Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"Maybe we both die. Probably. But maybe not. Maybe everything works out, and we end up somewhere else."

"Together?"

"One way or another. Together."

"I don’t think I can…"

"It has to be you. The Eye won’t let me do it."

"Are you sure about this?"

"No."

"But I love you."

"I love you too."

Nothing.

Martin didn't want to look. He didn't want to open his eyes to see what had happened. Because God knows something happened. He couldn't have just killed his boyfriend. He couldn't have just killed Jon. 

So he sat there, sobbing and clutching.. nothing. Jon was gone. He was gone. Martin didn't even get to hold him. He didn't even get to..

He held himself instead; let himself fall onto his side and shake uncontrollably with fear, and sorrow, and guilt. 

That was it. Jon was dead. The fears were likely still there. And Martin was alone. So fucking alone. And it was all his fault, wasn't it?

No.

No, he was better than to think that way anymore. It wasn't his fault. It wasn't anyone's but Elias. And- And- Peter! And Jon's stupid, reckless arse running off to be a martyr!

He let out another sob.

Goddamn it. He was going to die there without Jon. Without Jon.

He could hardly wrap his head around that thought. Jon. He was... he was just gone. After everything. Everything they'd been through. Jon was dead. And it was... Well, that part was technically Martin's fault. He could accept a little bit of the blame. 

Jon was dead. He was dead. And gone. And Martin was alone. And alone. And alone. And alone. And alone-

"Could you fuckin' stand up?" Someone snarled.

Martin did not move. But oddly enough, he was comforted by the presence of this complete stranger. This stranger with an angry, irked tone and the voice of a man who's never had a mouth sans a cigarette. 

Martin still couldn't gather enough effort to move. He felt horribly empty. But he made a small grunt to let the person know he wasn't a corpse.

"You're in my bushes, Asshat."

Wait. Martin's thoughts came to a rearing halt. Bushes?

Hold on, who was this bloke? Why was he near Martin? Wasn't Martin in the panopticon? Where was he?

At this point, he found it appropriate to finally sit up and get an idea of his location.

He almost choked on his own saliva. 

The man in front of him was clearly not human. He was thin and slender with pale green skin and long black hair tied up into a haphazard bun that matched his pitch dark beard. He wore a soft looking, dark green dressing gown and slippers, and Martin was slightly shocked to catch a whiff of the petrichor scent he gave off.

"You're green," was the first thing he managed to choke out. The urge to lie back down and die of shame coursed through him alongside his confusion.

"And you're on my property," the odd man snapped.

"Sorry, Sorry!" Martin scrambled to his feet, brushing the mulch off his trousers. As he did so, he finally got a real view of his surroundings.

It was one of the most beautiful sights he'd ever seen. Previously, he'd been lying in a garden of shrubs in front of a modest wooden cottage almost overflowing with plant life. The wood still had bark and leaves on it, making Martin almost believe the trees had shaped themselves into this home of their own will. 

Around the house were many more trees decorated with flowers and dotted with berries. The sun shone through the thick leaves and cast a warm glow over it all, almost causing tears to form behind Martin's eyes. 

And despite the glory of the woods, there was something about the way the colour danced on each leaf and grain of dirt, and the way that each animal that passed seemed to be staring... 

He stepped off of the mulch and hurried to the grass around the house. "Is that... Alright?"

"Still on my lawn." The man raised an unimpressed eyebrow, making Martin feel smaller than he had in years.

"I'm deeply sorry. I just.. woke up here."

The man exhaled heavily, and Martin could have sworn he heard the trees quake. "Fine. Ye don't seem to be lyin' to me, but if you hurt my forest again-"

Martin hurried to defend himself, "I wouldn't dream of it! I value nature deeply, Sir." He paused, contemplating pushing his luck. "If you could give me directions though...?"

The man practically growled, "To where."

"Oh!" He hadn't truly expected that to work. "To the nearest town?"

"Nearest town, huh? You stupid?"

"What?"

The corners of the man's mouth twitched, and Martin could tell he was close to blatantly laughing at him. "There's no town near here for days."

Martin had to manually close his jaw. "That can't be true! Where even are we?!"

"You're in my forest."

"And who are you?" He pointed an accusatory finger at the man.

"Gill is fine."

"Hardly an answer."

The man, who was now identified as Gill, frowned, "I'm bein' awfully generous to the person who crushed my garden."

Martin lacked a comeback to that one. "Fair point. Er. I'm Martin." He held out his hand.

Gill took one look at his outstretched hand and turned away, heading back to his house. "Look, lad, you're going to need resources if ye plan to travel to town. These woods aren't made for humans. Full of shit like washers and wisps."

"What?" Martin found himself losing track of what Gill was saying. His accent was terribly thick.

He groaned, opening his front door, "Just come in. You can stay one night. Then out, out, out with ye, okay?"

Martin nodded firmly, "Thank you so much. I really owe you-"

Gill's expression soured significantly, "Ye can pay me back by shuttin' the fuck up."

He silenced himself quickly. 

Martin settled into the rather cozy robe he'd been given in place of his raggedy clothes from the apocalypse. Gill had promised to wash and repair them, complimenting the craftsmanship of the jacket, and Martin concluded that name brands likely weren't a thing in this odd place.

He'd also been offered a bath in a small stream, but Gill offhandedly mentioned kelpies, and Martin did not want to risk it. He could go another day without a shower.

Gill was sitting at his small wooden table, seemingly coming from the floor (his house really was just one oddly shaped tree), and patching up Martin's clothes while waiting for the water for his soup to boil.

He seemed a lot more pleasant towards Martin than when they first met. Martin wasn't graced with smiles or pleasantries, but the swearing had simmered down to a few damns every now and then, and his raspy voice seemed significantly less irritated.

"So," he set down Martin's repaired trousers, "Human, yeah?"

"Yes?"

He leaned back in his wooden chair, grabbing the shirt from his counter. "Now, Martin, I wouldn't accuse you of lyin' to me. Hell, I doubt you yourself even noticed. But I find it a tad difficult to accept that you're human."

"What?" Martin on the other hand sat upright, ready to defend his humanity.

"You're not really entirely here, lad. Every now an' then you look off into the distance, and it looked to me like your body was gradually evaporating into smoke. Or steam. Or something of the sort." He turned the shirt around to stitch up the other side. "I'm not a very friendly creature, Martin. Not to just anyone. I don't like people. But you're not really a people. You're hardly even here."

Dread began to clot in Martin's chest, "No, no, I'm here. I am! I'm just.. if you see that happening please call to me? Or.. grab me? I can't..."

"Sure. Yeah." He shrugged, eyes leaving Martin and returning to his work. "So what is it? You a spirit? A ghost?"

Martin felt a pang of sorrow at the question. How coincidental. "No. Just lonely, I suppose. Please don't ask."

"Just checkin'," he hummed thoughtfully, "How'd you end up so deep in my forest anyways?"

"I woke up here."

"So you were brought against your will?"

"Something of the sort."

"Damn faeries. Probably kidnapped you from your home."

"That happens?" Martin gasped.

"I wouldn't be surprised if it did."

He let out a disbelieving chuckle, "I don't know why I'm so shocked. Either way, uh.. no, I don't think that's what happened. I uh.. you see I'm not quite from here."

"That's for sure."

"I mean, this world. Wherever I am," he tried explaining. He felt like a moron. "My world... Must've ended. Or... My partner and I were transported from it.. maybe he succeeded in stopping the apocalypse-"

"Sorry what?" Gill looked up, slightly amused.

"Nothing. What I'm saying is I'm from another world. Another universe, I think."

"Well damn. I'm hosting an alien?"

"...in a way. Sure."

He tossed Martin's clothes at him, the fabric landing on his head and over his face. Gill stood and stretched. "Doesn't bother me any. Maybe that's why you were fading?"

"I don't want to talk about that."

"Right. Sorry, lad."

Martin sat in dead silence as Gill prepared dinner for them both. He picked at the skin on his arm anxiously.

He finally let his mind wander to Jon. Where was he? Was he actually dead? Did only Martin end up in a new dimension? If that were true, Martin didn't know how he'd live on. Especially in this unfamiliar place. If Jon had been there with him, he could've guided them both together through the forests. Avoiding all the dangers that Gill had implied were lurking there. They could have made it to the town. Started a little medieval shop of sorts. Maybe gotten to live together just like in the safe house.

Martin could only hope and pray that Jon was just somewhere else in this world getting his Martin-inflicted wounds treated. That he was safe, and warm, and that he wasn't too far away.

Maybe it was a tad selfish, but he also hoped that Jon was feeling just as miserable without him as Martin was. He wanted to be needed -- to be wanted. And he hoped, despite feeling guilty for hoping, that Jon was still that person who longed for him.

Of course, above all Martin wanted Jon to be safe, but he wanted immediately second for him to miss him.

And on the topic of guilt, Martin couldn't get over how horrible he felt about being the reason Jon could be dead. The memory kept replaying in his head. Jon in front of him, tears blinding both of them. As much as they could blind Jon. Martin hadn't wanted to, but he did anyways. He didn't want to. He never would want to. Why did it have to be him? He would do anything to go back in time. Back to before everything. He'd tell Jon how he felt, stop Elias somehow, and then he and Jon would be able to live together and be free from any fear gods or monsters.

But that would never happen. It couldn't. And, if Jon was alive, Martin would take a small medieval village any day. And if Jon wasn't alive...

A bowl clinked on the table in front of him, drawing him out of his trance. He realized Gill's hand was on his back and that the man was looking at him with deep concern.

"Oh- thanks," Martin winced, "sorry."

"You were doin' it again."

"I know."

"I called your name like four times."

"...I know."

"...are you okay?"

"...Not really," he managed to admit, "Just busy missing someone."

Gill sat down, sliding a wooden spoon across the table to Martin. "Your partner?"

He looked up, "oh. Yes actually. How did..?"

"You mentioned them. When you said you're from Another place. You said your partner and you."

"Oh."

"Mind telling me about them?" Gill asked as he sipped from his spoon.

Martin considered it. He wasn't sure if it would help or make things worse, but he hadn't really gotten the chance to talk about things in a while. He hadn't had someone who'd listen.

"His name's Jon. Jonathan Sims. He's short, far too scrawny, but lovely all the same. He's kind. But stubborn. And a bit selfish. But also not? He's... He never actually understands what other people want. What we need. He just... Assumes we want x, y, z and runs off to go do them without clarification. Even if he's hurting himself in the process.

"That doesn't mean I don't love him though. I do. I care about him so damn much. And I know he cares about me too. I want nothing more to see him, but... I don't even know where he is. If he's even still alive! And that could be my fault.."

Gill didn't say a word. And Martin looked up to meet his eyes, scared for pity.

Gill didn't look sympathetic. Not really. Just... Interested. Like Martin was telling a good story.

He didn't know whether to be offended or thankful.

"...if I'm leaving tomorrow.. I worry I'll disappear before I can find him. That I'll be alone again."

At that, Gill chuckled flatly, "You cannae be alone in these woods, lad."

"Fine. Sure. Not alone. But lonely," he ran a shaky hand through his hair, "I doubt any of the murder ghosts in your forest are eager to have a casual chat with me."

"Hey," Gill dropped his spoon in his now empty bowl, letting the clattering sound echo through the home. "I take offense to that."

He actually laughed. "Alright, fair enough. You've been pleasant."

"Aye," Gill stated firmly, "now eat your soup before I do."

He nodded frantically and started on his dinner.

Martin hadn't realized how tired he was.

It wasn't the same sort of tiredness that he'd felt in the Upton House; that was sheer exhaustion. This was something different.

He was tired of walking, of go, go, going all the damn time. And lying on the oddly cozy sofa was just enough to let himself relax.

It was nice. That was it. Just... Really nice. To finally lie down and rest without any looming danger.

He curled up and yanked the duvet up to his neck. He was comfortable. What a revelation. Comfort hadn't been something he'd felt in a very long time. There was nothing in the world that could make it better except for Jon. If Jon were there with Martin, all would be well. That little ache in his chest could subside and he could finally, wholly relax.

He wrapped his arms around himself in the attempt to trick his brain into thinking that it was Jon there to hug him, or that it was actually Jon whom he was holding. In the past he would have called it sad. Pathetic even. But after everything that'd happened? The Lonely, the safehouse, the apocalypse... Martin would allow himself this simple pleasure.

He imagined that Jon was there on the large couch next to him, face buried in his chest and arms wrapped around his body. He imagined Jon looking up, only briefly, and flashing Martin a warm smile that Martin had been longing to see for so long. He thought about getting to kiss him again, to hold his thin hands and walk through whatever this planet was. Together. They could get a house. They could live together in a house that was all their own. Wasn't that a lovely thought? Martin would find Jon, either in the forest or in that town Gill had described. And they would hug, and they would kiss, and everything... Everything would be right.

They would struggle through mundane problems together, like a burnt breakfast or a rude neighbor. Maybe they would have to diffuse conflict with a moody Brownie, if that was the sort of thing that existed in this place.

That was another thing. It seemed to Martin that fae was common in this world, and he guessed that Gill was some form of one as well. Gill was kind though, a bit sour, but kind. Faeries in folktales and stories were so frequently described as either cruel, sinister, or just devious in their own ways. They were called tricksters. But from his first experience with fae, they seemed rather hospitable. Maybe when Martin made it to the town he could ask around. Get a sure idea of what sort of creatures existed.

But for now, that was a problem for future Martin. He needed all his focus for convincing himself that Jon was with him. He hoped that Jon was missing him just as much.

"Try not to get lost, lad," Gill patted Martin on the shoulder.

"I'll try. I don't know what I'll do if I begin to.. y'know," Martin said wearily.

It was early in the morning, and it must've rained last night, for the grass outside was covered with dew and, just like Gill, reeked with petrichor.

Earlier, he had given Martin his washed clothes and shoes. Martin took them graciously and changed, returning the robe.

It wasn't cold nor hot outside, and Martin's coat was far too large to wear for the trek. Gill had offered to keep it for Martin and almost grinned when he got his hands on it again.

They'd gathered supplies and food for Martin, storing them in his backpack, which Gill had also repaired.

"Remind me of what to avoid again please?" Martin looked back before he exited. He had a rather justified fear of the unknown. After everything he'd been through on Earth, he was used to Jon being there to Know where they were and what the dangers were. This time Martin was... On his own. He needed some semblance of an idea of what he was getting into.

"Stay away from lochs, and any horses near streams or rivers. Don't follow strangers, voices, lights, music, et cetera. Don't hurt any animals or plants either. And don't give out your name."

"Right," he murmured as he slung the bag over his shoulder. "So.. guess this is it?"

"Don't make it more dramatic than it needs to be, lad," Gill shut the door in Martin's face.

Oh.

Well.

He sighed. That was fine. Gill was an introvert. He was just eager to be alone again. It wasn't Martin's fault.

It wasn't Martin's fault.

He turned around, gripping the straps of his bag as if it would give some sort of reassurance. It hardly did. He looked at the path in front of him. It was lush and thick with plant life, and birds tittered at Martin as he gathered the courage to walk forward. He couldn't psych himself out. There was too much at stake.

He took a deep breath and a hesitant step onto the dirt. His boots sunk in slightly, making him wince a bit. It would be fine. He pulled his foot up and began walking, trying his hardest to ignore the squelch of the mud underneath his boots.

The forest loomed over him, the leaves rustling with unknown things watching over Martin as he walked. But he'd be fine. He had to be fine.

Chapter Text

Jon couldn't breathe. He couldn't breathe. He coughed and choked and- and-

Oh God. That's a lot of blood. That explains it. He reached a hand to the wound in his chest. His heart. There was a knife in it. A knife.

Oh God, Martin.

He tried sitting up but couldn't. His limbs quivered with effort, but nothing. He huffed as he lay back down. 

It was okay. He was alive at least. Alive and not in the panopticon, the Eye informed him. He was lying in the scorching sand of another place. Another world.

It worked. Martin had to be near. He'd find Jon soon. He just had to stay alive. He had to stay alive he had to stay- he had to stay- he had- he had to- he-

"Good morning," a voice stated as Jon sat up groggily. His chest felt strange. He could hear his heart. He could feel it in his chest. He could feel each beat through his whole body. It.. wasn't supposed to do that, right? He waited an answer. It never came. 

Peculiar. 

He tried again.

The woman in front of him was almost amused by his confusion. "You died." He looked up, horror slowly creeping across his face.

"Died?" He asked, losing track of his train of thought at the news.

"Oh!" She raised her eyebrows, "You sound different than I expected you to. That's alright though."

Jon frowned, fully sitting to get a good look at her and his surroundings. 

"Oh good lord.." He found himself in some form of laboratory, all science fiction-esque, yet rather old-looking at the same time. It reeked of chemicals and blood, and the fluorescent lights beat down on him with their blinding white glow. He tried again to call to the Eye for answers. It stubbornly refused to reply. He was beginning to grow mildly frustrated. Was this lab somehow blocking the Eye's ability, like the tunnels or camera? He didn't feel wrong though, not bad about being unable to reach out to his patron.

He wondered for a brief moment if he was finally free from the endless need for knowledge, if he and Martin had been able to get rid of the Fears.

Then he remembered that Martin wasn't there with him. This random woman was. A woman with dark red hair and a slight smirk. She was pale, horribly so, and her smile seemed almost artificial. 

"Who are you?" He snapped, trying to compel her. He was oddly relieved that she didn't reply with word vomit.

"My name is Carmilla," she paused, "but that's Docteur to you." She took a confident step closer. "And you are?"

"The Archivist," Jon said coldly, hoping she would recognise that, but from the quirked eyebrow and half grin he received, he assumed she did not.

"An archivist?" Dr Carmilla asked in a rather condescending tone, "You don't seem like one. You're covered in dirt and blood."

"You must not be familiar. I am the Archivist. The harbinger of the apocalypse. I released the Fears into the world."

"...what?" She laughed a bit. "You created fear?"

"No, I-"

"I was just asking for your name, not your full godly title or whatever."

"... Jonathan Sims."

She nodded, "Jonathan, huh? You do look like a Jonny."

"I'm not-"

"Here, take this." She handed him his shirt.

His shirt. He looked down to find his bare torso. Except his chest was metal. His chest was metal. Panic surged through him as Dr Carmilla smiled.

"You like your heart? It's a bit of an experiment." She poked at the metal, making Jon cringe. He could feel it against his skin, the pressure. "I don't know if it works yet."

Jon scooted as far back on the table as he could and pulled his shirt on. "My heart too?" That explained things.

The doctor walked over to a cabinet as she replied, "Of course your heart. You had a knife shoved in it."

Despite himself, he felt tears well up in his eyes. That was from Martin. And this woman had replaced it... with a metal facsimile of a heart. 

He ran his hand over his chest. He could feel the gold under his shirt. It made him almost sick. Would Martin recognise him? Would he still love him if he'd been made even less human than before? He didn't want to think about it.

And in Jon's defense, he had been distracted. He wasn't specifically paying attention to Dr Carmilla's actions. And when he woke up a third time, coughing up blood as the bullet wound in his head repaired itself, he was truly caught off guard.

"Did- did you-?" His voice shook with terror.

"Is it healing alright?"

"You just shot me!"

She nodded again, putting the gun back in the cabinet. "You're alive, though. We should make sure the wound heals. I don't need my first mate to have brain damage."

"What?! You just shot me!"

"You said."

"You shot me!"

She chortled, "Do you need a moment, Jonny?"

"What did you do to me?" He felt over where the wound had been. It was gone. And if the gut wrenching pain, only a gentle ache remained.

"Well, Jonny, you were dead - Dying, really - and before you fully passed, I heard you murmur, whisper really, that you just couldn't die yet. That someone was waiting. And you had to find them." She held out a hand. "So I'm offering you a chance. Join me, and we can find your person for you. You're immortal now. You can never die. And you're going to be able to search forever until you find them."

He could never die. It wasn't anything new. The eye had kept him alive after everything. But the moment he could finally rest after being killed by Martin.. he was here. Alive. And now there was no possibility of him ever dying. Martin would die, and he'd remain. And he might not even be able to find him soon enough. "He could be anywhere. Anywhere in the universe. Or- Or multiple! I-"

"So could we."

He looked up, sceptical of the situation. "What?"

She grabbed his hand anyway, yanking him off the table and to his feet. "You're immortal now. All we need to do is get our hands on an actually half-decent spaceship, and we'll be off."

"We? Sorry-" He pulled away from her, leaning against the counter. "I'm not joining whatever- Whatever you're doing! Whatever you plan to do! I need to leave!" He needed to find Martin.

Dr Carmilla rolled her eyes (one seemed artificial, Jon noted. She was a cyborg or something. Just like him now.) "You can't leave. Frankly, you owe me. I brought you back." Jon's breath caught in his throat. How had it just now dawned on him that he was horribly afraid of this woman? "The only reason you even have the chance to see your precious whoever the hell you're looking for is because of me. Because I'm so generous. So be grateful."

"...right."

"There you go." She sneered at him. "Now. Stand up straight. You'll need new clothes and maybe a haircut."

He nodded stiffly.

He'd spent hours lingering in the restroom. The doctor let him. She was... eccentric. But she respected him to a point. He appreciated it.

He didn't really need to piss. He was sure she knew that. He'd been sitting on the ground, pacing, looking at himself in the mirror, crying... anything he could do to avoid the situation he found himself stuck in.

He was, at that very moment, hunched over the toilet and vomiting his guts out. Not literally, of course. But he wondered if he could and survive. Would they grow back? How would that work? What would he do with the organs in the toilet?

He didn't want to linger on that thought. 

When he'd finished, he sat back and sobbed violently. He didn't give a damn if Dr Carmilla heard him. He leaned against the wall. Good lord. He felt like crap. He squeezed his eyes shut and curled up on the floor. He covered his ears and only cried harder when he couldn't block out the pounding of his heart.

No. No, no. Not his heart. The heart in his chest. The one that replaced his real heart. He wondered what that even meant for him. He knew emotion was rooted in the brain, but he wondered if it made any difference if his heart was gone and artificial now. He was afraid he'd lose something important. That he'd lose his feelings for Martin. He felt guilty for that thought.

He must've fallen asleep at some point because he ended up waking up to Carmilla knocking on the door. He sat up, wiping the remaining tears from his eyes.

"Yes?"

"I need something. You get ten minutes to get yourself together."

Jon let out a hum of reluctant agreement and clambered to his feet, stepping over to the sink. He flicked the faucet on and splashed the water onto his face. He ran his hands up through his now short hair and looked at himself in the mirror. 

He looked terrible. His hair had been cut too short, his eyes were sunken and bloodshot, and, despite looking more human than he had in a very long time, he felt wrong. The weight of the metal was off-putting and unnatural. He wondered if Martin would even recognise him. He wasn't sure how to feel about his scars slowly healing either. It was like this metal bastard in his chest was ripping away all evidence of his past. Of everything that happened to him.

He straightened out his clothes, a black button-up shirt with a brown waistcoat and black trousers, and unlocked the bathroom door with apprehension. 

Carmilla looked up, brimming with glee. "We're leaving."

"Pardon?"

She grinned at him. "We're going to space, Jonny."

When the ship finally took off, Jon screamed. He was rather ashamed of that fact, for the doctor had cackled at him for about ten minutes as she piloted them out of the atmosphere. Eventually, when Carmilla switched on the artificial gravity and he slammed against the metal floor, he made a beeline for the restroom again. Once he managed to stop retching, he staggered to his feet to return to the cockpit.

"You could've warned me. Let me sit down or something," he murmured under his breath.

She shrugged, "You lived."

"I'm immortal."

"You are!" She preened, as though he'd given her the most flattering compliment one could give.

"Ergo, I would have lived either way," he said flatly.

Carmilla just grinned at him and spun around in her chair (which wasn't a swivel chair, Jon was sure). "You would have, yes."

He sighed heavily as he sat in the chair next to the doctor. "Right. And where exactly are we going first? I'd like to find Martin quickly-"

"You'll find your person eventually. And if they're dead by then, we'll just bring them back. Like you, Jonny."

Jon gawked at her. "That isn't funny!"

"It's a little bit funny." He crossed his arms and looked through the window, away from Carmilla. She snickered, "Are you seriously doing that? How old are you?"

"Just tell me where we're going."

"Well." The doctor stood and abandoned her pilot's seat. She exited the cockpit, and Jon could hear her rummaging through things in the storage rooms. She returned empty-handed. "We stop at the nearest populated planet. For... supplies. And for looking for Marvin or whatever." She offered Jon a reassuring grin that left him significantly less than assured.

"Weren't we literally just on a planet?" Jon asked hesitantly.

She blew a raspberry. "Technically. But it was just a desert wasteland. The only reason I even showed up there was for you, Jonny."

"How flattering."

"You're welcome." She smirked as she sat back in her seat.

Jon had very quickly learnt that murder was something Carmilla had no problem with committing. Whether it was tearing apart a random stranger in the street or shooting him again for "asking stupid questions", she very clearly felt no remorse.

When they finally got back to the ship with the.. supplies, Jon almost collapsed into his chair with exhaustion. In what world would he ever get used to this?

"What we're going to do, Jonny," Carmilla began when they'd settled back in, "is travel around, let you get a feel for how the universe works," she dropped to a fake whisper, "'cause Gods know you have no bloody idea how it works." She laughed loudly and leaned back in her seat, talking at a regular volume. "And, well, at the same time we'll look for your Marvin fellow and explore! I'll write some music; you'll be there too; we'll have fun!"

"And how exactly does the universe work, then?" He snapped rather incredulously.

"Watch it." And there was that fear again. Immense dread as she bared her fangs. He shut himself up and looked down.

"Sorry."

"The universe," she spun the steering implement, and it made a creaking sound as the ship swerved and skidded around space debris floating in the void. "Is very different from just a planet, wherever you're from. People will do anything to get what they want here."

"People are-"

"I'm serious, Jonny. Anything. You and I are lucky things worked out for us. For a taste of immortality, people would commit atrocities worse than what you saw today." She seemed unnervingly serious about this, and Jon didn't want to face any anger that might come.

"...alright. But while we travel, we look for my partner."

"Of course."

They sat in stilted quiet for a few hours, Jon looking out the window, Carmilla piloting. He watched as the stars zipped by, leaving white, red, and gold slashes in the blackness of the cosmos. He tried reaching out to the Eye, hoping to get some insight about where Martin was, but as he gazed into the endlessly expanding void, the Eye remained silent. And it was the first time Jon actually wondered if it was still even there. The thought distressed him a bit. Would he ever find Martin without the Eye's help? It'd be years. Decades even. Jon imagined how Martin might feel. Lost, alone, abandoned. It made guilt bubble up under his skin. 

He was shoved out of his thoughts when the ship's lights flashed bright red, only briefly. The doctor must have seen his panicked face because she snorted, "We're not in trouble. I just put it in autopilot. I want to go play something."

"Why does it flash red when switching to autopilot?!" Jon exclaimed.

Carmilla shrugged. "It never was the highest-quality ship." She hopped out of her chair and stretched, walking out of the cockpit and to the lounge. Jon, despite himself, followed.

He really hadn't spent much time in the common room. He had yet to take in what a bloody mess it was. There were too many instruments, he concluded first. No single person should have so many. The second thing he thought of was that there was a body. He knew Carmilla had taken a bag of things with them from the last planet, but he certainly didn't think any of the contents had been corpses.

He watched her completely drain the blood from the cadaver and toss it to the side. "Are you hungry?"

Jon spluttered, "No! No, why- for that?! No!"

She sat on the lounge chair and shrugged. "We don't have much else to eat. It's not like I packed any snacks."

Jon looked at the body again. "Absolutely not. We can just get food at the next planet."

"In a few weeks?"

"How-"

"Look, you can starve yourself all you'd like, but I don't need you dying over it. Either wait it out or eat what we have." She wiped her mouth of the blood. "And for the record, it hardly counts as cannibalism. And it isn't murder since you weren't the one who killed them."

"I'm not eating a person," Jon exclaimed, "Put them somewhere else!"

She sighed with exaggeration and dragged the body to storage. Jon murmured a quiet thank you.

Dr Carmilla had been strumming her guitar aimlessly for the past five hours. Five. Hours. Jon knew. Of course he knew; he'd been counting the seconds like a madman. He was sure he'd fallen asleep at some point and woke up to her still plucking at the strings, humming, and scrawling notes on a paper. That likely meant more time had passed.

He lay on the lounge chair in mental and physical agony as Carmilla strummed through the song again. He groaned under his breath and ran his hands over his face. The physical part could have been summed up to the fact that he hadn't eaten in days, but there was nothing he could do about it. He knew that any complaints would be answered with a hand motion towards the box that held a body, and, despite all he'd been through, Jon was not the man to turn to cannibalism. He wasn't going to lose any more of the little humanity he had left.

So he sat and clutched his torso while Carmilla wrote a song. He wasn't going to resort to cannibalism. He couldn't.

Carmilla looked up with half of a grin. "Do you sing?"

Jon glanced at her. "Not really."

"Play any instruments?"

"Er. Not since secondary school." He took one look at her disappointment and corrected himself, a tad embarrassed. "I'm willing to learn, though..?"

She gleefully motioned around the room, "Pick one. We have all the time in the universe."

Jon reluctantly stood up and ran a hand through his hair, silently wincing at the texture of it shaved so short. He gazed around the room, looking for something easy. He spied a harmonica and stepped over to pick it up.

"Is this simple?"

"Oh! Somewhat. It's easy enough! Sit, sit down."

He sat back down and watched as the doctor pulled out her very own harmonica. 

They sat and played for a few hours. Jon had learnt quite a bit from the lesson. The doctor was surprisingly pleasant to talk to when there was not danger. He wasn't the greatest at playing the harmonica, but Carmilla guided him through it slowly, and he knew most of the notes.

Unfortunately, Jon had lost track of where he really was. After they finished going through a song together, he leaned back and set his harmonica down on the couch.

"Oh good lord, I'm starving."

Carmilla looked up, noting the state he was in. "You're shaking." He nodded somberly. "Well, we still have that meat."

"What?" It took him a moment to think, despite how desperate he was, how hungry and starved he felt. The body. That's what she meant. The corpse in the storage room. He wondered if it was still even intact. Would it be rotting? How long had it been? He wondered if it would get him sick or if he could even get sick anymore. That thought was the scariest of all for some reason. Was he really losing his humanity faster than he had before? In such a literal way, too. 

His mind wandered to Martin. How would he feel about Jon if he indulged? Would it be concern or disgust?

"Would I go crazy?" He asked. Carmilla shot him a confused expression. "If I ate human flesh. Would I...? I know cannibalism causes people to- to lose themselves.."

She shrugged at him. "Would it be cannibalism?"

Oh.

Would it?

Was Jon even considered human? Was this person even human? Carmilla had gotten them off of a random planet, so the possibility that this person, this body, wasn't human and never was was plausible. Would it be cannibalism?

"Fair enough, I suppose."

"They're in the storage room if you decide to get over yourself and dig in."

He sighed, "Fine. But only because we have nothing else."

Carmilla waved him off. Jon stood and slowly exited the lounge, each step heavier than the last.

Chapter Text

Martin was exceedingly grateful he'd left his jacket. While the woods weren't excruciatingly hot, they were humid as hell. And despite this, because he knew there was nothing to be done about it, he trudged along the mud path and hummed a somber tune to himself.

It had been a few hours, truly. He'd been walking for a few hours. And in those few hours, he's only seen regular animals. Rabbits leapt by, birds fluttered in the treetops, and deer looked up from their meals. Hell, he even saw a group of beavers along a stream he passed. It was rather peaceful for a forest supposedly chock-full of fae creatures.

He'd stopped in a small clearing for a bite to eat.

While sitting down on the grass, he pulled out one of the loaves of homemade bread Gill had given him. He had thanked the man profusely, to which Gill told him to shut up profusely. After a long, heavy, deep breath of the humid air, he started on the bread. Fuuck that was good. That was really damn good. What was in that?

The sound of leaves rustling made him look up. Anxiety crawled up past his chest and curled up in his throat, blocking his airways. It remained there as the bushes trembled and quivered with movement. He clutched his bread with terror. What if it was an evil faerie? Or a troll?? Or a bear???

A rabbit hopped out of the shrub and twitched its nose at Martin. The anxiety melted into amusement.

"Aw!" He wheezed with relief, "You're just a hungry little guy!" He pulled off a little piece of the bread, only briefly wondering if it was healthy for the bunny, and held it out. The small creature approached cautiously, sniffed at the food, and snatched it up quickly. "You just gobbled that right up, didn't you?" He cooed. The rabbit settled into a sitting position next to Martin's bag, and, God, if he had his phone, he would have made that bunny famous.

After finishing his meal, not without giving away some small offerings to his new companion, he began cleaning up. The rabbit looked up with its wide eyes as he stuffed the paper with the other loaves in his bag. It ran. Martin gasped. His friend! 

The strap of his bag almost snapped as he swung it over his shoulder and rushed after the creature. "Wait! Baby, come back!" 

He stumbled a bit over roots and holes until he reached where it had paused. He knelt down and scratched in between its long floppy ears before poking its nose with his index finger. It was looking up, out, and into the distance. Martin followed its gaze. 

There was a person standing far away with their back turned.

Not just a person.

Martin's balance faltered as he stared, gobsmacked. There was no way. No possible way. But there he was.

It was Jon. It was Jon! He'd recognise that long greying hair and unhealthily slim stature anywhere! He cried out to his boyfriend, but he couldn't comprehend the situation enough to form real words, so he just let out a strangled sob.

Jon must've been frightened, because he seemed to flinch at the noise. He didn't even spare a glance back in Martin's direction before he dashed away. Martin ran this time, the rabbit forgotten by his feet. He ran with more vigour than he ever had before. He called for Jon, who was so, so fast. He'd never been so fast. Or was Martin too slow? He sped up, still shouting, hoping to be noticed. Hoping to hug and kiss his boyfriend.

But Jon kept running through the thick trees, and at times, Martin was terrified he'd lose sight of him. 

"Jon!" He gasped, out of breath and leaning against a tree as Jon kept moving. He was still in view. Martin could catch up once he figured out how to breathe again. "Jon, please!"

He could have sworn he heard Jon laugh. It was one of the softer laughs. He might've even called it a giggle if that wasn't a term that would end him up with a light smack on the arm and a pouty scowl. 

Joy flooded Martin's body. Jon knew. He Knew Martin was there. Of course he Knew! Martin felt like sobbing. Jon wasn't going to leave him. Martin had noticed how he'd stopped too. He was waiting. They were playing. Jon thought they were just messing around. Martin did sob then. He sobbed so hard, hoping Jon would notice and come over. That Jon would comfort him and kiss him and tell him he loved him so, so much and that he was so glad they found each other and that he would never leave him again.

Jon didn't move. He didn't even face Martin. He stood there, a few metres away. Laughing.

Martin sighed and pushed off the tree. "Real funny, Jon."

When he started moving again, Jon did too. He hurried forward. Away from Martin.

Martin cried out for him. He screamed, begging him to slow down and stop! Yelled for him to wait just one moment so Martin could catch up! 

His pants were being torn and snagged by the branches and leaves. How was Jon's skirt still intact? His legs ached and burned. How was Jon still running?

He collapsed in the mud beneath him. It was worse than before. Water began pooling around his body. And Jon turned. Martin let out the longest exhale he'd ever exhaled in his life. Jon walked over to him and stood over him, tittering.

Martin looked up and felt his entire body hollow out as any sign of the hope and joy and relief he possessed clawed it's way out of his pores and scurried off into the forest, leaving Martin staring. How perfect was it? That Martin would look up just as he witnessed his love burst into a collection of glowing, glittering balls of colourful light, snickering and taunting him as they flew off into the trees.

It was really foggy. Too foggy. Martin could barely see. Why couldn't he see? He had his glasses didn't he? He should've been able to see. Where was he? Turning his head to look around seemed like a chore. He was too tired. Tired? Why was he so tired? He hadn't done anything for a while. How long had he been standing there doing nothing? He would check his watch, but he couldn't remember if he wore one or not. And the action of looking down and moving his arm to check sounded exhausting. He really didn't want to walk to find a clock either. He tried to step forward anyways. Were his feet wet? It was like he was standing in water. Was he standing in water? It wasn't just water. It was thick, like sludge. Like mud. Was he standing in mud? If he was standing in mud, his shoes would be ruined. Was he wearing shoes? If he was, he probably wouldn't have stepped into mud like that. But were there socks on his feet? No, no there couldn't be any socks, he knew himself. The feeling of wet socks wasn't something he'd ever subject himself to intentionally. 

So was he barefoot? That was just odd. Barefoot in mud? Was he at a spa or something? That would explain the fog. Oh, geez, it was really foggy. When did it get so foggy? He could hardly see! He's never even been to a spa before. Do spas even exist anymore? He definitely needs it, but how's he going to afford this? What was he thinking coming here? His job didn't pay enough for this! Unless this was job funded? Maybe the big boss decided the archival employees had been through enough? It was unlikely, but.. Was everyone there with him? Was Jon? Was-

He gasped out an embarrassed laugh at his thoughts, trying to block them out. No one was there. He was alone. Alone. He was all alone.

Why was it so foggy?? He picked up a foot to try and walk and found the mud popping under it. He winced. He felt way too weak for this. Why was there mud? Where was he? He tried to look around, but the mist obscured his vision. He sighed and watched as the air exited his mouth. Was it that cold? He didn't feel cold. Just drenched in water. Why was he soaked? His clothes were so damn heavy, and his boots were stuck under a layer of sludge. Ugh.

He trembled as he took slow steps through the mud. He shifted through the mist. He walked for what felt like days. For days. Hours? Days. He walked. Through mud, mud, mud, mud. Through fog. And no matter how far he walked.

He was still alone. 

He was still alone. 

He was still alone.

He was still alone.

Jon wasn't coming for him.

There was a buzzing in Martin's ears. Like someone was talking, but the words were worming themselves right past one ear and out the other. He didn't want to look and find fog. Or worse, some creature leading him to his doom. 

He was walking still; he recognised that. But something was different. There was someone holding his wrist. The fingers were thin and bony, like Jon's. Someone was guiding him. Like Jon had. Slowly, he let words begin to snag and linger in his brain until he could make out the full sentences that were spouting.

"But you'll never guess how I got them to agree," the voice rambled, "Any guesses? No? Okay, so I asked them over and over and over again. Then they said I could if I did some chores. Now, I'm no Brownie, and I'm definitely not a butler, so I did this all with reluctance. I just wanted friends; you gotta understand! But when I finished all the chores and knocked again, the lady came out and screamed at me! She said I did it all wrong, but she never even gave me instructions! How dumb is that!? Sometimes humans are so silly!" They paused. "Well, no offence to you, of course!"

Martin instinctively replied, "None taken."

It squealed, "You're awake!!!"

Martin finally, reluctantly, opened his eyes. He was no longer in the fog. The forest ahead of him was clear as day, and he was immediately filled with warmth at the revelation. Though the woods were unsettling still, it was a massive relief. He was out of the lonely. Jon must've been there. Jon must've gotten him out again.

He then turned to look at his guide. There was a half-man half-goat grinning up at him. Jon was not there. Of course Jon wasn't there. The rambled didn't match Jon. It wasn't like a statement. It wasn't like Jon. Jon wasn't here.

The creature holding Martin's wrist had a pointed green hat, scruffy beard, and a rather unappealing facial structure. Martin felt guilty for thinking that, but he was rather appalled. It reeked of dirty water, and its skin looked almost too tight on its bones and much too moist.

"Hi!" The creature grinned, "What's your name?"

"I know better than to tell you," he replied harshly. Gill had already warned him. He was a lot of things, but he wasn't a fool.

It laughed, "I'm not an evil fae! I promise!!" It held out its free hand and extended its unnervingly long pinky.

Martin wasn't going to touch it any more than he had to. "Look, I'm not stupid. Gill told me-"

"Gill?" It gasped. "You mean the Ghillie Dhu? Oh wow! How'd you get him to talk to you? I always get ignored when I knock on his door! I don't think he likes me too much. Most people don't like us."

Us. There was more like it.

"Well, what are you? A satyr?" Martin asked genuinely, "A fawn?"

The creature scoffed loudly, crossing its arms and shaking its head. "A satyr!? Why, that's quite possibly the worst thing I've ever been called! And I've been called many things!" It talked with its hands, yet it was still grasping Martin's wrist, so as it motioned, it took Martin with it. "I'm an Ùruisg! An ùruisg! Oh, please never get it wrong again! Ùruisg! Got that?!"

Martin nodded silently. For some reason, he felt he wouldn't be fond of this thing.

"Anyways. If you won't tell me your name, that's fine. But I like talking about things, so it'd be best for you to know my name! I am called many things, mostly swears or derogatory terms, but! One name I've grown quite fond of is Banana! It's a fruit, you see! A fruit that I was given by a group of musicians a long, long time ago. They claimed to be from really far away. I wish I had saved it for you to taste, but I just couldn't! Anyways, that's my name!"

Martin quirked an eyebrow at "Banana". "I've had a banana before."

"Oh! Oh, are you also from really far away? Oh my gosh!!! If you ever go back to your home, can you send me some?? I need more! I need them!"

Martin snorted, "Sure thing." That wasn't something he truly intended to do. He was going to make it to the village, find Jon, and never think about this damn forest again.

"Oh yes! Thank you, thank you!" It trotted in a circle with glee, dragging Martin along. "Oh! I was wondering! If you are not from here, how did you end up in that bog? It's my friend's bog. She died. It was okay, though. I didn't know her that well, so I guess we really weren't friends. We never met either, so I suppose it was just that I knew of her. It was her bog. Why were you there?"

"I got lost," Martin replied bitterly. He'd been stuck. How this creature had pulled him from the Lonely was beyond him, but he was grateful at the least.

"Ah. That does make sense. I was in the bog for a different reason. Y'see, that other ùruisg, the one that wasn't my friend, the one that died, was super fortunate! She always got gifts from humans, so I wanted to take her things. It's not morally wrong because she's already dead. Ergo, it's free range, I believe. I did get some things before I found you walking around in the mud." It pulled out a bag from seemingly normal and began sifting through the contents. "So I got some food." It pulled out a collection of mouldy fruit. "It's all rotten... Aw, man." It dumped them out and kept digging. "Ooh! I got this!" It showed Martin a small straw doll. "I was gonna name it after you cause it looks depressed like you do!"

"What." What?

"Do you have a therapist? I'm not a very good therapist, but if you want one, then you should probably go to the town near here! I don't know if they even provide therapy, but they'd know more than me. Also, I can't even name it after you cause I dunno your name."

He had to stop himself from assaulting Banana. Do not hit the fae creature, moron, he told himself. That would end poorly for him. Martin only exhaled. "Where are we even going?"

"Oh!" Banana smiled widely. "Well, I assume you wanna go to the town, right?"

"Right."

It nodded thoughtfully, latching its bag shut and swinging it over its shoulder. "Well, I'm apparently 'no longer welcome' in the town, so I'll take you to the nearest loch. From where we stop, just go north."

He would have to accept that. Banana was the most helpful thing he'd met since Gill, and he was thankful for the help, if not a bit irritated from the chatter.

"Oh, and be careful. Don't touch any horses near the loch!" Banana exclaimed, "There are, like... way too many there. So many silly humans hop on without thinking and end up eaten."

"You mean kelpies?"

"Each Uisge. They're like kelpies, but they live in lochs and have sticky skin. Just be careful!"

"Believe me, I won't touch any horse near any water here," Martin assured the ùruisg.

"Good!" Banana nodded before it went off about another unrelated topic that Martin lacked the attention span to listen to. 

Chapter Text

He had been certain the eye was gone. Completely and wholly. That dying had finally severed his connection to it, and he was free.

But as the Aurora hurtled through space, he realised that, slowly, it was creeping back.

He hadn't known at first. He had been completely unaware. He'd... Well, he felt rather guilty, but he had forgotten about it entirely in the twenty years he'd been free of it. Twenty. Had it really been that long? How much had he forgotten?

Jonny had been sitting in the commons fiddling with a deck of cards when it first happened. When he'd been injected with something he couldn't have known. The cards were older than him. Older than... what, fifty? He'd known it suddenly without warning. He couldn't even question the legitimacy of that knowledge. He Knew it was true. He'd picked up the deck from Cyberia before all hell broke loose and had been gleefully messing around with them since. His card tricks were mediocre, but Carmilla did get to sit him down and teach him a few games while they waited for Nastya to thaw.

Nastya. She reminded him of someone; he knew that much. She was so quiet, so frantic, during the siege of the royal castle, but when she woke up and got accustomed to being immortal... she felt familiar, oddly enough. Jonny couldn't place it. He didn't care that much anyway.

But after a few years of flying with little to no violence, Jonny noticed something. He'd started Knowing things randomly. Randomly, he'd start to ask the doc a question only to have his brain provide an immediate answer or be playing a game and know his opponents' hands without looking. And though he'd never in his life admit it, he was scared. The things that he began Knowing got bigger. Got worse.

He'd gotten glimpses of Nastya's past, or even present, that he was not fond of seeing. Her thoughts began entering Jonny's head not of either of their accord, and he wasn't sure whether or not to tell her. If he did, he really wasn't looking forward to discussing why the hell she felt that way towards their ship. What the hell were the customs on Cyberia? That was answered quickly too, and he writhed in disgust.

He'd even received flashes of a woman with Carmilla, of a planet in the midst of war, of death and sorrow that he knew was not for his eyes. Not to be shared.

He decided to keep quiet.

And even as he ignored it, something inserted things into his mind that he did not need. Did not want.

When he looked at Nastya, watched her sarcastic eye-rolls and flat chuckles, he saw a face nothing like hers. Unfamiliar. And yet he felt that the memory of this blurry face and scrambled name would have made his heart ache and twist if he still had it. Now he was only left with empty confusion. Who was Basira? Was she really so much like Nastya?

He didn't linger on the questions, though. He didn't care enough to linger.

But he did. Truly. He cared about this person, and he didn't know why. He wanted to remember. And yet he didn't at the same time.

He didn't want to remember. He didn't want to piece together what he was missing because he knew —he Knew— it was something important. Something he hadn't wanted to forget. And something he'd never want to forget again. And if he was given why and who and what... he'd have to live with the fact that he had forgotten.

Carmilla had told him memory loss was inevitable. The mechanisms weren't the most stable things. Memories were fragile, and the more he died and had them rebuilt, the more would slip away. 

"They keep what's important in the moment," Carmilla had told him, "Anything you don't need gets deleted along with the gore."

It wasn't fair. Nothing ever was.

He could remember wanting something. Wanting to find something. Something... What would he even need? He was perfectly fine as he was. No pathetic relic from whatever world he came from could make him suddenly happier. He was plenty happy, he told the warbling, empty hole in his mind. He was plenty happy.

His mind was flooded one night. After around a year without dying. After a year with the random knowledge being provided from nowhere. He made the mistake of asking why this was all happening. 

With each bit of information, with each question, he learnt more. And when Martin's name ended up coming up among the ocean of knowledge,

he shot himself.

And woke up without it. Without the Eye. How odd. How odd that the mechanism knew he didn't want it. How odd that death was enough to sever them, even for a short amount of time. And how odd that he felt empty without it.

Or was that just Martin? Was that just the realisation that he'd genuinely forgotten about his boyfriend? That he'd forgotten Martin. Martin was the single reason he was even where he was. The single reason he was with Carmilla. The reason he had to stay alive. 

How had he let his heart erase that? And how ironic for it to be brought back by the thing that had ruined them so long ago?

"There's only an eighteen point twenty-six percent chance that it won't come back," Ivy told him as she closed her book.

"Yeah." Jonny sighed. "I just..." He buried his face in his hands. "This is the fourth time I've forgotten who I was. I'm sick of this shit. I'm tired of losing myself."

She nodded. "That is understandable. If you ever forget things, please let me know."

Jonny snorted, leaning back in his chair, "And if I forget to?"

"Then I suppose we'll never know," she muttered.

Jonny had gotten the Eye back. This would be the fifth time. Every time before, within a decade, everything would slip away. So much had happened. And the more that he experienced, the more he forgot. He'd figured it out, though – in the times he remembered being Jon. When he died, the Eye lost touch with him. It would fight and claw its way back to him, crown him archivist again. That is, unless he dies again. It'd restart over and over and over again.

And despite this, it was rare. Jonny died so often. Whether because of another person, his own crew, or himself, it didn't matter. The link hardly ever got repaired.

But when it did...

He'd lie awake for hours, days even, remembering everything. Watching memories in his mind with such detail, such precision, he could pretend he was there again.

He could pretend he was back in the archives, drinking Martin's tea and seeing him smile that little nervous smile he never thought he'd miss as much as he did. He could pretend he was going out for drinks with Tim, despite his usual reluctance. He could pretend he was whispering snippets of office gossip to Sasha, even if her face was still blurry to him. 

He could pretend he was chatting with Basira about the tapes, making jokes and laughing silently. He could pretend Daisy was with him and that they were watching old wildlife documentaries together. He could pretend he was in the tunnels with Melanie and Georgie, scared but safe for the moment. Able to breathe in the scent of relief.

He could lie there, alone, and pretend that it was all okay. That everyone was okay. That Martin was okay.

How long had it really been since he'd last seen Martin? Decades at least. Centuries? It definitely wasn't millennia. Right?

How long had he been Jonny D'Ville? When did he end up forgetting his name? When did he end up losing himself?

He knew it happened to all of them. If they didn't have the songs about their pasts, they were bound to forget it. And Jonny had crafted his made-up backstory from one or two facts. Cards from Cyberia. And the desert planet Carmilla found him on. The rest was pulled right out of his arse.

Even in those brief, fleeting times when he could be Jonathan Sims again, he didn't think his past would fit into just one song. He'd need an album. Or an entire discography.

And gods know he didn't want to write it. Not without Martin.

With all this taken into consideration, they all should really have expected it. Eventually it was bound to happen. But the whole crew had forgotten. They'd forgotten Jonny was looking for something. Looking for someone.

Even as the information burnt a gaping hole in Ivy's archives, they had forgotten.

He'd died so often. So frequently. And it had been so long since the Eye had reached him again. 

Even when he was stuck in prison, when they'd obtained the Toy Soldier. Even when he was accused of killing Carmilla (which he didn't, for those wondering. Carmilla was fine. A bit salty, but fine). Even when Nastya begged him to accompany her to find Briar Rose. Even when Ashes had a blast in the city and they'd obtained Marius and Raphaella. Even when he'd gotten a little drunk and forgotten Brian in the sun.

Even after everything. The Eye never reached him.

Not until he was alone.

Sitting in the interview room. He'd been bored for a while after they'd stopped killing him. And that peeping bastard managed to latch itself right onto him again. It fed him knowledge much quicker, much more desperately. As if it was afraid he'd die again and lose it. As if it had to squeeze in as much information as it could before then.

When Callan came in, the interview was quick. And gods, what a coincidence it was that Brian had decided to interrupt that interview in particular.

"It was a little rude of you," Jonny told him as they re-entered Aurora. "I quite liked where the conversation was going." Despite having similar conversations with others, he truly had enjoyed it. It was a bit entertaining.

Brian frowned at the first mate. "I thought I took too long."

"Well, you could've parked outside."

"Would you like to pilot someone as disagreeable as Aurora?" It sounded like a challenge. "That's rhetorical." Damn.

He let out a heavy, exaggerated sigh and flopped into his chair. "You're a control freak, Drumbot," he accused petulantly.

"And you're a hypocrite."

He shrugged, glancing up past the viewport and into the stars.

The Eye stared along with him. It saw exactly what he did.

"Yes," Nastya said flatly as she stood, peering over Brian's shoulder. "Right there."

Aurora's screens flashed with colons and closed parentheses as her girlfriend spoke.

"Why does he want to land there?" Brian asked.

Nastya shrugged. "Something about good stories and locals. Who knows?"

"What?" Tim sat up grinning. "Did our first mate gain the ability to tell the future too?" The Drumbot rolled his mechanical eyes. 

Nastya shrugged again.

The Aurora landed rather gently compared to usual, and Jonny wondered briefly if Brian had taken his advice into account. Unlikely. Moving on. 

He stepped off the ship casually as the rest of the crew exited ahead of him. He was eager, but he didn't want to let any of them know. He wasn't prepared for an interrogation. Not on this. The Eye had calmed down a tad since Brian's shaky rescue, but he appreciated it nonetheless. It was nice, the quiet. He could simply ask it for answers, and it would provide them. 

When the crew dispersed, Jonny had been left to his own devices. He wandered the woods and shot a few fae folk as he went. He was following where the Eye guided him, but he still wanted to have some fun. There was no point in being on a planet for a quest if he couldn't kill a few things. (Something inside him called his bullshit, but he shoved it down and buried it.)

"Another one?" A thick Scottish accent grumbled.

Jonny looked up from his snack, a small brownie (and not the dessert kind. This one was more fleshy). Oh. The Eye told him he was on the right track.

"You'd better have a damn good explanation for tearing up my forest," the man snapped.

Jonny couldn't risk dying here. Not when he was so close.

"Look, mate, I'm just... a bit lost? And scared, really. These woods are freaking me the hell out!"

"And so you decided to pull a gun on literally everything you saw?"

"I'm American."

"What?"

"Nothin'." Jonny waved dismissively. "Look, what I'm trying to say is I'm lost. Really lost. And I'm looking for someone."

"...oh." The creature exhaled and reluctantly pointed north. "Thataway. And get the hell out 'soon as you find 'im."

Jonny could've figured that out without the help of this forest troll, or whatever it was, but he would take whatever excuse he could to get the hell away from this guy. "Thank you!" He hurried off.

The will-o'-the-wisps beckoned him to follow in the forms of familiar faces, but the Eye saw right through the giggling tricksters. He trudged through the mud and filth with determination. He was so close.

The Eye stopped him at a loch. It told him that was where he was supposed to find what he was looking for. He felt a bit silly for getting so eager, but he was so close! He'd finally, after all these years, be whole again!

Jonny waded through the water with an excitement he hadn't felt in centuries. He was undeniably hell-bent on finding-

A liver.

He reached out and grasped the organ bobbing at the surface of the loch. The Eye provided Jonny with the knowledge he was dreading.

A liver.

The Eye knew that was all that was left. It had led him all the way there.

All the way without telling him that was all he'd find.

A liver.

His knees buckled. He felt the creature yank him down under the water just as it did Martin.

Jonny couldn't find it in himself to struggle.

Chapter Text

"'ere we are!" Banana exclaimed as it looked through the bushes, "Loch's just 'round here!"

Martin shoved a branch to the side to get a look. Oh. Wow. The large body of water glistened in the afternoon sun, rippling with each tiny disturbance. He watched as vivid green leaves and flower petals from the surrounding flora drifted across the water's surface.

Martin couldn't help but think it was a positively gorgeous sight. Despite being somewhere unfamiliar, nature remained stagnant in its beauty.

He hoped he could find Jon soon. He hoped they could live nearby. Maybe build a little cottage in the forest so they could visit the loch and have romantic little picnic dates or go swimming. He longed to be able to hold Jon's frail hand in his own and walk along the edge of the water. Maybe once he found Jon, life could mellow out. They could talk without worrying about doom or danger. They could sit, feet dipped in the water, skipping stones and laughing with one another.

They could lie down in the grass. He could see Jon's long hair spread out underneath him. He could smile at him, and Jon could smile back.

Martin could hardly remember the last time they'd been able to rest like that. There was always something. Even in the safehouse, both of them knew it wasn't the end. There would always have been something more. Something worse.

So what if the Lonely still had a grasp on Martin? So what if Jon was still The Archivist? They had made it work before, even with the constant looming threat, so who's to say it wouldn't be a million times better here? Here, where Elias was gone? Here, where even the monsters were friendly? (Or at least he assumed they were. Gill and Banana were kind. Practically human. More human than a good handful of the avatars he knew.)

Staring out into the loch, watching it shimmer, Martin felt hope. Real hope. Hope that life would turn out fine. That the world has finally, finally allowed him a happy ending. He just had to reach it, and he was already so close. Despite how idiotic it sounded to his common sense, he could feel it. He could feel that Jon was close. He would find Jon soon, and then everything would be perfect.

He turned to Banana, who in response looked up at him with a stupid grin. Martin couldn't help but grin back.

"Thanks," he said genuinely.

Banana made a dismissive sound. "All good! I do have to leave here, though! I wanna go finish lookin' for things down by that one bog, y'know? The one with my dead not friend?"

And there went a significant amount of Martin's built-up trust in this little freak.

"Hey, maybe I'll find another random person floating around in it! Wouldn't that be a crazy coincidence?" It exclaimed.

Martin stepped through the bushes.

He could only go uphill from this point on. The town was just north of the loch, according to Banana, and there he would likely find Jon. Everything was going wonderfully, and Martin would be damned not to jinx it.

He marched down to the edge of the water, leaving Banana in the trees. He couldn't help but chuckle, despite his irritation, as he saw the ùruisg wave vigorously with both arms. He reluctantly offered a wave back, watching it skitter out of view. What a strange creature.

As Martin walked, he hummed. He felt happy for the first time in a while. Genuinely, honestly happy. He couldn't wait to find his boyfriend and take care of him and kiss him and-

What the fuck was that. 

What the fuck was that.

Two deep, glowing, green eyes blinked at Martin from under the murky water. 

He stared back, his own eyes wide in terror.

He stepped forward. The eyes shifted further.

They followed his every movement, even as he power walked away. They were right there, next to him in the water.

He decided, just for safety, to walk a tad farther away from the edge. Just a few feet. Maybe a yard.

All his fantasies about romantic picnic dates near the loch and the chances he and Jon would get to swim together there suddenly dissolved into deep worry. He was still happy, of course, but maybe he'd keep those dates away from the spooky, evil water fae that lurked under the surface. Jon would likely agree with him. Hell, Jon could probably tell Martin all about whatever it was that watched him.

"It's called an each uisge," Jon would explain, crouching on the patchy grass to get a better look at the creature. "They're similar to kelpies."

Martin would sit beside his boyfriend and nod along as he gave information about the creepy bastard that watched them. And despite his apprehension about the subject, he could listen to Jon rattle on all day.

But Martin knew Jon, and he knew Jon wouldn't just stop there.

He'd tell stories about any encounters locals had with the monster and what it would do if it caught them. Martin would squirm with discomfort. Jon would panic, apologize, and they would kiss. Martin would rather have that reality than any other one without Jon.

He returned to humming, arms behind his head in a relaxed manner. He felt good still. He was still equally as happy and eager as he was before. All that changed was his distance from the water. Nothing else.

He was still safe; he was still going to find Jon, and he wasn't going to let some creep in the water throw him off course.

After nearly a half hour of walking and trying to ignore the pair of eyes burning into his back, Martin spotted a person, and to say he was relieved would have been an understatement. This was a person. A human. Not a faerie or a troll or some weird annoying half-goat creature. A person.

It was a frail old woman kneeling by the water's edge. She had long, tangled black hair with strands of grey all throughout it and tattered clothes. She had what looked like an old shirt in her hands as she dipped it into the water, washing it. On her left was an empty woven basket, and on her right, a pile of bloodied clothes. And as Martin approached closer, he could see that she was staring right at him.

His heart dropped.

Of course, there could be a perfectly reasonable explanation for the blood. Maybe she was washing the clothes of people who were injured? That seemed likely. Martin hoped she was washing the clothes because said people were still alive and wanted their clothes back and not for any other reason.

He stood there, a few meters away from her. She rinsed off the shirt, folding it gently and placing it in the basket. From her pile, she drew a bloodied pair of trousers. Martin stepped forward.

She kept watching, simply washing the trousers, folding them, and moving on. Eyes never leaving Martin.

She pulled out a worn coat from the pile. Martin froze. He knew that coat. That was his coat. How did she get that? And why was it bloody?!

He knew he'd given it to Gill, but he doubted the friendly fae would ever end up with blood on his clothes, and definitely not in that short of time! And even if he did end up dirtying his clothes, Gill would likely wash them himself! So how the hell did this woman have it?!

He walked closer, and usually he would have been embarrassed about how aggressive his steps had been if he wasn't so genuinely lost and upset.

In hindsight he should have asked first. He should have spoken to the woman and figured out what was going on, but in that moment Martin failed to think things through. He grabbed the coat and yanked it. The woman screamed.

And Martin did too. Her face was suddenly wrong. Her skin wrinkled and flaked off, jaw unhinging and dangling almost to her chest, eyes no longer watching, just empty black voids of nothing. He let go immediately, regret and terror rushing through his veins as he staggered backwards.

"Wh...what the fuck?"

Her horrifically thin, bony hand jolted out and grabbed Martin's wrist. Her grip was a burning rope. He opened his mouth to speak, to ask her what happened, to beg for forgiveness. All that came out was a broken shriek as his wrist snapped under the pressure. What was happening?! Why was she doing this?!

She yanked him forward.

 "Your fate is sealed."

He sobbed as she stood, towering over him. She dropped the coat into the woven basket, still bloody, and grabbed his other arm.

Martin wailed as she tore them both off, flesh snapping apart and bones shattering from the force. His ears were filled with the sound of flesh hitting the ground. His chest constricted; he couldn't breathe. Hot tears ran down his face as the blood from his arms pooled on the ground. He could see them. See his arms below him. It only made things worse. So much worse.

What had he done? Could he not just have been respectful? He should have known it was someone dangerous. Something dangerous. He shouldn't have been so stupid! Now he'll never see Jon! Now he'll die, and Jon will be alone, just like Martin was!

He screamed as she kicked his leg backwards. The bone shot through his skin. She swung him into the water.

Martin could only watch as she and the clothes around her disappeared. What did that even mean? What had happened? Surely what he'd done didn't warrant this level of punishment!

He gasped sharply as he felt something sharp dig into his shoulder. Fuck. He knew exactly what it was. He knew what it had to be. And God knows he didn't want to see it. He didn't want to have to watch as the horse tore bits and chunks of Martin's flesh off his bone. He felt his body being dragged down into the depths of the loch, and before he knew it, he was submerged. He knew there was no point in gasping for air; hell, it probably would make the process twice as fast, but he couldn't help but flail and cough as the water forced its way into his lungs. It was agony. The each uisge didn't stop its feast, and Martin couldn't catch a single breath of air.

He couldn't believe it.

He couldn't fucking believe it.

This was it.

This was all there was for Martin.

Even after all the warnings and all the concern from Gill and Banana. All the signs that any sensible person would have seen.

Martin had fucked it all up.

The woman had known this would happen. She had to have. Maybe she was a warning too. Maybe if Martin had tried hard enough, he wouldn't have ended up here.

But it was too late now. No reason to look back and wonder 'what if'.

His fate was sealed.

On the bright side, he thought as the horse tore into his leg, Jon is probably dead too. He concluded that being dead together was better than being alone. And even then, Jon would die eventually. He would die and join Martin in the inky blackness of eternal nothingness. Or was that wishful thinking? Was Martin really never going to get to be happy?

Did he deserve this? Did he deserve to die like this? Alone? Underwater? Without anyone's knowledge?

No, no. Jon would Know. He would Know Martin's dead. And he would grieve and eventually join him.

Or would he? Would he even care? Truly, would Jon care that Martin died?

What a cruel thought to have about his boyfriend.

His boyfriend.

Jon.

Where was Jon?

Chapter Text

Jonny groaned as he sat up. His muscles ached and throbbed with pain, yet he could hardly muster up enough energy to give a damn. His head, however, was killing him. He had to wait a good few seconds before fully opening his eyes due to this, but when he finally managed to, he glanced around.

Strange. He was on the shore of a large body of water. The small waves lapped at his feet as the afternoon sun dragged humidity into the air, making Jonny feel not only spiteful about the heat but also disgustingly sticky with sweat.

He stood up, trying to ignore his discomfort, and coughed up the water lingering in his lungs. Had he drowned? Mmm... No. No, this wasn't the drowning feeling. Drowning didn't give his nerves that subtle ache. Drowning didn't take that long to regenerate. He definitely got torn apart. Not fully, but a damn good amount—enough to cause that throbbing and aching. Enough to really ruffle his feathers.

The only real question he had now was what the hell he was even doing over here. His crew was nowhere he could see, and he didn't recognise this area. Had he come back wrong? Strange, but not unheard of. He'd have to ask someone to take a look at his mechanism if it keeps doing this. But for now, he'll just live with it. No point in making a fuss about a one-time thing.

It was common sense to turn back to the forest. He highly doubted Aurora was in the water; she was a quality ship, but that'd be a whole new level of absurdity. And if she was in the water, what the fuck was the reason for that? It seems like a lot of extra effort to go through just to watch him get killed. He doubted they'd care that much about seeing him get tortured by some freak in a loch. And speaking of that freak, even if Aurora wasn't in or over the water, Jonny had a damn good idea of what was.

It wasn't unusual for the violent space pirate to take petty revenge on the folks that kill him; it was rather common, actually. However, this time it was different. Jonny didn't particularly know why, but he wasn't going to slaughter this thing for exhilaration or because of some trivial rivalry. He wasn't usually angry at those who kill him. Irritated? Yes. Annoyed? Frequently. Downright exasperated? Most definitely. But rarely did Jonny ever find himself this truly, genuinely furious. Maybe sometimes when his stuff was stolen or touched or when someone made the wrong kind of accusations about him or his crew. 

But to Jonny, simple deaths were more of an inconvenience than something to get livid over.

And yet, despite feeling that regular mild infuriation at first, thinking about whatever had killed him for a tad longer, really mulling over what had happened? It filled his entire being with deep, unbridled rage.

He had no real explanation as to why. Why was he so pissed off at this whatever-it-was that most likely thought he was a tasty snack and spat him out when it reached metal? Why was the thought of this bastard remaining alive after what it had done so... so impossible for Jonny to handle? 

Eh. Who the hell cared? It wasn't often he got the relish in this sort of adrenaline. He wasn't about to waste it. 

With his free hand, he reached for his gun, which had washed up on the shore along with him, and holstered it into what was left of his belt. Fuck, he needed to get back to the ship once he was finished here.

Tattered clothes aside, he was going to kill it. Obviously. There was no question in his mind about it. No matter how many times he had to die to do it. He was going to rip this thing to shreds. And it was going to feel. So. Damn. Good.

Violence was Jonny's speciality. He can't recall any other activity he excelled at quite like it, save for singing, of course. That was Jonny's passion. But violence was entirely different. He could do any sort, really. His first resort was his pistol, naturally. It was a good weight, and it fit perfectly in his hand. If his gun ever somehow failed him, his knife was a lovely alternative. Equally as easy to grasp, equally as easy to use. He enjoyed the gore that came with slashing the skin of his foes; slipping the blade in and out of flesh was oddly, grotesquely satisfying to Jonny. Though truthfully, what sort of violence wasn't satisfying to him? He could gleefully rip someone apart with his hands or teeth and feel the same sort of glee as he felt when using a weapon.

With this particular creature, however? He would be dreadfully embarrassed to admit that he underestimated it. Yes, the bullets did damage. Yes, the knife punctured its flesh. And yes, maybe he got a little cocky.

In his defence, he'd never dealt with adhesive skin. And in his defence, he wasn't in the greatest mindset to be thinking things through, so... biting it may have... possibly... not been his greatest decision. 

He could claim that it was the blinding rage or some weird fae bullshit, but no one would buy that sort of excuse. Not when all of his teeth were stuck to the neck of a stupid fucking horse. Any attempt at giving an explanation would only be muffled griping, resulting in laughter from anyone who listened.

So in his current situation, with his face stuck, his hand stuck, his knife stuck, and his gun still in its holster, he was likely fucked.

For a moment, a brief moment, he was scared. For some reason, he spent at least half a minute certain he wasn't going to recover. As if he wasn't Jonny fucking D'Ville.

What the fuck, he thought sharply at those cowardly few seconds, are you going on about?

He sunk his teeth deeper. The horse screeched, jerking back in the water. Jonny's body flailed around, still tethered to that fucking monster. He bit harder and yanked back. Its flesh snapped off its body, and blood spurted across Jonny's face.

Exhilarating. Fucking exhilarating. 

He spat the wad of meat into the water and tore his hand off the creature's adhesive skin. He didn't give a fuck about his now-exposed flesh as he gripped the handle of his knife and stabbed it deeper, dragging it through the monster's torso.

The horse swung its body around and kicked Jonny. He practically skipped across the water's surface. He spluttered, his blood spraying from his mouth. 

Motherfucker. 

He staggered to his feet, legs strangely wobbly. Looks like his gun would be his only option. Fine by him. He pulled out his gun, closing one eye and aiming at the horse's head. He had to kill it. He had to kill it. He had to.

When the monster finally collapsed in the water, Jonny didn't stop. He didn't care. He didn't care that it was dead. He didn't care. He didn't care. He dropped his gun, scrambled over to its body, and, with his free hand, he dug into its torso. He tore into its organs with his teeth. He yanked off its head and chucked it off into the distance. He kicked the corpse and slammed his fist into it. He pulled out and snapped its bones. He made sure it was dead. He made sure it paid.

How long did it take him? Not to be certain it was dead; he knew that practically after he'd shot it. No, how long did it take him to notice how hard he was sobbing? When did he realise there were tears blinding his vision, running down his face along with snot and blood? When was the last time he'd cried like this? Or at all, frankly? He didn't know the answers to any of this. He didn't know anything. He didn't know why he was sobbing, or why this whole time he was subconsciously clutching a liver to his chest like a lifeline (had he been doing that the whole time? Why hadn't he questioned himself?), or why he was so weakly, so pathetically, punching the torn-apart remains of the each usige. 

He didn't know anything.

He couldn't.

The door hissed open as he stumbled in. He was drenched in sweat, tears, and blood. His hair was a mess, his clothes were practically shreds, and he was trembling. Trembling.

Nastya rushed over, concern etched over her face. "Jonny? Ты в порядке?"

Jonny looked down at her, eyes wide. "What?"

"Are you okay?" She grabbed his shoulders.

"... I'm..." He glanced at the liver in his hands. "No."

Nastya's eyes fell onto the organ clutched to his chest at the same time, but before she could say anything, she was interrupted.

"You're shaking!" That was from Marius. The 'baron' was very suddenly right beside Nastya, grabbing Jonny's face and looking over him. Jonny didn't object. He didn't have the energy.

He allowed Marius to drag him down to med-bay and sit him down on the cot. He couldn't really be bothered to listen to the questions he was being asked. He offered empty, noncommittal responses.

"Jonny!" 

He gasped sharply as a hand smacked across his face. He blinked a few times.

"Jesus fuck! Get a hold of yourself!" Tim snapped at him. He sounded worried despite the aggression. It only made Jonny feel worse.

He didn't feel like Jonny. He felt wrong. Like he wasn't supposed to have ended up like this. Like everything he knew was wrong and that everything he loved was gone. Everything was gone. Everything was all gone, and he could never get them back. Everyone died. Everyone always dies. Why does Jon have to live? Why is it that Jon always has to be the one to live?

"Oh my fucking God!" Tim slapped him again. He sounded scared.

Jon winced. "Sorry."

That seemed to be the worst possible response he could've given. "Fuck you mean 'sorry'?! What the fuck happened to you?!" Tim exclaimed, his hands grasping at his hair in exasperation.

"...I killed... A horse?" Jon said quietly.

"What the actual hell does that mean."

Nastya yanked Tim off of Jon, shooting him a look. She had an equally, if not more, worried expression on her face when she turned back to Jon. "Look, Jonny, could you just tell us what you saw? Or what you did?"

"In a little more detail, please?" Ivy called from the doorway. Was she transcribing? Who else was here?

Jon shrugged. "There was a horse. I killed it."

Tim scowled. "And the liver?"

Jon looked down at the liver. He couldn't help but let the tears roll down his cheeks again.

A collection of almost silent swears escaped Tim's lips as he ran a hand through his hair. "Jonny, what... Uh..." He sighed heavily. "How can we help you?"

Jon's gaze shifted up to look at Tim. His eyes were wide and glossy. He looked desperate. It wasn't a good look on him. "Please," he spoke without thinking about what he was about to ask. He held out the liver, hand quivering.

"Please mechanise him."

The silence was deafening. 

Was that really what he wanted? Whose liver was this? Why did Jonny care? Everyone thought it. Everyone wanted to ask him. But Jonny wasn't the type to ask something like this. He wasn't a huge fan of mechanising random people. Gunpowder Tim had been a close friend from the lunar war. They'd known each other for years. Jonny had seen something in him. Jonny liked him. They'd only been on this planet for a few days. And yet, none of them had seen their first mate so broken before. Not like this. Jonny's shut down before. He's exploded at them. But this? On any regular day, Jonny would do anything to avoid this sort of situation. Crying? In front of everyone?

Jonny needed this. They all could recognise that.

It had talked nearly ten minutes trying to pry the organ from Jonny's hands, but eventually they got it away from him. Nastya had commanded The Toy Soldier to take him to his quarters to rest so the rest of them could get to work constructing a body for this... liver.

No one knew how to even start, frankly. Jonny had given them practically nothing to work with, and so there they were, gathered in the lab with no idea what to do.

Jonny was depending on them. Which was... distressing. Whoever this was, they were important to him.

Even when Tim got himself blown up, Jonny had dragged his body on board so casually. He'd tossed the almost dead soldier onto the ground and commanded someone to mechanise him because he had "some real spunk".

This was so different. This was so... abnormal. Sure, tears weren't an oddity on the Aurora, but to cry so openly? Without denying it, without claiming he was fine?

They were all worried. Even the Soldier seemed on edge when it returned from its task.

They needed to make a body for this thing. And if they didn't?

Well, they weren't certain Jonny would ever recover from this.

"We should start by making some sort of base," Raphaella suggested.

"A base?" Tim frowned. "I doubt Jonny would accept that."

"We need to start somewhere," Ashes snapped at him, motioning to their collection of gold. "We can use this shit. I'm sure your girlfriend—" they turned to Nastya—"would understand why the bills are late."

The engineer nodded. "She'd better." She knelt down to grab some of the metal. "We'll need to start on the insides."

"Insides?" Tim asked.

She looked up. "What? You thought it'd be hollow?"

Brian scoffed as Tim winced. "It's not my speciality, alright? How was I supposed to know?"

"You could pay more attention?" Ivy noted. She chuckled at his glare.

"Stop arguing," Ashes muttered, helping Nastya gather tools. "We need to get started. These things take forever to make."

Hours passed. A body was slowly constructed around the liver. Hours of work from everyone together. The lab was a blur of movement. Chatter and the sound of metal against metal filled the room. Everyone was exhausted.

"...it... doesn't look like him," was all Jonny said when he saw it. Tim almost shot him. He was held back.

"What could we do to make it look more like him?" Raphaella asked gently.

"He's... He's bigger. And taller. And... and he's warm. He's not... He's...not..." Metal. He's not metal.

But they couldn't do anything about that. He's going to have to be metal.

"Could you maybe draw us a picture?" Ivy sat down next to him on the ground, offering a notepad and pen.

Jonny stared at it for a good minute. "...draw... a picture? Would that even help?" He sounded out of breath.

"It could." She put a hand on his shoulder. "Just try it, okay?"

Jonny nodded silently. He clicked the pen and began drawing. It was shaky and low quality. But it did end up helping.

The drawing wasn't the greatest, but they could see fairly well what the man had looked like.

He was large, like Jonny had said, with curly hair and glasses. He looked... Average. Who was this man to Jonny? 

Not like it mattered, really. They were going to make the body no matter what. It was worth a try. They'd get it eventually.

Chapter Text

Martin had always wondered what it was like to die. It was a question he'd had since he was a kid, which he was sure was a morbid thought for an eight year-old to have. He wondered what it felt like to die, when the pain stopped, and what would happen afterwards. He wasn't religious. He didn't believe there was a heaven, and even if there was, Martin wasn't sure he'd go there. (And he probably wouldn't end up in just limbo either.) Ghosts always intrigued him, but he could never get himself to believe in them.

The idea of there being a life after life seemed foolish to Martin. He found it easier to believe that after death, people stopped existing. Not their bodies, of course. But their minds? Their 'souls'? Those would probably be extinguished.

Martin had come very close to death on various occasions. He'd accepted the idea of dying very quickly in each of those situations. 

When Prentiss was invading the archives, Martin had made peace with the fact that he was as good as dead, and frankly, he was glad his last few moments would have been with Jon. Until Tim burst through the wall, he was ready to die then.

When he and Tim were stuck wandering those damned spiral corridors, Martin was sure they were going to die then too. He was less ready for that, mostly because no one would know, and that thought freaked him out at the time. Not to mention that having to starve to death in an endless hellscape of old, flashy wallpaper and unremarkable doors alongside Tim would've taken so much longer than being torn apart by worms.

He knew that The Lonely wouldn't have killed him, that it might've been worse—no, not might've been. The Lonely was definitely worse than death. Even if it was safe and welcoming, Martin didn't want to be stuck there without anything. Without anyone. He was endlessly grateful Jon was able to find him. It was perfect, really. He loved Jon, and Jon loved him. And he was the most relieved he'd ever been in his life.

In the panopticon, holding Jon tightly in his arms, he didn't know if he'd die. He didn't know if Jon would die. 

He could only hold onto hope that they would make it out together.

And thank God he had. Waking up to find himself somewhere else, just like Jon had said, was what he had been hoping for, but not expecting. Martin had never considered himself an optimist. Not when it came to himself. He could play that role with other people, but he always expected the worst in any situation. And Martin had expected nothing but that after the panopticon fell. He expected to die. To die with Jon. And he was ready for that. There wouldn't be any other way he wanted to go out.

When he was dragged under the water, he hated that his last thoughts were so pessimistic. After everything he'd been through, truly he should have known, but he couldn't help but fear the worst. That he was dying alone and that Jon would never know.

Stupid. 

'Jon would never know.' 

Jon always Knew. He would always find Martin. Martin knew this more than any Eye could tell anyone. Because Jon loved him. Jon loved Martin. And Martin would be damned rather than doubt that fact.

It hurt. That's how he knew he was still alive. His head throbbed, and thoughts whirled around through it as his body ached. Breathing was difficult, and it felt as though his entire body had been pulled apart and rearranged in the wrong shape and order. He felt heavy. Not apathetic—physically heavy. He attempted to move his fingers and found it genuinely difficult. His joints creaked like metal against metal; in fact, Martin could practically hear them, which was a whole experience in itself. It was as though all the sound that should have been outside his head was right there beside his thoughts, only louder and more grating.

After about half an hour of psyching himself out passed before he finally decided to open his eyes. His eyelids were excruciatingly heavy, and again, not in a sleepy or exhausted way—physically heavy. He had never struggled to move like this ever before. It was unnerving.

Above him was a flickering fluorescent light. There were bits of dirt and dead bugs stuck in it, and it seemed unfathomably bright. Like the sun if it were a tube and directly above Martin, beaming its hateful, headache-inducing rays onto him. Eugh, he thought as he quickly shut his eyes again. What the hell.

He slowly, very slowly, turned his head to the side and reopened them. A cabinet, shelves, drawers, and an old metal desk. All filled with or covered in those sort of bubbling, liquid-filled beakers only ever depicted in a cartoon mad scientist's laboratory. Strange.

Martin inhaled, and... he knew the room smelt like chemicals, but he couldn't actually smell it. His brain told him what the scent was, even though Martin himself smelt nothing. 

...What was going on?

With great struggle and strain on his entire body, he pushed himself to sit up, only to be promptly shoved back into the lying position.

The woman had just entered the room, rushed over to him, muttering to herself, and slammed him back against the bed. Bed? Table? She had long hair and large mechanical wings folded up behind her.

"Not yet, my dear!" She said in a sing-song voice as she pushed him back down.

"...what did you just call me?" Martin asked, not sure whether to be flattered or offended. Then he spluttered. What the hell was wrong with his voice?!

"Don't worry," another voice began, "she says that to all the folks she works on." This came from a thin man with curly brown hair and a scruffy beard. He wore a strange monogoggle on his head and had what appeared to be a robotic arm. 

"What's going on?" Martin croaked. "What's wrong with me?"

The man and woman exchanged a look. He shrugged at her. She sighed.

"You died."

"I died?"

"You died."

"...what?"

She blinked slowly, trying to figure out what Martin didn't understand. "...you died."

"I- you said that already but-"

The man tittered, "Hey, you'll never guess what happened."

Martin glanced at him.

"You died!" He exclaimed.

"I get that!" Martin snapped. "I mean, what am I doing here? How am I alive again? Where am I? How did I get here? What happened after I died??"

"Well, that's easy." The woman nodded thoughtfully as she tinkered with some of the frankly unreal-looking beakers. "We were fixing you a body. That's what you're doing here and how you're alive again."

"Ooh, nice!" The man gave her a double thumbs up.

"You're in my lab."

"Lab?" That wasn't a very reassuring answer. "Why am I in a lab?"

The man made a disgruntled noise. "I told you we should've brought them to the medical bay! It's much more comforting and much less ominous!"

The woman rolled her eyes. "One question at a time. You got to the lab because we brought you here."

"Well, technically Jonny brought you to the ship—" the man began, leaning against one of the countertops and tapping his chin, his earlier irritation seemingly forgotten in an instant—"but we brought you to the lab."

Martin sat up again, this time urgently. "Jonny?"

"Yeah. Jonny."

"...Jonny."

"Wow, you quite like repeating stuff!" The man said cheerfully. "Jonny!"

"Jonny!" The woman joined in.

"Stop, stop, stop," he pinched the bridge of his nose. "Who's Jonny?"

There was hardly any doubt in Martin's mind that it was Jon. His Jon. It had to be his Jon. He'd been through too much to find him. Hell, he'd died to find Jon. If the universe couldn't see that he deserved to see him again, then Martin didn't know what else he could do to make it realise. 

Jonny. It was a cute nickname. He wished he'd called Jon that first to see his face scrunch up with embarrassment or maybe soften with fondness. Were these weird people Jon's friends? Were they close enough to him to call him Jonny? Or were they just rude? Where had Jon met them? How did he feel about them? Martin had so many questions and they all depended on whether or not this Jonny fellow was his boyfriend or not.

"Jonny's our first mate, though he'd usually try to tell you otherwise," the man explained.

"Wait, crap! We haven't introduced ourselves!" The woman gasped, her wings flitting slightly. "My name is Raphaella la Cognizi. I am the ship's science officer."

"Oh! How rude of us!" The man crossed his arms. "I'm Doctor Baron Marius Von Raum!"

Raphaella made a noise that made Martin think she may have wanted to say something more but refrained.

"I see. Er. I'm Martin. Blackwood. I'm Martin Blackwood. Uh. I used to be an archival assistant?"

"Oh!" They both said in tandem.

"Ivy will be thrilled!" Raphaella clapped.

"Indeed!" Marius grinned.

Martin didn't even want to ask about that.

Their information on 'Jonny' wasn't detailed enough for Martin to come to a conclusion. (Other than the fact that it'd be kind of pathetic for someone to be so adamant about being the captain when they're only the first mate (which also raised the question of who was the actual captain?)) He had to press further.

"Tell me more about Jonny. How did he find me?"

"Well," Marius replied, "he actually hasn't told us much! He showed up back at the ship after we landed here and explored for a while, holding your liver and freaking out. He's been sort of resting since."

"However!" Raphaella flung open a cabinet and rummaged around, pulling out a wrinkled paper. "He did stop by while we were making your body to draw us this as a reference!"

She held it out. Martin couldn't help but smile.

It was definitely Jon. Martin was certain now. He had no doubt about it.

...Wait, body? Wait, what?

He'd been so distracted by the rapid fire of new information and people, Martin's brain had somehow completely skipped over the fact that Marius and Raphaella had made a new body for him. And that when Jon brought him to the ship, he was just a liver. How the hell was he still alive???

He looked down at his new metal body. It was strange and different, and Martin wasn't too sure of how he'd live like this, but he would manage. He'd rather be alive with a robot body than dead as a liver.

"So?" Raphaella asked, dragging Martin out of his mind.

"Oh! Er. What?"

"You were inspecting your new body. What do you think?"

"It's lovely," Martin insisted immediately. "Thank you so much for making this to keep me alive."

The scientist preened. "Well, it wasn't all me..."

"Yeah, what the hell?" Marius frowned.

Martin spluttered, "In... In general. Thank you. To anyone who made it."

"Good."

"Alright now!" Raphaella hurried over, shoving Martin to lie back down again. "I have a few questions to make sure the mechanism is working right."

"What?" Martin wheezed as the air was knocked out of him.

"To make sure the robot body goes beep boop. Please answer honestly."

"I'll try...?"

"Very well then!" She smiled warmly. "I'll get started with that once Marius leaves! Privacy is important!"

Marius sighed heavily and trudged out of the lab.

Martin's stomach twisted.

Martin has never survived being shot in the head before. Martin has never even survived being shot before. This is likely because Martin has never been shot before. At all. And to say that was the scariest thing that had ever happened to him would be a lie, but it was pretty damn nerve-wracking. 

He coughed and gasped as he woke up. Raphaella was standing over him, writing down information on a small notepad. 

"That will be all for the questions," she concluded, flipping the notepad closed.

"Questions?!" Martin cried. "You asked me like five questions, one of which was 'Do you trust me?' Then you shot me even after I said no!"

"Yes, well, it was more of a setup, really."

"Are you crazy?!" Martin shrieked. "I've died more times today than anyone ever should in their life! This should all be impossible!"

"To answer your question—" she sat down on the edge of her desk—"yes, yes, I am crazy."

"Clearly!" He grasped at his hair. "Why did you shoot me?!"

Raphaella smirked. Martin did not like that. "Everyone on this ship has a mechanism. My wings are mine. Marius' is his arm. It's a mechanical contraption that can bring people back to life from the dead. I had to test yours out."

Martin looked down at himself, then up at Raphaella. "...what is my mechanism? Also, why the hell didn't you say that before you shot me?!"

"All sans liver," she said matter-of-factly, as if imitating someone that Martin didn't know. "And because it was more entertaining that way."

"...that means..." He tensed. "The only thing actually left of me was my liver..."

"Yes." Raphaella drew her knees to her chest, peering at Martin over them. "We've been over this."

He had truly died. Had that each uisge eaten the rest of him? Why save the liver?

Jon must've used the eye to locate him, or what was left of him. The thought of Jon finding his liver and Knowing it was Martin's hurt. No wonder he was resting. That must've been horrible.

"Hey—" Raphaella snapped her fingers in his face—"Stay with me here. I've still got things to say."

He looked up, raising his eyebrows.

"Based on your answers to my questions, I think it's safe to assume you're sane and aren't actively dying at a faster rate than usual. This means you should be able to handle the interrogation that some of our crew has planned for you. However, because I'm so nice, I'm going to give you a few hours to rest." She stood up, hopping down from her place on the counter. "Rest well, Martin!"

Martin could only stare blankly as she left him alone in the lab.

Walking proved to be significantly more difficult than any other movement he had complained about. Everything was too heavy, and every sensation was so different from what Martin was used to. Each step he took clattered through the halls like he was some sort of metallic monster. He felt wrong, and he was scared it wasn't something he'd ever get used to.

After allowing himself to sleep for about half a day, Raphaella had woken him up unceremoniously and dragged him out of the lab.

He found himself following her through dull, metal corridors with seemingly nothing of note. It reminded him of Michael's hallways in a way, though at least Michael's tried to give a facsimile of safety. There was dried blood practically everywhere in these halls.

All of Martin's trust in this place, these people, and Jon's safety, no matter how miniscule, began dwindling and quickly dissipated. His gaze darted from the blood back to Raphaella, terrified she'd shoot him again.

Whose blood was this? Why was it never cleaned up?

The horrifying thought that it might be Jon's blood shattered all the others. Was Jon hurt? Were these people not even Jon's friends? Was Jon a prisoner to these guys?!

"And here we are." Raphaella opened a door, and he was shocked to find a bunch of people waiting around in what looked relatively like a common room.

Raphaella guided him to sit down at a table.

All eyes shifted to Martin.

"You're each allowed one question," the scientist said sternly.

A short woman with brown hair and glasses scoffed. "I'll ask however many I want."

Martin bit the inside of his cheek, fingers fidgeting with one another as the woman narrowed her eyes at him. "How do you know Jonny?"

He took a deep breath. This was fine. It was going to be fine. Though, maybe to tell them he was Jon's significant other would put either of them in danger. Knowing how close they are could mean these people might put one of them in danger to get something out of the other.

"We... used to work together." That was the safest response Martin could give.

"Liar!" A man with long hair stood up and slammed his hands onto the table. "Don't fucking lie to us, asshole! I can see right through you!"

Shit. Martin leaned back, trying to get as far away from them without actually getting up. "I-I'm not lying! We worked together! It-It was an archiving job!"

"There's more!" The man practically snarled.

"Well, I-"

"Tim," a person near the back murmured. "Sit the hell down."

Tim. 

That hurt.

"...shit."

"Dammit, Tim!"

"Don't shout at me!"

"They're overwhelmed because of you!"

"Stop yelling!"

Marius hurried over, ignoring the overlap of voices. "Take deep breaths, friend. No one's gonna hurt you."

What? He blinked away the tears that had started forming. Tears. Had he been crying? How does that even work? He sniffled, "Sorry. Sorry, I..."

"Don't be sorry," the woman sighed. The room quietened down. "We were just worried. About Jonny."

That was... comforting. 

"He's been really weepy ever since he brought you here. If you're not comfortable sharing how you know him—" she averted her eyes—"we can't force you to."

"And we won't try," the person in the back said pointedly. 'Tim' rolled his mechanical eyes.

That was very comforting. Martin had been wrong about these people. Jon's their friend. They're just worried. That must be why they brought Martin back. For Jon.

The thought is almost enough to make Martin cry again. 

"So you're Jon's friends?" He asked them softly.

"...yes?"

"Is he... Y'know. A cyborg too?"

Tim snorted.

"Technically speaking," the woman sighed, "yes."

"Really?" Martin hadn't really expected that. "What parts of him?"

"Pretty much the opposite of Brian."

"Who?"

"Why," something suddenly exclaimed, hopping up from the couch and waving its hands around, "we haven't any manners at all!!" It was tall with features that gave Martin a similar feeling to what emanated from Not-Sasha. "Introductions are rather crucial when meeting new people, are they not? What is your name, good sir?"

"...Martin?"

It clapped its hands, but the sound was like two blocks of wood ramming together rather than actual hands. "Jolly good!" Its voice felt so unnervingly familiar. "My name is The Toy Soldier!"

It glanced expectantly at the others, who begrudgingly introduced themselves as well.

"Now that that's taken care of," Nastya began, pushing up her glasses. "I have only a few more questions."

"Aw, what?" Ivy whined.

"You can ask later."

"Look," Nastya spoke softly but firmly, "I care about Jonny's safety. Mental and physical. I know that he cares about you. I can only hope you feel the same?"

Martin's brows pressed together, unsure of where this was headed. "Correct?"

"I don't know how you both feel about each other, whether your relationship is rocky or not, but I hope that whenever you may see him, you can be civil and kind. He may be a prick, but he's also family. Blood or not."

This somewhat caught him off guard. Family? How long has Jon been with these people? It couldn't have been more than a week. What had they gone through to become so close? Even after everything in the archives, he wasn't sure if Jon had actually considered them all friends, let alone family. Even so, he did understand their worry. He loved Jon similarly.

He nodded slowly but sincerely. "Of course."

"Спасибо."