Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The rain thrums hard on London streets as Oliver Banks slinks into the hospital. His steps squelch and echo upon the near-empty corridors as he slowly paces to the room from which roots pulse, thick and black. Antonio Blake runs a hand through his short shock of silver hair, and hesitantly steps into the room of none other than Jonathan Sims, the current Head Archivist of the sickeningly pretentious Magnus Institute.

The man lies in a hospital bed, his heart still, and vitals unreadable, to any onlooker, Jonathan would be dead. Keeping his eyes upon the man, lying motionless upon his cot, Oliver carefully creeps over to the crickety hospital chairs, his steps echoing as he paces. Without care, or grace, Oliver throws himself upon the chair, and from somewhere in the corner he swears that he hears a tape recorder click on, filling the room with a stolid whirring, which distorts and echoes in the small, lifeless hospital room.

Unceremoniously, he begins his spiel, and he slowly zones out, letting his mind grow distant as he recounts a life of running, only to find that there was no alternative but to face his fate. It’s sad, really, so much time wasted, sprinting away, only to realize that everything was always in front of him. Terminus comes for all, there is no other path. 

Wrapping up his speech, Oliver pauses, and looks to Jon. It’s hard not to feel pity for a man in such a state, and with sympathy, Antonio Blake offers a small tidbit of advice. “You, Jon, have a choice to make. Life, or death. Choose, it’s the only way you’ll be set free.”

Without another word, Oliver stands up, and walks out. As he makes his way out of the room, he’s vaguely aware of a group of three people filing into the room behind him. Antonio thinks one of them says something to him, a question, maybe; but he simply walks off. He doesn’t have the energy for their questions, or their comments. That kind of exertion might kill him. With a small chuckle at his own joke, Antonio steps out of the hospital, not sparing a glance back.

—————————————————

In the darkness, Jon blinks, hearing again the macabre words of Oliver Banks, uttered with such monotone disinterest.

“ Life, or death, but make your choice .”

Jonathan Sims is afraid of death. Standing at the edge, the chasm between life, and the end; he knows what he fears. Jon feels bone deep terror, crawling and squirming like a coiling snake within his body at that sick finality, of knowing that there is nothing left for him to know. That whatever comes next, well he’s at the mercy of it. No matter how fast he runs, he will still meet the end, he knows that. It horrifies him, or…it did. Thinking now, and staring into the dark, abysmal, black oblivion, Jonathan Sims contemplates the fact that, no matter what, he will die. His choice is not just when, but how.

“ You’re too human to live, but too inhuman to die.”

Staring into the ever consuming darkness, Jon realizes that, if he “lives”, he will be one of the things that made his life a hell. A monster like Prentiss, like the Not-Them, or even like Jude , or Micheal , and God forbid…Elias. Jon doesn’t want to die, but he thinks that maybe, escaping in such a way is a fate worse than. In this space between life and other, Jon cannot cry, but feels in some part like he should. 

The three people who stand at the edge of his bed see, as for the first time in six months, the only sign of life he shows is warm tears, slowly snaking their way down Jon’s face.

Turning into the black, though it is all-encompassing, Jon makes his decision. He doesn’t want to live as a monster, he wants to die who he is, not some fragmented, corrupt version of himself. He will take his death now, not prolongating the suffering , and the torment. Jon will stare his fate straight in the fucking face. He would be a liar if he said he didn’t feel sickly, creeping dread oozing through his very marrow, but the way Jon sees it, he has no other choice. After all, it’s better to die as a person of your own, rather than a fragmented piece who claims personhood. Taking a deep breath, Jon nods. The beaten man steels his nerve, quieting the insidious voice at the back of his mind. Into the darkness he stares, and with effort, he levely states, “I choose Death.”

And Terminus chooses Jon in return.

For the first time in six months, his eyes shoot open, and Jonathan Sims takes in a shaky, uneven breath. 

In an instant, despite the pain shooting from every muscle, tendon, and joint, Jon sits up, and clutches his head in his hands. His first words in six months, are a croaking, anguished, “GOD FUCKING DAMNIT.”

With each word, Jon slams his hand heavily down onto the railing along the side of his bed, the last smack resulting in a sickening, resounding ‘ CRACK’. If Jon notices, he doesn’t acknowledge it, instead letting tears fall like a monsoon as he scrunches in on himself, looking like a shell of a man in the sterile, uniform hospital cot on which he sits. Through echoing, heaving sobs, Jon cries out in despair. “ WHY?! WHY THE FUCK AM I ALIVE? I CHOSE DEATH.”

This garners a shaky gasp of sorrow from his bedside, but Jon doesn’t even notice, too overwhelmed by grief to process anything around him. Like a madman, Jon chuckles through his onslaught of tears, and with his broken, croaking voice, hysterically mourns aloud, “I chose death, so I could die human, and I still came back a monster.”

With this, Jon gasps out a great, heaving sob, and dazed, slowly turns his eyes to his abysmal surroundings, and is met with three familiar figures staring right back, their varying frames illuminated by the humming hospital lights.

—————————————————

Basira, Georgie, and Martin stand at the edge of his bed, and looking upon them with dead man’s eyes, Jon sees looks of grief and horror, painted across each of their faces in varying degrees. Slowly, he meets their eyes, each individually, and feels sorrow, be it his or theirs, Jon doesn’t know. Maybe , he wonders, it’s both . Again, Jon drops his head to his hands, and starts to cry, the only noise breaking the silence being the near-inaudible sobs that wrack his body, and the repetitive mechanical beep of the dozens of medical machines at his bedside. Only when the shattered man begins slowly, methodically attempting to pull the IVs from his arms, is the silence broken. With a step, Georgie strides to Jon’s side, and grasps both of his hands, squeezing them and shakily insisting, “Jon. Stop it.”

Meeting her gaze, Jon watches as Georgie flinches away, and drops her hands, seeing echoes of a piece of her past never to have been unearthed. Jon blinks, sorrow welling up, barely shimmering behind a layer of placidity, and murmurs, “It’s okay, I know.”

She nods at him, her thick curls bouncing against her dark skin, and her tears shimmer as they gently fall. She takes a small step back, and murmurs, “I can’t, I’m sorry.”

With that, Georgie turns and briskly walks out, the tail ends of her purple curls are the last he sees of her. Turning his gaze back to his coworkers, still standing at the end of the bed, Jon simply blinks, his dead eyes taking on a sorrowful sheen. Though his voice croaks as a result of its disuse, Jon simply murmurs a quiet, mournful, “Well…”

At this, Basira shakes her head and walks out without a word. As the door slams shut behind her, echoing through the lifeless hospital room, Martin tentatively steps closer to Jon. The man doesn’t flinch, or move in any way at all, the only sign of life is his raspy, labored breathing. Quietly, Martin sits upon Jon’s bed, the fabric of the lifeless white sheet crinkling beneath him. Meeting Jon’s eyes, Martin moves to speak, but as he finally attempts to vocalize the plague in his mind, he’s interrupted by a loud click. 

Turning his head, Jon looks upon a young, brunette nurse, standing there in the doorway so afraid. He meets her gaze, and he’d be lying if he said that horror didn’t feel nice. Her face goes pale, and without another word, she turns and leaves, the door closing behind her. Jon scoffs in resignation, and croaks, “Well…guess I never had a say, huh?”

He turns to Martin, a mirthless smile upon his lips. The freckled man stares at him, eyes filled with naught but deep sorrow, and murmurs, “It wasn’t… you didn’t choose this, but… this is how it is, Jon… I don’t think any of us really ever had a choice.”

Jon meets his gaze, and ignores the tears welling up in his own eyes, instead mumbling, “Maybe not… but I still feel…almost tricked.”

At this, Martin barks out a sorrowful, broken laugh, and allows a few tears to fall gently upon his round, freckled cheeks. “ God, weren’t we all?” The man asks, hysterically.

Jon fixes him with lifeless eyes, and in a broken tone, utters a quiet, “I wish it hadn’t been like this.”

Martin nods, neither in resignation nor acceptance, and sighs. Gathering himself, just a little, the freckled man miserably mumbles, “At least you’re still here, and so am I. Tim…and Daisy, they…”

Jon simply nods, and murmurs a desolate, “I know.”

All at once, Martin’s eyes take on a sheen of understanding, and he whispers, voice dripping with despair, “ Oh. Jon. When you chose death… did it…?”

Looking at Martin with such deep sorrow, Jon slowly, regretfully nods his head, and murmurs, “I wish I could say no.”

Martin looks Jon in the eyes and nods, expression unreadable, before mumbling, “Well, I guess it’s better you accepted it, yeah? Nobody can run forever.”

Sighing, long and morose, Jon runs a hand through his grown-out, overlong hair, and murmurs, “Yeah.”

With effort, the Dead man pulls the IVs from his arms, ignoring the warning beeps from the machines at his side, and the sickly rubber pull of his skin, which had grown attached. Joints groaning from disuse, Jon moves slightly, pushing himself just enough for his legs to hang off the bed, and he grunts from the exertion. Heaving, Jon grasps the rough sheets below him, feeling as their scratchy fabric crinkles between his fingers. He takes a moment to catch his breath, but practically shoves himself off the sickeningly white cot. As his feet touch the floor, Jon pitches forward, legs giving out beneath him from disuse. The cold of the white ceramic tile hits hard as Jon lands, and he resigns himself completely, both feeling and hearing something else crack.

Jon grumbles a bit, and effortfully pushes himself up with one arm, staring at the other, which is visibly broken. Through the skin pokes sharp, ruddy bone, now slick with blood. The crimson liquid streams and flows like a river in every which way, coating Jon, and the floor beneath him, painting everything in a sickly red sheen. As Jon moves, there’s an audible squelch from the liquid beneath him, and he can hear a repressed gag from Martin, who still sits on the bed behind him, in shock. Heaving out a sigh, Jon straightens his broken arm, despite the pain, and watches as slowly, sickeningly, the wound heals.

Without care, Jon’s shattered ulna slowly slides its way back into his arm, blood soaked and broken. With each moment he watches, Jon feels his stomach turn, and suppresses the urge to gag at the grisly scene. The Dead man watches as his skin shudders and shifts as the fragmented bone fuses itself back together, and at last the tip of Jon’s shattered bone shakily submerges itself back into his arm. Slowly, almost as if it were prolonging the action, Jon’s skin begins to stitch itself back together, pulling at the metaphysical seams. 

Every second he watches it, Jon feels sick, but…when it’s done, the man simply rolls his shoulders, and without difficulty, stands up as if the past six months he’d been nothing but active, ignoring the now sticky pool of drying blood at his feet. He spares a glance at Martin, who is white as a sheet, and seemingly frantically searching for the right things to say, his face contoured by the horror he so visibly feels. Sensing his plight, Jon spares the man a kindness, and murmurs an apologetic, “I’m sorry you had to see that.”

Martin’s eyes snap to Jon’s own, and suddenly his horror is replaced with a look of passive irritation. With exasperation, Martin seems to forget all of his fear, and practically scolds Jon, voicing, “Jon. I stayed here, waiting, for months, for you to wake up. I wanted to be here to make sure you didn’t get…hurt, or, I don’t know. It’s been barely ten fucking minutes , and you managed to break a bone through the skin, while I did nothing. You’re not the one who should be apologizing here.”

Taken aback, Jon barks out a harsh laugh, and mirthfully smiles, though his confusion is evident. “Y’know, uh, most people would respond a bit… differently to that.”

Martin levels him with a knowing stare, and sarcastically replies, “Jon, I think you and I both are past ‘ most people. ” 

The Dead man shoots him a small smile, and nods. “Suppose that’s true.” He mutters, tone amused.

Jon sighs and drops his head, taking in the carnage of the room around him. The white tiled floor now stained ruddy brown with still drying blood, which cakes and runs in the crevices and surface area alike, and his clothes in no better state, the slowly hardening liquid caking to the folds of his hospital gown. Slowly, Jon moves his hand to pick at it, with no avail, as the moment he touches the darkening stain, he realizes there’s no hope in getting it out. Grumbling in exasperation, Jon turns his gaze up to Martin, who returns it with some assurance. Without words, the freckled man simply nods to one of the chairs, getting Jon to turn around. Resting on one of the crickety, flimsy, gray hospital seats, sits a bright yellow tote bag, adorned with sunflowers and bees. In confusion, Jon paces over to it, but pauses as he hears Martin speak from behind him, obviously amused. “I’ve uh, I’ve brought them every time I’ve come to visit, in case you…woke up, but, uh, when you were in the coma…your flat lapsed…and Georgie said that they called her. Asked me to pick up your stuff, and…I figured maybe it would be helpful to…bring some of your clothes in case you…needed them here.”

Taken aback, Jon stops, shocked to find tears welling in his eyes. With a soft smile, he turns to Martin, and practically whispers a small, “Thank you.”

The freckled man just nods, as if to assure Jon. Hesitantly, Jon turns back to the bag, and rummages around in its contents, brushing against soft cloth. Finally wrestling it out of the bag, Jon pulls a large, black hoodie that he hasn’t seen since his uni days. The ginormous, cotton garment makes his 6’1” frame look petite, and he can’t help but chuckle. From behind him, he hears Martin laugh quietly before happily murmuring, “Y’know, I picked it out forgetting you’re not my size…never took you for the ‘oversized hoodie’ type…”

In mock offense, Jon turns to the taller man, clutching his beloved, black, cotton Fleetwood Mac hoodie to his chest. Leveling the freckled man with a joke scolding stare, Jon scolds, “I’ll have you know I own quite the extensive oversized hoodie collection, thank you.”

Martin barks out a quick laugh at this, before meeting Jon’s gaze with a look of his own, the freckled man teases, “Oh I know now, you’re forgetting who packed your stuff.”

With that, Jon’s shoulders relax in defeat, and with an over dramatic sigh, the shorter man resigns with a simple, “ Touché.”

Grinning with his victory, Martin suddenly seems to realize a forgotten piece, and rushes a quick, “Oh, also, there’s pants in there, uh, ripped jeans if I remember? I didn’t know…what else, or anything. Also uh…shoes, don’t remember which…”

Shooting the taller a small smile, Jon lightly reassures, “Martin, that’s great, thank you…probably what I would’ve picked, honestly.”

With this, the freckled man’s shoulder’s slump considerably, and he looks at Jon with a smile. Seeing this, Jon nods and grabs the remaining items from the bag, noticing Martin was right, as the contents are indeed an old, worn pair of black ripped jeans, again probably from Jon’s college days, and some back combat boots from…some point. The when doesn’t matter , Jon assures himself, as he finds that he’s staring at the beaten pair of shoes, contemplating any memory of them, and coming up empty. 

With that, he shoots Martin a small smile, and slinks off into the cramped bathroom of the hospital room, changing as fast as possible, dreading every moment he’s in there. It takes maybe five minutes, and Jon steps out into the room again, pleased to see Martin still sitting there on the bed, the only colorful thing in a room of miserable white and blood.He smiles as Jon emerges, and murmurs a quiet, “Hey, you ready to rock?”

 Jon smiles at him, and calmly runs a hand through his hair, before responding with a simple, “Yeah. Think so.”

With that, Martin takes a great, heaving sigh, and pushes himself off the dingy hospital bed, grimacing at the noise of his shoes sticking in the pool of drying blood. Clearly put off by the sound, Martin trudges over to Jon, shooting him an inquisitive glance. “Alrighty, you ready to head?”

For a moment, Jon hesitates, and looks at the carnage around him. Met with the sight of ugly, deep crimson coating what was pristine white, he lets out a mirthless chuckle, and nods. “Yeah. I’m ready.”

With ease, Jon paces out of the room, his footsteps echoing hollowly through the lifeless, white room. Quietly sighing, Jon grasps the cold, metallic handle of the door and turns it with a silent click. Blinking, Jon steps out into the hallway and stops, eyes wide, and horrified. Along the corridor, thick, black liquid drips and oozes along the floor, flowing like a river, from room to room like an edging channel of death, illuminated eerily by the artificial white sheen of hospital lights. Jon knows what it means. The Dead man stares at the slowly, ebbing liquid, flowing and revealing the fates of people Jon will never meet. Maybe that’s a good thing. 

When Martin gently rests a hand on Jon’s shoulder, the man flinches violently, his whole body shrinking away from the kind touch. Death black meets golden brown, and in a glance sorrow is conveyed. His eyes gone glassy again, Martin simply murmurs, “Jon…is it…does it make you see …which people…”

The Dead man solemnly shakes his head, and disdainfully mutters, “Yeah. I…I know when death is coming…for these people… I think.”

Martin takes a small sigh, clearly trying to gather himself, and mumbles, “Oh.”

He meets Jon’s gaze again, and though his voice betrays the confidence of his words, Martin simply states, “Well, we should get you out of here, then. Come on. You don't have a flat anymore so you can crash at mine.”

In no mood to protest, Jon acquiesces, trudging behind Martin, careful to avoid the winding river of abysmal ends at his feet. He hardly notices as they leave the hospital, preoccupied by the small trickle of dark water he sees in every person’s footsteps. It hits him, then, that he can see the deaths of everyone. 

Jon doesn't like that.

Chapter Text

Jon’s mind is cloudy and his vision blurry as they step into Martin’s small, dingy flat building. Vaguely, the Dead man notices the dull, dirty carpet below him, and the lifeless white wallpaper of the hallways, a bland, uninteresting circular pattern lining the halls. Jon blinks, and returns his gaze to his hands, dark skin still lifelike, though it seems so out of place. Morosely, Jon decides to omit his right hand, the barely healed, rough burn seems to fit right in with his current situation. Slowly, the Dead man lets his gaze drift to the ground, looking at the dark, pooling liquid below his feet. He tries to ignore the dripping, deathly water by Martin’s heels. Jon doesn’t want to acknowledge that right now. He doesn’t think he could, even if he wanted to.

Though through a haze, Jon notices as Martin stops in front of a door, slowing their trudge to halt. As Jon stops, he notices the faded, bronze door plate, hanging just by a screw from the old, worn wooden door. 1 , the door reads, though it’s located at the end of the hall. Morosely, Jon notes the irony, the other seven doors in the hall seem to snarl at him, a macabre reminder of a long expired death symbolism. Snapping Jon from his grave thoughts, Martin finally humphs in triumph, and pulls a honey yellow keychain from his pocket, quickly sliding battered keys into the tarnished, old lock on the door. Looking at Jon, Martin gives a soft smile, and gently gestures to the open door. Through his positivity, a small layer of uncertainty shines through, and the man quietly mumbles, “Uh, welcome home? I guess?”

Jon shoots him a small, grateful smile, though his bone deep melancholy shines through. “Thanks, Martin.” The Dead man murmurs.

The freckled man simply nods, and turns to enter into his apartment, gesturing for Jon to follow. Echoing down the halls, the door creaks open. Martin shoves his hands in the pocket of his oversized, yellow hoodie, and steps inside, quickly flicking on a light to illuminate the small space. From window to wall, the small apartment echoes Martin. Despite the run down exterior, the small flat feels more like a home than anywhere Jon has ever been. The white walls are accentuated by beautiful, yellow little flowers, that Jon is almost positive are hand painted. Letting his eyes roam a little further, Jon sees homey, beige shelves, filled with books, plants, and other colorful knick-knacks that clearly belong to someone with love to share. Each and every little nook and cranny of the home seems to glow with comfort. Slowly, Jon turns his eyes back to Martin, who stands leaning against his worn kitchen table, shyly rubbing his hand on the back of his neck. Shining an embarrassed smile, the ginger haired man simply offers, “Sorry, I know it’s not much, but… I hope it’ll be comfortable. It’s obviously small, but I think it should work if you’d want to stay here… obviously-”

Cutting him off, the Dead man simply smiles and offers an amused, “Martin, your flat is lovely, thank you for letting me stay.”

The ginger man nods, as if to say of course, before quickly clasping his hands together, and looking around. “Alrighty, then. So, uh, this place actually has a spare room? All of the stuff I grabbed from your old flat, is uh, it’s actually already in there? Mostly in boxes, but you know… uh. It’s a little small… but I hope it should work? Ceiling’s a little low, but I mean, our standards for that are obviously a little bit greater than that of most of London, aye?”

Jon chuckles a little, a low, rich little thing. He turns to Martin, amusement in his Dead eyes. “Yeah, suppose that’s true. But, uh, thank you…so much, Martin. I uh, I can’t think of anyone else who’d do something like this…for me. I…really appreciate it.”

The ginger man gives him a beaming smile, though flush slowly spreads to his cheeks. Leaning off of the worn oak table, Martin bumps his head on the warm yellow light above him, and winces. “Guess that proves my point, huh?” He mutters, rubbing the spot on the top of his head. 

Jon laughs a little, and offers an amused, “Guess so.”

Recovering quickly, Martin shoots the Dead man a small smile, and says, “Well, uh, guess I should probably show you where that room is huh?”

The freckled man smiles at Jon, before warily eyeing the low hanging, yellow light, his eyebrows scrunched together and eyes narrowed as if he were staring at a sworn enemy. Carefully avoiding it, he slowly steps away from the table, and towards Jon who stands watching with amusement. Shooting Jon a knowing glance, Martin stops in front of the Dead man, standing taller than him, though not by much. Looking up, Jon smiles, and Martin returns. “Well…” the taller starts.

“Follow me, I guess?”

Jon nods, and obliges, trotting just beside Martin as he walks slowly to a door to a corner that Jon never realized was there. Opening the small yellow door with a creak, Martin gestures inside. Slowly looking into the room, Jon’s met with darkness. Chuckling to himself at Jon’s obvious perplexion, the taller slowly leans over Jon, and flicks the light switch in the corner, illuminating a small, unimpressive room in a comforting yellow. In the corner lies a bookshelf, with a color much darker than the rest of the furniture, where Martin carefully placed each of the books from Jon’s meager flat, seemingly in perfect alphabetical order, deviating only with a switch in genre. Amused, the Dead man turns to Martin, and simply asks, “Did you- Martin did you work in a library at some point?”

His face flushing in embarrassment, the freckled man slowly brings a hand up to rub the back of his neck, uttering a sheepish, “Guilty as charged.”

Jon shoots him a small, reassuring smile, before letting his eyes flit to the rest of the room. In the corner sits a small twin bed, pushed snugly against the wall and covered in blankets Jon recognizes from his own home. Along the plain white walls lie many cardboard boxes, holding pillows, knick-knacks, photographs, and other things lovingly packed. Seeing him judging the contents, Martin mumbles quietly, “There’s uh, the ones with clothes are all in the closet.” 

Gently, he gestures with his head to the small sliding door on the wall. Seeing this, Jon nods, and goes to speak, when Martin quickly starts, “Sorry I- uh, couldn’t grab the desk from your flat, I just didn’t have space… and your landlord was getting a bit…tetchy.”

Jon shoots him a grateful smile, and tries to brush off how his eyes have gone glassy. Locking his gaze with Martin, the Dead man murmurs, “Did you uh- no that’s a stupid question… Thank you, for… all of this Martin. I, uh, I can’t think of anybody who would do this for me… I, it means a lot more than I think I could ever express.”

With a soft, somewhat sad smile, Martin nods, the golden light illuminating his face. Quietly, he responds, “Of course, Jon.”

Keeping his gaze locked upon the Dead man, Martin gently sets a large, freckled hand on Jon’s scrawny shoulder, and timidly squeezes it. Though his voice cracks a little, the ginger murmurs, “I’m uh…I’m really glad you woke up, I’m glad you’re here.”

Jon has no words, but clearly seems touched by the sentiment. He doesn’t know how to convey how he feels, but he gives Martin a gentle look that he only hopes can express his thoughts. By this point, both of their eyes have gone glassy, but slowly, Martin takes his hand off of Jon’s shoulder, and slowly turns away. Nodding briefly, the ginger smiles, and turns his head to Jon. “Well, uh, I’ll leave you for a bit to get settled in. Yeah?” Quickly, he pulls up his baggy, mustard yellow sleeve and looks down at his watch nodding at the time. Turning his gaze to the Dead man yet again, he suggests, “It’s 5:30 now, but uh… take your time? I’ll probably check in, in like… an hour so we can figure out like… dinner and stuff.”

Jon nods, and smiles in confirmation, and Martin returns. Sighing, the taller man gives him a small wave, and turns out the door, leaving Jon to make himself at home

—————————————————

Faced with a room filled with boxes, Jon doesn't know where to start. Slowly, he scans the room, looking for any spot to begin his unpacking. Slowly searching, Jon sets his eyes upon a small box in the corner by the large bookshelf in the corner. With care, the Dead man slowly pads over to the beaten box, and kneels beside it, assessing its contents. Looking inside, Jon is met by small trinkets and carefully collected items that he hasn't seen since his uni days.

Slowly, the Dead man reaches in the box, pulling out a roughly fist-sized amethyst geode. The purple crystal shimmers, and the dark rock back feels familiar in a way that Jon really couldn't describe. Smiling again, he slowly stands up, and scans his bookshelf, looking for the perfect spot to set the geode upon its old, wood surface. Eventually settling on a corner filled with some of his mythology books, the Dead man sets the geode down, admiring how well the circular cluster sits. Slowly, yet ever eager, Jon turns his gaze back down to the box at his feet, and kneels again.

Sifting through the contents again, Jon is met with a small marble statuette, maybe four inches tall and hewn as an exact replica of The Thinker , bought during Jon’s horrible, lasting Ace Attorney phase. Laughing, the Dead man grabs the small figure, slowly turning its soft surface over in his dark hands, admiring the little thing. Smiling, Jon stands up, and scans the worn wooden shelving, hunting for the perfect spot for this little statue. Humphing in triumph, Jon secures a perfect spot for the little guy, in the corner of the shelf below his amethyst, though on the opposite side. The thinker seems to contemplate perfectly in front of Jon’s astronomy books, and the Dead man beams. 

Jon kneels to the box again, this time taking a look at the other miscellaneous items in the box, in equal parts intrigued and excited. With a child's glee, the tall man grabs a small Cthulhu figure, setting it in the empty space beside all of H.P. Lovecraft’s works, which are leather bound and lovingly placed upon the shelf. Quickly, Jon grabs three boxes of cards from the box at his feet, and leans them against the small cthulhu statue, perfectly filling up the space.

Jon continues like this, grabbing small little things that have regained their importance, and lovingly decorating his bookshelf. A small, onyx skull here, a fun DnD themed candle there, little remnants of a time of freedom litter this new space Jon can claim as his, and the man is ecstatic . When at last, the box is empty, Jon changes course, finding a box in the corner by his closet, with all of his rolled posters sticking out. Striding over to it, Jon sees a small note lovingly scrawled, laying atop the box. In a movement, the tall man slowly picks up the note, reading it swiftly. In Martin’s handwriting, the simple little blurb reads; ‘ Hey Jon! Figured you might want to hang up some of the posters, so go ahead! There's tape in here. If you can, do try to not peel paint off of the wall, though. The landlord’s a dick, so he'd make it a big deal if I decide to sell.’

Scanning over the small note clasped in his unburnt hand, Jon grins, touched by the thought that the man clearly put into everything. Folding the note with a crease of yellow paper, Jon slips it into the front pocket of his jeans, and begins to sift through the contents of the box. Smiling, he grabs the clearly brand new roll of double-sided tape, and allows his eyes to wander over the various posters lying in the box. Eventually, he settles on the one closest to the corner, unrolling it to reveal a very irritated skeleton smoking. A friend of his who went to art school made the print for him, back in the day. Smiling at the memory, Jon stands up, settling on the spot right in front of him to put the poster. Carefully, he peels off four squares of tape, and sticks the poster to the wall. 

Smiling in satisfaction, the Dead man combs a hand through his hair, and kneels down, grabbing a simple, square poster, which is unfolded. Raising it up to the wall, the light meets an intriguing, colorful die, the light illuminating the intriguing purple of the six dots at the face. Nodding, calmly, something in Jon tells him this should go by the skeleton, and calmly he fastens the square poster to the wall, diagonal to the large skeleton print. As he finishes aligning the two, the Dead man stands back and assesses. The two posters fill up just enough space on the wall where it would be awkward. Sighing, Jon takes a step back, and grabs the box at his feet, wheeling around towards his bed. 

With little effort, he takes out and places poster after poster, with each one a reminder of fun pieces of himself he allowed to fizzle out at the institute. As he feels soft matte beneath his hands, and gazes upon the bright graphics that he loved, and loves so much, Jon can't help but wonder why he let so much of himself be repressed by the stuffy academic life he tried to lead. Slowly, as Jon hangs up the posters, he almost feels like pieces of himself come back through the goofy graphics. The fun AC/DC poster above his backboard reminds him of a time where really, it didn't matter if Jon wanted to say fuck it , he wouldn't take just what people gave him, he’d work with it. The Dead man smiles at that, and reaches for another poster, this time grasping a Dead Poets Society cover, a lovely reminder of a favorite movie. Thinking about it for a moment, Jon can't help but note the irony. Smiling, the Dead man hangs the poster up on the wall, reaching for another, then another. 

By the end, the small corner in which Jon’s bed rests is covered in posters, their themes ranging from CAKE’s music to a complete interlocking map of every Greek myth. Looking at it, Jon can't help but smile a bit, amused by how well the space exemplifies who he is. Looking down, Jon sees one last poster in the box, left all alone without any space on the wall. Smiling at the box, Jon grabs it and walks over to the wall by his bookshelf, setting it down on the floor. Bending over, Jon grabs the mystery poster, and unrolls it, a little overly curious. 

When at last, the full picture is revealed, Jon can't help but burst into heavy, amused laughter. Staring out at him from the glossy matte surface, is none other than H.P. Lovecraft himself, lovingly cradling a small Cthulhu in his arms, almost as if he were holding a cat. A large grin splitting his face, Jon grabs the tape, and sticks the work of art to the wall with pride. Carefully folding the now-empty cardboard box, Jon steps back, assessing the glory. As he does so, a box pushed against the bookshelf catches Jon’s eye.

He hadn't noticed the larger cardboard box before, but now, it stands out from its spot wedged between the shelf and the wall. Jon doesn't need to trot over to see the box’s contents, as he can gage the bright, excitable rolls of fabric from his spot, but nonetheless, the tall man steps towards the box. Overcome with nostalgia, Jon kneels down beside the box, and slowly sifts through the contents. His hands brush against soft, cotton fabric, before eventually finding his way to a small box he remembers like an old friend. Gently, he grasps the faded, tin box, and picks it up with care.

Slowly, he pries off the lid, and is met with the bountiful sewing kit he remembers so well, his small needles, buttons, and pin cushions practically beam at Jon, as if to say we’re glad to see you again, old friend. The dead man attempts to pretend his eyes aren't going glassy, but looking at such a personal reminder of who he is, and what the Institute took from him, it’s hard not to let a few tears fall. Jon remembers long days spent sewing with his grandmother, one of the few activities the two did together. Fun evenings in uni, spent carefully making a new jacket or fun accessory for a friend, excited to see their face light up at the handmade gift. Calm nights at home after his first few jobs, where Jon was so eager to unwind and let the needles carefully mend whatever in his life seemed broken. Staring down at the box and its contents, the Dead man wonders how he let all of the things he loved in his life fizzle out, and for what? To seem respectable? To feel like a real academic? Jon can’t parse his reasoning, and decides not to dwell on it, at his core, he knows the answer. Everything ties back to that fucking Institute. Sighing heavily, and dismissing the irritating notion, Jon recenters himself, gazing happily down at the contents of the tin and box alike. Smiling, he sets both back in their place, and painstakingly rises to his feet, bones aching in protest. Promising to start a project soon, Jon exits the room, in search of his flatmate. 

—————————————————

“Alright, Jon, so… what sounds good to you, like… dinner wise?” Martin inquires, the soft lighting above the counter illuminating his ginger hair in a golden glow.

The shorter tilts his head to the side a little, as if to think, before huffing out a sigh and settling on, “I’d say Chinese, looked like there was a good takeaway spot down the street.”

With a nod, Martin agrees, and deftly picks his phone off the counter, squinting at the screen. With a finger, the freckled man pushes up his glasses, before letting out a small little ‘ Aha!’  in triumph. Shooting the Dead man a grin, the taller celebrates, “You, Jon, chose like, the only takeaway place round’ here that will actually let me order online, so, thanks for that.”

 The Dead man chuckles a little at this, clearly amused by Martin’s celebration. In faux-formality, Jon provides, “But of course, you’re utmost welcome.” 

Shooting him an inquisitive look, tinged heavily by amusement, Martin chuckles a little, and shoots back, “Okay, Mr. Sims, you go to med school in the 1890s or something?”

This breaks Jon’s composure, and the dark-skinned man begins laughing heavily, clearly at a loss for words. Now laughing, Martin reigns the two of them back in with a simple, “Alright, alright, so, what did you want? From the takeaway place?”

Calming his laughter a bit, Jon responds with a simple, “Chicken fried rice, spicy, if they have it spicy.”

Martin nods his approval, and scrolls, before quickly responding, “Yeah, they have spicy, how hot do you want it?”

Without even blinking, the Dead man instantaneously replies, “All the way up there, baby. I want the hottest they’ve got.”

Shooting him a surprised glance, Martin inquires, “Really? Didn’t guess you’d be a hot food kind of person.”

In response, Jon shrugs nonchalantly, and offers, “Yep,” popping the p, and continuing with a little, “No idea why, apparently I’m the only one in my family who ever liked hot food.”

At this, Martin cocks his head to the side a little, obviously intrigued, but doesn’t push further. Instead, he changes the topic slightly, pressing the small little Order icon on his phone, and using the god-sent feature that is apple pay. Smiling, Martin informs Jon that, “Alright, says it should be ready in like…25 minutes. You want to get it with me, or-”

Cutting the freckled man off, Jon eagerly replies, “No need for a second option, I’ll head with you.”

Smiling, Martin provides a simple, “Alrighty, then.”

Quickly following it, the ginger man inquires, “So, I don’t think I ever actually asked at the Institute, but do you drink? You never took Tim up on drinks with the rest of us, so I’ve always been kind of unsure.”

His eyebrows raising a little in surprise at the question, Jon perplexedly replies, “Yeah, I do…why?”

In response, Martin shoots Jon a grin, and says, “Thank God, I tended bar for years, and I have really been wanting a drink since this whole thing, so… if you’re amiable, maybe with dinner?”

Jon gives Martin a small smile at this, and offers, “Sounds great, thanks Martin.”

In response the ginger man beams, and then rolls up his sleeve to check his watch. It's then, Jon notices, that Martin has a trailing, intricate sleeve of bees and honeycomb, trailing up his forearm, and based on where the sleeve cuts it off, it goes further. The piece is monochrome, but with the intricate detail work, it looks almost alive, each honeycomb practically glimmers, and you can see individual fuzz upon the backs of each bee. Jon can’t help but wonder where on earth Martin got a tattoo like that done. Looking up, the Dead man realizes he’s been caught admiring the intricate inkwork, and he feels his face heat up a little. Clearly noticing Jon’s embarrassment, Martin spares the man a mercy, and only laughs, asking, “You like it? Got it done… jeez, maybe five years ago now?”

Relieved at the response, Jon nods, and replies, “Yeah! It’s uh, it’s…really cool. If I can ask- how long did it take? I have a couple detailed ones, but one that intricate must’ve taken a while.”

Martin chuckles, and enthusiastically responds, “Yeah, uh, it was a LONG one. I had to actually come back like… five different times to get it fully done. Worth it, though, it’s by far my favorite one I’ve gotten done.”

“Yeah, uh, I would agree, it’s a really cool one. Does it have any like, special symbolism to you? Or?” Jon inquires, obviously interested in the conversation.

Martin smiles a little, and tilts his head to the side, seemingly both in thought and amusement. “Yeah, I mean, it’s weird, I didn’t originally get it with the symbolism in mind, but as I went through my life with it I kind of began to appreciate the symbolism. Bees, for me, usually represent positivity, and they’re also hard workers, they don’t stop, and they stay buzzing even when they’re tired. I guess, when I got the tattoo initially I wasn’t in a great place, so I kind of worked through it, even when I was exhausted, and I did it with a smile. I always try to work with the hand I’m dealt, and I try to have a positive outlook, and stuff, so…” He pauses for a moment, turning to Jon as if to gauge the smaller’s reaction, evidently satisfied by the intrigue Jon feels displayed on his face. Sighing, Martin finishes, bringing his hand up to his neck a little embarrassed, “Sorry, uh, that, that was kind of long, and a ramble, but- uh- you said you had tattoos, right? Can I see them, and then flip the question on you? I-if you’re comfortable, of course.”

Laughing, Jon shoots Martin a smile he hopes is reassuring, and responds with amusement lacing his tone. “I-, uh, yeah! I can show you. I don’t know how much of each of them I can show, because most of them are kind of hidden by my shirt, but…” The Dead man pauses for a moment, calmly reaching his unburnt hand up to his soft, sweatshirt hood, and tugging down, revealing a detailed, slithering snake winding itself around Jon’s collarbone, and staring closed-mouthed at Martin. Without looking up, Jon simply finishes his sentence, murmuring, “This one is probably the easiest to show off, uh, it’s a snake, obviously? I kind of just got it because I thought it was cool, but in Greek mythology they represent a lot of different things? Obviously like, Medusa, so kind of like a beware, looks can kill, but because this little guy just looks without his fangs bared, I always thought of him more like the good things? Like snakes could mean rebirth, health, and wisdom in a lot of different myths, in Egypt they actually represented royalty, which was cool.”

“Huh, that is cool!” Martin replies, gazing at the small snake in something akin to wonder. Looking up and meeting Jon’s gaze, he inquires, “You said you had others? Uh, you did mention you didn’t know how easy it would be to show them off… but…”

As Martin trails off, the Dead man shoots him a small smile and reaffirms, “Yeah, I have two others, always wanted to get more, though. One, or, I guess two that I combine into one? Are like, right on my chest, on my top surgery scars, actually, but uh, I got pomegranate flowers there to symbolize like, Death to the dysphoria I always felt with that? Obviously, like… the whole Hades giving pomegranate seeds to Persephone thing too, I’m a Greek mythology nerd…” Jon pauses for a minute there, feeling his face heat up a bit as he chuckles, before quickly coming back to the conversation and locking his gaze on Martin again. “The other tattoo is uh, you’ll probably be able to see the top of it…”

With that, Jon turns somewhat to the side, and using his burnt hand clasps the great mass of his long hair, pulling it to the side. At first he looks to Martin in expectation, but then realizes that his tattoo is clearly still not visible, and then pulls his hood down with his other hand, revealing the beginnings of vertebrae, tattooed on where Jon’s actual bones would be. Looking to Martin, Jon is met with clear fascination, and the Dead man laughs. “I uh, I don’t really have a reason for this one, I just thought it was really cool? But uh, it goes down to my tailbone, so it follows my whole spine.” 

Dropping both his hair and hood, Jon turns his whole body back to face Martin, and the freckled man smiles before offering a smile, and replying, “That’s actually really cool, Jon. I like both of the ones I’ve seen, and I’m sure the other one is really cool!”

The two let the silence linger for a minute after that. It’s apparent neither knows what to say, but the quiet that hangs isn’t necessarily uncomfortable, either. After a good minute, Martin checks his watch again, and looks up to Jon in some form of excitement. Leaning over the counter, the freckled man exclaims, “Well! Compadre, I think we should probably get headin’, it’s aboutttt… a 5 minute walk? At my pace, at least, you could probably get it done a little faster… so we should get ready to go!”

Jon can’t help but allow a small, amused smile to spread across his face at that, and nods his head in agreement. “Alright, Martin, well then let’s get going. I’m not gonna bring anything, personally, but… if you want to?”

The taller shakes his head, and stepping away from the counter readily states, “Nope! I’m ready to rock, so…let’s head!”

Jon smiles, and with the freckled man walks to the door, equal pieces eager and amused. Jon feels his face heat up slightly as Martin shoots him a beaming smile, and holds the door, gesturing for Jon to go. The Dead man nods in gratitude, and together, the two step into the night, overly-excited to get takeaway. 

Chapter Text

All in all, the takeaway is nothing to write home about, but the two men enjoy it like it's a Michelin Five Star Meal. As Jon takes another bite of his mediocre rice, he can't help but shoot a pleased grin at the man on the other end of the table. His ginger hair lit golden by the warm lighting, Martin flashes Jon a smile in return, his eyes softly crinkling and his dimples showing. His grin staying on his face, he locks eyes with Jon, and taking a bite of his noodles simply murmurs, “What are you staring at over there, Mr. Smiley?”

Somewhat embarrassed, Jon sets his unburnt hand on the soft oak table, and with the other grabs his drink. Jokingly averting his eyes, the Dead man takes a sip of the somehow smokey-yet-sweet liquid, and his glass still up to his lips, mumbles, “Some guy who decided to get noodles for dinner, obviously.”

With this, Martin pauses, hand going still as he was slowly grabbing more noodles. A blush spreads over his freckled cheeks, and he looks up to Jon, brows scrunched in mock-offense. Their voice teasing, Martin shoots back, “Hey- first off not just noodles, it's Lo Mein, get with the program Jonathan. And second; why you looking at me, hm? Am I intriguing to you, dear sir?”

This cracks Jon, and he feels in his chest as soft laughter begins to bubble, a deep, rich rumble even to his own ears. Smiling, Martin laughs a little alongside him, the room now filled with the bubbly tone, but slowly stops and tilts his head to the side, as if fascinated by something Jon can't quite grasp. Looking at the freckled man’s scrunched eyebrows and intrigued expression, Jon takes the bait, and questions, “What?”

Black meets brown, and the two lock eyes, confusion dancing in both gazes. Sighing, as if to gather his thoughts, Martin slowly drums his fingers along the table; with each one resounding in a soft tap. Finally; he seems to figure out how he wants to phrase his ideas, and half-questions, half-states, “Y’know…since you've woken up, your voice has been a lot… deeper?”

For a second Jon just pauses, holding his drink out in front of him and staring at Martin with perplexion, before deciding on, “Really?”

And then, he definitely notices. It's not a huge change but it's enough where the Dead man wonders how he didn't notice this before. As Jon speaks, he notices that his voice is definitely deeper. Scrunching his brow in confusion, the Dead man simply takes another sip of his drink and mutters, “Huh. That’s uh…that’s weird .”

Martin just chuckles looking at him, and insecurely jokes, “Well, guess Death likes to support?”

With this, Jon snaps from his state of contemplation, and lets out a deep chuckle. He jokingly tilts his glass towards Martin in a mock cheers, before taking another sip and laughing out, “Guess that’s a perk.”

Martin tilts his head to the side in a sort-of nod and smiles, before taking a sip of his own drink. Setting the glass back onto the light wood table with a soft clink . With that he turns to Jon, his eyebrows raised and his smile drawing up the corners of his mouth, creating little dimples on the sides. He seems to contemplate, just for a moment, what he wants to say, but decides on, “Well, it is a Thursday evening, so I hate to bring it up… but… are you going to work tomorrow? Or…again?”

With this question posed, Jon looks Martin dead in the eye, and takes a long sip of his drink, before simply saying, “ I… not…not yet, I don't think. It's- uh… saying not yet…”

Turning his eyes to the table, Jon takes another, long sip of his drink, finishing it, and setting it down on the table with a hollow thunk. Slowly, the Dead man raises his gaze, meeting Martin’s eyes tentatively. In the freckled man’s golden brown irises there's none of the judgment Jon expects, instead he is met only with a concoction of sympathy and interest dancing in the other’s stare. Martin opens his mouth to speak, gently, but hesitates, attempting to form his thoughts. After about a minute, the freckled man slowly, very carefully asks, “You say it told you? Was it…you can hear it?”

Jon drops his stare to his charred, destroyed hand for a moment at this, contemplating any way he could answer, or explain. Frustrated, he turns his gaze up, and attempts, “I- ... sort of? It's… complicated…” The Dead man pauses for a moment at this, looking to his companion, and seeing only assurance reflected in their eyes, continues. “I…I guess yeah? I do hear it? But… it's weird, it's almost like…a little whisper in my mind. I'm conscious of it pushing me in one direction or another, without words or anything, just like…impulse, but if I don't want to do something, I don't think it'll make me…”

With that, Jon heavily sighs, breaking eye contact and setting both hands upon the worn wooden table. He can’t feel it under his burnt hand, and the Dead man grimaces at the realization. He didn't want this. Jon’s gaze remains pinned on the textured wood of the light oak table, even as Martin sighs and quietly, tentatively murmurs, “Hey, Jon…”

The Dead man doesn't respond, caught in the tumultuous current of his storming thoughts, over and over again asking why? . Slowly, Martin reaches across the table, and softly, carefully grabs Jon’s unburnt hand, the soft skin of his thumb brushing gently on the back, just enough pressure to get Jon to look up. As pitch black meets golden brown, they lock eyes, sorrow mimicked, though their reasons differ. Slowly, with care evident, Martin squeezes the Dead man's hand, and murmurs, “Hey. Jon. I…I don't know what's going through your head, but…I think I have a pretty good idea. I just…you're every bit the Jon I've always known…even with…literal death attached, yeah? Don't beat yourself up, okay?”

At first, Jon slowly blinks, the words setting in like a new layer of paint, and then, slowly, tears start to fall. At first, one little drop of water hits the table, then another, and in a moment, Jon is sobbing . Martin doesn't let go of his hand, or even shift soothing brush against it, he only tightens his grip, a silent voice saying I’m here. Jon's body wracks with the force of his choked sobs, but at last, as they slow, the Dead man looks Martin square in the eyes, and with such tremendous effort gets out, “Thank you.”

Under the soft, warm light his tears shimmer, but Martin simply gives Jon a soft smile, and murmurs, “Of course. S’ true. But…you and I should both probably sleep, yeah?”

Slowly the Dead man nods, but doesn't let go of Martin’s hand. Instead, he stands up slowly, and the freckled man stands up from across the table, warily eyeing the light above his head. The golden light shines upon his skin, and slowly, tentatively he takes a step towards Jon, pausing to look at him, as if gauging his reaction. Slowly, the freckled man sets his large hand on Jon’s scrawny shoulder, and pulls him into a tight hug. As the smaller man leans in, Martin murmurs, “Hey, go to bed, yeah? I'll take care of the dishes. You clearly need sleep.”

Jon looks to him, tilting his head, before looking down and letting out a loud yawn, as if to prove Martin’s point. The latter simply laughs, and gives Jon one last little reassuring squeeze before freeing him from the hug. “Go to bed, alright? I'll see you tomorrow morning.”

Jon nods, and simply murmurs, “Alright Martin, I'll see you tomorrow…and, uh, thanks, again, for everything.”

The freckled man nods in return, the action bouncing his thick, wavy hair enough for it to shimmer in the light, and he gives Jon a bright smile. “Yeah, of course, Jon. But, seriously, go to bed, you're like dead on your feet tired.”

This stirs a quiet chuckle out of him, and Jon nods, mumbling, “Alright, I will actually go to bed. G’night Martin…see you tomorrow.”

Giving the taller one last, gentle smile, Jon turns and heads for the still open door to his room, closing it with a quiet click , and flopping heavily onto the blanketed mattress, encompassed in darkness. Jon’s out in maybe a minute flat.

—----------------------------------------------

As slowly, the Dead man blinks awake, he registers the soft, comforting smell of baked goods, wafting in from the kitchen. Grumbling, Jon slowly, effortfully untangles himself from his warm, cozy cocoon of blankets, and is met instantly by the chill of his room. Still dazed, the Dead man blinks sleep from his eyes, and trudges over to his closet, soft carpet compressing with each heavy, exhausted step. Unable to discern much of anything in the darkness, Jon slowly grasps for the doorknob, pulling it downwards and opening the door with a soft creek. Looking inside his closet, he sees boxes upon boxes, stacked with over a decade’s worth of clothes. Met with such disarray, Jon can't help but groan, far too exhausted to come up with any semblance of a plan. With little patience, Jon grabs a soft hoodie from one of the boxes, and a pair of pants; not looking at either, and shutting the door with a swift movement. 

Not wasting a second, the Dead man practically throws off the hoodie he’s in, the cold meeting his flesh in an unpleasant wave. Shivering, Jon throws his worn hoodie into an empty box by the door, and slips his selected garment on, sighing in content as it helps to abate a little of the chill. Comforted by the soft cotton of his oversized jumper, Jon repeats a similar process with his pants, and slowly strolling out of the room, discards them in the box with yesterday's hoodie. Sleepily, the Dead man pushes open the door to his room with a loud creak, and he’s instantly met with bright, streaming light right in the eyes.

Grumbling a quiet “ Jesus, fuck, that's bright…” , Jon squints, and takes in his surroundings.

As he glares around like a detective staring at a cold case, Jon is met with the gentle light of morning, and Martin, who stands in the kitchen staring at the Dead man clearly surprising a laugh, amusement written deep into the smile lines of his face. The ginger-haired man stands in the kitchen, an apron tied on and a spatula in hand, illuminated almost golden by the lights above him. They both notice Jon is staring, but he’s not inclined to stop. Finally breaking his barely held composure, Martin starts laughing, letting out, “Jeez, g’morning sleepyhead!”

Jon simply grunts out an ineloquent, “Mm. G’morning.”

The Dead man’s almost incoherent greeting stirs another laugh out of Martin, and Jon notices as the light catches on his hair when the freckled man shakes his head. Slowly, the Dead man trudges over to the kitchen counter, gracelessly plopping himself down on one of the soft, yellow bar stools placed in front of it. Slowly, Jon looks up to meet Martin’s gaze, dark, exhausted eyes meeting chipper brown ones, stirring another short laugh from the taller man. Shaking his head again, Martin offers, “You want some coffee? Tea doesn't seem strong enough to even flick that exhaustion of yours…”

Without a beat, Jon’s eyes widen slightly, and the Dead man beseeches him, “God. Yes. Please.”

The ginger laughs again and turns around, fetching a mug from one of the cabinets, and sliding it towards Jon in one swift movement. “If you want it, you gotta make it, coffee pots behind me.” Martin shoots him a cheeky grin and gestures backwards with his thumb, earning an amused huff from Jon, who endeavors to get out of his seat. 

As his feet softly hit the worn wooden floor, Jon ambles over to the coffee pot, just dodging Martin as the taller flips another of what Jon can now discern as pancakes. Softly, the baked smell wafts towards Jon, and the man smiles at the domesticity as he attempts to plug in the archaic coffee maker. As at last the machine, which is likely older than he is, is plugged in, Jon hunts down some grounds, searching through the cabinets, opening each with a click and shutting it with a clunk , until at last, in the most clearly unused cabinet of them all, he spies them. An ancient tub of Folgers coffee grounds stares at him from the back of a very dusty cabinet. 

Grumbling, Jon reaches for it, attempting very hard to ignore the spiderweb in the corner. He ignores it so well in fact, that the Dead man remains completely oblivious until in one smooth motion, a positively huge spider crawls onto his hand. As Jon feels the sick thing's legs scuttle across his hand, he screams, and pulls his hand back, falling back hard against the counter with the momentum. When he looks down, it’s still there. Eight beady, black eyes stare up at him from a fuzzy, black, and bulging abdomen. Jon feels as his world drops from beneath him, his mind spins and reels because oh god does he remember those spindly, sickly, hairy legs, and that grotesque, bulging abdomen, those eyes which look at him , so tauntingly, so teasingly. They know exactly what Jon fears.

Jon doesn't realize he's having a panic attack until after Martin bats the sickly, evil, scuttling arachnid off of his hand, and squishes it beneath his spatula with a disgusting crunch . Tossing the now soiled piece of kitchen equipment into the sink with a flick of his wrist. Through his terrified haze, Jon can vaguely hear “-on, -jo, JON.”

Looking up, still in a daze, Jon recognizes a very worried Martin through his panic, a Martin who is repeating his name over and over like a lifeline, “Jon, Jon, Jon.”

Slowly, his breathing still labored, Jon manages out, “Mar-martin?”

“Hey, Jon, yeah, it's me. I want you to try to name three things around you, yeah? Can you do that for me?”

Unsure, the Dead man nods, and slowly attempts to find anything. Looking down, he murmurs, “Our hands…”

His breathing doesn't pick up, but it doesn't slow, either, and gently Martin pushes, “That’s good, how about anything else?”

“I-...you…and, uh…my jumper.”

Gently, Martin sighs, and affirms, “Very good Jon, you're doing great. How about three things you can feel, yeah?”

The dead man takes in a deep, uneven breath, but his breathing begins to slow, before he murmurs, “Your hands…the lining of…of my jumper, and… uh… my socks.”

Slowly, Martin nods, and murmurs, “Nice job Jon, how about three things you can smell?”

“I…uh, you… my jumper…and…burning…something.”

Cursing under his breath, Martin murmurs, “That's great, Jon. Good job. Is it…can I touch more than your hands right now? Would that be okay?”

Slowly, the Dead man nods, and in a second, he finds himself wrapped in the freckled man's arms. Jon steadily leans into the embrace, and gradually, he starts to softly cry, murmuring apologies into the taller man’s forest green, cotton sweater. Slowly, Martin brings a hand up to the back of Jon’s head, and runs his hands gently through the Dead man’s hair, murmuring quietly. “Hey…hey, it's okay, it's okay…”

Jon hugs him just a little tighter, and Martin responds. The two stand there under the soft, warm light of the kitchen, pancakes long forgotten and faces tear stained.

—----------------------------------------------

“Alrighty, Jon…you sure you're up for this? I mean…I can stay, if you need…or…” Martin questions from his spot by the door. 

Standing beside him, Jon gives the taller man a small smile, and reassures, “Yes, Martin. I'm fine. It's getting groceries and coming back to the flat. I have the spare keys. You go to work, I'll see you when you're back, I swear.”

Though deep lines of worry and concern are still etched into his face, Martin relents, and simply acquiesces. “Alright. Alright. I'll hold you to it though, yeah..?”

“Yeah.” Jon reaffirms, slowly opening the door and holding it out to the man beside him.

Martin steps through, flashing the Dead man a small, gentle smile, and Jon follows, closing the door behind him with a soft click. He's instantly met with the lifeless, decrepit wallpaper of the ugly halls, and immediately, he tries to avert his gaze, instead turning his gentle stare to the man beside him. With a small grin, Martin meets his eyes. “Well, uh…we should probably…” The ginger awkwardly starts, gesturing down the hall.

Though the brain fog weighs heavily on his mind, Jon chuckles and agrees. Taking a soft step then another, his steps quietly landing with a thunk upon the worn, carpeted flooring. Martin follows beside him, and though the two say no words, their messages seem to be communicated with ease. When at last the two make it out of the dismal, run down apartment building, they stop. Black meeting brown, their eyes meet.

No words are spoken, but a message is conveyed, and gently, Jon grabs Martin’s hand, not breaking eye contact. “I promise I'll be safe, okay? I swear it.”

Reluctantly, Martin nods, and murmurs, “You better be. I need those ingredients to make the pasta tonight.”

Barking out a startled laugh, the Dead man beams at him, gently squeezing his hand before letting go. In a tone tinted with affection, Jon assures, “Your pasta will be perfectly ready to prepare, I swear it…but, you've got to get to work…so text me the list, we both know I won't remember.”

Martin shoots him a gentle smile, the corners of his eyes crinkling in delight. His voice light, the ginger replies, “Yeah. Alrighty. Will do.”

Quickly, he pulls Jon into a hug, and releases him. Without providing any time for further stalling, Martin hesitantly turns away, and assures, “I’ll text you, and I should be home by 7, so I'll see you then!”

Although the freckled man has already begun his trot off, Jon laughs, and replies, “Alright! See you then!”

Without turning around, Jon begins his own trot in the opposite direction, ignoring the trickle of black water he sees leading in the same direction. Slowly, Jon walks, enjoying the cloudy weather around him, his boots gently thumping in rhythm as he steps along the concrete. Gradually, the Dead man zones out on his trot, appreciative of his surroundings yet foreign to them all at once. In his daze, Jon is rather content, observing naught but the soft, rhythmic thunk, thunk, thunk of his steps, until it's broken by the sound of water, deep water, under Jon’s boot.

The Dead man knows what it is even before he looks down.

There, beneath his feet, is a deep, expansive puddle, flowing almost as if from some sort of source… the rhythmic lapping of current hits Jon’s boot, again, and again, until at last, he turns his gaze in the direction in which it’s coming from. 

He’s unsurprised to see a worn down, red brick alley, almost completely shrouded in darkness. He’s even less surprised when he hears soft, gentle sobs echoing from the inside. Steeling his nerve and acting on instinct alone, Jon steps into the alleyway. As his eyes slowly, carefully adjust to the darkness, Jon is met with what certainly once was a living man, staring back at him. His form translucent and hazy, the individual gapes at him, figure stock still. Realizing, at once, that the man thinks he's unseen, Jon murmurs a quiet, “Uh…hey.”

All at once, the spirit seems overcome with a sense of shock, and though his voice is echoing and unreal, the man utters a small, hopeful, “You…you can see me?”

His voice thick with pity, the Dead man replies, “Yeah…I can see you. Do you…do you know why you're here?”

Though the apparition's shoulders quiver and slouch, the man solemnly murmurs, “Yeah…I uh…got stabbed by some angry drunk here…some time ago…my body uh…the man took care of it; but…I’m stuck… there's just this water…and…”

Morosely, Jon nods, and replies, “Yes…so you know you're-”

Not letting him finish, the spirit cuts off depressingly, “Dead…yeah. But I'm also…stuck.”

With this, Jon taps into the growing itch at the back of his mind, and murmurs, “Not for much longer. Check your pockets, sir.”

Although the ghost seems bewildered, and seems almost as if he may protest, the man slowly reaches down, and feels around his unreal pockets, eyes going wide in shock as he pulls out one skull-minted, black steel coin. In bewilderment, the spirit stares at his hand, pondering the currency, only gazing up when a soft, wooden, hollow thunk of a boat sounds against the walls of the cramped alley. The soft, golden light of a lantern shines through the dismal atmosphere, and his face illuminated by the yellow glow, Jon murmurs, “If you hand that over…I can set you free.”

Without hesitation, the spirit steps forward, his hazy blue hand meeting Jon’s for a brief second as he deposits the heavy, black coin into the Ferryman’s palm. In a moment, the man’s wispy form appears in the boat, and he stares at Jon, determination set in his eyes. Slowly, but with no hesitation, the apparition states, “Well, Charon…or, whatever your name is…I’m ready.”

This startles a chuckle out of the Ferryman, and he simply murmurs, “The name’s Jon…though I suppose Charon does work… and… you are..?”

“Richard.”

Nodding silently, the Ferryman provides, “Well…Richard, be off. I hope you find peace and rest with what is to come.”

Not another word is spoken, though the spirit’s eyes shine gratefully and he smiles in relief as slowly, the boat starts to move, and in seconds, fazes into nothing at all.

Jon is left standing in the alley, holding the cold, steel coin between his fingers, carefully turning it over and allowing a sense of duty to wash over him. Nodding once, Jon turns and walks out of the alleyway, back on his route towards the grocery store. Slowly, he stores the steel coin in his pocket, and in a daze, the Ferryman battles the sharp white of fluorescents as he pushes through the store door. It takes maybe five minutes gathering everything on the list, and Jon pays barely blinking. Charon notices nothing on his way home, consumed only by the heavy weighing thought of how badly he needs to talk to Martin.

Chapter Text

As Jon slowly approaches the apartment door, he knows what time it is, and quietly grimaces at the awkward interaction he has yet to face. Patiently, methodically, the Ferryman hunts through his pocket, at last smiling as he grasps the beaten key to the worn down flat. Grabbing it from his pocket, Jon fights shaking hands to slide the key into the lock, at last managing with a resounding click. Slowly, he turns the key, and the door creaks open, quiet and still. Effortfully, Jon squeezes his eyes shut and steps in, preparing himself for whatever is to come.

It turns out, that's just Martin, sitting stressed on the couch, and looking up with the posture of someone who really was worried. His voice steeped in relief, Martin murmurs, “Jon. Hey. Where- where the fuck have you been?”

Grimacing, Jon sets the bags on the counter and turns his gaze away, mumbling, “I…we have some stuff to talk about tonight…there's some bonus strings attached to… this apparently.”

He says the last part gesturing to himself, and Martin’s golden brown eyes light up in a concoction of worry and understanding. Slowly, the taller man gets up off of the couch, and tentatively steps towards the Ferryman. Jon feels as Martin gently, comfortingly sets his hand on his shoulder, and squeezes. From behind the Ferryman, Martin quietly murmurs, “Alright. Well we can talk about that…sit down and let me make dinner? Yeah? I'd offer for you to help but uh…I prefer cooking on my own, easier that way…”

Understanding, Jon nods, and the Dead man turns slowly around, and mumbles, ashamed, “Yeah. Okay…”

Martin gives him a soft smile, the corners of the freckled man’s mouth creasing ever so slightly with the action. Squeezing Jon’s shoulder again, the man turns, and makes his way behind the counter with a practiced comfort and ease. Gently, the man locks eyes with him, and Jon sits down, his eyes going distant. The silence hangs heavy, the quiet only broken as Martin gently takes ingredients from the plastic bags resting on the counter. Jon sits on the bar stool, attempting to gather any semblance of coherence to explain exactly what he had to do. Slowly, the Dead man allows his eyes to meet Martin’s, and as black meets golden brown, he sighs. “I…I don't know how to explain this…but… I helped a ghost move on? Like… fuck I don't know.”

This stops Martin, his hands grasping the box of pasta noodles as he looks at Jon in surprise. Confusion laced heavily into his voice, the freckled man repeats, “I’m sorry? You helped a ghost move on?”

Sighing with frustration, Jon confirms, “Yeah…I…it was…I don't even know…do you want me to like…backtrack? Explain it all?”

Clearly hesitant, Martin slowly nods, his eyebrows scrunched in evident confusion. “Yeah…uh, please…”

His voice laced with exhaustion, Jon begins, “So…uh, after we parted ways I started walking to the store…all good, all normal…you know… and uh…I guess I just kind of…didn't look down? And I realized I stepped in like…a HUGE puddle of the…death water… which I haven't really explained…but I think it's supposed to be symbolic for the River Styx…which…you know what that is?” The Ferryman turns his gaze to Martin, who now smiling, just nods in conformation, gesturing with a hand to continue his explanation, as the ginger man continues carefully taking out the dinner ingredients. 

Jon watches in relative amusement, but continues his recount with monotone, as if a professor reciting a historical account. “So, I basically stepped in the water, and felt a sharp chill. I knew right away what it was, and when I looked up…I saw it leading into a back alley. I didn't really think, I kind of let into the instincts that it assures me…and I just walked in. In the back alley was a ghost, a man named Richard, who was, for some reason…if I had to guess, the traumatic nature of his death, and couldn't…move on. I know now that he had been stuck there, crying, for well over…two months…”

Jon pauses at this, feeling a heavy wave of melancholy pass over him as if to drown. The Dead man doesn't look up, but he knows Martin’s expression is probably alike to how he feels. Sighing and steeling his mind, the Ferryman continues, though sadness now tinges his words. “When I found him…he was…glad to be seen, I think…and I kind of just let instinct take over again. I uh…I told him that to move on…he needed to give me the thing in his pocket…which…”

Slowly, Jon reaches into his pocket, and with two fingers holds the small, black steel coin, the silver skull engraving shining gold as it catches the warm overhead light. Jon looks Martin dead in the eye, and blinks. “Evidently…this is what he gave me…after that…there was a boat, floating in the tide…and he was in it in a moment…and then, he looked to me…called me Charon…and, I wished him a peaceful rest, and sent him off.”

Solemnly, Martin nods, and looks to Jon. As he slowly pours the box of noodles into boiling water, the ginger man murmurs, “Is that…is that all?”

His voice taking on a cheeky intonation, Charon murmurs, “Well I mean…I did get some pretty great groceries after that…but…yeah. I… I think I did the right thing…though…even if I'm some weird…servant of death, or…whatever.”

At this, Martin pauses chopping his tomatoes to look at Jon, a soft smile gracing his gentle face. Looking at the Ferryman, he compassionately nods, and practically whispers, “Yeah. I think you did too, Jon.”

The Ferryman looks up, and his eyes shine with gratitude, emotion dancing in his black irises. “Thank you, Martin.”

The ginger nods again, and sighing, murmurs, “Yeah…now get up, I think I do actually want your help in here. There's some mozzarella in the fridge, could you grab that and cut it for me?”

The Ferryman beams, and gives him a gentle nod, slowly rising from his seat at the barstool. Calmly, Jon trots into the kitchen and grabs the cheese, slotting himself into place beside Martin and beginning his process, as if he was always meant to work at the man’s side.

—------------------------------------------------

As Jon awakens the next morning, he is met with looming darkness, comforting, yet unfamiliar. Slowly, achingly, the Dead man removes himself from his thick cover of warm, soft blankets, hitting the ground with a quiet thump . Cracking his back, the Ferryman slowly makes his way over to his closet, the plush carpet squishing beneath his feet with each step. Though Charon shivers as he’s met with the chill of his surroundings, Jon is content to wake up with such simplicity. The Dead man smiles softly as he turns the cool handle to his closet, opening the white wooden door with an almost inaudible creak . 

Looking inside, Jon is met with darkness, and the Ferryman silently laughs that he thought it would be any different. With a bubbly disposition, the man sighs and grabs a simple hoodie from one of the boxes, looking at the soft, black cotton, it's evident there's some sort of a graphic on it, though in the darkness it’s indiscernible. Tilting his head to the side, Jon sighs, and reaches into another box, grabbing some dark, worn ripped jeans that have clearly seen past their prime, and an old black t-shirt. His clothes now tucked securely under his arm, the Ferryman steps back and closes his closet with a soft click. Wasting not a second, the dead man sheds off yesterday’s layers, and practically throws his new selection on, excited to get out of the door. With a step, Jon discards the dirty clothes in his small little cardboard box, and closes his hand around the cool doorknob.

Twisting the small, round handle, Jon is met with bright light, and the man can't help but hiss a little under his breath. Not opening his eyes, the Dead man hears an amused laugh from Martin, who if he had to guess, is somewhere in the kitchen. Grumbling jokingly about bright lights, Jon opens his eyes and trudges over to the kitchen counter, practically throwing himself down onto one of the soft, yellow seats, and fully laying down upon the surface for dramatic flare. This garners another amused laugh from Martin, who’s frame shakes slightly with each chuckle, though the man is very careful to not spill whatever the warm, practically steaming substance within his mug is.

Hiding his grin beneath his arms, Jon slowly turns his head up to face the warm, ginger man on the other side of the counter. The golden light of morning catches on Martin like an elegant painting, illuminating his face and hair a radiant gold, and bringing a fast warmth to Jon’s cheeks. If Martin notices, he doesn't say anything, save for an amused, “Well, good morning, sleepyhead.”

Grumbling, Jon props his head up on his arms, and murmurs a croaky, morning voiced, “G’mornin, Martin.”

This stirs a deep, bubbling laugh from the freckled man, who takes a sip of his tea and looks at Jon in amusement. From his comfortable perch against the counter, Martin inquires, “You want coffee? I'll uh- I'll get it…this time…”

Now fully sitting up, the Dead man shoots him a grin and responds with a simple, “Yeah, thanks, Martin, that would be lovely.”

The ginger man nods, and turns around, calmly trotting to the cabinet and grabbing the coffee grounds in a motion. Neither of them mention the spider, and how even the stain it left on the counter is gone on a trace. They both think it's something safer to avoid. Instead, Jon quietly hums Take It Easy by the Eagles, and Martin’s grin grows substantially. As the taller quickly spoons some grounds into the liner, he inquires, “So do you listen to anything other than classic rock? Or?”

Jon barks out a laugh at this, halting his perfectly in tune melody. “Uh…I guess? Does 90s rap count as anything else?”

Martin laughs and shakes his head, grabbing a mug from one of the cabinets. Turning his head to Jon, the ginger shoots back, “Of fucking course that's your alternative.”

The Ferryman simply shrugs and puts his hands up in mock-defense, though he can feel his smile stretching across his entire face. “Hey. Listen. I like what I like, you know?” He replies, amusement shimmering through each word.

Finally clicking on the coffee maker, Martin fully turns to him, the smile lines etching into his soft features. He leans across the counter, now maybe a few inches away from Jon, and returns, “Guess that’s fair, you like what you like.”

The ferryman shoots him another grin, and responds with a cheeky, “Yeah. I do.”

With a grin and a shaky laugh, Martin shakes his head, seemingly attempting to say something, before his face seems overcome with realization. “Oh crap! I never showed you where I put your headphones after I grabbed them from your place, did I?”

The Dead man’s face lights up, and he eagerly responds, “No, you did not, but I would be very keen to find out.”

Shooting the Ferryman a smile, Martin leans back off the counter, and quickly walks over to a door Jon infers is probably his room. The ginger man opens it and disappears for a moment, re-emerging seconds later, triumphantly holding a pair of sticker-covered black headphones. From the white light on the side, Jon can tell they're fully charged, and the Deadman can't help but smile, realizing once again how much thought that Martin dedicated to him.

Shooting the Ferryman a beaming grin, Martin trots back over to the counter, sliding Jon’s headphones to him in a swift motion. Not stopping for a moment, the freckled man gracefully turns around and grabs the coffee pot, now finally done, and pours it into the forest-green mug set aside for Jon. Briefly, he turns to the Dead man and inquires, “What do you like in it?”

Somewhat embarrassed, Jon replies, “Uh, nothing…actually. Just black.”

Scoffing out a laugh, Martin shakes his head, the soft golden light catching his hair with the movement. With amusement heavy in his tone, he laughs out, “Of course you do.”

A lopsided grin plastered on his face, Martin turns to Jon with his coffee, and slides it across the white stone counter. Accepting the drink gratefully, Jon takes a sip and beams at Martin, offering a small, “Thanks.”

The ginger man leans back across the counter, and looks Jon in the eyes, seemingly trying to find the words to say something important. The Ferryman looks at him, a question in his eyes, and it seems to be enough to get Martin to complete the thoughts brewing in his mind. His voice steeped in uncertainty, Martin gently starts. “Jon- I…I know this is kind of awkward, but I just want to know…I guess where we stand, because you know…before the unknowing, we…”

Jon feels heat rising to his cheeks, and though his face is up to his coffee mug, mutters, “We kissed? That what you mean to say?”

His face now rose red, Martin nods, turning his soft brown eyes to his tea cup. “Yeah…that…uh…”

Gently moving his unburnt hand to rest on Martin’s, Jon gets the freckled man to look up, his face now tinged a very deep scarlet. Timidly, brown eyes meet black, and Jon murmurs, “I'd kiss you again…for what it's worth…”

His face still deep red, Martin makes eye contact with the Ferryman, and his tone steeped in a thick mixture of happiness and embarrassment, mumbles, “Then do it.”

Jon closes the small space between them in seconds, bringing his burnt hand softly to cup Martin’s face, and with comfortable ease, the Ferryman kisses him. Lips meet lips in a simple movement, and it's evident both men are smiling. There’s no grace in the kiss, noses bump and teeth clack but, it's perfect nonetheless. When at last, the two part, out of breath and grinning, Jon gently sets his forehead against Martin’s and closes his eyes, opting to murmur, “That answer where we stand?”

Smoothing his large hand over Jon’s face, Martin chuckles a little and murmurs, “I think so.”

His eyes staying closed, Jon simply hums a little in contentment, before muttering, “Good, m’ glad.”

Neither moves for a long moment, allowing the comfortable presence to hang. The two simply sit, allowing each other to appreciate the company, until at last, Martin slowly, regretfully drops and hand and moves back, remorsefully murmuring, “Ve’ gotta get to work…but…I'll be home as soon as I can, alrighty?”

Though Jon mourns the loss of contact, he smiles gently, and replies, “Okay. Be safe, alright? Want you back in one piece.”

The freckled man gently nods, and as he pushes his square, silver glasses back up on his nose, they softly catch the warm overhead light. Martin shoots the Ferryman a small smile, and assures, “Yeah, alright. I'll do what I can.”

Slowly, obviously stalling, he makes his way around the kitchen counter, and grabs his bag off of the table. He locks eyes with Jon, who slowly gets off of his stool and steps in the ginger’s direction. Standing practically toe to toe, the Ferryman smiles up at Martin, who looks down at him, expression mimicked. Quickly, Jon leans up and gives the taller a peck on the lips, before stepping back with a teasing, “Alright, you've got to get to work…”

Martin’s beaming grin somehow gets bigger, and regretfully, he murmurs, “Yeah…guess I do. I'll see you tonight though, yeah?”

Jon nods, just once, and pulls the taller in for a quick hug, before releasing him with an amused, “Yeah. See you then.”

Stalling, Martin looks at Jon, before sighing contentedly and murmuring, “Alrighty.”

Slinging his yellow, patterned tote bag over his shoulder, Martin turns and opens the door, uttering a small little, “See you later, Jon!”

With that, the ginger man softly closes the door behind him with a click, and with that, Jon is left in the flat alone. Smiling to himself, the Ferryman turns around and treks back towards his room, grabbing his headphones off the counter as he passes. Quietly, he hums a tune under his breath, and as he passes through his bedroom door, the Dead man grabs his phone. Looking down at the little device, he quickly pairs his headphones, and smiles as he opens up Spotify. Clicking the unpause button, the dead man can't help but grin as through his beaten old headphones, Any Way You Want It begins to play.

Allowing himself to gently sway side to side with the rhythm, Jon walks over to the box of his sewing equipment, and picks it up in a movement, holding the beaten cardboard box snuggly to his chest. With a goofy grin, the Ferryman walks back out into the rest of the flat, setting his sights quickly onto the sofa. Gently setting his box onto the ground, Jon practically throws himself onto the white, plush cushions. With a goofy grin, the Dead man quickly peels off his oversized hoodie, which he now realizes has a goofily printed skull on the center. Staring down at the dark fabric, Jon slowly grabs some embroidery needles and string from his bag, and grins. Maybe to some, this is a grandma hobby, but Jon is so excited to get to work.

—------------------------------------------------

As Martin slowly unlocks the ancient door to his flat, he can faintly hear some sort of melodic noise from inside. As he hears the keys click signifying he’s played with the lock just enough to get it to unlatch, Martin scrunches up his eyebrows in confusion, attempting to place what the noise could possibly be. Shaking his head and coming up empty, the freckled man sighs and opens the door with a creak, and then the noise practically hits him in the face, triggering a pretty obvious realization.

Sitting cross-legged on the couch in a very tightly fitted black T-shirt is Jon, slowly embroidering the sweatshirt he had on earlier, and singing along to Second Hand News, clearly oblivious to Martin's presence. Grinning like an idiot, Martin closes and locks the door behind him in a movement, his hand closing and turning the cold metal of the doorknob with a practiced precision. Making sure his steps stay silent, the freckled man slowly paces over to the table, setting his yellow, flowered tote bag atop it with a quiet thunk. Throughout this whole process, Jon has remained oblivious, joyfully singing along to his song, illuminated gracefully by the golden yellow light, like some ancient god. 

Martin, incredibly amused, feels himself tempted to laugh, and quickly brings a hand up to his face to stifle any noise. Without any grace, the freckled man leans against the kitchen table, simply electing to watch as Jon emphatically finishes off the song, his melodic singing growing slightly louder as if to emphasize the last beat. Gracefully, he turns his head up as he flips back his long hair with his newly free hand, and opens his eyes to stare right at Martin.

As their gazes meet, Jon feels as his face heats up by degrees, and very self consciously, he pauses his music and takes off his headphones in a brisk movement. At a total loss for words, the Ferryman just shyly murmurs, “Uh…hi…welcome home…Martin…”

Jon remains unsure if it's his singing, or his embarrassment that gets Martin to start practically cackling, but really he couldn't care less which. As the freckled man’s laughter gently bubbles and fills the room, Jon can't help but join in, the happy sound of giggles bouncing around in the small space. As slowly, his giggles subside, Martin makes his way over to Jon, carefully plopping himself down on the couch beside the Ferryman. Charon can't help but smile as he feels Martin gently lean into his shoulder, clearly curious but attempting to be nonchalant. Slowly, Jon returns to his needlework, pushing the thread in and out and in and out of his soft, cotton sweatshirt sleeve with a practiced, methodical rhythm. With a humph of triumph, Jon realizes that finally, after hours of careful effort, the design he was working on is done. Gently, Jon smooths over the string with a thumb, and ties a small, gentle knot on the inside. With practiced precision, Jon cuts the string from his needle without even glancing down, and he removes the small, sharp little object. 

Grinning to himself, Jon sets his materials in box and tin respectively, with a resounding clink as the needle hits metal. Once done, the Dead man leans back into Martin’s shoulder, chuckling as he gazes at the freckled man, who stares back at him, object wonder dancing in his soft, brown eyes. Slowly cozying up to the taller man, Jon unfolds his over large sweatshirt, displaying his hours worth of work to his…boyfriend? Making a mental note to ask Martin about labels later, Jon carefully gestures for the freckled man to look at it, knowing how curious he is.

Lining the sleeves of his thick, oversized, black sweatshirt are intricate, colorful flowers, winding and climbing from cuff to shoulder seam. Each one individually done, their colors pop and grab attention, echoing memories and life, which contrasts so perfectly with the central graphic on the jumper. Slowly, Jon watches as Martin tentatively brushes his thumb over the Ferryman’s careful needlework. Charon gently smiles at the wonder on the freckled man’s face, as Martin’s seemingly transfixed by the delicate little flowers lining the fabric. Finally breaking the comfortable, hanging silence, Martin mumbles, “Jesus, Jon…these are beautiful!”

The Ferryman feels as a small smile stretches across his face, and he quietly murmurs, “Eh, it's uh…it's nothing much…”

This earns an incredulous look from Martin, who raises his eyebrows and narrows his eyes as he meets Jon’s sheepish gaze. Amusement thick in his voice, the freckled man teases, “Yeah…right, catch me doing this next week, then, you skilled bastard.”

With that, he wraps Jon in a playful hug, and the two comfortably mesh together, content and cozy. His arms snug around Jon’s stomach, Martin smiles down at the Ferryman, delighted to see the dark-skinned man’s features gently return, his eyes gaining endearing little crows feet at the edges, and his white teeth shining as he grins. Like he’s never known how to do anything else, Martin leans down and kisses the Ferryman, happy to be permitted to bask in his presence. Martin feels himself smile as lips touch lips, and his stomach fills with happy little butterflies all over again. 

As slowly, they part, Martin comfortably, snugly rests his head between Jon’s neck and shoulder, squeezing him just a little tighter. He feels more than hears, as the Ferryman murmurs, “So…Martin, what like…if you're a labels fan, what label would you put on our uh… relationship..?”

Laughing a little, Martin keeps his eyes closed, and quietly responds, “I was thinking boyfriend would work well…that good for you?”

Slowly nodding, Jon leans his head against his boyfriend's, gently combing his hand through the taller’s hair, and softly replies, “Yeah, I like that.”

Jon feels a small smile tug at the corner of his lips as Martin hugs him just a little tighter, the soft feel of his polyester sweater rubbing against Jon’s exposed forearms. Carefully, the Ferryman snuggles himself under his boyfriend’s arm, and happily welcomes the gentle pull of sleep.

Chapter Text

As sunlight streams through the blinds of a homey little flat, the Ferryman opens his eyes, yawning deeply and adjusting to the lights. For once, Jon notices that he’s up before Martin, and the Dead man can't help but smile. The freckled man’s face is still comfortably buried in Jon’s shoulder, but the golden light of morning illuminates his hair like a ginger halo, signifying the great beauty of this work of art. Martin’s arms are still tight and snug around Jon’s waist, and chuckling softly, the Dead man notices there might not be a way for escape.  Resigning himself to his fate, Jon slumps back against his boyfriend, simply deciding to wait for his release.

Comfortably laying back, Jon feels the freckled man start to stir, and he smiles as gently Martin muses some slurred, “G’mornin…”

The Dead man lets out a light, bubbly chuckle that shakes his chest, and quietly responds, “Morning, Martin.”

With a sleepy groan, the freckled man tightens his hold a little bit, before releasing Jon to move of his own free will. Grinning and shifting position, the Dead man turns a little to see Martin blearily rub sleep out of his eyes, clearly confused when his hand bumps into his askew glasses. In the freckled man's bewilderment, Jon can't help but laugh a little, before slowly, steadily getting off the couch. As his feet hit the cold, hardwood floor, Jon shivers a little, but turns around nonetheless. Turning around to his sleepy boyfriend, Jon smiles and grabs his newly embroidered sweatshirt, to which Martin is rather desperately clinging. Shooting the freckled man a joking look, Jon lets go, surrendering his jumper to his boyfriend. 

With a grin, the Ferryman jokes, “Alright, yours now, I see how it is.”

As Charon laughs, Martin doesn't even attempt to formulate a rebuttal, instead draping his new sweatshirt over his shoulders, and laying back into the couch, letting the cushions practically envelop him. With an amused sigh, Jon shakes his head and turns away. Met with the cheery surroundings of an early morning flat, the Dead man is unsure of what to do. Slowly, effortfully he takes in a deep breath, the soft smell of vanilla filling his mind. A small smile stretches across Jon's face, and the Ferryman decides on a course of action, attempting to fill his time. Without much real purpose, the Dead man walks into his still open, creaky bedroom door, met with the calming surroundings that he can call his. 

Looking around his now-familiar room, Jon lets out a contented sigh, and slowly trots over to his closet, each step landing with a soft thump against the carpeted floor. Finally reaching the worn white door, the Dead man sets a hand upon the chilled metal handle, and twists. As he opens the door, the Ferryman is met by an unsurprising darkness. Reaching carefully into one of the boxes, Jon leafs through fabric, his fingers brushing soft hoodies and comfortable t-shirts alike, until he pauses, hand hitting smooth, mesh-like material. 

Taking the mysterious garment out of the box, Jon is met with an intriguing, mesh-equivalent shirt that he hasn't seen since his uni days. The black material shimmers under the warm light streaming through the doorway, and the Ferryman is intrigued. Woven into the fabric is a skeletal depiction of a ribcage and spine, and Jon can’t help but be impressed by the accuracy. Curiously, the Dead man runs a hand over the design, and is surprised to find that despite the difference in coloring, the actual bones depicted on the shirt are practically unchanging in texture, perfectly lining with the rest of the material. With a soft sigh, Jon notes the irony of him wearing a skeleton shirt, and gracelessly pulling off his plain, black t-shirt, and slipping this intriguing one on. Normally, Jon would worry about being cold wearing something like the thin shirt, but as the thought crosses his mind, he feels a weird sense of certainty that the temperature is going to be very hot later.

He doesn't like what that might mean. Not with what informed him of it.

With a heavy, deep, irritated sigh that Jon feels through his whole chest, the Ferryman turns around. Met with warm lighting streaming in from the doorway, he can vaguely discern Martin’s figure sleepily fixing tea in the kitchen, and the Dead man can’t help but smile. Slowly, Charon trots through his open door, looking to his boyfriend, exhausted on his feet and attempting to make tea.

—------------------------------------------------

With a smile, Martin looks up to see Jon standing beside the pristine, white counter, looking both completely lost and completely at home simultaneously. Jon rests against the counter, golden light illuminating his chocolatey brown hair, and catching on the thin, shimmery fabric of his shirt. For the first time, Martin realizes he can see Jon’s pomegranate flower tattoo the man brought up on his first night. The ink work of the artistry is elegant, each flower popping with vibrant scarlet hues. Only when Jon starts to laugh does Martin realize he’s been staring, and brought back to planet earth, he feels his face heating up by degrees. 

Gracelessly turning his gaze to Jon’s expression, he notices the joyful glint in the shorter’s eye, and though his face only flushes further, he can’t help but laugh a little himself. His voice coated in fondness, Jon teases, “You see something you like there?”

If possible, Martin thinks his face gets hotter at that, and as he jokingly pulls at his collar, the freckled man averts his eyes, electing instead to gaze at a cabinet, and murmurs, “I- uh- ahaha, uh…the tattoo is very pretty, Jon…”

Eliciting another laugh from his boyfriend, Martin smiles and shyly turns his gaze back to the dark-skinned wonder in front of him. With a grin and a wink, Jon goofily replies, “Well, thank you.”

Without another word, Martin watches as Jon gracefully pushes himself up onto the counter, crossing his legs and looking back at the freckled man with a sly grin. With a faux-irritated sigh, Martin shakes his head, and pads over to his boyfriend, each step hitting the ground with a quiet thump. Standing in front of Jon, the ginger sighs and murmurs, “You counter-sitter, what am I going to do with you?”

Jon smiles at him, shy and teasing at the same time, the corners of his mouth crinkling in a way that Martin finds just so endearing. In a calm, quiet voice, the dark-skinned man murmurs, “I mean, you could kiss me.”

Though Martin’s face is probably a million degrees, he does, gently cupping Jon’s jaw and grasping his scarred, burnt hand. Martin's chest aches as Jon flinches at the contact, his body going still and his heart rate picking up. With a sad smile, Martin pulls back, bringing Jon's damaged hand up to his lips with a quick kiss, not breaking eye contact. His heart pangs as the soft, shocked look in Jon’s eyes goes glassy. As the first tears start to fall, staining his boyfriend's dark skin with a shimmery tint, Martin quietly whispers, “Hey, hey, it's alright.”

Jon’s deep, dark eyes lock on Martin’s with a pleading desperation, and through soft hiccups and tears, the dark skinned man despairingly asks, “How- how can you stand it? I- it's ugly, and gross, and- I-”

Without letting his boyfriend finish, Martin squeezes his hand, and gently kisses him, though tears stain both of their cheeks. Pulling away, the freckled man murmurs, “Jon, it's not gross, it's not disgusting it's not ugly, it's a part of you and yeah, it shows you've been through…some real shit, but…it's a part of you, and I love you, yeah?” For a moment, Martin pauses, leveling Jon with an unsure gaze, careful not to push further if on uncertain ground, but with a quiet, shaky sigh, Martin exhales, “But…this isn't only about the burn…is it?”

With a small hitch of his breath and a small, shaky sob, Jon shakes his head, uttering a sad, helpless, “I- I don't know, Martin…I really don't know.”

Slowly rubbing a soothing thumb over Jon’s cheek, feeling warm, wet skin beneath his hand, Martin murmurs, “It’s okay to not know, Jon. This…this isn't easy stuff…never will be…but…I love you, and I'll be here while you try to figure… this all out. Okay?”

Though his death black eyes shimmer with uncertainty, Jon nods, slow and effortfully. Leaning his cheek into Martin’s gentle hand just a little, he murmurs, “...Yeah…okay.”

Softly, Martin smiles, and leans his forehead into Jon’s, tapping together with a soft, non painful thump. As warm, wet tears slowly streak down Jon’s face, Martin kisses him, hoping to provide some relief. As Jon’s posture relaxes, and his tears slow, Martin steps back and holds out a hand, helping Jon off the counter, all of the man’s grace lost in an instant. His frame weighed down by exhaustion, Jon follows Martin to the couch, all but collapsing on top of him upon the cushiony surface. Martin’s unsure exactly when it starts, but gradually he hears soft, feint little snores, and with a grin, allows his sea of thoughts to subside.

—------------------------------------------------

The sun glows low in the sky as Jon’s steps halt in front of the dilapidated, ancient brick building. The dingy, dull red is coated in char and cinder, seemingly cracking away from the inside. Jon’s heart stops looking at the abandoned factory. He knows what's inside, and he hates with every fiber of his being that when he said his brief goodbye to Martin at the crickety, beaten door to the apartment, he knew exactly where he needed to go. Every piece of Jon’s mind echoes for him to leave, to run, to escape, every part…except one. Heavy, weighted dread pools in Charon’s chest, but steeling his nerve like a soldier preparing for battle, the Ferryman takes a breath, and steps through the rusting, charred door, barely hanging on by the mortar of the doorframe.

As he steps foot into the building, the smell of smoke thickens and practically chokes the Ferryman, the charcoal colored air swirling so black it practically blots out all light in the room. Taking a shaky, unsure breath, Jon suppresses a cough, and slowly trudges on, the blackened, cracking ground shifting beneath each step. The Ferryman is nothing if not disgruntled, the only things he can feel being the thick rivulets of sweat dripping down his head from the downright oppressive heat, and the thick, dirty smog clinging to every inch of exposed area. Faintly, Jon is aware that even in his mouth he can taste the acrid smoke, dirty and warm, it makes Jon long distantly for a cigarette, wondering if maybe that familiar smokey taste could combat the sickly, unnatural char around him.

Keeping the idea in his mind, Jon trudges forward, combating the thick, acrid smoke and relative darkness. With each step he takes, the Ferryman can't help but wonder if it's a step closer to hell. As his steps hit the cracked ground, again and again, pushing forward, the oppressive inferno of heat grows, sweltering and practically boiling. Charon doesn't need to even look down to know that his skin has already started to sizzle and boil, burning and peeling under the agonizing blaze. It stings and throbs, met with the harsh, dirty smoke, but the Ferryman pushes on. He knows if he stops now, he’ll be good as dead. 

Taking in another harsh, labored heave, Jon has to resist choking, the back of his throat caking in thick, unforgiving smoke. The Ferryman can feel the soot weighing down his hair like a thick layer of dirt, and matting and cracking into each and every crevice and wrinkle in his skin. Vaguely, Charon can't help but think to be grateful he’s not claustrophobic. Setting an inflamed, burned hand upon the ash-coated brick beside him, the Ferryman trudges on. Every muscle and joint in his body cries out in agony, swelling and aching in protest. Charon knows stopping now would be a smoking, burning suicide, an ending in excruciating pain and misery. Steeling his nerve, Jon decides that's something that he'd like to avoid, and marches on.

Through the acrid black smog the Ferryman trudges, and gradually he feels his nerve withering away, charring and burning like everything else in this blistering inferno. Jon lost track of what was up and what was down a long time ago, only forward, and so on he trudges, feeling his body slowly surrendering to the heat. The smog slowly starts to pool in his inhuman lungs, that deep, dastardly smoke finally beginning to suffocate the already Dead man. It's in that fateful moment of bone-deep, rooted panic, does Jon realize that Dead men no longer need to breathe. With a mirthless chuckle, Charon realizes that while his skin is fried as deep as American food, he really doesn't feel the pain. That agonizing, deep rooted hell was really just…a knee jerk reaction. 

In a moment, the Dead man barks out a mirthless, pained laugh, and stands up straight, the hellish agony falling away in an instant. The inferno of heat is still notable on his skin, warming the Ferryman uncomfortably, but no longer does he even notice the sizzling of his epidermis. Really, he doesn't care. 

Looking down, Jon realizes that he has a box of cigarettes in his hand, the small red labeling worn away, yet obviously mass produced. The Ferryman mournfully notices that he has no light, and with a disgruntled sigh sticks the box in his front pocket. Something tells him he’ll have an opportunity later, call it a hunch. With a prolonged groan of irritation, Charon strides forward into the thick black smog, no longer weighed down by the agonizing aches of a mortal form. With each step, Jon feels the pieces of himself blend together, the swirling smoke allowing the remnants of human reserve to blow away like ashes on the wind. 

It could have been hours, or even days until at last, Charon is illuminated by a wave of smoking, hot warm light, breaking through the smoke like the heavenly glow of the sun itself. Jon doesn't think as he strides forward, the skin of his face melting and boiling under the fumes, he only stares. As the glowing, orange flames subside, Jon finally stops, staring at the evil woman who he now knows is set to die. Her stout wax frame slowly dripping to the floor, Jude Perry stares back at the Ferryman, her face contorted into a sneer and her sickly, inhuman orange eyes dancing with hatred.

Chapter Text

“ Archivist.” Jude spits, her tone laced with deep seeded hatred.

Charon looks at her, amusement dancing in his Undead gaze. Slowly, he combs a hand through his deep, black hair, still caked in ash. The Hothead seems to chafe under such insult, her soot black, short, stringy hair igniting at the tips, causing her inhuman, wax skin to slowly drip down her face, caking and pooling slowly as it gathers upon her clothes and the ground beneath her. With no compassion, the Ferryman decides to rub salt in the wound, and mirthlessly teases, “Mm…sorry Jude, not anymore … My affiliations are a little… different, now.”

Though her hair ignites, Jude’s gaze slowly changes, now deeply laced with a fear that she tries so desperately to hide, contorting the area around her wax eyes just enough to show. The small, human-esque wrinkles beside her eyes smoothing slightly. Angrily, she barks out, “Oh yeah? Finally chose a better option, hm? I know you. You’re still a pompous, stuck up asshole, think you're better than me, huh? That's why you're here.”

Her faux-angry expression falters, the deep seeded fear shining through as Jon barks out a cruel, uncaring laugh, echoing deeply and yet silently in the large room. Locking his dead, black eyes on her, Charon snips out, “Oh, no… Life’s too short for me to waste my time with that…I’m here because my… patron, says it's about time that what you've been running from catches up to you. I guess…you could call me a hitman. If you want.”

As her eyes go wide with a deep, incurable terror, Jude's hair stops blazing, the dripping, sickly wax slowly begins to harden at loss of heat, and she quietly murmurs, “No…I, uh.. I'm sorry, no…you've got to be… mixed up, or something- I mean- I’m an… avatar, you know? I-”

Not even letting her finish, The Ferryman holds up his charred, warped right hand, quite literally in a ‘ stop’ position, and cruelly teases, “Yeah. I know Jude. You could say I know first hand… but that means nothing. The End comes for all.”

Jon slowly moves his hand to the side, as if to demonstrate his point, and Jude's hair again sets alight. The burning, sizzling heat now kicking off of her in degrees, and illuminating Jon’s undead skin in a horrifying, orange gleam, she simultaneously mocks and protests, “That's bullshit. I pretty much died already! I mean seriously, Jon, what are you? Motherfucking Hades?”

Tilting his head up just a little to tease, Charon slowly, mirthfully smiles, the corners of his mouth crinkling ever so slightly, and bites back, “ Maybe.”

At this, the Ferryman can feel as Jude’s terror peaks, her eyes going full in abject horror. Gazing upon her with a cruel, uncaring stare, Jon feels a hefty weight settle in his charred, warped right hand. In interest, the Ferryman’s undead stare slowly drifts, catching on shining, black metal. In his palm sits an obviously new handgun, and Jon, despite never even having seen one, knows it is loaded. Jude seems to notice too, as with a shocked terror, she gasps. The room grows ever colder, and Jon can hear as the soft, malleable wax of Jude’s long-undead form begins to harden. With a grin equally indifferent and mirthful, Hades looks to her and offers, “I think we both know your time has come, Jude. This just proves it.”

In indignation, Jude sets ablaze again, kicking off enough heat for Jon’s skin to sizzle and bubble unnaturally, its already healed texture agitated again. Jon doesn't even look down. He knows, now, that it will heal to be as it was before, a perfect picture of his deathbed. With a voice deeply rooted in terror, Jude attempts to compromise, “Hey- hey listen, I know I uh…you know burnt you and everything- and yeahh …I'm an avatar, but listen…uh….Hades… I think we could work something out…yeah, you know? We’d make a good team! Haha…”

The Ferryman levels her with an unamused, dead-eye stare, and with absolutely no joy, nor hesitation, he slowly raises the dark black handgun, cold as Death, despite the now sizzling heat of the room. His voice pitiless, Jon simply states, “You knew this was coming. So did I. I don't know how I got this gun, but something tells me it's my job to use it…so, goodbye, Jude. I hope you find what you're looking for in death.”

Without another beat, Charon pulls the trigger, once, twice, and then a third time, each with the ease and confidence of a practiced marksman. As each bullet hits Jude’s hollow, wax flesh with a sickening thunk, her body sagging and falling in upon itself, now lifeless and without pull, Timothy Stoker opens his eyes.

—------------------------------------------------

As the black, metal gun in Jon’s hand stays smoking, it slowly seems to dissipate, fading away with the smog it released, as if no longer needed once the job was done. Slowly, Jon flexes his burnt hand, as if looking in partial misery that it was there at all. Effortfully, his former boss lets out a dejected sigh, and pushes a hand into his pocket, grabbing a worn, red box of cigarettes. From his other, the Dead man instinctively grabs a lighter, deep, flaming red and metallic, and seemingly backtracks, looking at it with abject confusion, his brows scrunching together and eyes squinting. With an amused huff, Jon takes a cigarette from the package, and bites it, lighting it with a flick of the lighter in his uncharred hand, the golden flame illuminating his dark, black hair and exhaustion tinged face alike. It's then that Tim realizes how badly the man’s hands are shaking. With effort, Jon takes his cigarette out of his mouth, and with smoke, exhales a quiet, “Jesus Christ.”

It's then, Tim decides to make himself known, fearfully uttering, “What. The actual. Fuck.”

His ghostly form shivers and gleams with the emphasis on each word, a haunting cerulean blue illuminating the area around him. Tim can't tell if a piece of that inhuman sheen is his tears, and frankly, he doesn't care. As Jon turns to him, eyes wide as saucers, Tim can see their deathly, dark tone in full, and he doesn't know if he should be afraid or relieved. His now deep voice tinged with a strange mixture of sadness and hope, Jon shakily questions, “Tim?”

His voice heavy with relief, and anger alike, Stoker heftily responds, “Yeah. And what the fuck did you just do?”

Seemingly perplexed, Jon timidly questions, “Uh…which part, you..? Or…” pausing for a moment, he takes another drag of his cigarette, and gestures with his free, unburnt hand to the… thing lying crumpled and melting upon the floor.

His voice now hard with itching frustration, Tim nods, and confirms, “ Both.”

Taking in a shaky, anxiety filled drag of his cigarette, Jon lets out an exhale of smoke, and seemingly relieved, he gestures again to the crumpled form lying upon the floor. As if unsure of his own words, Jon mumbles, “That…I guess… was… Jude Perry.”

Tim blinks, his face contorted in a mixture of confusion and irritation. His voice laced with perplexion, the ghost questions, “Right…but…how? And… I don't know… I guess how was it you? ”

With sad, dead eyes, Jon looks at him and simply blinks, before taking another drag of his cigarette and murmuring, “I-...that's a really… long explanation, and I think it ties back into your other question…uh…if it's okay with you, could we…you could come to my place? And I'll explain it…it's fine if not…I just…I don't think it's a good idea to stay here much…much longer…might not be safe.”

Though Tim chafes under his irritation, he angrily spits out, “Yeah, you know what, fuck it, fine. Let's go. Lead the way. It's not like you can do anything to me anyways, I'm already dead.”

With a sad nod, Jon simply murmurs, “Yeah. Guess that's true.”

Nonchalantly, he takes one last drag of his cigarette before dropping it to the floor, and crushing it beneath his heel. No words are spoken, none need to be, and Jon tilts his head to the side and turns. Though he’s hesitant, Tim follows.

As they stroll through the charred, blackened, and burned hallways of the abandoned factory, Tim realizes that his footsteps no longer make any sound as they hit the floor, instead only Jon’s can be heard, rhythmically echoing through the eerily empty, dark halls. Other than the quiet thump, thump, thump of his former boss’s steps, there isn't a sound from either man, and silently, Tim mourns it. There are no words he could say that wouldn't end in a hateful, snide snip, but the macabre irony of their situation isn't lost on him. Looking down at his spectral, pale blue form, Tim feels his eyes go glassy.

He doesn't stop, but instead gently looks up to Jon, who strides with a weight on his shoulders that should never have been placed there. The ghost doesn't need to ask to know what caused the bone deep sorrow that hangs from the man’s very frame. His own isn't so different. As dead man walks by dead man, more of an understanding passes between them than words could share. They have both been beaten, and broken, and reformed. They were placed in these roles and made to dance without ever hearing the music. Maybe it wasn't fair, but it can't be changed. With misery shared, all that remains is two dead men, walking through the halls of a long abandoned building. 

Without warning, Jon suddenly stops, and Tim jerks to a halt, looking at the man in abject confusion alone, his anger drained away like water. Shooting him an apologetic glance, Jon offers a quiet, “Sorry…I…realized I should probably call Martin, give him a warning…he’s probably worried sick…I've been gone a lot longer than I said I would be.”

Tim shoots Jon a perplexed stare, his brow crinkling ever so slightly. Giving him a small, almost imperceptible smile, Jon clarifies, “We uh, we live together, he's my boyfriend.”

Gently, Tim smiles, and offers a quiet, yet sad, “Congrats. But…uh, yeah; you should call him…uh, let him have a heads up, maybe.”

In half a whisper, Jon replies, “Yeah, no doubt.”

With a sad smile, Jon pulls out his phone, and quickly taps through to find Martin’s contact. Clicking it, he brings the phone up to his ear, and sighs in relief at what Tim can assume is an answer. Although muffled, the ghost can hear Martin’s stressed tone, and shoots Jon an inquisitive eyebrow raise to show it. Shaking his head, Jon smiles, and quietly mumbles into his phone. “Yeah…I'm sorry… it… uh, I guess best way to say it is…it made me tie up some loose ends… I'll uh, explain more when I get home, but there's also gonna be someone with me…here; I know… I'll put it on speaker; one sec.”

Shooting Tim a glance, his former boss slowly does exactly as he said, and simply stares at the ghost, prompting him with a little, “Well?”

Brought back from his state of mental absence, Tim quickly recovers, practically sighing out a shaky, “Hey, Marto…”

From the phone in Jon’s hand comes Martin's shaky, obviously shocked voice, questioning, “Holy shit- Jon, is that?”

Laughing a little, the man confirms, “Yeah, Martin. It is…”

“I’m a bit spectral, though… could say I'm a little blue about it.” Tim teases, prompting a laugh from Jon and confused silence from the man on the phone.

Realizing this predicament, his former boss simply laughs out, “You’ll see when I get us home, Martin.”

With a frustrated huff, Martin mumbles, “Yeah. Okay. Alrighty. Uh…well…love you, see you when you get back.”

His soft smile lit by the pale blue light of his phone, Jon mumbles, “Yeah, see you then. Love you, bye.”

With that, he clicks off the phone, earning a teasing whistle from Tim. “Man? Where's my I love you?”

Shooting the ghost a mock glare, Jon laughs out, “Oh fuck off.”

Without looking behind, he starts walking off again, and chuckling at his friend’s turned back, Tim strides to catch up.

—------------------------------------------------

Jon doesn't need to look down to know how badly his hands are shaking. The Ferryman’s mind is like a tumultuous whirlwind as he slowly trudges through the worn down, dingy hall towards his flat’s door. The walls around him are illuminated by a cerulean glow as Tim steps silently behind. Without any words to fill the silence, each of Charon’s footfalls echo along the walls with a steady, rhythmic thump, thump, thump. As he stops in front of the door, the beaten brass plate sheens turquoise, all but the grubby, engraved 1 reflecting back a picture of two exhausted, dead men. 

With a hefty sigh, Jon reaches into his back pocket, and unsurely wraps his hand around a freezing cold, metal key. Shakily, he pulls it from his pocket, fixing his whole attention upon the electric blue shining metal as he effortfully pushes it into the door. With a brisk movement, Charon struggles, though eventually manages to unlock the old, wooden door. Gracelessly, he turns the warm, yet ancient, brass door handle, and pushes the door open.

As warm light streams into the hallway from the flat, Jon feels his worries drop off his shoulders like water down the drain, and gently he smiles. Standing in the kitchen, Martin looks up with a similar expression, and without looking behind him, Jon strides forward towards the ginger haired man, reaching him in a second. Gently, Jon leans in and kisses him, featherlight, murmuring, “Hey.”

Breaking slightly, Martin returns, “Hey, welcome home.”

His face illuminated blue, the ginger’s eyes glean with realization, and in a mixture of awe and surprise, he turns gently to Tim, who stands awkwardly in the doorway, his spectral frame waning in and out as he gently breathes. His voice softened, Martin hopefully murmurs, “Tim?”

The ghost locks eyes with him, and almost shyly the specter returns, “Hey…”

Turning his gaze to Jon, Martin’s face expresses disbelief and joy in a glance, and Jon calmly nods, murmuring, “Yeah, I know.”

Shaking himself from his apparent stupor, the ginger halfheartedly punches Jon’s shoulder, and turns to Tim completely, animatedly saying, “Well, Mr. Stoker, you should stop standing in the doorway and come inside, and…Jon can he shut the door?”

The Ferryman doesn't even need to think before calmly responding, “Yeah, should be fine.”

With no indecision whatsoever, Martin nods and includes, “And close the door behind you, Tim, never know what kind of hooligans could make it in here. The lock is on the handle.”

With a small, sure nod, Martin turns his back to both of them, returning to his prep work for the heavily spice-smelling dish in front of him. Silently, Tim nods and does as Martin instructed, though his hesitance shines through each movement, as if unsure if anything would be possible at all. Gently, he shuts the door and locks it with a firm click. The specter shuffles insecurely into the middle of the flat, and stands there wide eyed, observing his homey surroundings. As gradually, his eyes pan to Jon, Tim’s expression shimmers with desperation, and he asks, “Jon, you said you’d explain?”

Heaving out a sigh, Hades nods his head, though clearly hesitant. “Yeah…uh…” he pauses for a moment, turning to his still-cooking boyfriend to ask, “Martin, do we have any whiskey?”

Though it startles a laugh out of both Tim and the ginger haired man, Martin responds, “Yeah, should be in the cabinet next to the spider one.” 

At the mention, Jon feels a shiver run up his spine, and grimaces, though recovers with a mild, “Alrighty, thanks.”

Gently, Charon turns his dead-eye gaze to Tim and questions, “You want any?”

The specter shoots him a perplexed look, wrinkles gently appearing as his eyebrows raise. “Can I?” He questions, clearly surprised.

“Should be fine, s’ the uh…feedback…I’m getting, anyways.” Jon half murmurs, with an exhausted sigh.

Though his shoulders sag slightly, the Ferryman turns to the cabinets, and again realizes his hands are shaking. It's then, for the first time, does it occur to Jon that it may be a fear response. Clearly, Martin realizes it too, as beside the Ferryman the man sighs, his freckled face contorted into a small expression of pity; with small wrinkles appearing at the corners of his eyes. Though his voice sounds unsure, Jon knows there's no protesting he can do as Martin murmurs, “Go sit down on the sofa with Tim, and I'll grab it once I get these in the pot, yeah?”

Turning his dead eyes to meet Martin’s, Jon gratefully murmurs, “Yeah, okay. Thanks, Martin.”

With a gentle nod, his ginger haired boyfriend kisses the top of his head and turns back to his cutting board, picking it up and pushing the carrots into the large pot at his side with his knife, allowing for a loud shkkk noise to echo throughout the room. Laughing a little, Jon turns and steps out of the kitchen, heading towards the couch and gesturing for Tim to follow close behind. 

Throwing himself upon the sofa, Jon breathes out a heavy sigh, feeling the soft fabric beneath his hand and the warm light upon his face. Letting his worry slowly drip away, Hades opens his eyes again, gazing at Tim, who rests gently against the other end of the couch, his face contorted in a mixture of sorrow and confusion alike. Nervously, the specter picks at the skin of his hands, his eyes flicking up to Jon and back to his nail beds instant after instant. In the end, it's Martin who breaks the heavy, unsure silence, walking over while balancing three glasses, setting each upon the table with a thump, and a clink of ice cubes. 

Breaking from his stupor, Charon rolls his shoulders and cracks his back, sighing heavily. Smiling at Martin, the Ferryman murmurs a quiet, “Thank you.”

Returned with a gentle nod, Jon smiles and reaches for his glass, taking a sip and feeling as the liquid practically burns on his tongue, and warms his throat all the way down. Setting his glass back upon the table with the gentle clink of ice hitting glass, Hades breaks the hanging silence, murmuring, “Alright, then. Time for an explanation?”

“Yeah. I think so.” Tim replies instantaneously, locking eyes with Jon in desperation and curiosity alike.

Chapter Text

Setting his glass down with a soft clink, Jon feels the warmth of the whiskey down his throat, and he sighs, looking dejectedly into Martin’s eyes, met with a calculated nod, and then to Tim, who stares intently, brow furrowed and eyes wide. His voice heavy with exhaustion, Hades practically sighs, murmuring, “Alright. Jesus, fuck, where do I even begin? Tim…ask some questions and I'll try to uh…use them?”

The warm light filters through the blue specter, who sighs in thought and leans back against the couch, which despite his ghostly form, seems to cushion his nonexistent weight. Taking a long sip of his own whiskey, Tim glances to Charon, a question in his eyes. Setting his glass down upon the table with a soft clink of ice hitting glass, the spirit turns to Jon fully. His voice inquisitive and deep, Tim questions, “Alright. You're obviously not human anymore, but you're not the freaky knowledge thing either…I can…feel it. How does…how did this happen, how did you get like this?”

From the armchair, Martin laughs and takes a long sip of his own drink, shaking his head in amusement. Jon turns to him, face painted in amusement, as the ginger man sets his glass upon the table. With this motion, Tim seems to notice Martin's large tattoo sleeve, visible due to the golden T-shirt the freckled man has on. He nods at them, as if in approval, and turns his stare to Jon again, prompting an answer. Finally having collected his thoughts enough to answer, Charon meets his gaze with a conflicted expression and begins. His tone light, he starts off with a simple, “Well, uh, that's a very loaded question. But…shit…hm, okay.”

Dropping his gaze from Tim, Jon leans against the couch with a sigh, and now more morose, continues, “I guess…to start…uh…when you blew up the circus, I died.”

Jon’s gaze remains pinned on the table, but he hears as Martin takes a long sip of his whiskey, and sighs. Without looking up, he knows his boyfriend’s expression has become a little bitter, and his eyes distant. Though clearly troubled, Jon continues, “Well…I guess, actually, no, yeah, I died. Physically, at least… I, uh…however, I had already crossed the point where I was too supernatural to really…die, and so for…six months, I sat there, walking through horror after horror of statements I’d taken…stuck just… watching. It was…a lot of things, Tim, and I don't really want to talk about all of it.”

He feels the specter shift on the couch, while murmuring a calm, “Yeah… I uh, don't blame you.”

His chest tight, Charon murmurs a quiet, “Thanks.”

“I uh…I stayed like that, for…six months, until an avatar of The End or Terminus or literally just Death, if you want…uh, came and talked to me. His name was Oliver Banks, though he also goes by Antonio Blake…he uh, he pretty much said ‘ you have a decision, Jon, live or die.’ And well…I contemplated…that…it's uh, not just a fuck it! kind of choice, y’know?” 

The last part, Jon murmurs with a half chuckle, and a smile, as if to add just a modicum of humor to the situation. Not wasting a second more, Hades continues, “I was fucking terrified to die, but…I didn't want to become a monster…and so, I chose death, I think how I said it…I misspoke. I said ‘I choose death’ not 'I choose to die’ ...and I think…it gave it an in…and I woke up. Like…this…”

With a pitiful sigh, Jon looks to Tim, and mumbles, “That uh…that answer your question?”

His wispy eyes sad, Tim nods and murmurs, “Yeah…uh, mostly…thanks for sharing that, Jon. Uh… I think so, I uh…do have more questions, though, I uh…is that alright?”

With a gentle smile, the Ferryman turns to him, and with a pleasant smile murmurs, “No…yeah, you're alright…what other questions you got?”

The spirit smiles and shoots him a small smile. “If you're sure…uh…is…what  happened with…what'd you say her name was…?”

“Jude. Jude Perry.” Jon returns with a slight nod of his head.

At this Martin shifts in his seat, clearly intrigued. Tim breathes out a heavy sigh at the memento, and mumbles, “Yeah. Right. Her. Uh…are your freaky…death alignments…what made that…something you could do?”

As Jon takes a long sip of his drink, Martin asks from the armchair beside him, “Okay, okay…I think you're both forgetting that I'm still in the dark here- Jon, what did you do to Jude Perry?”

Setting his drink down upon the table, the Ferryman makes one finger gun at Martin, and swallowing, responds, “That-uh…guess I'll answer both in one, to Tim- yes, yes I think so, but uh…as for what happened? I uh…I felt the pull …it was telling me…her time had come, and so…I shot her, and…she died.”

“Oh…wow, okay? I know the name from…the archives, I think, so I doubt she was anyone good.” Martin says, his voice taking on an inquisitive tone.

Holding up his warped, burnt right hand, Jon murmurs, “She did this.”

With a weight to it, Martin nods and sighs, confirming, “Well, guess it's better she’s gone, then.”

His tone heavy, Charon murmurs, “Yeah. Guess so.”

From beside him, Tim shifts over, and gently grasps Jon’s shoulder, in an almost brotherly way. The chill from his spectral form works its way to Jon’s very marrow, but the warmth that blossoms in the Ferryman's chest combats it well enough. Gently turning his head, Hades smiles at the ghost, who simply squeezes his shoulder and mumbles, “Hey, I think you did the right thing, yeah?”

As Jon shakily nods, Tim moves his hand to pat his back before returning it to his lap, clasping his own. His voice shaking and eyes misty, the specter murmurs, “That doesn't answer anything about me … though.”

With a sad sigh, Charon nods, and murmurs, “No, but I think I have an idea as to why you…got called back.”

“Oh?” Tim practically gasps as he turns his head up to meet Jon’s gaze.

Gently, the Ferryman nods, and murmurs, “Yeah…I…when Jude was blasting me with flames…I had wondered if this is how you felt…in the Unknowing, and then after that…I remember wishing I could see you again…say I'm sorry, maybe. I didn't… summon… you intentionally… but…”

With a sad, shaky exhale, Tim muses a quiet, “But I'm here, yeah?”

Finishing his drink with a final sip and setting it upon the table, Jon murmurs, “Yeah. I uh… I could send you back…if you want…”

Finishing his own drink, with a drawn out, almost theatrical sip, Tim shoots Charon a small smile, and quietly returns, “Not yet, I don't think…Death is pretty boring, I want to hang out for a while.”

Though he chuckles a little, Hades returns with a simple, “Alrighty, then. Then you shall.”

With a gentle smile, Tim mumbles, “Cool. Alright.”

Gently, Martin sets down his glass and offers, “Alright, well the soup should be done by now, anyways, so… if you guys want some?”

Laughing a little at the change in subject matter, Hades laughs, and returns, “Yeah, Martin, I’d love some.” 

—------------------------------------------------

The warm, gentle sunlight filters into his room through his ajar door, and as Jon slowly blinks awake, he can't help but smile. Gently, the Ferryman shrugs off the cocoon of blankets, and is at once aware of how much ash is still caked into every crevice of his body. With each movement, the black, chalky texture cakes and itches his skin, and Jon is quietly grateful for the distractions of last night. With a grumble, Hades stretches and crawls out of bed, his feet hitting the floor with an almost silent thump. Gently, the dead man pads out of his room, met with warm light coming from the window.

From the couch, Tim’s loud, echoing snores can be heard. The specter sleeps peacefully, hazy limbs sprawled out across the worn, yellow cushioned surface. As Jon stares at him, he can't help but snort a little laugh, to which the ghost responds with a long, drawn out snore. From his left, Jon hears Martin's laugh as the tall, freckled man gently stirs his tea. In the warm morning light, his ginger hair is set ablaze, framing his face with a heavenly glow. Slowly, Charon strides over to the counter, pushing himself up with a gentle swing of his arms. His knee brushing gently against Martin’s hip, Jon cheekily whispers, “So uh…he sleeps like the dead, huh?”

Without grace or elegance, Martin snorts out a laugh, and his shoulders shaking with small chuckles, murmurs, “Yeah, Christ. I woke up from my dream because I thought I heard someone with a chainsaw…”

Half breathing in, half laughing, Jon questions, “Actually?”

With an impish grin, Martin slowly nods, and chuckles out, “Yeah.”

Gently, laughs wrack Charon’s body, the joy glimmering as bright as the morning light filtering through the window. As he takes another sip of his tea, Martin raises an eyebrow at him, and jokingly mumbles, “M’ glad to see you happy, but after your whole ordeal with fire lady… you should shower…you are coated in ash, Jon.”

Sheepishly shooting him a grin, Charon laughs a little and murmurs, “Yeah I know. Was on my way there when I got a little sidetracked by sleeping beauty over there.”

“Fair.” Martin chuckles out between a breath and another sip of tea.

Grinning, Hades gracefully slides off the counter, hitting the ground with a soft thump . With a gentle grin, Jon gives the freckled man a mock salute, and turns towards the bathroom. Without hesitation, the Ferryman pads over to the closed door, opening it in a smooth movement. Met with the pristine, white tile, Jon hmphs under his breath, and walks gently over to the shower. Carefully, he sets a hand upon the cool, chilled metal handle of the faucet. Without hesitation, he turns it, letting the gentle trickle of water begin to flow from the shower head.

With a contented hmph, Charon steps back from the shower, and lets his mind wander as he removes his layers. Closing his eyes, Jon sighs a little, and allows the thoughts deep submerged to float up. As he steps into the shower, Jon is acutely aware of how he has to choose to feel the warm, almost too hot water hitting his skin, cleaning off ash, and letting it drip down the drain. Gently, he cards his hands through his matted, ashen hair, now weighted down by water. The movement lets loose another cascade of ashen water, and the Ferryman lets out a heavy sigh. He should be dead. He is exactly what he tried not to be. 

As the first tear slides down his now, ash-free face, Jon puts his hands in front of himself, steadying his weight against the wall. The cold of the tile practically stings under his palms, more tears fall as he realizes that maybe, he wants it to. His shoulders shake, and quiver as sobs gently wrack the Ferryman’s body, the feeling lessened by the thrumming of water against his back. Hades’s mind swims with self loathing, and Charon’s chest aches as he lets loose another sob. Jon hates feeling like this, he hates this monster he’s become, but deep in the recesses of his mind, the Ferryman wonders if he deserved to be trapped like this from the start.

—------------------------------------------------

“Jon, are you sure that's something you want to do?” Martin asks from his spot at the counter, his voice uncertain.

Though his voice falters, the Ferryman knows his certainty is evident as he replies, “Positive…I- I have to… it’s uh…it's telling me…there's things I need to take care of there.”

With understanding, Martin simply murmurs, “Oh.” As Tim whistles from Jon’s side.

Jokingly elbowing the Ferryman with his cerulean, hazy limb, Tim shoots, “Aye, so the hitman has another job?”

A gentle laugh shaking his shoulders, Jon nods. “Yeah, guess so.” Charon murmurs, his eyes vaguely distant. 

Exhaling an exhausted sigh, Martin turns to his side, taking another bite of his cereal, keeping his eyes on Jon. His gaze flickers between emotions like lightning in a storm, but as he finishes chewing, Martin simply nods, quieting his internal discourse. With a sigh, the freckled man simply acquiesces, “Alright then. So…to the institute? Today?”

With a shaky, almost regretful nod, the Dead man returns, “Yeah. To the institute. Better to get this over with in the daylight. Close the chapter right, so to speak.”

With another prolonged, obviously conflicted sigh, Martin stands and grabs his keys. “Right then, best we’re off. Monsters aren't going to kill themselves.”

Chapter Text

Steeling his nerve, Jon stares into the murky, dark abyss of the Institute’s Tunnels beneath him. Beneath his hand, the uneven timber of the floorboards seems far too foreign, and the Dead man quickly pushes the thought out of his mind. Though both Martin and Tim stand behind him, neither make a sound, and the only sound present in the room is the dull, monotonous hum of overused fluorescent lights. Anticipation hangs in the air like a cord waiting to snap, and with a very deep sigh, Hades nods, more to himself than for those behind him, and hops into the unknown depths beneath.

Hitting the hard stone ground with a graceless thunk, Charon takes the brunt of the jump in his knees, quietly grateful he managed to land the leap at all. The air of the tunnels is frigid, and substantially colder than that of the institute, the bitter chill so harsh that for the first time, Jon is thankful he can choose to block feelings out. Taking in a shaky breath, Hades allows himself a moment to assess the area, the dark cobblestone of the walls meeting his gaze with uncaring stability. Along the hall shadows are draped like curtains, masking the area in a barely navigable darkness.

Quietly cursing the looming shade, Jon brushes a stray hair off of his already clammy skin, and listens to the sound of the musty breeze flitting through the tunnel from somewhere far to the left. Trying to ignore the almost overpowering scent of moldy dust, the Dead Man focuses, searching for any sense or reason in this cavernous expanse of unknown. Immediately, Charon feels the direction come to him almost like a thought of his own.  Mumbling out an irritated, “Of course.”, Jon turns to his right, and begins his trek away from the breeze, his steps echoing with a non-subtle thud against the musty, cavernous walls.

—------------------------------------------------

With a quiet curse, Martin stares down into the murky abyss of the tunnels. Beside him, Tim's shivering, spectral form seems to flicker in an unpredictable rhythm, casting blue light around the room with each pulse of supernatural glow, and betraying the nerves the taller man is evidently attempting to mask. Distantly, Martin is reminded of Tim’s old nervous tick, the irregular drumming of fingers haunting his mind even now. 

Minutes ago Jon unceremoniously leapt into the gaping maw of darkness beneath, and since, not a single word has been uttered, the silence hanging in the air with the weight of a death sentence. Logically, Martin knows that there is no real threat to Jon in the tunnels, but a small, paranoid and painfully human piece of him whispers insidious potentials like acid rain. His mind peppered with worries, the freckled man mulls over disaster after disaster, realizing that if something did happen to Jon, there's a chance the Not-Them could replace him, just like Sasha, and they wouldn't know until it was too late. The knowledge settles into his mind with the grace of a stone thrown into water, and Martin feels the weight in his chest, seemingly growing heavier until…

“Martin, hey, look at me.”

Shifting his gaze, the freckled man lands on Tim, who meets his stare levely with a small, sad smirk. With an exhale, the ghost simply mutters, “I can hear you working yourself into a tizzy from over here. I know, it's worrying, but…it's Jon. Even if he wasn't all… death-y… he’d have this. He’s…he’ll be okay, alright? Breathe.”

Though towards the end, his form begins to waver a bit, Tim grins as Martin gives him a firm nod, determination again shining through his warm features. Silently, Tim admires his composure, knowing at his core that both of them share the same stressor. Letting out a shaky breath, the specter curses the uncontrollable flickering of his form, casting a vibrant cerulean hue around the small, enclosed archivist's office. Tim hates it, safe to say, having his feelings dragged into the limelight without a chance to conceal. He's not ashamed or upset to be worried for Jon, but, in some small way, it feels like another small thing, a small choice stripped away. As the thought flickers through his mind, so too does his form, casting the room in another electric blue burst.

Quietly, Tim curses, and beside him Martin doesn't even look up, once again lost in thought. Through the haze of ever stirring emotions, the ghost shifts his gaze down again towards the trapdoor, left ajar from Jon’s descent. The unforgiving darkness seems to stare back in return, as if challenging him to ponder what could be inside. Tim turns his gaze away, but does not miss how the edges of his wavering form seem to flicker like flame in the wind.

—------------------------------------------------

Before Hades even turns the corner, he knows what lurks on the other side. Squamous and squirming, the Not-Them practically consumes the filthy, old, stone corridor. With jet black, oozing tentacles writhing and slithering, its massive form doubles in on itself, compressing in the minimum space it has. Looming over Jon, the creature's ever-shifting mass of melded, warped faces stare down, whether they are victims or replacements will forever be unknown. The stench of melted plastic and grime permeates through the air, the odor so strong that Charon knows if he opens his mouth, the taste will be unbearable. When at last, the only reaction Jon gives is a disgusted wrinkling of his nose, half of the horrified expressions upon the sickening behemoth painstakingly melt themselves into an out-of-place, disquieting smile, all teeth and no lips, full of mirth and hatred alike. 

As the Ferryman's stare stays unchanging, the stagnant faces begin to warp upon the gargantuan body, slowly shifting into expressions of vivid rage, their multilateral, mutilated features sneering at the Dead man with the rage of a sworn foe. As a grotesque mixture of melted flesh and plastic steadily drips to the floor, Jon settles on a singular face, up towards the top of the creature’s mass, twisted in unadulterated fury, the far too sharp teeth glinting in the light, and bloody, yellow, mangled eyes squinted in an almost comic expression of anger. Upon the scrunched brow, bloodied hair still sits, clinging to the face's forehead as if stubbornly refusing to surrender the rest of its individuality to the looming mass of ever-altering identity. Moving his gaze slightly downwards, Jon makes direct eye contact with the long-glazed over blue eyes of a deadman, who's true face and life are remembered by none. 

As the thought flits through his mind, Hades’s face stays neutral, though his heart aches in his chest. For all he knows, Sasha, or what's left of her, has long since become a piece of this writhing, slithering expanse of a creature. Resolutely, Jon keeps his gaze pinned upon the singular face. He doesn't think he could bear the chance of his stare flickering across what was once Sasha, who he remembers only from the few surviving Polaroids. Charon doesn't want to imagine what that kind, caring expression would look like, mutilated and bloodied, melded into this uncaring, unthinking beast of fear, like the hundreds, maybe thousands of other nameless, unknown faces trapped in its mass.

Interrupting Jon from his macabre train of thought, the Not-Them begins to shift, its form echoing like snapping bones down the malignant, shadowed hall as it alters, stagnant and fluid all at once. The faces upon its dripping, altering mass slowly meld into self-satisfied, gloating grins, the glazed, dead eyes turning in their sockets with a wet, sickening squelch, each gaze pinned directly on Jon. Undeterred, the Deadman’s stare is resolute, and slowly, each individual face on the beast again begins to shift. Open mouthed sneers and enraged stares fix Jon, shadowed by the drowning darkness of the cold, unfamiliar halls, and still Hades does not even blink.

Slowly, sickeningly, the oozing faces that adorn the behemoth’s flesh all begin to open their mouths, and in a cacophony of uncanny, malicious sound, the Not-Them begins to speak. Each syllable slithering and scraping upon the edges of Hades’s sanity, the creature utters a simple, “ HeE-Llo jOn.”

With an irritated, heaving sigh, Charon resolutely doesn't respond, electing instead to stare silently at the looming beast of a creature with petulant, unkind disinterest. Enraged by his silence, the Not-Them writhes and shakes, thick rivulets of decaying, melting flesh sloughing off in a crimson rain. Each chunk of liquid skin hits the wall and the floor with a sickening, wet thump and Jon can't help but thank fate itself that he stayed relatively untouched. Hades can feel the oozing, repugnant mix of congealed blood and viscous oil licking at his boots like a carnal sea, and he barely represses a grimace at the sensation.

All resolve abandoned, the succulent, slithering beast screams . The bloodcurdling, infuriating outrage echoing down the halls and rending the edges of Jon’s mind, a thousand voices overlapping in a malignant dissonance of anguish. As the walls begin to quake with the force of the noise, Hades feels a weight settle in his hands, as cold and uncaring as ice in the dead of winter, and wastes not a second. Raising the gun with a foreign familiarity, Charon fires one loud, echoing shot with a bang . As it hits, the creature shudders, and shakes, releasing another of torrent of bloodied rain, and Hades does not hesitate in firing another shot. Charged on adrenaline, he shoots again, and again, and again, each bullet wedging itself in the behemoth’s flesh with a sickening squelch . When at last, the gun fires empty, the Not-Them’s gargantuan, looming form sloughs over in an avalanche of melting flesh, slick with rapidly congealing blood and gelatinous black ooze. 

Bearing witness, the Ferryman stands, holding a rapidly dissolving gun, shoulders shaking with the aftermath adrenaline, and breath at a mile minute, heaving his chest as if he were drowning. Taking in another heaving, painful breath, Jon lets out a shaky, “ Fuck.”

Chapter Text

As Jon gracelessly heaves himself up from the dark abyss of the tunnels, he can't help but laugh, thankful for the grainy, familiar texture of old pine planks beneath his hands, the old wooden flooring like an old friend. He is well aware of the viscous ooze and gore still clinging to his meager form, but as bits of carnage slough off of his worn leather jacket, Hades can't find it in him to care. Faintly, Jon is aware of a gentle hand placed upon his shoulder, the weight both comforting and unsure. 

With care, Jon looks up, his eyes meeting Martin’s. Thinly veiled worry is practically etched into the freckled man’s features, though he tries his best to offer a reassuring smile. Silence hangs in the air, but Hades can’t find it in himself to break it, each explanation coming to mind dying in his throat as quickly as it springs up. His eyes must stress his plight, because with a knowing smile, Martin shakes his head and says, “It's alright, I’m not gonna make you explain…this.”

The last piece he says with a playful gesture to the eldritch goo sticking to Jon’s form, earning a punctuated, sharp laugh from Tim, who had been silently staring, his cerulean form flickering with unreadable emotion. The specter’s face splits into a cheeky grin, and quickly teases, “So…freaky eldritch goo storm, huh? You, my friend, look like you got caught in evil jello.”

Leveling the ghost with a look that he fails at making irritated, Jon grins and bites back, “Freaky Jello, huh? You want some? Might make for a nice snack.”

To punctuate his sentence, the Ferryman grabs a chunk of the gelatinous black goop off of his shoulder, and chucks it at Tim. The specter panics, and practically leaps to the side in a flash of cerulean, letting the viscous eldritch goo hit the archive desk with a meaty squelch. The disgust on Tim’s face is so potent that Jon can't help but crack, his laughter echoing in the small room with pleasant levity. Gradually, Tim’s revulsion morphs into amusement, and his gentle laughs join Jon’s, only dying down when Martin chuckles, and briefly murmurs, “Well, we should probably get going, before Basira comes in and sees…this uh…mess in her office.”

His laughter halting in an instant, Jon’s tone betrays his stress as he asks, “Wait…hold on, Basira? Why is…oh.”

Turning his gaze to Jon again, Martin sighs heavily and sadly murmurs, “Yeah.”

From his spot beside the looming desk, Tim murmurs a quiet, frustrated, “Well, fuck, but I guess, better her than you. Right? She…she probably knew exactly what she was getting into, Jon.”

Though his tone betrays the guilt coiled in his gut, the Ferryman simply shakes his head, and responds, “Yeah. Guess so. We should…uh, we should definitely go. I- I really… uh… I don't know, we should go.”

With a definitive nod, Martin takes his hand off of Jon’s shoulder, instead offering it to the Ferryman in assistance. Though he hesitates briefly, Jon sighs, and takes it, the warmth seeping into his cold hand in the tight grasp. Standing steadily upon the dark, wooden floor, Hades sighs, and with a layer of forced serenity, grimly jokes, “Well, suppose we should get going, then. Can't have the Archivist asking on the secrets of life. Lord knows I wouldn't be in a place to say no.”

With a morose smile, Martin nods, and strides towards the door, each step echoing through the small space with a heavy thump. Turning to Jon and sparing a small, understanding nod, Tim strides out as well, his steps silent upon the floor as his form wavers with unspoken anxiety. Noticing his nerves, Charon allows himself a moment of bitter recognition. With a bitter smile, he can't help but think, ‘ Some things never change.’  

As Tim drifts out the door, Jon follows close behind, not wasting another moment in the unsafe, enclosed room, instead practically speedwalking through the halls. Faintly, the Ferryman is aware of a tickling pull, telling him exactly who resides in these walls, long, long after his time. Hades knows he’ll have to take care of him, but, not today. With a cold, vaguely troubled sigh, the Deadman pushes on, sparing himself from that kind of exertion for today. Death knows he's well fed enough from earlier encounters. Jonah’s demise can wait for another day, after all, Terminus is unavoidable, why should Jon trouble with it when he doesn't feel like it?

—------------------------------------------------

The walk back to their shared flat is silent, save for the gentle pitter patter of rain on the ever bustling London streets. The damp clings to Jon’s hair like an unwelcome rag, and no matter how many times he cards his hands through them, his curls frizz out of control. Surrendering to his static misery, Jon huffs in annoyance and steps through the dingy entrance to his rundown flat building. With a small smile, it occurs to him that for the first time, he truly believes this flat is also his. Again running a hand through his poofed up nest of curls to no avail, Jon ascends the stairs with a quiet humph.

As each step protests with a loud creak beneath the Deadman’s foot, Jon hears the soft rain outside turn to a heavy storm, raindrops practically slamming into the thin walls of the flat complex. Silently, he can't help but agree as Martin laughs out a quiet, “Christ, glad we made it in before…that.”

With an unconcealed grin, Tim jokingly shoots back, “Yeah, no doubt, who knows what rain would do to your favorite resident spooks, Marto, we could melt like the wicked witch!”

Caught by surprise, Jon can't help but startle out a bubbling laugh. “Jesus, no doubt. Can't have us turning to sludge before dinner.”

At that, Martin fully pauses at the top of the stairs with a quiet, “Shit!”

From his lower vantage point, Jon looks up to the top step, where Martin stands, brow pinched in troubled contemplation. “What's up?” He asks, confusion laced into his words like fine thread.

With a glance of gentle regret, Martin meets his eyes and reassures, “Sorry, uh, that made it sound bad, I just realized I have literally nothing for dinner, I don't think the leftovers would feed all of us or anything, and I don't really keep any canned or preserved food in the house after…”

Sparing him a small mercy, Tim interrupts with a knowing glance. “Makes sense, makes sense, we’ll figure something out, I'm sure. I mean, I don't know about Jon but I don't actually need to eat…so that should help things, but uh… we should probably not just stand in the stairwell.”

With a confused glance, Martin nods, his ginger hair illuminated by the old fluorescent light above. With a sigh, he turns and continues his trek down the hall, his steps echoing with a hollow thud through the worn down corridor. With a cheeky grin, Tim makes finger guns at the Deadman and resigns to drifting up the stairs, having given up on walking at all. Shaking his head with an amused smile, Jon bounds up the stairs after him, reaching the top as his steps echo with resounding thumps. 

Reaching the landing, the Ferryman pays no mind to the surrounding flat doors, instead walking with purpose to Martin, who with a triumphant noise has evidently conquered the rusty lock. Opening the door, he holds it open for Jon, to whom he jokes out, “After you, my liege.”

Shaking his head, the Ferryman attempts to take a step forward, but is quickly blocked by Tim, who floats through with a cocky grin. “Why thank you, Marto, glad you acknowledge my royal status above that meager peasant.”

The specter punctuates his sentence with an overdramatic bow, at which Jon can't help but scoff. Shaking his head, the Ferryman strides in without a word, followed by Martin, who locks the door behind him. With a small smile, Jon scans his surroundings again, the warm cleanliness of the flat like a comforting blanket after the day’s events. As the thought flits through his mind, Jon fails to suppress a shiver, his mind again clouded with the ever replaying images of squamous replacement, an ever shifting, writhing mass of identity clutching and screaming at the tatters of personhood, reaching and clawing and-

“Jon? Jon? Hey? Hello?” Tim snaps his fingers in front of his face again, seemingly troubled.

His mind still hazy, the Ferryman’s gaze gently drifts up, and he responds with a quiet, confused “Hm?”

His eyes practically pinning Jon in place, Tim’s cerulean form flickers in indiscernible emotion, and gently the specter muses, “You back with us? You were…gone, for a second.”

Biting his tongue, Jon hesitantly shakes his head in an affirmative, and mumbles out a quiet, “Yeah. I-... Sorry. I was a little caught in memories, I guess.”

From behind him, Jon hears a heavy sigh of resignation, and turns to see Martin, who meets his eyes with a weighted stare and murmurs, “That's one way to put it.”

Jon opens his mouth to say something, an apology, maybe, but the words die in his throat meeting Martin’s sad stare, and instead he opts for, “I think I’m gonna go shower. Get this goop off of me.”

Without so much as a word of confirmation, or response in any form, the Ferryman turns tail and strides off, resolutely ignoring the stares he feels weighing upon his back. His mind feels like a muddled mess of swirling emotions, each vague feeling intermingled into a swirling, writhing maelstrom. Jon can't even attempt to separate fear from anger, terror from sadness, and he doesn't bother to try, instead turning on the near-boiling water of the shower, and praying that in the scalding steam his thoughts dissipate.

—------------------------------------------------

As Jon steps into the main room, clutching his towel, he’s silently grateful for the lack of commotion. The light is still on, though dimmer, the orange yellow glow illuminating the room in a honey glow. A quick check around his surroundings reveals both Martin and Tim in the living room, seemingly unaware of his presence.

Martin sits in the chair, idly reading one of his many tomes of poetry. Studying him, Jon realizes he’s probably doing so in an attempt to ease his nerves, which clearly isn't working, based on a quick glance at the freckled man’s shoulders, raised almost up to his ears in unspoken stress. With a loud flip of the page, Jon turns his gaze instead to Tim.

The specter lies sprawled upon the couch, arms and legs at every possible angle. Not an inch of the couch is free from even a piece of Tim, and Jon can't find it in himself to complain. The once-dark haired ghost lies on the brink of snoring, clearly deep in sleep. With a small smile, Jon again begins his silent trek to his room, still dripping water upon the cream carpeted floor.

Each step lands with a solid thump, though they barely register in Jon’s clouded mind. The shabby shamble the Deadman makes to his room is without a presence of mind, sad, downtrodden, and contemplative, is only disrupted by Martin gently clearing his throat from the loveseat. “Jon?”

His heart pausing in rhythm, the Ferryman looks up quickly. Like a deer caught in headlights, Jon quietly stutters out, “Yeah?”

Martin’s eyes shimmer as his face scrunches up in a poorly-concealed mix of pity and anxiety, and they quietly murmur, “Go get changed, but… I want to talk, okay? Your whole…zoning, worried me earlier.”

With a morose sigh, Jon simply nods, and murmurs, “Yeah, alright.”

With a shaky, forced smile, Jon gently tilts his head to the freckled man In parting, and quickly walks into his room, shutting the door behind him in a flash. 

The carpet is still wet beneath his feet as he takes a step, dropping the towel with a wet thump. Quickly, Jon strides over to his still-ajar wardrobe, his mind hardly present. Without effort, he grabs boxers, a pair of old sweatpants, and a sweatshirt he can't read the graphic on, though the fabric is soft between his hands. Biting his tongue, Jon slings the sweatshirt on, and makes quick work of the rest, comforted by the worn in feel of the clothes. 

With a small huff, the Deadman grabs the still-wet towel from the floor, running it over his still dripping hair in one long motion. It doesn't help a lot, and Jon can still feel the steady drip of damp hair wetting the hood of his clean sweatshirt. It's annoying but, honestly, the Deadman can't find it in himself to care. Gently, he slings the towel over his shoulder, and turns to the door, the cold white wood staring back at him like a foe. Logically, Jon knows that Martin isn't upset with him, necessarily, but he certainly doesn't think he's exempt from responsibility for his boyfriend's stress. 

As he steps towards his looming enemy, Jon can feel his chest constrict, and he practically struggles to take a shaky breath. With effort, the Deadman closes his hand around the freezing doorknob, and twists it, gently pulling the door open. As the warm light hits his face, Jon can feel his pulse quicken, his grip tightening on the door handle as he attempts to steady his breathing. He shouldn't be afraid of this, he knows that, but… shaking his head, Hades sighs.

Fuck it. 

With a heavy sigh, the Ferryman steels his nerve and pushes through the door. 

Martin still sits on the loveseat, and as his eyes land on Jon, his face crinkles in a tired, stressed smile. “Hey, Jon.” They mutter, obvious exhaustion betraying the lightness of their tone.

With a tentative, forced smile of his own, Jon mumbles a quiet, “Heya.”

Gently, Martin sets his book to the side and moves over on the small loveseat, vaguely gesturing for Jon to come sit. Gently nodding, the Ferryman strides over, and gracelessly throws himself into the crevice between cushion and armrest. Tucking his knees into his chest, Jon looks over to the freckled man, tilting his head in lieu of anything else. With an amused huff, Martin smiles at him, before his expression quickly grows morose again. Sighing, he fully turns to Jon, and asks, “Jon, I need you to be fully honest with me, don't try to placate me because you can tell I'm stressed. What happened earlier? I mean, you were gone, like, totally unreachable. You just…stopped, and…fuck I don't know.”

Turning only his eyes to meet Martin's, Jon stays stock still, but Martin knows he’s thinking. Gently, he picks at his nail beds, and the freckled man can't help but be worried for his boyfriend again, caught up in something so far beyond him. Logically, Martin knows he really can't do anything, but, clinging onto this vain hope that if he can understand even a little, he can help, well, it helps him a little, too. As Jon stays silent, Martin calmly grasps his hand, and squeezes it just a little. Jon smiles at him gently, and Martin relaxes, hoping he understands. He’s here for him, he has been, and none of what's going on has changed that.

After minutes that feel like all eternity, Jon quietly breathes out and begins, his voice uncertain and clearly unsettled, “Honestly, I…I’m not really sure. I was just…I guess the best way to say it is I just…got pulled into the memories of what happened in the tunnels, all of the fear and the worry that I had blocked out to get the job done just…came right at me, full force. It was…a lot. I just kind of went numb in the moment, and I think that's why I…shut down? I guess?”

Now softly rubbing his thumb over the back of Jon’s hand, Martin nods, focusing more on the soft skin beneath his fingers. Quietly, the freckled man murmurs, “That makes sense but…Christ. Next time is there…do you think there's anything I could do? If you get…like that?”

His eyes sad, Jon stares at Martin and simply murmurs, “I don't really think you can do anything about it, but just, be there…remind me that I'm here, and not…there.”

Letting out a shaky breath, Martin drops Jon’s hand, and instead pulls him into a tight hug, tucking his head into Jon’s shoulder in the embrace. “Like this?”

Quietly huffing out a laugh, Jon wraps his arms around Martin in return, and the latter can feel the heavy fabric of his boyfriend’s jumper as he sets his arms down. The smile evident in his voice, Jon simply murmurs, “Yeah. I think this is good.”

Somehow squeezing even tighter, Martin murmurs, “Good. You're Jonathan Sims, and you're here with me. Fuck the rest of it.”

As Jon laughs now, full and bright, Martin can feel the vibrations in his chest, and he can't help but smile. Resting his chin gently atop Martin’s head, his boyfriend quietly agrees, “Yeah. Fuck the rest of it.”

Chapter Text

Closing the door with a sigh, Jon fiddles with the keys in his hands. The cool metal beneath his fingertips is grounding, a compatriot for what's ahead. He knows he shouldn't just leave like this, early in the morning. Everything about it feels wrong, but the Ferryman can't deny the hunger that scrapes through his body, or the dark, swirling, abyssal tide of demise that has been lapping at his heels for days now. Like a dog at his heels the End beckons, and The Ferryman knows Elias Bouchard has to die.

Soothing the guilt in his mind, Jon left a note. Martin and Tim would know where he went, they wouldn't be scared, or wondering. He knows this will be unpleasant, but he also doesn't have a choice. As hunger gnaws at Jon’s core, he takes a heaving breath, and looks up. 

The Ferryman doesn’t know what he’s expecting to see, but the waning, spectral form of Timothy Stoker certainly isn't it. In his half translucent hand, Tim holds the messily scribbled note, and on his face a look of both hurt and disappointment rests heavily. None of this is what Jon focuses on, however, instead noting how the bright cerulean that once emanated off of Tim now absent, and his hands as far from their opaque blue sheen as they could be. Something is off, but as his brow scrunches in worry, Jon can’t seem to place it. 

As the ghost opens his mouth to speak, Jon quickly cuts him off, instead quickly blurting, “Tim. What the fuck is going on with your hands?”

The Ferryman’s words practically echo in the empty morning halls, the resonation seeming to emphasize the Dead Man’s distress. 

In a moment, the hurt washes from the ghost's eyes, instead his brows scrunch in confusion as his eyes quickly drift downwards, Tim’s gaze locks on his now-hazy palms, which he quickly tightens into fists, as if wishing them to dissolve entirely. Within seconds, he shoves his hands to his sides with force, and the specter’s gaze snaps towards Jon, a swirling mess of pained emotions. Quietly, the ghost quickly mutters, “Well. I think we both know, Jon.”

As he speaks, his words meet the air with a non-corporeal resignation, buzzing in the air before dropping dead. With a sigh of contemplation, the Ferryman nods, though with confusion laced into his voice, he counters, “Do we, though?”

His full head snapping to Jon, Tim narrows his eyes, and his voice tiptoeing the hopeful line between here and there, murmurs, “What do you mean?”

His voice hesitant, the Ferryman half-whispers, “I…there's a certain…sense, I guess you could call it when…people are going to die…or they want to die. And, I don't get either of those from you. I just…I think it's something else, Tim.”

Huffing out an angry sigh, the ghost simply returns, “I don't feel like I’m dying, and I don't really care about dying right now, but… Well what the fuck does it mean, then?”

With eyes that speak of unrest, Jon meets Tim’s gaze, and mournfully murmurs, “I think I might have an idea, but…”

As he trails off, Tim watches the corners of Jon’s mouth pinch in unspoken sadness, as if his heart itself was pulling them taut. Whatever it is he’s thinking, Tim’s sure is nothing pleasant, however he doesn't have a choice but to ask, “But?”

His whole form snapping back, as if drawn from some twisted dream, the Ferryman’s gaze turns to Tim, practically locking the specter in place with such weary sorrow. His voice weighted down by thoughts unspoken, Jon slowly murmurs, “But…I think it's something that speaks of a long road ahead.”

Something about the phrasing hits Tim with the grace of shattered glass, shards wedging themselves into his unbreathing lungs. It shouldn't make sense, how Jon phrased it, it should be vague and opaque in meaning, but as again Tim turns over the words, he feels his breathing hitch. His voice stubbornly betraying his fear, the specter murmurs, “You don't think that I- like…you don't think that I’ll be…”

Commiseration so blatantly etched into his features, the Ferryman nods, and quietly responds, “Like me?… I think… that might be the answer, Tim. I mean, you're at an impasse, as is. I think, maybe it's your time to make a choice.”

“I think we should talk about this more inside.” Is all Tim can think to respond, the words ringing through the halls with hollow solidity.

—------------------------------------------------

As Jon closes the door behind him, another sharp pang of hunger stabs through his abdomen like a knife. Biting his lip, the Ferryman exhales and steps forward, ignoring the almost unbearable gnawing in his core. Across from him stands Tim, who stands hazy and unfocused. The mere sight of him is enough for Jon to force down the ravenous clawing in his stomach. He knows he failed Tim once already, he won’t do it again.

In the dim hours of early morning, Martin is still asleep, and so in the silence of the apartment the two stand, the quiet both a balm and a muzzle. Eyes distant and jaw clenched in thought, Tim stands staring at the floor tapping his fingers without rhythm on his forearms. His whole form flickers like flame in the wind with each passing second, and it pains Jon to watch. 

Clearing his throat, Jon quietly muses, “Tim?”

As if struck by lightning, his head snaps up, gaze pinning on Jon. Tim’s eyes meet Jon’s with effort, his stare hard and sad, and his mouth is set in a firm line. The ghost pauses a moment, clicking his tongue as he opens his mouth, before closing it again with a sigh. Momentarily, he turns his gaze away, the dark navy of his once black hair glinting in the first shimmers of sunlight. 

The silence is heavy, and with a weight in his chest, the Ferryman waits.

With a sigh that speaks of weariness, Tim anxiously bites his lip and turns to Jon, locking eyes once more. His eyes speak of both fear and acceptance, and as if to steady himself, Tim leans back against the counter, bracing himself using both hands. With hesitation the ghost slowly opens his mouth. “You said…you said that I have a choice to make?”

Electing to match Tim’s posture, Jon slowly nods and reclines against the table, the wood rough beneath his hands. Sighing, the Ferryman quietly responds, “Yeah, and I think we both know what it is.”

Gently crossing his arms, Tim huffs out a one beat chuckle that speaks of weariness. Sadly smiling, he asks, “Yeah. We do, but, could you say it anyways? I…it's…I need to hear it. I need to hear someone say it.”

Nodding again, Jon sighs and fully pushes himself onto the table, folding his hands on his lap. Meeting Tim’s gaze with forlorn seriousness, the Ferryman shakily states, “Tim. You have a choice, you live, or you die. The way you are now…it…it can't last, you can’t exist between life and death, and you need to decide what path you're going to take.”

His face scrunching in grim acceptance, Tim brokenly whispers, “I just…I don't understand why, Jon.”

Tilting his head to the side, the Ferryman nervously asks, “What do you mean?”

Turning his head to the side again, the ghost’s voice cracks as he practically cries, “I already chose death. When I was in that goddamn circus. I KNEW what pressing that detonator meant…and I looked at it as an escape. I knew death was inevitable anyways, might as well make it happen on my terms.”

Sucking in a sharp breath, Jon sadly meets Tim’s gaze again, letting the words hang in the air. After a few seconds, he quietly responds, “I know. And I think that's exactly it.”

His eyes now brimming with tears, Tim dismally questions, “What do you mean?”

“You chose death, Tim. You saw the inevitability and chose it over anything else. I think…if it hadn't already been a supernatural situation…it would've simply been…well, it would've been end scene, but like me, I chose Death…not necessarily to die.” The Ferryman returns, chewing the inside of his cheek.

His expression pained, Tim simply muses, “Oh.”

Meeting his eyes with a commiserating glance, Jon cheerlessly murmurs, “I know.”

The two let the silence hang in the air, the gentle hum of appliances only sound filling the space. Gently, Jon reaches up and tucks a strand of hair behind his ear, at last forcing himself to breathe again. Though first biting his tongue, the Ferryman quietly looks out the window and says, “It hurts, knowing that I’m still here like this, it feels wrong, but…being here with you, and Martin, I know it's what’s right for me.” Gently he pauses, taking a moment to soak in the beauty of the brilliant hues of the sunrise, now illuminating the gentle home in which he sits. “Being here, it's worth every fucking terrible thing about being like this. It's not what I wanted at first, sure, but… being allowed to be here after it all, it's almost like a second chance…. and it's taken me a bit to realize but…I wouldn't trade it for the world.”

Jon punctuates his sentence with gentle laugh, almost disbelieving, which gradually morphs into a small smile. Turning his gaze away from the vibrant orange shimmers of morning light, the Ferryman turns to Tim, vaguely aware of how his hunger has abated. 

The specter still leans against the counter, though his gaze is fixed on Jon, features hazily contorted into something resembling hope. With a soft smile, the Ferryman pushes himself off the table, feet hitting the floor with a quiet thump. His gaze locked on Tim, he crosses the space between them in two paces. Standing by the ghost’s side, Jon gently sets a hand on his shoulder, looking him in the eye. With his tone once again heavy, the Ferryman quietly murmurs, “Don’t second guess yourself, as cheesy as it sounds, choose with your heart.”

When Tim gently nods, Jon removes his hand and shakes his head in return. Gently the Ferryman shifts his gaze, and begins to shamble towards his ajar bedroom door. The carpet is soft beneath his feet, and Jon lets his focus wane for a moment, until Tim’s voice rings through the room, stopping him in his tracks. “Jon, just, for a second, wait.”

Turning full body back to him, the Ferryman quietly asks, “Yeah, Tim?”

“How will I know?” The ghost asks, his expression conflicted

With a sigh of deliberation, all Jon can think to say is, “You’ll know what feels right, and you'll embrace it.”

His brow scrunches, though his tone is lined with understanding as he says, “Alright.”

With a gentle smile, Jon reaffirms, “Know whatever you choose, Martin and I will be here for you, we care about you, Tim. We...”

Jon doesn't finish his sentence, but with the way his hand curls, he's sure Tim can tell where it was heading. Like a speckle of light, a small grin flits across Tim’s sullen expression, and quietly he murmurs, “I know, thank you.”

Gently nodding, Jon replies, “Anytime.”

With that, the Ferryman resumes his trek towards his room, the darkness of sleep soon to be a comforting blanket. He doesn't turn around, but he knows Tim’s gaze rests upon his back.

—------------------------------------------------

As Jon wakes up for the second time, he hears the gentle clink of glassware from the kitchen and smiles, knowing exactly who is finally awake. Prying his weary bones from his mass of pillows, the Ferryman stretches gracefully, his back fully arching with a yawn. Shaking his shoulders out, Jon gently hops from the bed and onto the floor, his feet hitting the carpet with a gentle thump. He looks around his room quickly, before cracking his neck and walking quietly to the door. Setting his hand upon the cool doorknob, Jon smiles, knowing exactly who waits for him on the other side. 

Opening the door, the Ferryman is met with a brilliant flood of golden sunlight, sparkling through the open window and illuminating the room around him. In the kitchen Martin stands, his back to Jon. The freckled man’s ginger hair catches in the sunlight, casting him in a heavenly glow, and as Jon stands staring he wonders how this man can look absolutely gorgeous while wearing Spongebob pajama pants. Gently, Martin laughs from the kitchen, and turning his head to Jon, he teases, “You know you can come look at me over here too, right? You don’t need to stand outside your bedroom door to do that.”

Startled, the Ferryman lets out a breathy laugh, and pads over to the counter, the late morning light warming his back as he meets it once more. Sitting down on one of the barstools, Jon leans his head on his hand, content to sit in relative silence as his boyfriend fiddles with glassware. It’s as that thought flits through his mind that Martin fully turns, looking victorious as he holds two mugs of steaming tea. A large grin plastered on his face, the freckled man sets the black cat mug down in front of Jon with a gentle clink, holding the other, adorned with simple daisies, between his hands. Though Jon raises an eyebrow, he says nothing and simply takes the mug, sipping it gently as Martin happily proclaims, “I timed when you would be up perfectly! Like we’re in some kind of story! Like, look at this! You’re up, and now you’re caffeinated. You're welcome.”

With a gentle laugh that glows like sunlight, Jon murmurs, “Thank you, Martin.”

His ginger haired boyfriend only nods in return, busying himself with the fixings of his own tea. Vaguely, it crosses Jon’s mind to mention what happened with Tim, but as he opens his mouth to mention it, Martin cuts off, “Tim left a note, earlier, said he was out for a walk, will probably be back later.”

The levity in Jon’s chest shatters like glass, and taking a prolonged breath in, he half-whispers, “Well, then.”

Looking up from his tea, Martin raises a ginger eyebrow from behind his thick, square glasses, and Jon can only sigh. Clicking his tongue, the Ferryman brings a hand up to his jaw, and nervously explains, “We were talking earlier. Tim was…hazy. Not emotionally, physically. His whole form was hazy. And…”

Jon trails off, shifting their gaze to the window with worry. The golden light still pours through, and temporarily they're lost, until Martin nervously presses, “And?”

Spinning back around, Jon studies Martin’s scrunched brow before murmuring, “And I told him that he had a choice. He could either become like me, or he could die, go back to what was.”

Martin’s expression is pained, and quietly he muses, “Oh....oh. So…is he…?”

Shifting his gaze to his mug, Jon replies, “Dead? I…I don't know. Since he’s been like this…I can't feel him anymore.”

With a heavy breath, Martin eloquently responds, “Ah.”

The Ferryman’s gaze is tired and sad, and with hesitation, he questions, “What would it mean for you, if he was gone? Be honest, Martin.”

Jon doesn't ignore the way his muscles temporarily tense before Martin answers, “I…I would miss him; so much. I thought I knew what missing him would be when he died in the Unknowing, missing him, and missing you…but…Christ. If I lost him again… It’s been nice, having you, and…”

With a soft, sad, knowing smile, Jon fills in the blank, “And having him. I know. I don't want to lose him either. He’s more than just a friend, for both of us.”

His eyes are both relieved and forlorn as Martin replies, “Yeah. I love you…and…I love him, too, now. I don't…losing him…I like what we have here, I don't want…”

Jon nods, and quietly murmurs, “I know, I love you both too, but, what does that mean for us?”

With a heavy, mournful sigh, Martin runs a large hand over his ginger haired arm, and responds, “If he even lives… I’d say we should talk to him about that…see what he would be willing to do. If he'd be interested in a relationship, or anything, but…we don't even know if he’ll be alive. If he's even still alive now.”

With a heavy, thoughtful tone, Jon only replies, “Yeah. I know. But…he might be. I don't want to be overly optimistic, but…he seemed to be…there's a chance, Martin. There's a chance.”

To punctuate this, Jon slides his hand across the counter, and grips Martin’s. The bigger man squeezes Jon’s hand with hope, and quietly, he wistfully questions, “Do you think so?”

Jon bites down on his tongue and exhales, but looking up to Martin, he murmurs, “I do.”

Allowing his words to hang in the air, Jon notes how the warmth of his tea spreads into his hand like an embrace. Quietly, the Ferryman clicks his tongue once more, and asks, “Do you want to move over to the couch?”

Martin doesn't hesitate even a moment before nodding, slowly and definitively. “Yeah.” Is all he whispers, and it’s enough.

—------------------------------------------------

Jon doesn't know when the two of them fell asleep on the couch, mugs cast aside and limbs entwined, but as the sharp knock raps against the flat door, he’s wide awake. 

Sitting up like lightning struck, Jon knows he woke Martin up, but as the door opens, he’s not inclined to care. The first thing Jon sees is shining, natural, dark hair, and second, a large burn scar across the lower right jaw. By the time he takes in the familiar black jacket and tan skin, he’s already wrapped Tim in a tight, unfaltering hug. As Tim wraps two, solid arms around Jon’s small frame, the Ferryman laughs, and almost whispers, “You made the right choice.”

Jon’s grin only grows as he feels two more, solid arms wrap around the two of them. Tim’s voice cracks slightly as he replies, “Yeah, I did, didn't I?”

Martin only squeezes a little tighter as he murmurs, “I think so.”

The smile is practically laced into his words, and if Jon had to guess, that's what pulls the plug for Tim, whose tears fall gently as he smiles. Pulling back slightly to look at him, Jon feels his eyes crinkle, the corners of his mouth still upturned in a small grin. Tim is still letting his tears fall as he looks back. His irises are pitch black, matching his hair, but it doesn't change a thing about him. Across the right side of his jaw, a large, explosive scar stretches, ending just below his eye and just above his collarbone. The texture is rough, and with a quiet hum, the Ferryman brings his own burned hand up to set on it. His voice soft and jokingly sardonic, Jon murmurs, “Well, I suppose we’re matching.”

Leaning against the Ferryman’s hand with an amused, gentle grin, Tim replies, “Guess so.”

Jon doesn't drop his hand from his cheek, and Tim doesn't try to move it. Instead, he moves a hand up to rest in between Jon’s shoulder blades, and pulls him in closer. His other arm, he takes from the small of Jon’s back, and instead uses it to pull Martin in tighter, completing the hug. They don't say anything, but as Tim starts to laugh, bright and full like sunshine, he’s quickly joined by Martin, and at that point, it's hard for Jon not to follow.