when his power had been at its height, was lost within seconds of trying to know its path. And the way Allan had described the amount of energy required to move everything else and leave the entities behind—even if they had some idea of how to do it, that was just too much, right? Could that much energy even exist?

“I might have a way,” Jon said quietly.

It only took Martin a moment to understand what Jon was suggesting.

“No,” he said firmly. “No. Absolutely not.”

“What just happened?” Tim asked.

Neither of them responded.

“Please,” Sasha said. “If there’s something—obviously we need to consider anything very carefully, but—if there’s a possibility—any possibility—”

“I could start another apocalypse.” He met Martin’s eyes; Martin looked back at him in disbelief.

“Ok,” Sasha said. “I have to say, I’m not sure how that helps.”

“When I—started it, before—when I said the words, and they—” Martin could see how hard Jon was working to hold back the misery of it, to hide the guilt and the torment he’d carried with him since that day. Martin’s instinct was to reach for him, to stop him before he crumpled under the weight of it, but at the same time he wanted it all to come out. It wasn’t that he wanted Jon to hurt; it was that he wanted them to see it, to understand how stupid this was. He wanted Jon to break now, just a little, so he wouldn’t destroy himself later. “When they entered our world, in that moment, the sheer amount of power they brought with them—it was—”

Martin lost it. “And what, you’re going to control it? Jon, that’s insane. Even the idea is—”

“Jonah did,” Jon answered. “Jonah controlled it, before he—where do you think that ridiculous tower came from? Jonah Magnus, king of a ruined world. Do you think the Eye gave a shit about his ego? Jonah made that world, Martin. He laid out the domains, preserved his own place in them just so he could—”

“Jon—"

“—and if I take his place in the ritual and retain the role of the Archivist, I believe I could—”

“No. Don’t even say it. It is way, way too—”

“All right,” Sasha broke in. “Stop. I’m sure I’m not following all of this, but you are talking about deliberately starting an apocalypse and—somehow using it? I take it the apocalypse wouldn’t actually take place, then?”

Jon considered. “Well, it would, but everyone would be—somewhere else. If I succeeded, no one would ever know it happened. And the entities would be left here to burn themselves out.”

“And if it failed?”

“If I failed, then that would be it,” Jon said. “There would be no going back. The opportunity would only exist for a moment.”

“That does sound incredibly risky.” Martin was briefly relieved; surely that would be the end of it. “But on the other hand—”

“What?” Martin’s desperation tumbled out of him. “You can’t be serious. It’s too much. It’s too dangerous.”

“Just—listen, Martin. Please. No, actually—all of you, listen. We are making no decisions tonight. We don’t understand this well enough. But if this is even a possibility, I think we have to consider it. It’s the only option we’ve come up with so far that doesn’t end with spreading the fears or sacrificing literally everything in our world. Everyone else—what are your thoughts?”

Uncomfortable silence pervaded the group; Melanie was the first person to speak. “I don’t know. It sounds like a lot could go wrong. And don’t take this the wrong way, but—it puts an awful lot of— pressure on Jon.”

“Yeah,” Georgie said. “I agree. I’d want to be a little more certain about—well, a lot of things, but like— what does that even look like, moving everything to another dimension? I mean, given what happened with Martin and Jon—well, if we didn’t just blow ourselves up or something, we wouldn’t want to crash land on top of a world filled with our own doubles, for example. Or end up somewhere worse.”

“Yes,” Sasha said. “We’d need to know a lot more—as much as we can. Allan, is there—is there any way to—I don’t know, check on any of this?”

Allan looked like he had been run over. “Keeping in mind, of course, that this is all very—um—”

“Yes. We know.”

“—I’m willing to do what I can. It sounds like the place to start would be wherever this supposed gap is. Do you happen to—”

“Yes,” Jon answered. “Hilltop Road. In Oxford.”

“All right. I’ll go in the morning. I’ll cancel my classes for tomorrow. I’ll take anyone else with me who wants to go. We’ll stop by the university and pick up some equipment on the way out. Let’s say 8 am.”

“Thank you. That’s—that’s very helpful. Anyone else? Any thoughts?”

Elias shook his head.

“Tim?”

“Well, just that—” He looked around at everyone, then shook his head once. “Never mind. It will wait.”

“Fair enough. All right. I know tonight has been a lot for everyone. Too much, really. We should sleep. Is everyone comfortable going back to their rooms?”

There was another bout of silence, and again Melanie was the first to speak. “I am if Georgie is.”

“Why not,” Georgie said, standing as she carefully balanced the Admiral in her arms. “I sort of doubt this one would let us sleep through another midnight buffet. Ugh.”

“Jon? Martin? What about the two of you?”

Jon reached for Martin’s hand; he didn’t pull it away. “We’ll be all right.”

“Martin, I’m sorry for—”

Martin turned away, and Sasha let her apology drop off. He heard Jon say something quietly to her, then accepted Jon’s encouragement to get to his feet. Sasha would have to forgive him later. He could tell they were still talking, although their words had become indistinguishable to Martin. He could hear Tim’s voice; somewhere behind him, Allan and Elias were having an exchange.

“Come on.” Jon’s voice, close to him. Martin’s body ached as if from a low-grade fever as they walked. It was a relief when Jon shut the door of the bedroom behind them, turning off the light that had been left on earlier. They faced each other in the dark.

“Martin—"

“No.”

“I know how you feel about this.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I guess you do. It just doesn’t matter.”

“Please.” Jon reached for him; Martin allowed him to turn his head, but would not let his eyes follow even though neither of them could see. “What if this—”

“Don’t. Don’t you dare. Not you.”

“All right.” Jon kissed him. Martin responded simply because he needed it; he needed the comfort. He wanted Jon close to him, and always would. He was too exhausted to fight it.

“Can you sleep?” Jon asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Just lie with me, then?”

He nodded, his forehead pressing against Jon’s in the dark.

Jon held him, and Martin lay awake for a long time.

Chapter Text

Martin was still tired as they drew close to Hill Top Road the next morning. It wasn’t surprising; the best sleep he’d gotten, other than the first few hours he’d slept before the spiders, had been in Allan’s car on the way out. He’d slept completely through their stop in Canterbury, where Allan had picked up his lab equipment. He woke up with his head on Jon’s shoulder in the back seat of the car, just a few miles from their destination.

“Ow,” he said as he straightened up, his neck cracking.

“I told you you could stay home,” Jon said. “You barely slept.”

“Don’t.” Martin was cross as he rolled his neck, trying to work out the cramp, and Jon put a hand on his arm.

“Sorry,” he mumbled.

“It’s all right.”

That about doubled the number of words they’d said to each other that morning—and now they were here, back at Hill Top Road. From the street, the house appeared less foreboding than it had the last time; it seemed brighter, somehow, despite the cloudiness of the day. Maybe the owner had been back—or maybe the most recent occupant had left.

Martin waited for Tim to get out of the seat in front of him, then got out of the car himself. He hadn’t really spoken to Tim directly since he’d shown up yesterday, and wasn’t at all sure how Tim was feeling toward him. He was therefore both reassured and taken back when Tim put a hand on his shoulder on his way to the boot of the car.

I must be looking pretty good, he thought. They’re not even asking if I’m ok anymore.

It was just the four of them; Elias and the others had opted to stay together at the house. Jon had of course wanted to go, and that meant Martin went too; Tim had also made up his mind to go once he knew Jon was going. Martin watched as Allan opened the boot and began to pull out a number of padded carrying cases of different sizes, handing a few to Tim as he did.

“I know I fell asleep, sorry—what exactly are you—”

“We’re going to attempt to measure this—gap between the dimensions.” He handed Martin one final bag, and closed the boot as he did. “All of these instruments are designed to measure different types of energy.”

“They’re all from your lab?”

“Most of them,” Allan said, a small grin on his face; Tim shook his head.

“If I get in trouble for any of that—”

“I told you, no one will even know they’re missing. We’ll get it all back this afternoon.”

“So wait—this will show what, that the gap—exists?” Martin asked.

Allan shrugged. “Well—in all honesty, not really. If we get no unusual readings, that doesn’t mean it isn’t there. It could just mean we don’t know how to measure it. And if we do—it doesn’t really tell us why. It would just be—well, consistent with some combination of my ideas about the entities and dimensional travel, really.”

“Um—oh. Ok.”

Jon sighed, and Martin recognized it specifically as Jon’s impatient sigh. It was one he had heard a lot in the past, although not so much recently. He supposed from Jon’s perspective, it was kind of a waste of time to not really prove the existence of something he already knew was there. As far as Martin was concerned, though, they could take all the time they wanted.

As they approached the porch, Martin found his impression from the street had been correct. There were many fewer cobwebs on the porch than there had been the last time. The lock, however, was still broken when Jon tried the door, which suggested the owner had not been back.

“You think she’s gone?” he asked Jon.

“Yes.”

“Who?” Tim looked at them suspiciously.

“Annabelle,” Jon replied casually.

“Annabelle.” Tim halted at the top of the steps on the front porch. “She’s here? Was here?”

“Was. I would have said something if—" He trailed off as he saw the look on Tim’s face. “Yes, well, the point is she’s not here.”

“Sure,” Tim said, in a way that made it clear he was not at all sure, but he did follow the rest of them into the house.

“This way.” Jon led them back to the spot in the center of the house where the scarred floorboards resided.

He’s so confident. Martin remembered how different it had been the last time they were here. Jon had been so sick; he had been grasping at straws for any way to regain his connection to the Eye. Martin certainly hadn’t wanted that to happen, but he also hadn’t wanted him to be miserable. Now, though, Jon was pushing ahead, jumping in—he was eager, excited even. Given the circumstances, Martin didn’t like it much more than he had liked things the last time they were here.

“That’s it?” Allan said, staring down at the floor. “Not really what I was expecting.”

“Well—obviously it’s not the gap itself,” Jon explained with slight irritation, as if he were offended at Allan’s disappointment. “It’s a representation of it. Certainly someone would have reported it if it were a cavernous maw extending into the infinite reaches of—”

“Yes, all right,” Allan, unbothered, set down the equipment he was carrying and seated himself on the floor next to it. “Let’s see—Tim, bring those over here, please.”

“Yes, sir.” Tim set his bags down on the floor next to Allan and stepped back near Martin to observe.

“So I’m thinking—hmm—let’s just start with this.” He unpacked a small handheld meter and held it up for them to see. “This is a Geiger counter.”

Tim raised his eyebrows. “That’s for radiation, right?”

“Yes,” Allan replied, as he pressed a button and the instrument’s screen flickered to life. He looked up in their direction just long enough to catch the anxious look on Martin’s face.

“No need to worry,” Allan said cheerfully as he stood up. “I’ll be looking at this from several angles, and this is just somewhere to start. Don’t let the idea of radiation bother you. There’s some level of radiation around us all the time—background radiation, it’s completely—well, not harmless, exactly, but well within the bounds of what the human body can withstand. This particular instrument is sensitive enough that we should be able to see relatively minor deviations from what we’d expect.”

“Oh,” Martin said, not knowing what else to say.

“All right, here we go.” Allan held the instrument up in the air and pressed a button and waited while it emitted an uneven series of a few clicks, and then checked the screen. He repeated this several more times, then nodded.

“Well?” Tim asked.

“Oh, sorry. I haven’t really done anything yet, just measuring background levels. Nothing out of the ordinary, pretty much what you’d expect for this part of England. But now I’ll know what I’m comparing to when I measure—that.” He gave another unimpressed look at the jagged mark running over the floor before bending over it with the instrument in hand. He moved it close to the mark and repeated the same process of measurements—pressing a button and then waiting for the clicks, then repositioning it to another spot, pressing the button and waiting again. “Huh.”

“What?” Martin couldn’t read Allan’s expression at all.

“Nothing,” Allan said, shrugging as he stood straight again. “I was averaging in my head, of course, so I might not be quite right, but—it would be like taking your temperature and reading 37 degrees exactly.”

Martin was relieved, but Jon, standing apart from the rest of the group, did not seem to be feeling the same way.

“Well, let’s move on,” Allan said, returning to his equipment pile and choosing a new device. “Let’s try this one. It’s for—oh—electromagnetic fields, radio frequencies—it’s sort of a cheap piece of equipment, actually, not very precise—but it should give us a good general picture.” He squatted down next to the mark on the floor again, adjusted a dial on the instrument, and began to move it closer and further away. He adjusted the dial several times as he continued to move it around the floor.

“Still nothing,” he said after a few minutes, sitting back on his haunches.

“Then that’s not the right way to measure it,” Jon said.

“I said when we came in that was a strong possibility,” Allan said, but it was clear Jon didn’t like this turn of events. “I’ve got a few more things we can—"

“It’s here,” Jon said.

“Can’t you just know the right way to measure it, then?” Tim’s tone was sarcastic, but Jon paused.

“Well…” He concentrated for a moment, then shook his head. “No. Apparently I can’t.” His growing frustration was obvious.

“Hey.” Now that Martin was starting to feel a bit easier about everything, he felt a little bit bad for Jon. “That’s—that’s all right. That just means we’ll need more time to—”

Martin’s attempt at soothing him didn’t work. “But it’s right there. Damn it, I know it’s there. I can feel it, it’s like it’s just on the other side of—”

“Oh,” Allan said. Martin’s eyes jumped back to the instrument in his hand, still hovering just over the mark in the floor, and there was some kind of movement on the digital screen. A moment later, it had gone quiet again.

“What was that?” Tim asked.

“I don’t know.” Allan frowned. “It’s like there was a sudden—pulse of electrical activity. A lot of it.”

“Jon,” Tim said, looking over at him, “did you do something? While you were talking?”

“That couldn’t possibly—” Allan started to say, but Jon cut him off.

“Yes,” Jon said. “I—I don’t know, I was looking for the—well, really, the tape—it’s—”

“Oh,” Allan said again, as the numbers on the screen resumed their movement. He walked it intently over different parts of the floor, then moved it further away and then closer again. Martin couldn’t really follow the whole thing from where he was standing, but Allan’s body language was enough to concern him. “This—this doesn’t make sense. Even if—Jon, stop. Whatever you’re doing, stop.”

“All right.”

“Incredible,” Allan said after a moment had passed. “That really shouldn’t be possible. There’s no—” He stood and walked toward Jon, and extended the meter toward him. “Do it one more time.”

“Don’t—” Martin started.

“I’m all right,” Jon snapped, but then softened as Martin felt the slight sting of his tone. “I’m—I’ll be careful. I’m fine right now.”

Allan was concentrating hard as he looked at the screen. “What was—have you done it yet?”

“No, I was—”

“It’s just that—never mind. Do it again. If—if you’re ok.”

Jon nodded, and glanced briefly in Martin’s direction. “I’m ok.”

Martin watched as Allan moved the instrument around Jon for the next thirty seconds or so, again switching the dial several times.

“Well?” Tim asked, as Allan stepped away.

“I don’t know,” he said hoarsely. “Tim, can you—can you fetch the Geiger counter for me again?”

Tim did, and Allan stood back from Jon as he held it up into the air again. They heard the occasional irregular click as he did.

“So for now, don’t, um—just don’t,” he said as he stepped toward Jon. The frequency of the clicks began to increase as he moved the meter closer to his head, and Allan made a small sound in his throat as he flipped a switch on the instrument. “Let’s just—keep the sound off for right now.”

Martin could feel some of the blood drain from his face.

“Ok, now—know something,” Allan asked.

“What?” Jon said. “Sorry, it’s always difficult to think of—”

“Anything. Just not the—the gap. I want to see if—”

“Did I have coffee or tea this morning?” Tim asked.

Jon thought. “Coffee.”

“Stop,” Allan said. “Stop.” He took a step back, white faced, and looked at Jon as if he had just appeared there.

“What?”

“Can I ask—how long did you say you’ve been doing this?”

“Knowing things? Uh—a few years? I mean—not always like this, at first it was much harder, and—"

“A few years.” Allan turned the thought over. “Ok. I’m going to say this once—because I think you should know. I don’t see—I don’t see how you’re—well, alive.”

There were long seconds of silence before Jon answered.

“I’m fine.”

Martin exploded. “You are not fine.”

“I just meant in the sense that—”

“I know, and—”

“I am alive. That is the point.”

More long seconds ticked by.

“You heal though, right?” Tim said quietly. “Like—after you—like when I found you in front of the Institute.”

“Yes.” A look of sudden understanding passed across Jon’s face. “Yes, that’s right. That—that would make sense.”

“Would it?” Allan looked at Martin. “You, um—sorry to—you’re—well, you’re sharing a room, so—I imagine you’re—close?”

Martin wasn’t sure what Allan was getting at. “Um—”

“Yes. He heals too. Or, he has, in the past.” Oh, Martin thought, after he heard Jon’s answer.

Oh.

“Wait. Are you saying that being near Jon is—”

“I don’t know,” Allan said. “I really don’t know. This is entirely unprecedented. It really shouldn’t—” He started to say something else, but hesitated.

“What?” Jon asked.

“I—” he hesitated again. “I want to do more tests, but I’m not sure if it’s—well, entirely ethical.”

“To ask me to keep going, you mean.”

“Yes.”

“It’s fine.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

Allan looked at Martin.

“It’s not up to me,” Martin said.

Allan looked between Martin and Jon. “I’m, uh—I’m going to run out to the car for some extra equipment. Tim, come with me? I could use your help.”

“Sure,” Tim answered, and followed him out.

Martin waited a moment after they were gone, then said quietly, “I’m not sleeping away from you.”

“Martin.” Jon walked over to where he was standing and reached out to touch Martin’s hand. “Of course not. That’s ridiculous.”

“Good.” He had more to say, but he didn’t.

“Come on. That’s not what this is about. You don’t want me to do this.”

Martin sighed. “Fine. No, I don’t. I don’t want you to do any of this. Not just the tests, or whatever. Like—any of this.”

“I have to,” Jon said. “You know that.”

“Why do you think I didn’t say it? I can’t stop you. And I’d rather you not shut me out.”

“Martin, that—” He stopped himself, and squeezed Martin’s hand instead. “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah.”

Martin let his hand fall away as Allan and Tim returned; Allan had put on a long-sleeved lab coat, and was holding a pair of gloves and a mask. “Just a precaution,” he said. “If you want to go ahead.”

“Yes,” Jon said. “I do.”

Martin watched as Allan pulled out yet another meter from a different bag. “Martin—can you hand me that?” he asked, indicating the case Martin was still carrying. He’d forgotten about it.

“Oh. Sure.” Martin handed it to him and he began to unpack that as well.

“So—this is so I can record the readings,” he said, as he pulled some wires out and began to connect them to the new meter. “And this is—it uses a more powerful method of detection than the Geiger counter. It’s not as sensitive, but that’s, uh—well, that’s not going to be an issue.”

Martin suddenly realized how much he didn’t want to be there anymore.

“I’m going outside. I’ll just be out front.” Without waiting for anyone’s reaction, he made his way back to the front of the house. He stood on the porch, his arms folded and resting on the railing. He looked out over the lawn. The rest of the neighborhood, apart from this house, really was a suburb. It seemed nice enough; maybe not a great neighborhood, but not a bad one, certainly. It hadn’t really done anything to deserve this awful place.

He sat and watched the clouds roll overhead and wondered it if would rain. He tried not to think too much about what was going on inside the house, what they were doing and where it would lead. He had no idea how long he had been standing there when he became aware that he wasn’t alone.

“Hey,” Tim said, as Martin looked over at him.

“Hey,” Martin answered, then went back to looking up at the sky. “So—what’s going on in there?”

“I don’t know,” Tim said. “It's like some sort of weird playdate? It’s over my head. Allan keeps turning dials and saying things like incredible and amazing and then Jon—”

“Never mind,” Martin said. “Just—is he keeping himself together? Jon, I mean?”

“He seems to be.”

They looked out at the sky and lawn together.

“Martin,” Tim said eventually, “I know I said this before, but I want you to know I meant it. Jon is lucky to have you.”

“Hm.”

“Listen, I know—I know this has to be hard for you. Before we—before we make any decisions, I want you to know that—”

“Don’t,” Martin said coldly.

“All right.” Tim nodded and returned to looking back over the railing. “Do you want to be alone?”

No, Martin thought. I don’t ever want to be alone again. He wanted to scream it.

Instead, he just said, “Not particularly.”

“Good,” Tim said. “I don’t particularly want to go back in there.”

***

“So—wait,” Melanie said, looking at Allan over her half-empty dinner plate. “You’re saying you don’t really know anything at all, then?”

“Well, yes and no.” He was struggling to find words as they sat together in the great room again. “What I’m saying is—from a scientific perspective, which of course is why I’m here—there’s no way to know what any of this means. I’ve never heard of anything like this before. It’s completely unique, as far as I know.”

“So we can’t prove there’s a gap between dimensions, and we can’t prove the entities exist,” Sasha clarified.

“Correct,” Allan said. “I can’t even begin to suggest a mechanism for anything I saw today.”

“But you did see something today,” Melanie prodded.

“Well—yes,” Allan said. “That’s an understatement. We saw massive fluctuations of energy just—across almost the entire spectrum. And—again, I have no way to explain it or understand it, but—Jon does appear to be able to manipulate it, to some extent.”

“Well, that’s definitely something,” Melanie said. “You said you recorded your readings. Do you think you’ll learn anything else from going back through them?”

“Not—not in a way that could help us. It will take years to even begin to make any real sense of this. As—as a scientist. To be perfectly clear, I—I can’t vouch for any particular course of action. I have no way of verifying that there has ever been any travel across dimensions, or that—starting an apocalypse would provide the energy required to do it again, or—or that anything we discussed yesterday is even a possibility.”

“As a scientist,” Georgie repeated. “What about—as a person? What do you think?”

“I’m—I’m not sure that’s really what’s important here.”

“Yes, it is.” It was one of the few things Elias had said at all since they’d come home.

“I agree,” Sasha said. “I’d like to know what you think.”

“Well—personally”—he looked around at the group— “after what I’ve heard from all of you, and after talking with Elias last night—I believe Jon.”

It was quiet for a moment as the group absorbed this. Martin’s stomach, which had already rejected even the concept of any food he’d thought about putting in it that night, tightened painfully.

“Ok,” Georgie said slowly. “Well—for the sake of argument—Jon, do you really think you could do it? Could you—could you really move us to another dimension? In a way that—well, will actually help things?”

“I can do it,” Jon said, without hesitation.

“No,” Martin said.

The discomfort was tangible; Martin could tell nobody wanted to speak.

“Martin,” Sasha finally said, “why—why are you so against this?”

“I’ve already said. It’s too dangerous.”

“So you think he can’t do it? That it won’t work?”

Martin drew his hand down firmly over his mouth.

“Say what you have to say,” Jon urged him. Martin didn’t care for how calm he was. “They should hear it.”

Martin stared at him. “Ok, fine. Fine, I’ll say it. If you think you can do it—I’m sure you can. I’m just not sure you will. What if—what if this time—what if the Eye finally just takes you?”

“It won’t. It didn’t last time.”

“Didn’t it?”

“No. Not—not like that. I still—I still got to choose.”

“And we still don’t know what Annabelle’s been trying to get you to do.”

“She doesn’t matter.”

“Oh, really?”

“Do you believe me that I’ll never let them out of here? The entities? That’s what she wants.”

Martin paused; he knew his panic was coming across to everyone. “Yes. But that’s not—even if you don’t—look, if it fails, that’s it for us. We’re stuck in an apocalypse. This world is stuck in an apocalypse. You said that yourself.”

“And it’s still true. It is a risk. But I don’t think I’ll fail.”

“But what happens to you? What if—what if we lose you?”

Jon looked away.

“Jon?” Georgie prompted.

“It’s—it’s a possibility.”

“How much of a possibility?” Georgie asked.

“It’s—um—” Jon cleared his throat. “It’s not unlikely.”

“I see,” Sasha said.

“That matters, right?” Martin somehow managed to get the words out. “Tell me that matters to the rest of you.”

“Of course it matters,” Sasha said. “I didn’t—"

“No, it doesn’t,” Jon said.

“Jon—”

Several people began to talk at the same time, but it was Tim who won out.

“Listen,” he said. “Listen. I know—I know this is going to sound awful, but—I agree with Jon.”

“It does sound awful,” Sasha reprimanded him. “It sounds completely awful.”

“Just hear me out.” Tim spoke his words slowly and deliberately. “If I were Jon—if I could stop this—if I had this chance to—to save the people they haven’t hurt yet—I would. I wouldn’t hesitate. And I wouldn’t want anyone to stop me.”

“Yes, you would,” Jon said. “You did.”

“And—I know I’ve been angry—but this isn’t about that. It's not because I blame him. It's because he's the only one who can. I think—I think this should be Jon’s choice. That’s all.”

“Thank you, Tim.” Jon was still calm, controlled. Martin hated it.

Tim briefly met Martin’s eyes before looking down to the floor in front of him. “And I wouldn’t wait. I’d—I’d want to just do it. If we really can’t learn anything else, I say we do it soon. Tomorrow, if we can. Prevent as much further damage as possible.”

“I agree,” Jon said.

“No,” Martin said. “That’s insane. Are you insane?” He looked around at the group; none of them would look back at him. “Have you all lost your minds? Are you considering this?”

“I—I don’t know,” Sasha said, finally raising her face. “Are we?”

“Jesus Christ.” Martin got to his feet, not really sure where he was going; he was halfway there before he realized he was headed for the door to the back of the house. Behind him, he heard several people speaking, although he had no idea if they were talking to him; he couldn’t process it anymore. He couldn’t think at all until he felt the cool night air on his face. He stopped, heart pounding, and crumpled onto the porch against the back of the house. For the first time in his recent memory, he wanted to cry; of course, now he couldn’t make the tears come.

Behind him, he heard the door open and close.

“Go away.” He didn’t really care who it was.

“I’d rather not.” Beside him, Jon lowered himself onto the porch; for some reason, Martin had assumed it would be one of the others. He was surprised to find he felt slightly mollified. “We don’t have to talk. It’s just—I don’t have anywhere else I want to be right now.”

“Come off it. Go back in and keep explaining why you need to martyr yourself.”

“I’ve said what I need to say. It’s better if they talk without us.”

Martin sighed heavily. “They’re going to go for it, aren’t they?”

Jon didn’t answer him. Instead, he moved closer to Martin, leaning into him and resting his head on his shoulder. Hollow as he felt, Martin didn’t even think; his automatic response was to put his arm around Jon, pulling him in even closer. He pressed his lips to the top of Jon’s ear.

“We never had a chance, did we,” he said. “The two of us.”

“We still might.”

“You don’t really believe that.”

“I never believed we’d be here, either.” Jon said.

“That’s not very reassuring.”

Jon turned so that his back was against Martin’s chest, and Martin did what he always did; he slipped his hand up under the edge of Jon’s shirt, bringing it up to the scar on Jon’s ribcage. Instead of protesting or merely tolerating it, though, this time Jon brought his own hand to rest over Martin’s on the outside of his shirt.

“I loved you here too, you know,” Jon said quietly. “Before this, I mean. In this world.”

“Oh, I know,” Martin said.

“Well. Here I thought I was making a grand romantic confession, but—never mind, I guess.”

“No, it’s—I’m sorry.” He kissed Jon’s temple softly by way of apology. “Thank you. I just meant now that—now that we’ve been together, now that I know what you’re like when you—it’s sort of obvious, looking back. Plus, there was your pin.”

“My pin?”

“You know—when we had forgotten everything when we first—and you couldn’t remember your pin number on your laptop.”

“Oh,” Jon said, and even in the dark Martin saw a smile play across his lips. It had been too long since he had seen Jon smile. “Right. I used your birthday. That’s—is it odd that I feel embarrassed?”

“Frankly, yes.”

“Sasha just—she insisted I set it in front of her, and then she kept guessing them—”

“Because you kept typing 1234.”

“Well—yes, but—anyway, it just came into my head, and I knew no one would ever guess, because—because I was never going to tell anyone how I felt. Especially not you.”

“Yeah, well—I wasn’t going to either.” He held Jon tighter. “We’re a couple of idiots. You know that, right?”

“Yes.” Jon turned his face up and back, and Martin couldn’t help but kiss him.

“Martin,” Jon said, “I know—I know I’ll never change your mind.”

“If it were me, you would never go along with it. You would never let me—you didn’t, actually.”

“I—” Jon paused. “No. You’re right. I’m asking you to do something I couldn’t do.”

“Thank you.”

“I just—I want you to understand. I want you to hear me.” He paused.

“I’m listening.”

“Nothing will ever fix what I’ve done.”

“You didn’t do this. Jonah Magnus did this. The Web did this. The—never mind. Go on.”

“Nothing will ever undo it. Every day I think about—about Sasha. And Tim. And Daisy. The other ones, the ones who—and an entire world of human beings who suffered because of things I did. And then there’s everyone here in this world who—none of them should ever have—” Jon’s voice cracked. “But I can stop it. I can make it so it doesn’t get worse. Or at least—at least give it a real chance. And I have to try.”

“And you have to try tomorrow.”

“Tim was right, Martin. Every day that passes like this is—”

“Tim is just worried about Danny.”

“Is that wrong of him?”

“I—no. No, I guess not. My point is just that it’s not like he’s—it’s still completely selfish.”

“He’s not being any more selfish than you.”

“I know that.” His chest ached as he breathed in, and he sighed reflexively. Jon turned just enough to tuck his head against Martin’s collarbone, and he felt his chest loosen just a little. “Ok, but really—what about Annabelle? That’s not being selfish. We both know what she wants—but we have no idea how she’s trying to get it. And we’re probably walking into it.”

“Probably.”

“Well then, why—”

“Because I don’t intend to give it to her.”

“But that’s exactly the point, we don’t know how—”

“Do you really think that waiting will solve that? Even if she is trying to push me—do you really think that she won’t just—change tactics? Adapt?”

“I—I don’t know.”

“If we wait to—I don’t know, learn something, let something happen that she doesn’t want—do you really believe she won’t have some other plan?”

He hadn’t ever thought that far ahead, to what would happen after they waited, whatever that meant. He realized with a sinking heart that no, he didn’t really believe it.

“But then—why are we doing anything at all? Why are we even bothering? If we can’t ever do the right thing—”

“Because we have to try. I have to try. I just do. Doing nothing would be—and maybe—maybe we’ll get lucky.”

“Yeah. That—that’s our thing, for sure. Luck.”

Jon reached for Martin’s free hand, the one that wasn’t against his heart, and pulled it to his mouth; he kissed each knuckle in turn. “We haven’t been entirely unlucky.”

Martin was out of things to say. Once more, Jon had already won. Everyone in the room behind them was deciding to go ahead with this stupid plan. There was nothing he could do that was going to stop it.

Well—as he thought about it, he did have one more thing to say.

“Jon—I don’t—I don’t want to go into this like—like last time. So—just so you know—nothing’s changed. I’m going with you. Wherever that is.”

Jon held his breath for a moment before answering. “And if I can save you—"

“Then you’d better save both of us.”

“Martin—”

“No. You know what’s out there for me without you, and—I don’t want it. You can’t—" Jon turned suddenly in his arms, so that Martin’s hand slid from his ribs to his shoulder.

He kissed him.

“Jon—”

“Please.”

They were still kissing several minutes later when Jon abruptly sat up; he opened his mouth to say something, but then learned back in toward Martin.

“No,” Martin said, putting a hand up to Jon’s face. “You know something, don’t you? They decided and you know.”

Jon nodded, sliding his hand over Martin’s as he did. “Yes.”

“Ok.”

“They want to do it. Tomorrow.”

***

It was hours later; Martin didn’t know how long he had lain awake. He’d come back to the bedroom on his own at first; he’d stayed for some of the planning, listened to their excitement, their nerves, their arguing—but it had quickly gotten to the point where he couldn’t do it anymore. He knew where he would be anyway, and that was with Jon; he had nothing else to contribute. The looks he’d gotten when he’d stood up had been seared into his consciousness, a mixture of worry and pity.

“Martin,” Sasha called to him as he was leaving, “are you—”

“Yes,” he’d said.

He’d gone to brush his teeth before getting in bed. He didn’t know what possessed him, particularly, but when he saw his reflection in the mirror, he did something he hadn’t done in a long while. He removed his shirt to look at his own scars. They were still there; they were exactly the same as they had been on the day he’d first seen them, dark red to pale white, torn and jagged and alternately smooth.

He was tired, he’d realized. He wanted to sleep, of course, he was still exhausted from the night before—but it was more than that. This was all just enough. Maybe it was all right. Maybe he and Jon had already had more time than they were meant to. Maybe it was time to let it go. Just—just so long as he didn’t end up alone.

He’d gotten in bed. He’d almost fallen asleep before Jon had come in, but after Jon had undressed and slipped under the sheets next to him, the restlessness had begun. Each time Jon moved, or sighed, or breathed even a little bit out of rhythm, Martin’s brain nudged him awake again. And now, here he was, sleepless and empty.

He breathed out, trying to reset his mind.

“Martin.”

“Sorry.” He’d thought Jon had been asleep.

“What—no, don’t apologize, just—go to sleep. You need rest for tomorrow.”

“I can’t.”

There was silence, and for a moment, he thought Jon had drifted off again.

“Martin, I’m—I’m not leaving you. I won’t go without you. You need to sleep.”

“I—I know.” He was lying, and Jon knew he was lying.

“Martin, this isn’t—this isn’t like last time. For one thing, I’d—I’d have to steal a car to get back to London on my own. All right? Can you trust me?”

Martin swallowed; that was exactly the problem, he realized. “I want to. I just—”

“Ok. All right. You’re right, of course you—that's not fair for me to ask. I—hang on.” He saw the light from Jon’s cell phone; he heard him stand up and rummage through the suitcase on his side of the bed before sitting down on the mattress again.

“Jon—”

“Here. Give me your hand.” He held up his arm; Jon grabbed his hand, and Martin realized Jon was trying something around their wrists in the light from the phone.

“What—”

“It’s an old drawstring that pulled out from a pair of shorts. I never took it out of my suitcase.” He grabbed one end of the string in his mouth and pulled with his other hand. “There. I can’t possibly untie that without waking you up.”

“Are you going to be able to sleep?”

“I think so.” Jon turned off the light on his phone, and Martin felt the tug on his arm as Jon leaned over to put it back on the table next to the bed. “Anyway, I’m—I’m all right. You’re—not.”

“This—” Martin started to laugh. “This is ridiculous.”

“Yes. It is. Does it matter?” Jon interlaced his fingers with Martin’s and carefully folded up their bound arms between them; he brought his head to rest on the pillow next to Martin’s shoulder.

“I—I guess not.” He didn’t even realize he was finally crying until Jon reached up with his other hand to touch his cheek. He felt better for it, somehow; feeling something was good. It was better than the emptiness.

“Sleep.”

He did.

Chapter Text

Sasha hung up her phone and turned back toward Jon and Martin. “Well, that’s it then. They’re ready.”

She was referring to Allan and Elias, who were at Hill Top Road; Allan had wanted to take a few last-minute measurements, but mostly he’d wanted to be there to record what was about to happen.

Tim looked down at his own phone. “And Melanie just confirmed there’s no one left in the building—no one she and Georgie have been able to find, anyway.”

That morning, Jon had called Basira and asked her to shut down the Institute under the guise of further police investigation; she’d done so with remarkably little questioning. Martin didn’t know what Jon had told her they were doing, and he didn’t want to. He’d wondered for the first time that morning if she had been seeing him in her dreams. Now Georgie and Melanie were in the Institute, somewhere above them, waiting.

Sasha nodded. “Ok. Jon, look, I want to be completely clear—you can still change your mind. No one’s telling you you have to do this. You can still back out.”

“I understand,” Jon said. “And I’m not backing out.”

Sasha sighed. “Ok. Um—what’s next, then?”

Jon met Martin’s eyes for the first time since they had made their way in through the tunnels; he looked back at Sasha and Tim. “Would you give us a moment?”

“Yes—yes, of course. We’ll—um—”

“Don’t go too far. Stay in sight.”

“Right. Come on, Tim.”

Tim looked at Martin like he wanted to say something, but decided against it. Sasha spoke to him quietly enough that Martin couldn’t hear her words, and they turned their backs as they walked slowly toward one of the tunnels that converged on their current location in the Panopticon.

“I hate this place,” Martin said. It was the first thing that came into his head.

“So do I.”

“Do you, though?”

“Yes.”

Martin looked away, crossing his arms over his chest. He didn’t want to fight with Jon right now, but the only words that came to his mind were angry and bitter. They were words he might have used to try to stop this, if he’d thought he could, but he knew they were well past that.

“I’m sorry,” Jon said, reaching a hand to Martin’s elbow.

“I’m—Jon, I’m scared.”

For a moment, just a moment, Jon faltered; he pulled his hand back slightly, and drew in a quiet breath. In the next moment, though, it was like it had never happened; Jon set his jaw and squeezed Martin’s arm.

“Are you ready?”

“No.” He nodded, though, because he knew Jon needed to see it.

“All right,” Jon said softly, before turning toward Tim and Sasha. “It’s time.”

Sasha took a deep breath. “Where should we—”

“Where you are,” Jon said. “That’s good. You should be safe if—you’ll have a chance to run if I’m not fast enough.” Martin assumed Jon was referring to the possibility of a tunnel collapse; if the apocalypse actually started, there was not going to be any outrunning it. “Martin, if there’s any chance you’d join them—”

“Absolutely not.”

“I didn’t think so.” Jon paused. “I—I have to say the words. I’m pretty sure you don’t—”

“I don’t,” Martin said. He brought his hands up to his ears and closed his eyes.

What happened next happened quickly, or at least it felt that way to Martin. It wasn’t at all like he’d imagined it would be. He was waiting to feel the terror, the darkness, the heavy weight of the apocalypse; it never came. Instead, there was stillness and quiet and tension. When he looked again, Jon stood in front of him, just as he had before.

“Jon?”

“I’m still here,” Jon said, but Martin wasn’t sure he agreed. Jon was looking at him, yet looking through him at the same time.

“Is it—”

“Yes.”

“This—this isn’t like before.”

“No. This part—this wasn’t for us. It was for him. For Jonah.” Jon’s voice was even, his words controlled; he didn’t sound like himself. “This time it’s mine.”

“Jon—”

“Hey,” Tim shouted, and Martin was pretty sure it wasn't the first time he had tried getting Jon’s attention. As he remembered they weren’t alone, he looked up. Something was happening; there was a faint shimmer from the edges of the tunnels, almost but not quite beyond his range of vision.

“I thought you would only have a moment,” Tim said.

“This is only a moment,” Jon replied.

“What do you mean?”

“They’re already gone. Everyone outside of—of here, they’re already gone. They’re safe.” Jon smiled, but it wasn’t his smile, not really. Martin liked Jon’s smile; he didn’t like this one. "Just as long as I can—"

“What do you mean, this is only a moment?” Tim repeated.

“I mean—that it’s only a moment.”

Martin knew what he was trying to say. “Time isn’t—it’s different, Tim. It’s different in here.”

“Yes,” Jon said.

“Jon.” Sasha was visibly fighting to keep the fear out of her voice. “Jon, are you all right?”

“I’m fine. I’m—I’m fine.”

“You’re not,” Martin said. “What’s happening?”

“It’s fine.” Jon was quiet; he sounded very far away.

“Come on,” Sasha said. “Jon, come on. Talk to us.”

“It’s—it’s getting harder now that—I can do it, though. Just—just give me—”

The shimmer Martin had seen at the edges of the tunnels was slipping closer now, moving toward them. A static hum began to rise, although he couldn’t trace it back to anything in particular.

“They’re already too weak to escape. I just need to—I just—”

“Jon, what’s happening?” Martin stepped closer to him. “Tell us.”

“I can—” Jon swallowed; as he did, the calmness in his voice wavered. “It feels like—”

“Jon, please.”

“It’s like—it’s like pieces of me are—oh god.”

“Jon, just—just hang on.”

“Martin, I’m—I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize, just—”

“I won't be leaving here. When it’s done.”

The words didn’t hit Martin as hard as he thought they would. In fact, he realized, he had been expecting them. He felt something very much like relief, now that they had been said.

“Jon, don’t.” It was Tim who was angry. Martin wasn’t entirely surprised; he understood, not for the first time, that Tim would always choose anger. “Don’t just give in like that. Fight it.”

“I—I can’t. I’m not—this is where I'm supposed to be.”

Tim grimaced; Martin watched as he struggled, as he attempted to walk toward them, but he couldn’t.

“Martin,” he called out. “Come with us.”

Martin shook his head. “I’m staying with Jon.”

“No. You’re not.” Jon was working harder to get words out now. He seemed pained. “You can’t survive here. You’re not—listen to Tim. They’ll take care of you. You won’t be alone.”

“But you would be.” Unsure of whether Jon’s unfocused eyes could even see him, he took Jon’s hand. He wanted Jon to know he was there.

“Martin, don’t do this.” Tim called to him again. “Don’t be stupid. He’s—he’s gone.”

“If he’s gone, I am too.”

“Don’t make that choice.”

“You let Jon make his. I get to make mine.”

“Martin—”

Sasha put a hand on Tim’s shoulder. “Tim, I know it’s—it’s awful, but—he’s right. We can’t make him leave.”

“But it’s wrong. It’s the wrong choice.”

“That’s not your—”

“Jon,” Tim tried again. “Do something, make him—”

The shimmer grew brighter, closer; the static grew louder. Although he could no longer see where they had been standing, he was sure Tim and Sasha were gone.

“Did you just—”

“Yes. They’re safe now. Please, Martin—”

“Are you going to do that to me too? Just shove me off into the next dimension?”

“I—I can’t.”

“You tried?”

“Yes.”

“Jon, how—how could you?”

“I just need you to be all right.” Jon was gasping now. “You have to be all right.”

“Then come with me. You already said they’re too weak to leave. You’ve won.”

“Martin, there’s too much of me that—that’s them. It’s too much.”

“Could you leave? If you wanted to?”

“I—it’s not—” Jon panted between his words. "I deserve to be here."

“Well then, you know the deal. I don’t know if this is coming from you or—or something else, but you’ve always known the deal. That’s it.”

“You can’t,” Jon said.

“I can. I am.”

“Martin, you’ll—you’ll die.”

“I don’t care. And until I do, I’ll be with you."

They stood together, locked in a battle of wills. Martin could feel the pull now, the draw of whatever place the rest of the world had gone to; he resisted it. The static was very loud now. He wondered how long Jon could last like this, how long he could keep the door open. He hoped it wasn’t much longer.

“Well. This is not going very well, is it?”

Martin couldn’t see anyone—he could barely see where he and Jon were standing anymore—but he knew that voice well enough.

“Ignore her,” Jon pleaded desperately. “Martin—ignore her.”

He intended to ignore her, he really did, but she had found some foothold in his mind, hiding inside the static, and he couldn’t displace her.

“Let me help. He’s lying to you, Martin.” Annabelle’s voice filled his head. “Well, not lying, he’s never been very good at that—but hiding things, now that’s a different matter entirely.”

“Shut up.”

“You’ll have to forgive him; he truly is in a lot of pain. I can’t imagine what it must be like. Having to choose between two parts of yourself as they are literally being torn away from one another.”

Jon. He grasped tightly at the hand that he still held in his own; if there was any response, he couldn’t feel it. If Jon was talking to him, he couldn’t hear it.

“It will be over soon enough.”

“Go away.”

“I intend to. I just wanted you to know first that if you stay, part of you will survive. And he knows that.”

“What?”

“You wouldn’t know about it, of course; you wouldn’t be conscious of it. The Archivist is telling the truth, in as much as you couldn’t survive in a—well, traditional way. You’re not one of us. That’s probably a good thing for you. He’s just made things very messy.”

“Wait—I don’t understand—”

“Concentrate, Martin. I know it’s hard. There is a part of you—that part of you that is tangled up in the Archivist—that would survive. That part would stay here. With him.”

“What do you mean, with him?”

“We’re going to be here for a very, very long while, Martin. I don’t know if we’ll die—I don’t know if we can—but it is going to get quite lonely here for someone who was once a man. Are you listening?”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Does it matter?”

Martin thought about it, or he tried to; the pull he felt was growing stronger, more insistent. Certainly, she wouldn’t be here if making sure he stayed if it weren't in her own interests. He had already been set on it; there was more to it, for her to risk this kind of intervention.

But it doesn’t matter, does it? The realization settled on him; he believed her, and that was enough. He wouldn’t let Jon suffer that mindless torment alone if he didn’t have to. Whatever else that brought, whatever the consequences were—whatever Anabelle wasn’t saying—it wouldn’t change anything about his decision.

Although the static continued to rise, the pull of the other dimension seemed to weaken, become less. He didn’t know if it actually had—if Jon himself was finally weakening—or if Annabelle’s words had pushed him harder to resist it. Perhaps it was both.

“Martin.” Jon’s sudden, renewed grip on his hand was painful. “Look at me. Tell me where you are.”

Jon's eyes were clear again; his voice was steady. At least I can say a proper goodbye, Martin thought.

“Jon. I'm—I'm here. I'm with you.”

“You need to go. Right now.”

“I’m not leaving you.” He smiled; he wanted Jon to know it was ok, although he didn’t have the words anymore.

“You don’t have to. I’m coming with you.”

“What?”

“I’ve changed my mind. I’m going. But you need to go first.”

“I—I don’t believe you.” The finality that Martin had felt, the peace of knowing it was over, that it was decided, began to give way to uncertainty. “You’re lying.”

“Martin—please. I’m not lying. I will follow you. I want to.”

“If you’re really going, just—just take me with you. Like you did last time.”

“I can’t.” Jon brought his palm to Martin’s face, and the rippling static subsided just a little. “I can’t. It’s—once I leave here, leave them, that bond between us, it’s—it’s broken. I can’t bring you with me. You have to go first.”

“Jon—"

“I’ve already let this go too long. Maybe, though—if you go now, we can still—”

It wasn’t fair. It was never fair. “I—”

“Martin—trust me. Please, just—just trust me.”

The buzz of static was wearing him down; it was too hard to think. He was tired. He was confused.

If he stayed, then Jon would stay too; Jon wouldn’t be alone.

If he left—

Trust me. Jon’s voice broke through the static.

Trust me. Martin wanted to; he always wanted to. It was just that—

Trust me.

“Ok.” The sobbing, panicked voice he heard didn’t feel like it belonged to him. “Ok.”

Jon’s forehead pressed against his. “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

Jon kissed him.

Martin closed his eyes; he made his choice.

Chapter Text

In a small cabin somewhere in the Scottish Highlands, they are together. It doesn’t seem right, but Martin quickly forgets that, mostly because he chooses to; he chooses to because he is with Jon, and that’s what matters.

It’s cold here. There’s no heat, and Jon doesn’t know anything about starting a fire, but Martin does. That first night he shows Jon how to crumple newspaper and place it on the grate; he shows him how to layer kindling over and around the first log so the fire can breathe. He tells him not to burn anything too big at first, not until the kindling has really caught. He looks up to see if Jon understands, if he’s explaining it well enough—and Jon smiles at him. He wasn’t expecting that, and it flusters him and fills him with warmth at the same time. He can’t help but smile back.

Martin knows they don’t have much time here; he doesn’t know how he knows this, but he knows they will make the most of it. They learn quickly—to live side by side, to keep warm, to share a bed—they learn each other. They aren’t perfect at it, not yet, but they want to be, and that’s enough for them. They divide the work; Jon cleans and Martin walks to the store in the village when they need things. It gives him space, time to breathe, and he knows Jon will be there when he returns. Jon will be there because he wants to be there, and Martin knows this.

They eat together.

It’s just the canteen at the Institute, but on days like this, when it’s the two of them, it seems like more than that. The first time he thought it was a coincidence, that Jon just happened to ask him to grab lunch when he was having a rough day, but then it happened again, and one more time, and Martin is starting to wonder if Jon isn’t more observant than he’d thought. It isn’t that lunch with everyone isn’t great, or that he isn’t thankful for what they’ve all been doing for him since his mother passed. He does appreciate it, he really does. It’s just that sometimes it’s a lot, and with Jon, he can just be quiet and feel the way he feels.

He reaches for a napkin without looking, and his finger brushes against Jon’s as he does the same. Immediately he pulls his hand back; heat rises into his face. That’s it, he thinks. Jon’s going to notice that little bit of awkwardness for sure. He’ll figure me out and that’s going to be the end of these lunches—I guess I’m glad for the ones we had, though. He’s surprised when Jon simply hands him a napkin. He looks up to find Jon reading something on his phone, which he almost never checks at lunch, and he’s relieved. He feels like he’s gotten away with something, but mostly he’s glad these lunches don’t have to end just yet. Eventually they get up to leave; he heads for the door, but realizes Jon has stopped to throw something in the garbage bin.

He waits for him.

He doesn’t like it here; more specifically, he doesn’t like the smell here. He’s never liked the way hospitals smell. The first thing that hits you is the ammonia, the formaldehyde, the bleach, barely masked with a nauseating layer of chemical citrus. But that's still not the worst, because beneath it you can always smell the sickness, the infirmity, the human indignities the sanitizers are meant to erase. He’s almost used to it now though, he’s here so much while he waits for Jon.

He sits in a chair next to Jon’s bed, and tries to find ways to pass the time. Sometimes he reads, sometimes he just talks to him; there have been a few times, when he hasn’t slept well, when he’s leaned forward to rest his head on the bed. Once he even read Jon a couple of poems he’d written—not any of the ones about him, of course—but he hasn’t done it again on the off chance that Jon might actually wake up. Today, though, is one of the hard days. He misses Jon. They need him; Martin needs him. He doesn’t know how much longer he can do this. He reaches for Jon’s hand. It comforts him, if only a little, because it makes him feel like Jon is still there.

He needs Jon to still be there.

A loud beep comes from one of the machines; Martin turns to call the nurse, but as he does he remembers that all the machines were turned off some time ago. Jon isn’t breathing; his heart isn’t beating. There’s nothing to monitor. He scans the room; he can’t find where it’s coming from.

The beep continued; Jon, the chair, the hospital room, began to fade away. Martin tried to hold on—he wasn’t ready to let go—but he couldn't. The feel of Jon’s hand in his fell away, and he opened his eyes.

He had been dreaming, maybe, he didn’t know—but the beep continued, and the smell of the hospital refused to dissipate.

Chapter Text

Martin woke up to find he was lying on his back in a bed; his throat hurt. He heard low murmuring and turned his head to the side to find Sasha and Tim sitting in a couple of nearby chairs. He couldn’t really catch what they were saying, but their voices, though quiet, sounded lighthearted and even cheery.

He tried to remember what had happened, why they were here and why he was lying in this bed, but nothing came to mind. He started to sit up.

“Oh—” Sasha started toward him, but she was further away, and Tim was at his side first.

“Don’t sit up,” he said sternly, and Martin lay back down without argument. “Sorry, mate. Nurse wants to check in before you move around too much.”

“Ok.” Martin accepted this.

“So.” Tim grinned, and stepped back to grab his chair and bring it closer to the bed. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Martin answered.

Sasha also pulled her chair next to the bed beside Tim’s. “Hey.”

“What happened?” It felt like a logical question; he hoped it was.

“There was a bit of a cave in,” Sasha said. She reached for his hand and squeezed it gently before setting it back on the bed. He tilted his head down and noticed the IV in his arm; the line ran up to a bag hanging from a pole near the head of his bed. “It could have been a lot worse. But you, um—did take a beating.”

“Oh.”

“Don’t worry,” Tim said. “They cleaned you up, you got some stitches, and you’re going to be fine.”

“Oh.” Martin said again. He hadn’t been worried; he was still just barely able to process what they were telling him. He stared back at both of them, trying to understand. The tunnels, or some part of them, had collapsed. He was in the hospital, and Tim and Sasha were here with him.

Where was Jon?

“Did he make it? Is Jon—”

“He did.” Sasha smiled at him. “He’s here.”

He made it. Martin breathed; he hadn’t even realized he’d been waiting. “Is he all right?”

“I mean, he’s going to be pretty upset he didn’t make it back before you woke up.” Tim shook his head.

“He went to get you some tea after the nurse said you’d be coming around soon,” Sasha added. “I told him I thought you’d be all right, but—”

“But is he ok? Did he get hurt when—”

“He’s ok,” Sasha said. “I mean, he got banged up a little, sure, but he’s fine. He came out much better than you. Kind of a miracle, really.”

Martin closed his eyes again, absorbing the information and letting it sink in.

Jon is here. He’s fine.

“Well—ok,” Sasha continued, “there is something you should be prepared for before you see him.”

Martin looked at Sasha again with fresh concern. “What?”

“It isn’t a big deal, but after the—”

“Oh, damn it.” Jon’s voice interrupted Sasha, and both she and Tim sat back from the bed as he entered the hospital room. As they did, Martin saw him as well, walking with a crutch under each arm and a lidded Styrofoam cup held precariously in three fingers of one hand. The only thing that stopped him from trying to sit up again was Tim’s quick reflexes; he leaned back to put a hand to Martin’s chest.

“Jon,” Sasha said, in a tone that implied she was picking up where earlier exasperation had left off, “you really could have let one of us go for that.”

“It’s fine.” As Jon approached the other side of his bed, Martin noticed he was also wearing a walking boot on one of his feet.

“Jon, what happened? Sasha said—”

“Nothing.” He set the cup down on the small bedside table, carefully leaned the crutches against it, and sat down on the edge of the bed. He gently touched Martin’s arm, and his expression softened from one of annoyance into concern. “How are you?”

“Um—” Martin considered the question. “All right? I guess? I don’t—my throat hurts. I don’t feel much of anything else, really. But Jon—what happened to you?”

“Good.” Jon slipped his hand up Martin’s arm, his fingers just under the sleeve of the hospital gown. “The sore throat is from the anesthesia, they—”

“Jon, tell him what happened to you.” Martin looked back over at Tim, and noticed the edges of his mouth curving up just slightly.

“Tim, it doesn’t—”

“Tell him what happened,” Tim said again, even more insistently.

“Fine. Just so you’ll get off it.” Jon rolled his eyes. “Martin, I rode over here with you in the ambulance. I wasn’t paying attention, and when I got off, I—I stepped wrong. That’s it.”

“See, that wasn’t so hard.” Tim had a full-blown grin on his face now.

“Tim, it’s not funny,” Sasha scolded.

“It is a little funny,” he responded, not at all perturbed. “I mean, given all the ways he could have gotten hurt, it does sort of—”

“Does it hurt?” Martin asked.

“No, not now. It’s just a sprained ankle. I honestly didn’t think it was as bad as all that, I’ve been through much w—well, in any case, the doctor didn’t want me putting weight on it for a little while. That’s all.” Jon reached over and grabbed the cup of tea off the table where he had left it. “Here, you’re awake enough to drink. It might help your throat.”

“Oh, um—” Martin would have welcomed a bit of tea, but wasn’t sure how he was going to drink if he couldn’t sit up.

“Oh, right.” Jon reached for his shirt pocket, and Martin realized he had tucked a straw into it. He tore the paper off and poked it into the plastic lid, bending the end of it to the side; he held the cup up next to Martin’s face. “Here.”

“Thanks.” Martin started to reach the arm with the IV in it over his body to try to take the cup, then realized that angle wasn’t going to work very well.

“No, just—just drink it. I’ve got it. Just put the straw in your mouth.”

“Um—” Martin wasn’t sure why, but the idea of drinking while Jon held the cup made him self-conscious. “No, if I—I’m sure I can—”

“Oh, come on, Martin. You really are the worst,” Tim said.

“Wait, what?” Martin was genuinely not sure what he was getting at.

“Let him fuss. You do it all the time, and at least he’s got a good reason.”

“I—”

“He’s right, Martin,” Sasha chided.

“Fine.” Embarrassed, and a little taken back, Martin held the straw in his mouth and took a few sips. It was warm at least, and wet, and it did sooth the dry ache of his throat as it went down. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Jon said, a small note of triumph in his voice, and set the cup back down on the table.

“So—where’s everyone else?” Martin asked, now that he was starting to think more clearly. “Georgie and Melanie and—”

“They’re all fine,” Sasha reassured him. “They were all here earlier. Melanie and Georgie stayed until you came through the surgery; they would have stayed longer, but only three people were allowed in your room and they needed to take care of the Admiral anyway. They’ll be back tomorrow. And Allan talked to you for quite a while, didn’t he, Jon?”

“Yes,” Jon said, and he placed his hand back on Martin’s arm. Martin could tell something was bothering him, and made a note to himself to ask about it when they were alone.

“I guess I should ask, then,” Martin said. “Did it work?”

“Yes,” Jon said quietly. “It—it worked. As far as I can tell.”

“So we’re—here, I guess, and the fears, they’re—not? They’re back where we were?”

“Yes,” Jon nodded. “Yes, I think so.”

Martin said the only word that came to mind. “Shit.”

Jon took in a shaky breath, and ran his fingers softly up and down Martin’s forearm; it was clear again that something was bothering him.

“Jon,” Martin started to ask, “are you—”

“Well, welcome back to the world.” Everyone looked up as the nurse announced himself; Jon pulled his hand back and started to stand up. “Oh, you’re fine, sit,” the nurse said to him, “but I will need to get back to check on that.” He pointed to the bag on the IV pole, and Sasha and Tim scooted their chairs back from the bed.

“How are you feeling?” he asked Martin, as he checked the connections on the line. Martin saw a smaller bag hanging behind the larger one that had escaped his notice before.

“Fine, I guess?”

He noticed Martin eyeing the IV bags. “Oh, this is just for hydration”—he pointed to the large bag— “and this small one is a little bit of pain medication, but I think we’ll be taking you off that now and starting you on oral meds. Are you feeling any pain at the moment?”

“Um—no, just my throat.”

“That’s normal; they use a tube for anesthesia during the surgery. It should clear up in a day or so.” The nurse looked around and spotted the cup on the table with the straw in it. “Were you able to drink already?”

“Yeah. Yeah, no problem.”

“Great. What about the surgery site? Any issues?”

“I—I actually don’t even know where it is, so… I guess it’s fine?”

“Oh.” The nurse looked around at everyone in surprise. “I just assumed—well, let’s go ahead and sit you up a little so you can take a look at it. Let me know if anything starts to hurt.” He grabbed the control for the bed and motioned for Jon to move down slightly, then asked if Martin wanted privacy as he began to tilt the bed up.

“I—well, again, I don’t know where it is, so—”

“Oh, right. Of course. Here.” The nurse pulled the blanket back to Martin’s waist, and pointed to the side of his stomach through his gown. “You’ve got about six inches of stitches right there.”

“That’s it?”

The nurse looked at him with amusement. “That’s not the reaction we normally get, but I understand this isn’t your first encounter with a cave in. Might want to watch those in the future.”

“I’ll take that under advisement.”

The nurse looked at Sasha and Tim and then back to Martin. “You all right if they stay?”

 Martin noticed he hadn’t bothered asking about Jon.

“Oh—it’s fine. If they don’t mind.”

The nurse untied the side of his gown (Martin was grateful it wasn’t the open-in-the-back kind) and showed him the row of stitches that ran down his right side; they picked up almost right where his previous scar left off, and were surrounded by deep purple bruising. He heard Sasha hiss in a breath through her teeth.

“They look good—clean, dry, not red or swollen. Any pain?”

He shook his head.

“Well, the surgeon will tell you more tomorrow, but there was no serious damage to any internal organs—just the muscle, and some bruising, and that will heal as long as you take care of yourself. You may not be feeling like it at the moment, but you were pretty lucky, considering.”

He was lucky. Jon, who had been studying Martin’s injury with concern, turned to meet his eyes.

Had they been lucky?

The nurse tied Martin’s gown again and pulled the blanket back up, then spent a few moments scrolling through the tablet he had brought in with him. “Let’s see… Do you feel like you can sit up a little bit more from here?”

“I think so.” Martin tried and found it didn’t take too much effort.

“All right, well, I don’t see any reason we can’t try walking a bit later then. I can’t promise, but if things keep going well, we’ll probably have you out of here in two or three more days.” The nurse looked around at everyone. “And speaking of, I hate to break up the party, but it’s a bit past normal visiting hours. Is this your husband?” He nodded his head toward Jon.

“Oh, uh—” Martin sat and spluttered with his mouth open.

“Boyfriend,” Jon said.

The nurse smiled as he looked back and forth between the two of them. “I assume you’ll be helping to care for him?”

“Yes,” Jon said.

The nurse took a pointed look at Jon’s walking boot, and then back to his crutches where they sat leaning against the table. “Well, you’re welcome to stay overnight, but I might recommend that you go home to get some sleep yourself. This is going to be a process, and—”

“I’ll be staying.”

“I thought you’d say that.”

“Don’t worry,” Sasha interjected, as she and Tim began to get to their feet. “We’ll be checking in on them. Both of them. A lot.”

“Good to hear.” The nurse smiled again and scrolled through his tablet a little more, then looked back at Martin as he brought it back down to his side. “All right, well—I’ll be looking in every now and then, and I imagine you’ll sleep well tonight. But if you need anything, or need to get up for the toilet, just press the call button on the control.”

“Um, sure. Thanks.”

As the nurse left, Sasha and Tim continued gathering their things. “Are you going to be all right? I mean—both of you?” Sasha asked.

“I think so,” Martin answered. “Jon?”

“We’ll be fine.”

Tim leaned over the bed and held out his hand; Jon was confused for a moment, but then reached up to shake it.

“You did all right,” Tim said.

Jon nodded, and after they let go Tim reached down to pat Martin’s shoulder. “You too, Martin. See you soon.”

“Bye.”

As soon as they left, Jon removed the shoe from his uninjured foot, and swung his legs into the bed; he somehow managed to squeeze his shoulders alongside Martin’s to lay next to him.

“Oh god, Jon, that’s got to be uncomfortable—I feel like I barely fit in here, and with that thing on your foot—”

“Do you want me to get out?” Jon asked.

“No. No, of course not.”

Jon’s fingers found Martin’s, and after a moment of gentle nudging and shifting they lay side by side, hand in hand, all awkward angles and misdirected limbs; somehow, though, Martin was comfortable.

“Sorry about your ankle,” he said, once they had settled in.

“It’s fine,” Jon grumbled. “I really can’t believe I did that. What a ridiculous—"

“Jon,” Martin interrupted before Jon could finish disparaging himself, “is this real?”

“I think so.”

“They’re really not here? The fears?”

“I don’t think so. I mean—it feels different this time. I was so lost before. I couldn’t reach the Eye, or it couldn’t reach me, but somehow it still had that hold on me. And this time, it’s—it’s just gone. Like it’s not there at all.”

Martin turned his head as much as he could to look at Jon’s face, half expecting to find him staring off into the distance; instead, Jon was looking directly at him.

“Are you glad you’re here?” Martin asked. “Are you glad you didn’t stay?”

Perhaps involuntarily, Jon looked down toward Martin’s midsection where his injuries were, and then back up to his eyes; Martin felt a small movement of Jon’s hand in his own.

“Yes. I am.”

“Look, I—I need you to know I wasn’t just saying—it wasn’t just to—I would have stayed with you. I was fine with—with that. I just didn’t want to leave you alone. And I didn’t want to be without you.”

“I know. But I wasn’t fine with it.” Jon continued to stare into him, and Martin realized how hard he was working to control his emotions. “I was never going to be fine with it. Nothing had changed. You were never going to leave me, and I was never going to—” Jon stopped himself, and took a deep breath.

“What changed your mind? Was it what Annabelle said?”

Jon finally broke his eyes away from Martin’s. “Martin, I—I couldn’t hear her. I couldn’t hear what she said. I could only hear your answers, and—I only knew that when she was done, you were that much more determined to stay. I—I got scared. Just like before. I thought it might be too late.”

“I’m sorry.” Martin managed to briefly bring his other hand over to touch Jon’s arm, to do what he could to comfort him despite the IV line. “Do you want to know what she said?”

“I—I don’t know.” Martin waited as Jon turned it over. “No. I don’t. Not right now. Another time.”

“Yeah. Yeah, that’s fine.” Martin had a lot of questions—had Annabelle been lying? Had Jon? Had they ultimately done what Annabelle wanted, or had they somehow escaped?—but those questions would wait until Jon was ready to talk about them, whenever that was.

He changed the subject. “So—what did you do? When you moved everyone here—what did you move exactly? And how did you know where to move it?”

He had thought Jon would be happy to talk about that, or at least tolerate talking about it if Allan had already worn him out, but that was not the case.

“Martin, I—” he swallowed. “I can’t remember. I couldn’t remember when Allan asked me, either.”

“Oh.” He wasn’t sure why Jon sounded so reluctant to say that. “That’s no big deal. I mean—we’re here, right? I assume someone’s checked and there’s not like, mutant potatoes or something crawling up out of the—”

“Martin.”

“Sorry. I just—it’s fine. I’m sure Allan was disappointed, but—”

“It’s not the only thing I can’t remember.”

Martin’s stomach dropped; now he understood. “Oh. Ok—that’s—ok. All right. What else can’t you remember?”

“For now, it seems to be things that happened—before. In the other dimension.”

“Oh. Like what?”

“Well, for example, I can’t—I can’t remember the Dark Sun. I know I saw it, I know I destroyed it, but—I can’t actually remember it. I don’t remember what it looked like. And I can’t remember what it felt like when I was with Daisy in the Buried. I remember I went—and I can imagine it—but—”

“So it’s things that involved them? The entities?”

“It seems to be. So far.”

Martin felt no small amount of relief. “Well, I mean—that’s not all bad. Those things were awful. Maybe it’s sort of a good thing. If that’s all it is—”

“Martin.”

Martin sighed. “No. You’re right. It’s not good. I guess I’ve had my share of bad things happen to me, and even if I wish they hadn’t—they’re still my memories. I’d want to keep them. Probably.”

“Thank you.” Martin felt Jon relax against him, as much as there was room for in the bed, anyway; a tangle of emotions hit him all at once, with no hope of separation. “Martin?”

“Yeah.”

“What if I forget Sasha? The other one? And Tim? And—”

Martin wanted to say you won’t, but he and Jon were long past platitudes. “If you do, I’ll tell you about them. It—it will be ok.”

“But what if—what if I forget how I found you? In the Lonely? What if I forget and everything goes wrong again and—"

“I’m not lonely anymore, Jon. That won’t happen, so you don’t need to worry.”

Jon was quiet for a minute. “Would you like more tea?”

Martin nodded. He knew it would be cold, but that wasn’t the point. He waited as Jon let go of his hand and twisted around so he could grab the cup off of the table. Although he was free to hold it himself now, he didn’t ask to; he let Jon hold it up for him without protesting, and drank cold, over-brewed hospital tea from a straw, and let Jon love him.

***

Martin heard the front door open and close from where he sat on the back of their flat, and steeled himself.

Six weeks had passed since he woke up in the hospital. Jon had returned to work at the archive almost as soon as it had reopened; it had been comforting to him in a way that Martin hadn’t understood at the time, but had been willing to accept. Although it wasn’t really clear how—Basira had strongly implied they shouldn’t ask for details—the police investigation of the body found in the tunnels had been closed. Everyone else—Melanie, Tim, Sasha, even Elias—had been eager to return, and Martin suspected they had been seeking out a sense of normalcy. He supposed that made sense for them. He thought Jon’s motivation was probably different, it just happened to amount to the same outcome. Martin was the only one who hadn’t been in any hurry; of course, it hadn’t mattered, because going back to work right away hadn’t been an option while he was healing.

It had been difficult at first, for both of them; not just Jon going back to work at the archive, but all of it. When Martin had first come home, he had struggled to rest as much as he was supposed to. He’d had a very hard time with Jon doing everything around the house with his injured ankle, and as much as Martin had promised himself he would let Jon take care of him, he now understood exactly how bad a patient he could be. Fortunately, the others had helped out however they could; they had brought them food that just had to be heated up, and stopped by frequently to keep them company.

Once Jon went back to work, Martin’s discomfort over constantly being taken care of eased somewhat, but a whole new set of issues arose. They had, perhaps not surprisingly, not done well being apart from each other. Jon’s anxiety over not being able to just know if something happened to Martin had returned in full force; he had insisted on coming home for lunch every day and texted Martin constantly. At first, Martin thought he found this sweet, if not a little bit overbearing, and he managed to continue to believe this until the first day Jon had not texted him by mid-morning. It was only after he called Sasha “just to check” that he realized he was equally unequipped to deal with their days apart.

They clung to their evenings, the time when everything was taken care of and they could just be together. They watched movies, they listened to music; they talked. They sat together while Jon read, and Martin scrolled through his phone or listened to podcasts or even wrote a little here and there. They lay in bed, murmuring softly to each other, sometimes about things they might do one day, or the bigger flat they might rent in the fall when Jon’s lease was up, or sometimes nothing important at all, holding each other until they managed to fall asleep.

Eventually, as Martin had gotten stronger and Jon’s ankle had healed, things had begun to fall into place. They now had a routine: Jon made breakfast, and Martin made lunch, except on the occasional day when he joined Jon or even the rest of the staff for lunch out. They took turns making dinner, and Martin had to admit he didn’t mind when Jon snuck in an extra turn here and there. Surprisingly, he was turning into not a bad cook; he was constantly looking up recipes and trying them out, and it seemed to take his mind off some of the things he wasn’t ready to talk to Martin about.

Martin knew Jon was continuing to forget things. He couldn’t always remember names now, although for the time being they were names that Martin was just as happy for him to forget. He couldn’t remember everything that had happened during the apocalypse, though he surprised Martin one time with a reference to a conversation with Mikaele Salesa at Upton House. Martin assumed he had forgotten everything there almost immediately after it had happened. That gave Martin hope about where the memory loss would stop, although he knew it wasn’t a hope that Jon would be able to share with him, and so he kept it to himself. When Jon asked Martin to remind him of something, or describe something that had happened, he did his best, even when it was something he would rather not remember himself at that moment.

Despite the setbacks, and the pieces that were hard to deal with, they were making their way forward. The fact that they had only recently begun to find some kind of balance was what was making it so hard for Martin right now; they had finally found some balance, and now he was about to throw a wrench into it.

“I’m out back,” Martin called to Jon.

He heard Jon set down his bag in the sitting room, and a moment later he appeared at the back door.

“Welcome home, love.” Martin turned toward Jon, stretching back in his seat for a kiss; Jon obliged, pausing just before their lips met. Martin loved it when he did that, because by the time they touched they were only thinking about each other, and the rest of it (at least temporarily) fell into the background. As he collapsed into the empty chair, Jon looked down at Martin’s lap and noticed the notebook resting there.

“Were you writing?”

“Oh. Yeah.” Martin had closed the notebook some time ago to prepare to talk to Jon, and had forgotten it was there. “I think I’m finally warming up to it again.”

Jon reached for Martin’s arm, resting on the arm of his chair, and patted it; then, looking at him again, he leaned toward him for another kiss.

He’s in a good mood, Martin thought. That’s helpful. “I take it things went well after lunch?” Martin had joined him at one of their nicer dining spots that afternoon.

“Well enough,” Jon said. “I do feel like Melanie and I were finally able to make some real progress on this new project.”

“Let me guess—Elias had somewhere else to be?”

“Thankfully,” Jon replied.

“Oh, come on,” Martin teased. “Surely you’re a little flattered by his newfound attachment to you?”

Jon groaned. “Martin, if you were there… Still, I suppose it’s a good thing that he’s taken a renewed interest in the Institute.”

“Hm.” Martin was sure Jon was more than a little flattered.

“Speaking of—he’s invited everyone to come out this weekend. He’d like us to see the work he’s had done on the house, now that you’re able to get out again.” Jon paused. “I imagine you’ll want to go.”

“Well—yeah, sure, if you don’t mind. If he’s not driving you completely mad.”

“No, it’s fine. It might be—” Jon paused, searching for a word. “It might be nice.”

They sat in silence for the next few minutes, side by side, staring out at the world behind the flat.

“All right.” Martin realized he was going to lose his nerve if he didn’t talk soon, and he didn’t have that option. “Jon?”

“Yes?”

“Can I talk to you about something?”

Jon turned toward Martin, a look of slight concern on his face. “Is everything all right?”

“Oh—yes. Yes. Nothing like that. Nothing, like, bad—well—” Martin ground to a halt.

Jon leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest; he raised his eyebrows.

“All right. All right,” Martin started again. “So. You know that I can go back to work—well, pretty much whenever now.”

Jon nodded. “When you’re ready.”

“Right. And—do you remember when I—when we talked about maybe—me not going back to work at the Institute?”

“I do.”          

“And—I know what you said then—but would you really be ok with it if maybe I didn’t go back there?”

“Of course I would.” He uncrossed his arms, relaxing in his chair. “Martin, that’s fine.”

“Ok, well—here’s the thing—they’re hiring an archival assistant at the British Library.”

“Oh,” Jon said. “That’s—that’s great. I’m sure if you want to apply, Sasha and Elias would both be more than happy to give you a referral—”

“They already did.” Martin bit his lip.

“Oh.” Jon stiffened. “I see.”

“Sorry—I should have told you, but—Jon, it’s ok. If you want me to go back to the archives at the—”

“No—no. I just—” He considered. “I’m just surprised you told them and not me.”

Martin sighed. “It wasn’t hard to tell them.”

“And it was hard to tell me.”

“Yes, because you—you worry. When we’re apart, I mean.”

Jon took a breath. “I suppose I do. Still—”

“No, you’re right.” Martin said. “I should have told you sooner. I guess the other part of it is that—once I tell you, then—then it’s real. That makes it real.”

Jon was silent for a few moments, then he reached for Martin’s hand.

“So,” he said. “Since you are bringing this up, I assume they want an interview?”

“Well—yes, but—Jon, are you sure it would be ok with you? I don’t have to take it. I’m sure if I went back to the Institute, eventually I would—”

“No.” Jon squeezed Martin’s hand. “I don’t want you to go back. I honestly don’t know why I wanted to go back.”

“I do,” Martin said.

“Enlighten me.”

“Guilt,” he said simply. “And fear. You’re afraid that it’s not really over.”

Jon thought for a moment. “I won’t deny it. But I suppose that’s the same reason I don’t want you there. I mean, if you wanted to be there—but you don’t. And so I don’t want you there. Not really.”

“Do you mean that?”

“Yes. Absolutely.”

“Ok. Well—then—Jon, I’m sorry, I know, I really should’ve—I’ve already had the interview.”

“What?” Jon looked at him in surprise. “When?”

“Today. After lunch.”

“I knew it,” Jon said, dropping Martin’s hand to point a finger at him. “I knew you didn’t get dressed up just to have lunch with me. Why would he do that?, I said. He doesn’t even get that dressed up to go to work. But no, I let you—”

“I’m sorry,” Martin said, holding his hands up. “Jon, I’m sorry. I mean, I did also dress up for lunch, and—honestly I didn’t even think you’d notice—”

“Didn’t think I’d notice? Martin, you were wearing a tie, I—oh never mind, damn it. I really don’t care. How did it go?”

“What?”

“The interview, how did it go?”

“Oh, right. Well—good. Great, actually. They—they offered me the job.”

Jon sat in silence so long that Martin began to wonder if he’d made a mistake.

“I mean—like I said, I don’t have to take it. It actually it pays a bit less than the Institute, and since I don’t have a degree I wouldn’t earn as much as—”

“Come on.” Jon stood up, pushing his chair as much to the side as he could; he gestured for Martin to do the same.

He tried one more time to smooth things over as he stood up. “Look, I mean it, I really don’t—”

He was cut off as Jon placed his hands on either side of his face, and pulled him down for a kiss, and then another, and then one more.

“You’re taking the job,” Jon said finally, as he pulled away. “We will make this work. Whatever we need to do.”

Martin stood holding Jon in his arms, overwhelmed with relief and gratitude.

“I am sorry I didn’t say anything sooner,” he told him, as soon as he could speak again. “I kept wanting to, but then I didn’t actually think I’d get the job, and then why bring it up if it didn’t—”

“It’s all right,” Jon said. “I understand. I would have liked the chance to support you, or at least make you a nice dinner last night, but—it’s ok. We’ll work on it. We have time.”

We have time.

It wasn’t the first conversation they’d had about the future, and it certainly wasn’t the most direct one, but for some reason this time it felt more real to Martin. Maybe it was because Jon had said it, or because it was about the first big change they were making—but maybe it was also because it was messy and imperfect and they did have things to work on, and that was ok.

We have time.

“Thank you,” Martin said. “I love you.”

“I love you too.”