Some accidental horror pinups, anyone?

The Eye opens (its shirt)

okay, i LOVED your headcanons and you told me to ask if i wanted more so here i am. any and all of your favourite headcanons 3.2.1 go!

Sure! Let's go for it

Carley hated her job, and wished everyday that her news editor would retire or just leave. But when she died, Carley couldn't help but feel strong guilt over it despite not having much to do with it.

Carver definitely had a girlfriend/wife before the apocalypse, but never had a child. His fixation on Rebecca is due to him really wanting a child, and he would do it no matter what.

Doug loves cookies, and kept a pack on him quite often when he'd go on his IT Guy services.

The Ericson Kids had a car in the past, but Brody and Marlon didn't let anyone use it, eventually losing it when one of the dead kids stole it and crashed it.

Alvin killed George due to accidentally believing that he was one of the Howe's guards and panicking with his pistol. It's one of the reasons why he doesn't give Clem the gun when she asks for it, not wanting her to make a mistake like him.

Lee definitely wanted a daughter first with his wife. He seems glad to treat Clem, and it felt like he wanted to learn and grow up with her around. He was friends with the State Senator, which is how the affair ended up happening.

Clementine and Christa went days without talking to each other after Omid's death, and did the same after her baby died. Clem was fine with the silence for a little while, but at some point she began having constant nightmares and would force conversations with Christa to stop thinking about them.

Ruby and Ms. Martin would spend nights together with the elder teaching Ruby how to stitch wounds, even giving Ruby a cut on her arm to see if she could stitch herself up.

AJ's first walker kill came when Clem was sleeping in, and their little spot got infiltrated by one lone walker. He also has a scar on his left ankle from getting cut one time at the McCaroll Ranch.

Carlos isn't actually a doctor, he just has good knowledge on medicines and that area, but was never qualified or anything.

Uncle Pete actually wanted to keep Clem around and was glad to teach her some things, considering how Nick turned out.

David Garcia divorced/broke up with Gabe & Mariana's mother due to his military services. She didn't like how much he stayed away from the family, and eventually left.

Tripp is a gym bro, he has great genes and got really big, but never actually learnt to fight or anything.

The final Web!Martin evidence list

Now that canon is done, and we’ve got word of god confirmation that Web!Martin wasn’t complete nonsense, I decided to go back to my lil chronological evidence list and actually clean it up a bit, delete parts that in hindsight weren't all that indicative, and put everything in a slightly more readable format. (Obligatory disclaimer that i don’t and never did believe or advocate for some kind of evil web!martin, and that I'm not intending to connect a moral judgement to martin (or anyone else for that matter) having some of these traits)

So here: The (hopefully, please) final list with Web!Martin Evidence! Presented in order of importance, according to. me

The final (hopefully) Web!Martin evidence list

(In order from most to least obvious)

Spiders

I mean, it’s called the Web. TMA reiterates quite a few times that Martin liked spiders. Sometimes it IS that easy.

MAG022: Martin: "I like spiders. Big ones, at least. Y’know, y’know the ones you can see some fur on; I actually think they’re sort of cute -"

MAG038: | Sasha: "A spider?" Jon: "Yeah. I tried to kill it…" [...] Sasha: [Chuckles] "Well, I won’t tell Martin." Jon: "Oh, god. I don’t think I could stand another lecture on their importance to the ecosystem."

MAG059: Jon: "I have done my best to prevent Martin reading this statement in too much detail. I have no interest in having another argument about spiders."

MAG079: Jon: "Apparently, biologically, his account of the spiders doesn’t make any sense according to Martin."

MAG197: Martin: “What? Because I like spiders? Well, used to.”

Lies and subterfuge

Martin is able to use lying and subterfuge to achieve his goals, and is called manipulative a few times.

Lies:

MAG022: Martin: "[He] became slightly more co-operative after I lied to him and told him that one of the upstairs residents had buzzed me in."

MAG056: Martin: "I lied on my CV."

MAG158: Peter: “But you said –” Martin: “Honestly, I mostly just said what I thought you wanted to hear.”

MAG164: Jon: "You – I actually believed you!"

MAG189: Martin: “Sorry. Sorry, John. Not sure how much everything up there actually understood what was going on. But, y’know, I didn’t want to take any chances so it made sense to… um…” Jon: “Put on a show?” Martin: “Yeah, basically, more or less.”

MAG191: Martin: "That's not true." Arun: "Liar!"

Subterfuge:

The plan in 118, which revolved around convincing Elias that Martin was only “acting out”, to create a distraction for Melanie. (Also compare the way he evades giving a straight answer here with the way Annabelle talks in 196.)

Working with Peter in s4 under false pretenses, to distract him from Jon and eventually try to learn what Peter wanted.

Manipulation accusations:

These, I know, are somewhat contentious, since it’s mostly villains saying this to him. I’m still including them, since

1): From a media analysis standpoint, being mentioned 3 times is a sign to pay attention, even when it may not be the full truth.

2): I only see it as describing Martin’s behaviour in the previous points, not as a moral judgement; Especially since he almost always ‘manipulates’ people in positions of power over him.

Still, if it bothers anyone, feel free to ignore these.

MAG138: Martin: "That’s it? No, no monologue, no mind games? You love manipulating people!" Elias: "That makes two of us."

MAG186: Martin: “I can be a real manipulative prick, you know that?” Also Martin: “Oh yeah.”

MAG196: Annabelle: “Because you always managed to get what you wanted through smiles and shrugs and stammerings that weren’t nearly as awkward as they seemed.” [SMALL SOUND OF MARTIN’S CONCESSION TO THE POINT] Martin: “Point taken.”

The Lonely/the Web

The Lonely and the Web sometimes affect Martin to similar degrees.

In season 3, when Martin is getting used to reading statements for the first time, most of them leave him emotionally affected: MAG084, MAG088, MAG090,

MAG095: Martin: “S-S-Statement… done.” [HEAVY BREATHING & TREMBLING AS MARTIN STEADIES HIMSELF] “I don’t like recording these. There. I-I said it.”,

MAG098: Martin: [Panting] “End of statement.” [Deep breath] “I, um, I think I might need to sit down. Oh. Yeah, I am. Right. I don’t, uh, I’m not really sure if these are actually getting easier or harder. I mean I don’t feel –”

Only the last two statements he reads are remarkably easier. This might be a hint that Martin is just getting used to reading them, but the quote from MAG098 seems to contradict that. Either way, it’s likely not a coincidence that those last two happen to be the Lonely and the Web:

MAG108: Martin: “Statement ends.” (exhale) ���That wasn’t so bad…”

MAG110: Martin: “Statement ends.” [...] “I mean, I think it sounds like a Jurgen Leitner book. About spiders. Hm. Good John didn’t have to read this one, anyway. I know he’s not a fan. Although, this one wasn’t too bad, actually! I – yeah. Anyway.”

In season 5, there are two powers’ Domains that actually affected Martin mentally, as opposed to only physically: the Lonely’s, in 170 (and arguably 186), and, depending on your interpretation, in 172, when Martin went exploring without knowing why he did so.

Proximity

Martin investigates a lot of the Web statements during season 1 to 3 (in other words, when the archive team still researches statements). The only ones he isn’t mentioned in during this period are MAG019 and MAG020, when he’s being harrassed by worms, and MAG081, which Jon records by himself outside of the institute.

Most notably, he’s the one who discovered the statement in MAG114, ‘Cracked Foundations’, which is the one statement in the entire show that sets up the interdimensional properties of HTR.

The Web!Lighter passed through Martin's hands first, before he gave it to Jon.

Similarly, Annabelle mostly spoke to Martin in season 5, despite most other Avatars usually focusing on Jon.

Aesthetics

Apart from the above obviously Web related areas, there are some other aesthetics which are mentioned in connection to both the Web and Martin, throughout canon.

These are describing the Web;

These are describing Martin.

Tapes:

Martin is the only character to treat the tape recorders as friends - any other character is either indifferent, or treats them as enemies.

MAG039: Martin: "I think the tapes have a sort of… low-fi charm."

MAG154 Martin: “Oh. Hi. Hello again.” … (small laugh) “Sorry pal, false alarm this time.”

MAG156 Martin: “Mm? Oh.” [HE LAUGHS, GENTLY.] “Yeah. (rustling paper) I was going to read one. Hate for you to miss it!” [SHORT, FORCED LAUGH, AS HE FLAPS THE STATEMENT AROUND.]

MAG170 Martin: “Oh. Oh, hello. What’s this? Wow, retro! What are you up to, little buddy; just – listening? That’s okay. It’s nice to have someone to talk to.”

MAG190 Jon: "[The tapes] seem to like [Martin]."

Retro:

MAG069: Statement: “I only saw Annabelle Cane once during this period. She wasn’t hard to pick out. She dressed like a vintage clothing store exploded on her, and her short bleach-blonde hair stood out sharply against dark skin.”

MAG160: Jon: “Anyways, don’t tell me the phonebox down there doesn’t appeal to your retro aesthetic.” Martin: “It – might. Maybe.”

MAG163: Annabelle/the Web callying Martin via an old payphone: [ A PHONE RINGS. IT’S NOT THE TINNY, ELECTRONIC SOUND OF A CELLPHONE – NO, THIS IS A TRUE, HEAVY, CLASSIC RING.] Martin: “Uh. John? Uh, J, John – the, uh, payphone that’s – here, for some reason – it’s ringing?”

Hatred of burns:

MAG067: Jack Barnabas’ statement: “I looked up and noticed within the corner of the room, where there had been a spider’s web this morning, there was just a faint wisp of smoke.” “Another held a bag that seemed to be full of candles, while a third had a clear plastic container filled with hundreds of tiny spiders.”

MAG139: Statement by member of Cult of the Lightless Flame: “The Mother of Puppets has always suffered at our hand; all the manipulation and subtle venom in the world means nothing against a pure and unrestrained force of destruction and ruin.” Agnes burned down Hilltop Road.

MAG145: The Web ties Gertrude to Agnes, stopping the Desolation’s ritual (the only Power whose ritual the Web is known to have prevented).

MAG167: Gertrude enlists Agnes’/the Desolation’s help in order to burn her assistant Emma, who was Web aligned.

MAG169: Martin: "Look, I just – don’t want to get burned, all right? It’s, it’s like my least favorite pain ever. [...] I, I legitimately hate burns, alright? They’re, they’re awful, and they scar horribly, and they just – it – it just makes me sick; I, I hate it. Hate it!"

Phrasing:

MAG039: Martin: "I’m trapped here. It’s like I can’t… move on and the more I struggle, the more I’m stuck. [...] It's just that whatever web these statements have caught you in, well, I’m there too. We all are, I think."

MAG079: Martin's poem: "The threads of people walking, living, lovi–"

MAG117: Martin: "This last couple of years, I’ve always been running, always hiding, caught in someone else’s trap, but, but now it’s my trap, and, well, I think it’ll work. I know, I know it’s not exactly intricate, but it felt good leaving my own little web. Oh, oh, Christ, I hope John doesn’t actually listen to these. “Good lord, is Martin becoming some sort of spider person?” No, John, it’s an expression, chill out! Besides, spiders are fine. I mean, yes, people are scared of them, obviously, but actual spiders, they just want to help you out with flies."

MAG167: Jon: “Methinks the Spider dost protest too much.” Martin: “Jon –” Jon: “Joking! Just joking.”

Personality:

How applicable these are depends heavily on how you interpret Martin's own personality, so your mileage may vary.

MAG008: Statement: “Nobody ever said a word against Raymond himself, though, who was by all accounts a kind and gentle soul [...]”

MAG123: Jon: "The Web does seem to have a preference for those who prefer not to assert themselves."

MAG147: Annabelles statement: "I discovered a deep and enduring talent inside myself for lying. [...] My manipulations were not intricate, but they were far beyond what was expected of a child my age, and I have always believed that the key to manipulating people is to ensure that they always under- or overestimate you. Never reveal your true abilities or plans."

Word of God and Annabelle

I kinda wanted to ‘prove’ that Web!Martin had quite a bit of evidence to back it up, hence this header being last. But of course, in this post-canon world, there are a few lines that most obviously confirm the theory:

MAG197: Martin is Web enough to be able to read the 'vibrations', like Annabelle, and see Jon and Basira (the latter being especially notable, as he hadn't known she was there beforehand): [CHITTERING, BUZZING AND HIGH-PITCHED SQUEALS CHANGE CADENCE] Martin: "Wait… Wait, hang on, is that him?" Annabelle: "Yes. I guess you’re better with the Web than we thought." Martin: "And – Wait, ha– No, uh… is that… Basira? He – He’s got Basira with him!" Annabelle: "Yes."

Season 5 Q&A part 2: Jonny: “Essentially, it was fascinating looking at the fandom and, like, the Web!Martin believers, because what they were doing was correctly picking up on hints dropped in the early seasons that were later, like, not exactly abandoned, but it was much more like, ‘Well, no, he does have like aspects of The Web to him, but he is moreover The Lonely.’ And that came about very… very organically, really. Because throughout Season 3 and going into Season 4, we had this conversation and we were like, ‘No, actually he's like-” Alex: “‘It can't be, it cannot be, it must be the other way round’ Yeah.”

(Note that they say “throughout season 3 and going into season 4,” which likely means that season 1, season 2, and at least part of season 3, aka half of the entire show, were written with Web!Martin as an intentional possibility.)

If you read all that, thanks so much! Obviously, Web!Martin never really came to fruition, so it's fine if you still don't like it. This is just a post explaining where it was coming from, at least for me and the other theorists I've spoken to.

This but jonmartin for a prompt maybe?

Here we go!! Thank you for sending this, I absolutely love it. Yes, I did manage to sneak some angst into it because that's just how I am but they are soft and Jon is incredibly funny in his own way.

Link to Ao3

Text under the cut!

How About Here and Now

They arrive at the cabin late afternoon. They settle in and unpack essentials from the bag - Martin immediately going for the kettle, mugs, and tea.

“I really hope this isn’t Daisy’s murder cabin,” Martin laughs nervously. “It is really clean but who can know?”

The atmosphere between them has been… uneasy ever since they left the Institute. Neither of them has felt comfortable enough to address it yet, instead choosing to exist in this tense space of accidental touches and sidelong glances.

“Well, I guess you would know,” Martin adds and focuses on filling the mugs with hot water. Jon unpacks the tape recorder and places it on the table. “Jon?”

“Do you really want to know?” Jon raises his eyebrows as if saying that no, he thinks Martin does not in fact want to know the answer. Martin gives him a pained smile.

“Great.” He takes out the sugar and a teaspoon. For a moment there’s silence, save for the clinking of it against the mug. Martin feels the need to fill it somehow, to talk about something, anything, but his mind goes blank. The carefree exterior was just a mask and both him and Jon know this. They could pretend everything was fine all they liked, but eventually there’s no escaping it. Nothing is okay. Martin still carries the leftover fog from the Lonely and Jon is still a part of Elias’ plan, whatever that might be. Sure, they escaped the cops. But the cops aren’t their biggest problem.

Jon places two chairs on the opposite sides of a small kitchen table and sits down on one of them. He looks out of the window as the grey sky slowly gives way to the evening darkness.

“Are you okay?” Martin asks as he places one of the mugs in front of Jon. He looks at him somewhat distracted and needs a minute to register what he said.

“Uh, yeah. Yeah. You?” He takes a small careful sip of the hot beverage; his eyes are watching Martin attentively.

Martin opens his mouth to say “I’m fine” but then deflates and places his forearms on the table, around his mug. They’ve been through so much now that it seems pointless to lie about something like that.

“No,” he says, his eyes fixed on his tea. “But I will be. Eventually.”

The quiet tone of his voice paints ripples across Jon’s forehead.

“I’m sorry, Martin,” he says. Martin looks up at him and huffs out a laugh.

“What for?” He asks and Jon, after three seconds of searching for an answer shrugs and shakes his head.

“I just am. For everything.”

Martin gives him a pitiful look and sighs.

“I just hope you’re not blaming yourself. I know Basira and Melanie gave you a hard time but—”

“Some of it is my fault, though,” Jon says quietly. “Like the way I used to treat you. I…”

“Jon…” Martin starts but Jon shakes his head.

“When we were in The Lonely, you said something.”

Martin falls quiet. He doesn’t exactly remember The Lonely, but he might have said a lot of things. Some of which he would never say out loud under normal circumstances.

“You said that you really loved me.”

Jon’s eyes are fixed on his and he has to look away. He swallows and chuckles rather dryly.

“That’s true,” he says quietly. “But I’m sure you already knew that.”

“I did.”

Martin licks his lips and tries to relieve the tension with a smile.

“I guess another place, another time and we might just have fallen in love,” he says jokingly. It’s a light, but wistful voice; he can’t keep all of his emotions out of it. Jon searches his face for something.

“That’s okay,” he says and it’s not what Martin expects to hear. He frowns.

“…It is?”

“Yeah,” Jon glances at his wristwatch with determination and stands up. “Follow me.”

Martin, utterly confused, stands up and follows him to another room, because what else is he supposed to do? Jon stops in the middle of it and grabs both of his hands. His skin is warm, and Martin feels the delicate tissue of the burn scar on his palm. Jon looks into his eyes, and he looks… almost vulnerable.

“How about here and now?”

Martin focuses on the sweet tenderness of his voice before the meaning of the words makes it into his head. But he refuses to believe it. Even as Jon stands here before him, heart open and genuine, showing a part of himself he’s ignored for so long, he refuses to believe it’s actually happening. How could it? He was alone; no one here cared for—

No. That was The Lonely. And Jon is standing right before him, holding his hands, and looking into his eyes with… with love. Martin wasn’t Lonely anymore.

“That absolutely works,” Martin blurts out and Jon pulls him into a tight hug. Martin relaxes in the embrace and smiles.

“I love you, Martin,” Jon’s muffled voice sounds very near his ear and a shiver travels down his spine.

“I love you too, Jon.”

Left Reel Clockwise

(Read on Ao3)

Fandom: The Magnus Archives

Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims, Tim Stoker & Jonathan Sims, Sasha James & Jonathan Sims

Characters: Jonathan Sims, Martin Blackwood, Tim Stoker, Sasha James

Warnings/Tags: Episode 200 spoilers, Time-travel, Fix-it, Apocalypse-typical PTSD

---------------

The first moments of existence after death were spent in a muddled haze. Awareness came languid to his mind, filling in the knowledge of a cool and smooth surface beneath his cheek, the weight of his arms, the tickle of a long lock of hair teasing his nose. 

He couldn’t say exactly how memory flooded back, but later would register it rather like a sudden fall, as though rain fell in a single, uniform sheet rather than droplets from the sky. In a heartbeat he went from half-asleep to surging to his feet as he remembered. He crashed into a sturdy weight that tossed itself away from him then toppled to the ground, barely processing the noise over the scream of static and blood in his ears. 

“Martin?” He called out, with a sudden flare of hope. Then Jon’s breath gusted from his chest. There was no Martin, no shock of white hair atop a bespectacled face. He reached out on instinct to the Eye, demanding its knowledge — and got only a faint buzz in response.

Tamping down panic, Jon forced himself to take in the room. There was a desk. A toppled-over hair. A window, letting slits of muddled afternoon light in through the blinds. 

It was his old office. The knowledge floated through his mind, though he couldn’t process it. Tape recorders were stacked on the desk, those that had been used marked with post-it notes. A thin stack of papers was beside another. 

He staggered to it, the need to understand overriding anything else. Atop it was a paper he’d seen far too many times: the form they gave to every client before they gave their statement. Name, date, subject, all filled out by hand in black ink. This one was written by Jason North. 

He repeated the name, and the oddest part was that he didn’t instantaneously know who that was. A second later he remembered: the man had been a victim of the Desolation. Had lost all but his child to the Lightless Flame. He had first recorded that statement even before Jane Prentiss’ attack. 

A wave of dizziness made him stumble, and he steadied himself on the desk. He stared at his hands, and found them strangely smooth. No twisted, long-healed burn. No pockmark scars of infestation. There was the silvery line from a neighbor’s dog, which had caught his middle finger in its eagerness to take a treat. Another, on the side of the thumb. A kitchen knife had slipped. 

2016. The last time he had looked like this was 2016. 

“Martin!” The shout rose unbidden from his chest, sudden panic seizing him. He reached to the Eye again, realizing with a twist of his stomach that the connection was there, but distant. It was a lingering thread, gossamer thin, that passed from his grip heedless of his call. 

At once Jon was just a pinprick in a wider, crueler universe, the suffocating sense of helplessness washing over him. It left Jon bracing his weight against the desk, unable to even walk through the door to see what lay beyond it. Was this an alternate dimension, exactly the same except save for minute twists in the detail? Or just a feverish dream, the last screaming throes of his dying mind? 

He started to paw at his own chest. His innards felt strange, like something had been stuffed beneath his skin that hadn’t been there before. He shoved one hand beneath his shirt, and there he felt it: a scar. Thick, and short, one he didn’t recognize. It was about the right length to match the base of a knife, the one he himself had used to cut the first Pupil out of this life. The one Martin in turn had slid into his heart. 

The door opened. 

Jon froze. 

Tim peeked around the door, wearing the lightest of frowns. It deepened in clear concern as he took stock of the room, and then Jon himself. “Whoa there, Boss,” he said, stepping inside and moving towards Jon. “Did you trip?” 

He was halfway to Jon before he regained use of his legs. He skittered away from Tim until his shoulder hit a wall, making him buckle and nearly collapse. Tim gave a call of concern, but halted in his tracks when Jon braced an defensively arm in front of himself. He had no weapon, but his heart was pounding, muscles coiled tight. He looked like a cornered animal, hunched against the wall with teeth half-bared and fingers curled like claws. 

“Do not —” Jon choked out, unable to tear his eyes away from Tim, looking for the one detail that would prove this was fake. Black skin, darker hair that sat close-cropped atop his head. The clothes were right, passable to the dress-code with as much flair as he was allowed. Looking at him, Jon wanted to believe it, he wanted for all the world to let this be true. But he couldn’t. 

“Do not come near me,” he spat. 

He hated the look on that thing’s face, twisting Tim’s expression into something alarmed, worried both for himself and for Jon. Yes, that was it. He was in a nightmare. The Eye hadn’t liked him trying to sever its hold on the world, and had trapped him in his own personal hellscape. 

But the thought didn’t fit right in his brain. The Eye simply wasn’t that intelligent. The one sense it lacked was foresight. He knew, with cold clarity, that his paranoia was wrong. 

And then he knew that this was Tim.

He gasped, breath strangled. It felt like his skull was constricting down on his brain. Pressure thrummed behind his eyes, a migraine threatening at the edges. “Tim,” he wheezed. It came out as half a sob. “Oh, god. Oh god, Tim.” Jon covered his mouth, trying to still his breathing. 

“Hey, hey.” It was softer than Jon had heard Tim’s voice in years. Not since Sasha —

“Sasha!” Energy flooded his limbs, and he straightened up, wild-eyed. “Is she here?” 

Tim blinked at him. “Y-yeah, but, look —”

Jon brushed passed him, throwing the door open. The sight of the archive was almost nostalgic, and he drank it in as greedily as Beholding. “Where is she?” He asked. 

“Um —” Tim came to hover at his shoulder. “At her… desk? Boss, are you feeling alright?” 

Jon didn’t answer. Muscle memory carried him there, hurried strides to the place where the Not-Sasha once sat, all long hair and round glasses and thin smiles. 

The woman sitting there instead was a stranger. She was small, dark-skinned and curly-haired. Her curls had been pulled back out of her face in a ponytail that sat nearly atop her head, and bobbed whenever she moved. 

Jon couldn’t stop the uncertainty in his voice when he called for her. Her name felt foreign on his tongue, but she paused and looked up with a smile. It dropped when she met his gaze, and flickered to Tim behind him. 

She rose. “Jon,” she started. His breath caught. Her voice was light and soft-toned, and he felt his shoulders begin to slump as she said, “what’s wrong? You look like you’ve seen… well…” A wry smile curled on her lips. 

He memorized her face. Every detail, the smattering of freckles, her brown eyes so dark they were nearly black, the pinprick at her lip where she had once had it pierced. He struggled to blink back tears.

“Sasha, I… I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” The words poured out before he could stop them. She didn’t understand, it was written on her face. And he knew he wasn’t anywhere he hadn’t been before. Maybe he’d really jumped back in time. Maybe this was something parallel, and he’d simply fallen into the stream. But whatever this was, these were his people. This was his Tim, and his Sasha, and they were still in danger. 

But they were alive. 

“You deserved better than what you got,” Jon told her, emphatic. “And I can’t change what happened, but — maybe I can fix it. Maybe I can…” He spiraled. Possibility was stretching out before him. If this wasn’t a nightmare, if it was a second chance… 

“Jon, is this about the position?” Sasha asked, surprised. “I mean… sure, I was a bit, well, bitter over it at first, but… I mean it’s hardly your fault if Elias is like that.” 

And just like that, his soaring hopes came back down. 

He’d forgotten about Elias. What churned in his belly now was some mixture of nausea and crippling hatred. Stabbing him to death the one time hadn’t been enough to satisfy him. Hearing him beg for his miserable life hadn’t been enough. If he was here again, if he was breathing again… and if he knew what Jon knew… 

“I’m… calling out sick for the day,” Jon announced. “Do whatever you want, just... “ he trailed off, shook his head, and stumbled out. Neither of them stopped him. 

His feet carried him up the stairs. The sight of people, just normal people walking through the corridors of the archive had tears stinging in his eyes. There were cordial smiles and shadows under eyes, simple office displeasure the worst in the faces he saw. It was peaceful. It was wonderful. 

He pushed the doors open, taking a dozen paces out into the courtyard that sat behind the institute before he slowed to a halt. Jon tipped his face up, eyes closed, and let the sun pour on his skin. It was warm, and perfect, and vital. The tears were trickling down his cheeks as he stood there, swaying back and forth on unsteady feet. 

It was only the sound of footsteps that shook him from his reverie. He wiped his eyes, ducked his head, and hurried along his way. 

Until he heard Martin call, “Jon?” 

He spun around. Relief and adoration burst in his chest in equal measure as he looked to Martin, feeling like at long last the missing piece of him had slid into place and he could breathe again. When he saw him, though, that piece crumbled away.

His hair was black. Not that pure white bleached into him by the Lonely’s touch, but a soft, healthy black, neatly trimmed. Beneath it were freckles on a pale and sun-dappled face, square glasses framing his gaze. He couldn’t see a single scar. 

And he was giving Jon a look that made his heart ache. Wary. Uncertain. Afraid.

He didn’t remember. This was his Martin, but there was no recollection in his face. 

“Everything alright?” Martin asked, with such trepidation it would seem mocking if Jon didn’t know it was well deserved. 

Voice strangled, Jon could only turn around and flee. 

 5 Times Jon and Martin hug +1 time they kiss

 1

 The first time Martin and Jon hug - or more precisely, the first time Martin hugs Jon - it is a response to the fact that they’re still alive more than anything else. It’s after Jane Prentiss’ attack, after Martin finds the body of Gertrude Robinson down in the tunnels.

 Everyone is a bit worse for wear, which isn’t surprising after everything. The whole institute is full of dead worms and police, so there is little time to think of anything else until the worst of the storm has calmed.

 It’s only after, when Jon asks Martin for his statement about the incident that everything hits him at once.

 “I’m sorry I left you. I thought you and Tim were right behind me…” The guilt about almost losing the two of them eats on Martin, and when he looks up at Jon, he is surprised to see that his eyes have softened more than he’s ever seen on him.

 “Martin, it’s not your fault.” Carefully, as if unsure if he even should, Jon reaches out over the desk in an attempt to comfort, and Martin takes his hand and squeezes without thinking about it, grateful to have something besides a cold, hard table or the edges of his chair to hold onto.

 He is also starting to tear up - great. As if today hasn’t sucked enough already, now he’s about to cry at work, too. But Jon… Is unusually patient. He waits for him to finish his statement and doesn’t push more than absolutely necessary.

 Once the recording is done, he looks him in the eye, and thanks him again for letting him record this statement.

 “Thank you, Martin. And, I suppose, I am glad that you are alright. I was… worried when you weren’t with us anymore.”

 “I was worried about you, too. Both of you. I-'' Ah, great, now he really is crying in front of Jon. Martin wishes for the floor to open up and swallow him whole, but Jon doesn’t comment on that. He simply waits for Martin to calm down or leave or… Whatever he chooses to do next, reall, he doesn’t know.

 To both their surprise, after Martin wipes over his face with one of his sleeves, he pulls Jon into a quick but heartfelt hug. The man feels stiff like a board and thin as bones in his arms, but after the first second of surprise, he hesitatingly hugs back.

 “I am glad that you are okay.” he repeats quietly, and when Martin hurries out of the room after they let go, Jon looks after him, hoping that he really is alright. Or at least, will be alright.  

 There is a lot he would have liked to say, or do, but as always, there seems to be a blockage in his head that stops him from doing so.

     2

 It is late at night and Jon doesn’t think there is anyone still in the office. Yes, Martin is still in the Archives, but that is because he currently lives here. However, it is getting late and he is probably in the storage room and asleep by now, so that doesn’t really count, does it?

 Jon wants to keep going, because he is having too many thoughts to calm down, but he is also exhausted. He doesn’t remember when he last got a decent night of sleep, or whatever counts as such ever since he started working down in the Archives. Sleep has always been a difficult subject to him, but it is even more so now.

 Jon is cold almost all the time lately. He doesn’t sleep well as it is, but there is also something about this whole job, this whole situation, that leaves him nervous and shivering. Truth be told, he is afraid. More afraid than he is willing to admit, his short heart-to-heart with Martin when the worms attacked aside.

 But even then, he had been unwilling to get into any more details. Trusting people, being vulnerable - it is an almost foreign concept to Jon, as much as he would like to be closer to the others.

 He’s been holding himself back, trying to keep them at arm's length, for everyone's safety. But ever since Jane Prentiss’ attack, ever since he realized how much he really cares about Martin, Tim and Sasha when he’d feared for their lives, this particular plan had started to fail more and more.

 Jon sighs, rubbing his tired and itching eyes under the glasses. There are slight tremors running through his entire body. Maybe he should get some tea, warm up and then see. He didn’t have a lunch break, because he keeps forgetting these things, so maybe it might help.

 Jon sighs, then he slowly gets up from the seat by his desk. His recently injured leg is still hurting, and he knows he should give it a rest. He knows he should let it heal properly, but he’s always been bad at taking care of himself. Besides, what is he supposed to do at home? Sit there and wait for something terrible to happen while everyone else is stuck here? No, he’d really rather not.

 When Jon steps out of his office, he is surprised to find that there is a faint light coming from the staff kitchen. Slowly, he steps closer to the room until he can see Martin. He is sitting at the kitchen table in an old t-shirt and what looks like green sweatpants with an ugly pattern, hunched over in his seat as he cradles a mug between his large hands. His hair is a mess, standing up in every direction, and he very much looks like somebody who tried and failed to sleep for quite some time.

 Near him on the table, he can see the corkscrew and there is no doubt that there is one of the fire extinguishers in the room. Even though most of the worms are dead by now, old habits die hard, and it seems like these things help Martin feel a little bit safer.

 Jon decides to say something now rather than later. He doesn’t want to startle the other man, and he also hopes that he wasn’t too loud while he worked.

 “Oh, hi Martin. I didn’t wake you, did I?”

 Martin almost jumps out of his skin and his head whips over to the door where Jon is still standing. Clearly, he wasn’t expecting the company at this hour. As soon as he realizes who it is, Martin seems to relax a bit.

 “Christ Jon, I didn’t - I had no idea you were still here.”

 “Sorry, I didn’t mean to sneak up on you.”

 “It’s fine, really. Can’t sleep, anyway... There’s tea in the pot, if you want any.” he adds, and nods over to said pot on the table.

 “Thank you.” Jon pulls another mug from the cabinet and fixes himself a mug, grateful that he doesn’t have to fumble his way through preparing everything. Now that he thinks of it, his hands are shaky and he would probably pour boiling water all over himself or something of that nature.

 Truth be told, he is rather grateful for the company.

 “Can’t sleep, either?” Martin asks eventually, and Jon looks up at him. He isn’t sure what Martin sees, but he is pretty sure that it’s fresh scars, exhaustion, more grey hair and eye bags down to his knees, or something to that effect. Really, there is no denying it.

 “Not really, no. Getting work done here… It’s better than nothing, I suppose.” Jon shrugs self-consciously and takes a sip of his tea. It’s warm and comforting, and it instantly calms his nerves. At least a little bit.

 The two of them share a bit of comfortable silence as they drink, and eventually, Jon slumps sideways with a sigh, more even exhausted than he had been before.

 His head lands against something warm, soft and sturdy, and he finds that he doesn’t mind that.

 Martin looks up in surprise when he finds that Jon has actually fallen asleep right on the spot      , leaning against his shoulder.     A deep blush is creeping up his neck, but thankfully, it is in the middle of the night and there is no one else around to see the scene unfold.

 Careful not to wake him, Martin attempts to keep drinking his tea, pointedly ignoring that Jon, who seems dead to the world, actually wraps both arms around his middle in his sleep.

     Oh, Fuck.  

 Martin is screwed - well and fully screwed and he knows it.

 When Jon wakes up later, he is stammering and apologizing profusely, clearly embarrassed about the whole situation. But despite everything, somehow, something between the two of them seems to click into place that night.

       3

 Another time, a little bit later down the line, Jon and Martin hug in the middle of the office. There is no specific reason, really, but truth be told, the two of them have grown closer and closer over the last few months and weeks.

 When they hug, it very much looks like what Tim will amusedly call “The happy fork lift” while he watches the scene unfold with a fond grin. It doesn’t happen often that he gets to see a treat like this -   because “forklift” is actually quite accurate for what’s happening here.

 Okay, so Jon is short. That is      not    his fault, but the fact is, he barely reaches up to Martin's shoulder when both of them are standing up straight.

 No one dares uttering the word “adorable” because for one, Jon is technically still their boss,

 But, the thing is, Jon is short, and when Martin hugs him that night, happy and seemingly carefree for once, he lifts him straight off of his feet.

 Tim may or may not be cackling in the background and Melanie may or may not be rolling her eyes at them.

 Today, there is no specific reason for them to hug. It’s just - their week has gone well for once - or at least, as well as a week can go for them these days. They’re off for the weekend now, so maybe for once, they’re simply a couple of coworkers - friends now, really - who are about to leave and that’s it. Just a friendly “see-you-on-Monday”-hug, and well.

 If both Jon and Martin cling on for just a second longer than they usually would, that’s between them.

     4

 It’s been way too long since they talked.

 Jon has just come back to work, freshly out of coma and the world might just as well have gone on without him. It feels like that, sometimes.

 Jon doesn’t feel like himself at all, even if you take aside the whole “back from the dead” thing. The truth is, Jon is lonely.

 Georgie is barely talking to him anymore. Tim is dead, which hurts like hell, even though they had their troubles towards the end. It doesn’t mean they stopped caring. Jon wishes they could have talked things through one last time, because that’s what friends do, right?

 Sadly, they never got the chance.

 Daisy, Melanie and Basira are around, but that’s not really the same. Jon isn’t as close to them, like he used to be to Martin, Tim and Sasha. Sasha who has been dead for so long and none of them noticed it at the time. It hurts, just as much as losing Tim, and it feels just as fresh.

 Martin is still here, but Jon hasn’t seen him since he came back.

 Every time he hears a door open in the hallway, Jon finds himself jumping up from his seat, sprinting to the door just to see if he might have missed Martin. More often than not, it’s someone else.   Until one day, by chance, he runs into him in the hallway.

 “Martin! Hi!”

 Martin looks up, and it looks like he is… Grey. Fading away, like he isn’t really here.

 “It’s - it’s good to see you. We haven't talked in a while.” Jon is smiling at him, but Martin seems incapable to return it. There is something lost and sad about him, more so than usual - it’s his eyes, Jon realizes. Martin looks sad and empty, but he’s Martin and he’s missed him so much.

 Without thinking, Jon steps closer and wraps his arms around the larger man in a hug that doesn’t get returned this time. Martin stands there, stiff and just as lost as before, and he feels cold. So cold. But he still smells the same, smells of tea and woolen jumpers and that one brand of shampoo that he’s been using for years. It is familiar and comforting, but at the same time, it feels wrong.

 When Jon returns to his office and closes the door behind him, there is a thick  lump forming in his throat. He doesn’t feel better at all.  

     5

 They are standing on a foggy beach and Martin is freezing cold. He is even more faded away than before, as if he barely even exists anymore. Far away from everything and everyone around him.

 When Jon finally reaches him, reaches out for him, he is afraid that he might not even be able to touch Martin at all. But when he reaches out, Martin's hand is ice cold, his skin clammy and crusted with salt.

 They stand there in the middle of an empty beach, waves rolling lazily behind them as the thick white fog seems to swallow them whole.

 “I was so alone.” Martin tells him, and his voice breaks. Jon closes the distance between them in a heartbeat, wrapping himself around the larger man as tightly as he can, trying to protect him from the world around them and everything that is trying to hurt him.

 “Come on, let’s go home.” he quietly tells him, and after what feels like eternity, Martin agrees.

 They keep holding hands the entire way to Martins apartment, throughout the night and the entire next day when they’re huddled together on a train, on their way to Scotland.

     +1

 Martin wakes up warm, comfortable and with a mouthful of Jon’s hair. The man in question is cuddled up into his back, both arms and legs wrapped tightly around Martin, like an octopus. He does that quite a bit, and honestly, Martin can’t complain.

 He loves all the small ways in which they can express their love to each other, and if one of the most “human cactus” people Martin has ever met in his entire life wants full-body-cuddles from him on a daily basis, who is he to deny him that?

 Besides, it’s not like it’s a hardship. Martin loves these moments just as much, and he wonders sometimes how he ever managed to feel truly alive before he - they - could have this.

 Martin is well aware that he’s got privileges that no one else would have with Jon. He knows he won’t ever sleep with him - well, not like that, anyway - and they have talked about this, about boundaries and wishes, everything important to them. They have found and developed their own ways to be close and show their love to one another, and it works. It just works.

 “You’re like a small backpack.” Martin had joked once, and as a result got the treat of hearing Jon sleepily laugh into his shoulder. God, he loves hearing him laugh. It doesn’t happen nearly often enough, but, not without a sizable amount of pride, he noticed that Jon laughs a lot more now that they are together.

 Martin attempts to pull the salt-and-pepper strands of Jons hair out of his mouth without waking the other man, and as always, it proves to be a real challenge.

 Jon’s hair seems to have a life of its own, and it’s everywhere. Spread out over the pillows. In Martin’s face. In his own face - everywhere. Jon, oblivious to all of this, sighs in his sleep and tightens his hold around Martin, hands clasped around on his sleep-warm chest. Meanwhile, Martin carefully attempts to free himself from his boyfriend's hair.

     ‘I should braid it later    ´, he thinks as he carefully tucks the rest of it away and gently scratches Jon’s scalp while he is at it.

 Braiding his hair relaxes both of them, and Jon tends to lean into the touch like a cat, which is always a plus. Martin smiles as he allows himself to slowly wake up while he enjoys the warm company of his boyfriend. It’s been a while since either of them could sleep so peacefully, and even though it happens on borrowed time, they are determined to enjoy every minute of it.

 After a little while later, Jon slowly stirs awake. His hold around Martin tightens for a moment, then he pushes his face into the crook of his neck.

 “Good morning, my Love.” Martin says, fingers tracing along Jons forearms that are still wrapped around him. He smiles when he gets a kiss on his neck in response.

 “Sleep well?” he asks then, and Jon stretches out his limbs while he remains wrapped around Martin. Cat. This man is a damn cat.

 “Hmhm… Good morning, Love.”

 Now that there is a bit more space, Martin used it to turn around and face Jon. He is half awake and smiling at him, as if Martin is the best thing he has ever seen. Truth be told, he is, and Jon is happier to have him than words can express.

 Martin is his person, the love of his life. As hard as the last years and months have been on them, at least they have found each other, and that has to count for something, right?

 More so than that, they’re comfortable with and around each other, in a way Jon hasn’t been around anyone in a very long time, or maybe ever. They know each other, good parts and bad parts alike.

 They remain wrapped around each other for a bit, chest to chest this time, and Jon smiles a happy, loops smile when Martin presses a kiss on top of his head and then keeps stroking his hair, neck and back. His own hands are tracing small, invisible patterns on Martins back now, and the two of them thoroughly enjoy slowly waking up like this.

 Neither of them has had a nightmare, which is rare these days, but they’ll take some peace and quiet whenever they can.

 After a little while, Jon and Martin pull away from each other, just a little bit, to be able to look at each other and to share a proper good morning kiss, ever gentle but definitely enthusiastic.

 “Hi.” He smiles.

 “Hi yourself.” Another kiss, and then they are interrupted by the sound of a growling stomach. They share a look.

 “Time for breakfast?”

 “Yes, definitely. I think we’ve got ingredients for pancakes, if you want.”

 And just like that, they start another day in the cozy cabin in the middle of the scottish highlands.

                                   Notes:  

Warnings: - mentioned canon character death - references to depression, loneliness etc.

I could not stop thinking about good cows today, so here is some post-post-apocalyptic-everything-is-okay utterly indulgent JM fluff.

*

It’s still dark when Martin wakes. He slides out of bed carefully and pads downstairs, avoiding the step that always creaks. The banked embers in the fireplace take the edge off the chill in the kitchen, but it’s going to be cold outside. He pulls his parka on over his pajamas and slips his socked feet into boots; grabs the bucket from the corner and the torch from the hallway table on his way out.

Morning mist is rolling low to the ground when Martin walks outside. He was right; it’s cold, and damp too, sending a shiver across his shoulders. He tucks the hand that isn’t holding the torch into his sleeve. He never used to feel the cold, when he was younger, but ever since he escaped the Lonely winter bites him to the bone. He’s glad of it: it reminds him of what he didn’t lose.

A gentle chorus of lowing greets him as he rounds the corner to the back of the house. The girls are standing together in their fold, their breath steaming in the light of his torch. They toss their heads as he approaches, and Alice scrapes at the straw with an impatient hoof. They know his arrival means food.

“Morning, ladies,” he greets them over his shoulder as he opens the feed bin, scooping oats into the bucket to join the kitchen scraps: leafy vegetable tops and peelings, a couple of slices of stale bread broken up. When it’s full, he hefts it across to the trough with what he likes to think of as a manful grunt of exertion. The girls come out of their shelter then; they know better than to crowd him, but they just about wait until he’s emptied the bucket to shove past and bury their noses in the trough.

“No table manners at all,” Martin despairs, patting The Tsarina on the shoulder. “I should turn you all into burgers.” She ignores him entirely, her royal status forgotten as she munches on potato peels.

Martin stays with them for a few minutes, making sure everyone gets their share of the treat. They can easily feed themselves on grazing, even through the winter, but the extra feed is a good supplement for them. He scratches Kochanie’s neck, and she lifts her head to butt her broad nose against his chest; she’s the smallest and shyest of the girls, and Martin has a particular soft spot for her.

Once the food has disappeared, Martin gives them a few final fond pats and leaves them to their morning.

Back in the kitchen he stirs up the fire and feeds it with coals and extra kindling, then boils the kettle for tea and makes himself a cup. They’re almost out of milk. He’ll have to get more next time they’re in the village, which of course means hearing the usual quip from Mrs. Baines, three coos at home and still buying your milk from the shops, eh? The fact that they didn’t intend the girls for milk or meat took a while to sink in locally, especially with some of the farmers who are very adamant that cows aren’t pets. Over time, though, people have accepted it as just another oddity of That English Couple; a bit peculiar, but ultimately harmless.

The sun is rising by the time Martin makes more tea, two cups this time, one with so much sugar the spoon almost stands up in it. He avoids the creaky step again on his way upstairs, and when he nudges open the bedroom door, Jon is still a motionless lump under the duvet, only his hair visible from beneath the covers. He sets the mugs  down on the bedside cabinet and settles onto the edge of the mattress. Jon makes a low, disgruntled sound as the mattress dips, and Martin smiles. He tugs down the edge of the duvet to reveal Jon’s face, eyes still closed but a little frown between his brows.

“Time to wake up, sweetheart,” he says gently, sifting his fingers into Jon’s hair. Jon’s eyes flutter open, dark and hazy, and a small smile curves his mouth.

“Morning,” he says. His voice is a hoarse whisper of a thing these days, far from the deep, rich timbre that had first sent shivers up Martin’s spine. He doesn’t miss it, though he knows Jon is sometimes self-conscious of how he sounds. Jon’s voice is a mark of all he’s gone through and given up and survived, and Martin loves it, soft and scratchy and Jon.

(He dreams, sometimes, about the rolling cadence of the Archivist’s voice as he spoke the doors of fear closed, spoke the world back to itself. Those nights, Jon doesn’t mind when Martin wakes him, asks him to say something - anything - to prove that it all really happened. That they’re really okay.)

“I brought tea,” Martin tells him, and Jon shuffles until he’s sitting up against the pillows. He takes the mug Martin hands him, making a pleased little sound at the first sip. Then his eyes narrow with suspicion.

“What are you doing up so early? Did you feed the girls?”

“I was awake anyway,” Martin shrugs. “It’s no bother. And you needed the sleep.”

(Jon has dreams as well, days at a time where horror clutches at his sleeping mind, shakes him awake, hollow-eyed and trembling; this has been one of those weeks, but he slept through last night, and Martin was pleased he could let him sleep a little longer.)

“Yes but today was my day,” Jon grumbles quietly. “If you keep feeding them they’re going to like you better, and then where will I be? All of you ganging up on me.”

Martin laughs, and takes Jon’s free hand in his, rubs his thumb over the back of it, scarred and precious. Another reminder, like Jon’s voice, like Martin shivering in the cold, of all they’ve lost and all they haven’t. A reminder that they’re alive. He lifts Jon’s hand and presses a kiss to his knuckles.

“You’ve figured out my nefarious scheme to turn the cows against you,” he says, clutching his heart. “Can you ever forgive me?”

“I’ll think about it,” Jon says solemnly, and tugs Martin closer, almost spilling his tea in the process.

Eventually, they’ll drag themselves out of the warm cocoon of the duvet and go downstairs. They’ll drive down to the village in the battered old Vauxhall, and Jon will insist on buying extra carrots so he can rescue his reputation with the girls. They’ll eat lunch at the pub, and Jon won’t look at anyone with hunger in his eyes, and Martin won’t go distant or fade from view.

They’ll be human, and together, and they’ll both know how very lucky they are.

Rating: PG (cw: anxiety, mild implied homophobia, slight self-injury during a panic attack)

Pairing: Jon/Martin

Set before the end of 160

I went for something a little different that I think still follows the prompt of treating/distracting from injury by focusing on psychological damage rather than physical. 

(edit: AO3 link https://archiveofourown.org/works/26119015 )

“I suppose we can’t really put it off any longer, can we?” Martin’s voice was cheerful, but Jon could hear the strained undertone as the man searched through the empty cupboards. Unbidden, the knowledge came to him that even before being trapped in his flat for two weeks Martin had always feared the sight of bare pantry shelves. He didn’t want to know that Martin used to plan meals around what he found on deep discount at the grocer’s, so of course the Eye told him. 

“Well, i-it’s a nice day for a walk, at least,” Jon replied, hoping that if the two of them started a proper conversation he would forget the things he’d just learned. It never worked that way, but when had he ever stopped doing something just because it had never succeeded before? Martin’s laughter startled him out of his thoughts. 

“Jon, we haven’t seen the sun in days!” There was a mix of fondness and mild exasperation on his partner’s face, replacing whatever expression had been there before Martin had turned to face him. 

“All the more reason to get some fresh air,” Jon couldn’t help the slight sullenness that tainted his reply, but by now Martin would know that he was just trying to cover his embarrassment so he didn’t force himself to try harder to clarify. His partner’s soft chuckle had the same effect it always did; the still-unfamiliar sensation of something warm and pleasant in his chest rather than the icy grip of fear or pain.

“Right. You’re up for it?” Before Jon could reply, a thought came unbidden to the forefront of his mind.

He’s afraid of being alone for too long, and he isn’t wrong to be. 

“I’ll be fine.” It wasn’t, strictly speaking, a lie. Jon knew that Martin would match his pace, find some reason for them to stop for a moment if he needed to sit down, help the time pass faster with light conversation. And in return, neither of them would have to be afraid of the consequences of Martin being alone with no way to contact him. 

For a lot of the travel time, Jon led the way, but as they drew closer to the village he stopped to wrap his scarf around not only his neck but also the lower part of his face. He’d chosen to put his hair up for the trip in case it was windy, so the wool would have to do for covering many of the small, round scars dotting his chin and cheeks. Martin took the chance to fuss over him a little, adjusting the scarf in what he claimed was a more aesthetic way, then took Jon’s hand. 

He does that to hide your burns. So nobody will have to look at them.

Even without having the knowledge whispered to him in the back of his mind, Jon had been well-aware of why Martin favored holding his bad hand when they were out in public. What the Eye had left out, seeking to prey on his insecurities, was why. And perhaps it wouldn’t have mattered what Martin told him before everything they’d been through; he would have pushed aside the kind words as a pacifying lie. Now, though...now Jon knew that his partner was well aware of how much he hated that particular scar and that the weight of a larger, softer hand in his own helped to ground him. 

It wasn’t a surprise that as they walked down the main road of the village, the sound of whispers and, in some cases, stage whispers followed them. It might have been a bit disappointing, a tad stressful, but it wasn’t a shock. After all, they were strangers first and foremost. Even before someone had the chance to register that they were two men walking hand-in-hand, they’d notice that they were unfamiliar faces and make snap judgments based on that. 

Martin greeted everyone they passed, and Jon knew that none of them would notice the subtle tells that the man was giving off. Even if they’d looked, Martin had far too much practice hiding his true feelings for just anyone to recognize that anything was wrong. Truthfully, Jon wasn’t confident about whether he would have known if it weren’t for how long he’d spent studying Martin since they returned from the Lonely. He had never been the best at reading faces or social cues, but by now he was at least well-studied in Martin’s tells. “The Eye has helpfully informed me that sheep have caused more deaths here than human action has,” was what he wound up breaking the silence with. It worked, in that it made Martin stop short with a sound Jon wasn’t sure how to categorize as he covered his mouth with the back of his free hand. Suddenly, Martin’s hand felt a little more solid in his own. 

“Jon.” The name came out a little more high-pitched than Martin intended, going off of the slight blush that followed soon after. 

“Yes, Martin?” His crooked smile might have been hidden behind a wall of dark green wool, but it was apparent enough from the tone of his voice. It was deeply comforting to know that at least when it came to talking with Martin, he would be understood. 

“You-” Martin shook his head, gently squeezing Jon’s fingers. “You are unbelievable, you know that?” Jon made a small sound of agreement, doing his best to squeeze back as they resumed walking. 

There wasn’t terribly much to see in the little grocery, and the amount of time it would take them to get home eliminated even some of the store did have in stock from consideration. They were quietly debating the merits of shelf-stable milk when Jon felt a small tug on the hem of his jumper. Heart racing, he whirled, adrenaline already dumping into his system before he had the chance to register that his assailant was a small child who stared up at him with wide eyes. 

“What’re you doing here, ma’am? An’ who’s he? My ma knows everyone and she was saying to Miss Mason that she’s never seen y-whoa, what’s wrong with your hand?” As soon as Jon realized that the burns were visible, he tucked his hand in the sleeve of the jumper and moved it behind him. He’d been debating loosening the scarf while they were inside, as it had begun to get uncomfortably warm. Thank god he hadn’t done so. 

“Hello, little miss. I’m Martin, and this is Jon. He,” and Martin stressed the pronoun a little, “is my boyfriend and we’re visiting here for a little while. Does your mum know you’ve wandered off?” 

“You’re English!” She sounded like she was torn between being awed and horrified at the revelation, and Jon tried to focus on how charming that was even as instinct still screamed at him to run. Children’s attention spans could be measured in seconds, he told himself. She didn’t actually register the way the burns enveloping his hand formed a shape, she just saw something unusual and blurted out the first thing that came to her mind. Jon cleared his throat, contemplating whether he trusted his voice before thinking better of it. 

“Becca! What have I told you about talking to strangers?” A woman who looked to be in her early thirties pulled the child back, kneeling to tap her on the nose with a smile before looking up at them. 

“I’m sorry, you two. Are you...on vacation together?” The moment that she noticed the steadying hand Martin had on Jon’s forearm was audible. Just a slight hesitation, and the slightest shift in tone, but Jon was all too familiar with it. He registered somewhere in the back of his mind that his jaw ached, and unclenched his teeth.

“Yes, we’ve always wanted to see the Highlands in person.” Martin’s voice was polite, but left little room for further conversation. “We’ll let you get back to your shopping.” 

“We’ll have to talk more another time, when you come down just to visit.” The woman motioned at her basket, as though its contents were the only reason she had no interest in dallying longer, and her daughter gave them both an overdramatic wave goodbye before she ran off behind her. 

Jon’s hands scrabbled at the scarf. Suddenly it felt far too tight around his neck, and the feeling of scratchy fabric against his face was too close to that of rough dirt. Once he could breathe again, he realized how much he’d been struggling for air. He hadn’t noticed Martin moving, hiding him from view as best he could without making contact. He was grateful that Martin knew better than to touch him at times like this. Jon met his eyes and mouthed thank you in between deep, shaky breaths. He did his best to stay silent even as his mind screamed at him to gasp for whatever air he could manage to pull in. 

“You’re all right, Jon…” Martin told him softly, continuing with reassurances as Jon fought to calm himself. They’d found out together what worked for each of them through more...incidents than Jon wanted to think about. He forced the self-loathing down, tried to ignore the Eye telling him what a spectacle he was making of himself the first time he’d dared to try to blend in after getting to the safehouse. A quiet clap brought him back to reality, and he was once again hearing his partner’s voice. 

“Jon, you’re digging your nails in. Flex your fingers for me, okay?” Martin imitated the gesture for him, and Jon looked down at his own hands, at the crescent-shaped indents he’d left between two of the scars left by Jude’s fingers. “Ah.” It was all he could manage to say, but he followed the instruction. His eyes flicked to Martin’s face, automatically searching for some manner of disgust or disdain. He couldn’t find any, though; just sincere concern. However, something was different. Taking another steadying breath, it occurred to him what it was. Once he’d pulled off the scarf, Martin must have taken it and wrapped it around his own shoulders to get it out of the way. 

“Do you want to get some fresh air while I finish up in here?” 

“N-no, I think I’d rather stay by your side. If that’s alright.” Jon still didn’t feel ready for direct touch, which ruled out hand-holding, but he carefully linked their arms. He knew perfectly well how he would feel once the adrenaline faded entirely. Having support would help soon enough, both physically and not, and he bit his lip against a surge of emotion at the knowledge that for once, he could count on having it. 

Summary: Jon goes back to before the world ended and tries to forge a different path.

Chapter 3 is up! 

Chapter 1 (tumblr // AO3) | Chapter 2 (tumblr // AO3)

Full text + content warnings under the cut.

CW: brief claustrophobia; some grief and loss stuff; a few more instances of casual misgendering (not malicious; just some wrong pronouns here and there due to the speaking-in-statements thing, but thought I'd mention it just in case); a single LORGE spider. Also, Jon gets to do one (1) swear, as a treat. SPOILERS through MAG 169.

   Chapter 3: Rift

   Jon doesn’t remember the hill being this steep.

  Or maybe he’s just winded from the long trek through the wasteland. He’d had to pass through a long stretch of territory fought over by the Buried and the Vast. The ground there was practically a minefield, pockmarked with sinkholes. They would start out as quicksand traps and suffocating tunnel entrances, only to be hollowed out into yawning chasms and cenotes, then ultimately collapsed all over again by a retaliation-minded Choke. It was an endless cycle of petty rivalry and animosity, and passing so near their battlegrounds left Jon breathless with a discordant mix of claustrophobia and agoraphobia.

  Worse was when the Dark managed to sneak its way into the mix. Whether it was Too Close I Cannot Breathe or the Vast’s abyss, the Dark could always find a way to exploit subterranean spaces – and it could never resist reaching out to needle at an Avatar of the Eye, no matter how inadvisable it was to cross the Archive these days.

  As Jon drew closer to Hill Top Road, he left the warzone behind for a mostly featureless landscape punctuated with the occasional foxholes of the Slaughter and pockets of the Forsaken’s fog. Eventually those too gave way to a seemingly endless dust bowl of soot and ash – a sprawling domain claimed by the Lightless Flame.

  The house at Hill Top Road is the only thing still standing in the midst of kilometres of Desolation-scorched earth. The charred terrain stops abruptly at the foot of the hill, a stark line demarcating the boundary between the Blackened Earth and the territory that Annabelle Cane has staked out as her own. Jon had half-expected an invisible barrier to stop him there as well – the last time he was here, Annabelle had forbidden him from returning – but there had been no resistance when he stepped over the border.

  As he hikes up the incline now, he finds himself worrying over what that might mean. Is Annabelle expecting him, inviting him in? Is she simply tolerating his presence, curious to see what he’s up to? Could he be powerful enough now that even she cannot stop him? Or is he once again wrapped up in the Web’s machinations, doing exactly what the Mother of Puppets wants?

  He shakes his head. No. He and Martin talked about this. There’s no point in obsessing over the Web’s motivations, letting the memory of Annabelle’s statement paralyze him with indecision. Better to just… keep moving forward.

  And it’s not like he has anything left to lose. 

  Jon continues up the hill, increasingly winded, his bad leg throbbing angrily, and he thinks to himself again: he really, really doesn’t remember it being this steep.

   Before long, he’s standing at the threshold of the house at Hill Top Road. The dread permeating the place is just as palpable as he remembered.

  He waits for the Distortion’s inevitable appearance, determined not to let her startle him this time. As if on cue, a door creaks open on the ceiling above him.

  “Interesting.” Without preamble, Helen lands noiselessly on her feet beside Jon and peers around curiously. “I wondered whether Annabelle would let me in.”

  So did Jon. Maybe he should be concerned about – no. He shuts down that train of thought before it can pull out of the station.    

  “You still haven’t explained what exactly you plan on doing here.”

  Honestly, that’s mostly because Jon hasn’t figured it out yet, either. He only Knows that this is where he needs to be.

  The Eye wants things to change – as much as it can be said to want anything. Setting the question of its sentience or lack thereof aside, at the Panopticon he had been able to Know things that the Beholding had previously withheld from him. He might be stronger than the other Avatars and monsters lurking about the world, but he’s not arrogant enough to believe he could overpower any of the Fears themselves. If the Ceaseless Watcher gives him access to knowledge, it’s because his Knowing will facilitate – or at least not inhibit – its plans, which means that he must have the Eye’s… blessing, to be here? He shakes his head; he’s getting caught up on semantics again.

  Point is: he Asked a question and – as usual – he was given a scrap of an answer and left to puzzle the rest out for himself. All he Knows for certain is what he wants to happen, and that this is where he needs to be in order to make it happen.

  “Jonathan.” Helen says his name with a playful lilt and leans further into his personal space. “Are you going to share with the class?” 

  Without a word, he sidesteps around her and walks further into the house. In her statement, Anya Villette had mentioned a door under the stairs leading to the basement, but the last time Jon was here, it was nowhere to be seen. He hopes it’s there this time.

  “What are you looking for?”

  Jon drags one hand down his face and sighs. Having Helen tag along is like taking a road trip through hell with an easily bored and… well, deeply annoying child. Huh.   

  “I won’t be ignored, Jon –”  

  Jon bristles, redirects his gaze, and stares daggers at her with a few more eyes than strictly necessary. “Some magically appearing door.”  

  “You aren’t being very kind to me right now, you know.” She tries to sound wounded, but really she just sounds pleased to have gotten a reaction from him.

  Jon gives an irritated huff and continues forward through the entrance hall. He treads softly, all too aware of every subtle creak of a floorboard. He doesn’t know why he’s bothering muffling his footsteps. It doesn’t matter how quiet he is; Annabelle will know – probably already knows – that he’s here regardless. Still, there’s just something about the house that demands a certain amount of fearful reverence. Disturbing the silence just feels like a bad idea. 

  Helen doesn’t appear to have the same concerns. In fact, it almost seems like she’s going out of her way to announce their presence. Of course.

  Jon catches a glimpse of the staircase as he rounds the corner and – yes, there’s a door under the stairs. A plain, painted white door with a brass handle, otherwise unremarkable and entirely unassuming.

  And yet…

  As he tries to approach it, he finds himself rooted to the spot, overcome with a sense of trepidation. He feels his breath coming faster, shallower; feels the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. Every one of the Archive’s eyes locks onto the doorknob and for a moment he swears he feels tiny, feather-light legs scurrying down his spine. He pulls his pack tight against him, using the physical weight of it to dampen the tactile hallucination.     

  “I hate it,” Helen says darkly. Jon jumps just slightly at the break in the silence, and a few of the Archive’s eyes suspend their rapt scrutiny of the door handle to glance in her direction. Her posture is tense where she stands, staring warily at the door as if it might lunge at them. Jon has never seen the Distortion look so… unsettled.    

  She’s right, though. The door is wrong. More than that, it’s the exact same flavor of wrongness that he felt the first time he saw A Guest for Mr. Spider, and again when he reached out to knock on the monster’s door.

  Back then, he hadn’t known that the concept of wrongness could be broken down into so many distinct subtypes: the uncanny disquietude of the Stranger feels fundamentally different from the compulsion of the coffin, the sensation of worms tunneling through flesh, the Distortion’s nonsensical corridors, the Lonely’s suffocating fog.

  The pull of the Web is in a class of its own, and the sight of the door in front of him drops him right back into the memory of the day he opened the book – the day he took the first step on the winding path that led him, inevitably, to this exact moment. It’s such a fitting parallel, he wouldn’t be surprised if it was orchestrated down to the finest detail. He knows the Web plays a long game, but precisely how much of what has happened was in perfect accordance with the Web’s plans? What even is the Web’s –

  No. Stop fixating on the Spider, he reprimands himself for the umpteenth time this… day? Whatever; it’s not important. He forces his legs to move.

  “You’re sticking your hand in a bear trap, I hope you know.” 

  “I knew opening the door was a stupid thing to do,” Jon says, nonchalant. “So I opened the door.”  

  Helen breathes a surprised laugh. “Was that a joke?”

  “The idea that this is all some grand cosmic joke,” Jon rattles off drily, “thousands of us running around spread horror and sabotaging each other pointlessly while these impossible unknowing things just lurk out there, feeding off the misery we caused –”  

  “Terrible.” Helen groans and puts her head in her hands. “Here I was, ready to compliment you on finally finding a sense of humor, and you have to ruin the moment with – with existentialist brooding.”

  Jon chuckles quietly to himself and takes another step forward.  

  “Wait.” Helen reaches one long-fingered hand in Jon’s direction, then falters and pulls back. For a moment, she seems to wrestle with whether or not to continue. “What’s behind the door?”

  “A scar in reality –”  

  “Yes, I know about the rift. What do you expect to find in it? An answer? An escape? A means of suicide?”

  “A metaphysical quirk of this new reality’s divorce from the traditional concept of time.”  

  Jon pauses, chewing on his bottom lip as he looks inward and browses through his catalog.

  “It bends and twists and returns to what it was,” he settles on eventually.  

  “I told you not to use my words.” Helen gives him a warning look, but it’s fleeting, because a moment later his meaning sinks in and she huffs out a short laugh of disbelief. “Wait – wait, wait, wait. You think you can… what, turn back time?”

  Jon grimaces and makes a noncommittal seesawing motion with one hand.

  “…could emerge back into the world that she remembered.”   

  Helen starts laughing in earnest now. “You think you can time travel?”

  Jon just shrugs, unashamed. He knows he should feel embarrassed – back when he first took the position as Head Archivist, he would have scoffed at anyone making such a suggestion – but at this point, is it any more or less unrealistic than anything else that’s happened?

  “Alright,” Helen says, stifling another giggle, “I’ll grant you that there’s a rift in space and time. People have traveled through it before.”

  Jon gives an enthusiastic nod. After her encounter with the crack in the house's foundation, Anya Villette had found herself temporally displaced. What would stop Jon from also –

  “However,” Helen continues, “what makes you think you’ll just rewind your position on this timeline? It could just take you to a parallel world, leaving this one behind to suffer and decay. Would you abandon what remains of humanity like that?”

  Seeing as Anya Villette appeared to have also been spatially displaced, Jon has already considered this possibility. Helen probably knows that, too – she’s well-acquainted with his tendency to overthink things. She’s just trying to tap into his chronic self-loathing, demoralize him, make him doubt his own perceptions. It’s a familiar pattern, one Jon used to submit to far too easily.

  “…better than staying here with this strange woman.”  

  “Ouch.” Helen brings a hand to her chest in mock offense. “You’re being awfully cruel today.”

  Jon flashes an entirely unapologetic smile.

  “I was being serious, you know.” A knowing mischief creeps into Helen’s eyes. “You’ve always been selfish, but would you really run away from your mistakes, save yourself and damn the rest?”

  Unfortunately for Helen, she’s arrived too late to this particular debate. Jon already spent the entire trip here berating himself and second-guessing his conclusions, and he’s just about gotten it out of his system for the time being. Self-recrimination as an inoculation against the Distortion’s manipulations – now there’s a concept, he thinks wryly.  

  “Do you honestly believe you deserve to escape an apocalypse that you brought about?”

  God, she’s persistent.

  “Now there’s only one thing I have left that I value,” he says simply. “That I love. And I cannot lose him.”  

  It’s the truth: the final deciding factor for him was, as it so often is, Martin.

  “You would potentially forsake this entire world just to reverse your own loss?”

  “There was nothing left to save.”  

  It never gets easier to admit it out loud, but that doesn’t change the truth of it. This world is already forsaken. Humanity is dying out, slowly but surely, and Jon harbors a guilty feeling of relief that their torment will not be eternal after all. As far as he can See, there’s no way for him to save the ones who remain. There never was.

  His power was never meant to help anyone. For a long time, the only action within his grasp was to hurt – and so, he went after those who deserved to be hurt, because the only other option was doing nothing at all. But seeking revenge never saved anyone, never even made himself feel any better. If anything, it only made him feel emptier, more and more alienated from whatever human part of him still lingered – and that was a very dangerous place to be.

  And when he and Martin decided together that he needed to slow down, to maintain some distance between himself and the Eye? Well… nothing substantial changed in the slightest. He didn’t get any worse, but he also didn’t get better. The world continued to suffer just as much as if he were to sit down and take no action at all. Nothing he did or did not do made any impact whatsoever.

  He Knows intimately that he cannot banish the Entities from this world as long as one person remains to feel fear. Once that last person dies, there will be no one left to save. Hell, depending on how human he still is by that time, he may very well be that last person, and the Dread Powers will just have to ration him. And why shouldn’t they? They’ve all had a taste of him more than once. He’s an unfinished meal. They could just resume hacking away at him, demanding their respective pounds of flesh one after the other until nothing remains – until finally, mercifully, the Fears themselves would wither and die as well. He just doesn’t want to consider how long that could take – no. Best not to dwell on it.   

  The point is, there is no future for this world. There is nothing left for him to do here. His only hope is to prevent all of this from coming to pass in the first place, and this… this is the only lead he has. And besides, Martin –

  “You do realize that you have a vanishingly small chance of seeing him again, don’t you?”

  “I decided to take a risk and try it anyway.”  

  Helen looks put out at his easy dismissal, but she really ought to know better by now, Jon thinks. He might be chronically plagued by self-hate and a visceral fear of being controlled, but Martin is his anchor in more ways than one. Their relationship is proof of Jon’s own capacity for free will, and his decision to go after Martin in the Lonely remains one of the only things he’s done where he’s never once wondered whether he made the right choice. He doesn’t think he’s ever been more confident about anything than he is about their love for each other, even if he doesn’t always feel like he deserves it. Helen really couldn’t pick a worse seed with which to sow self-doubt.

  When she sees that Jon isn’t taking the bait, she changes tack. 

  “And assuming this scheme somehow works as you hope it does, and doesn’t just get you shunted to some hellish pocket dimension – which it almost certainly will – you do realize that your little scene with Jonah Magnus will mean nothing, don’t you? This future will be erased, he will not suffer for eternity – he won’t even remember that it was ever a possibility.”

  “For all her anger, there was no thirst for revenge in the Archivist, only an eagerness to expunge an infection that had gone unnoticed for too long.”  

  “Then why bother confronting him? I know it wasn’t for closure – if you were at all capable of letting go or moving on, you would never have been a candidate for the Beholding in the first place, and we wouldn’t be here now.” Jon just barely manages to not flinch at that. Luckily, Helen doesn’t seem to notice that she struck a nerve, instead staring up at the ceiling in contemplation, as if trying to decipher Jon’s motivations on her own. “So, why? All those messy emotions it dredged up and for what – the drama of it all?”  

  “I live for the monologue,” he deadpans. 

  “Jonathan!” Helen gapes at him in exaggerated shock. “Was that another joke?”

  She could stand to tone down the condescension, Jon thinks. It isn’t his fault if people overlook his sense of humor just because they never think to listen for it.   

  “Are you certain about this, Archivist? You have a history of reaching these points of no return and choosing the worst imaginable path.”

  Even at the very end, the Distortion just can’t resist one last chance at undermining his confidence. Despite the cockiness underlying her taunt, Helen has a hungry, almost pleading look in her eye – desperate, like everything else in this place that feeds on fear, for scraps in the midst of a famine that will never be remedied.

  Jon reaches out and grips the doorknob with one hand.

  “Even the end of the world can’t stop you throwing yourself on a grenade. Can’t say I’m surprised. I’m not following you in there, though.”

  “Thank heaven for small mercies, I suppose.”   

  “I am trying to have a heartfelt goodbye, Jonathan,” Helen says, not sounding sincere in the slightest. “I doubt this will go as you hope it will, but I’m fairly certain that no matter what happens, I won’t be seeing you again. I won’t wish you luck, but… well, it will be interesting to see whether one of your half-assed plans might pan out for once – not that they ever have gone according to plan.” When Jon’s resolve remains strong, Helen sighs – and this time, her disappointment does sound genuine. “Well, if you’re sure…” She trails off, giving him one last hopeful look – once last chance to fall apart under her skillful denigrations – before her shoulders slump in resignation.

  Not content to leave it at that, though, she does offer one last parting shot: “Do say hello to the Spider for me, won’t you?”

  An involuntary shudder courses down Jon’s spine as he remembers Anya Villette’s statement – the massive spider legs reaching up to pull her into the crack in the foundation – and compares it with his own memory of the book, the door, and the monster lurking within. Helen breathes a contented sigh at his ripple of unease – basically a snack for her, at Jon’s expense. Fine. She can have that last little morsel of fear from him, as a parting gift.  

  “Sometimes you just have to leave,” Jon says firmly, turning the handle. “Even if what’s on the other side scares you.”  

  And, oh, it does.

  Miraculously, Helen allows him to have the last word. As he pushes open the door to the basement, he hears Helen’s door creak open in unison. By the time he’s staring down the stairs into the dark, her door has snapped shut and popped out of existence. 

   The staircase pitches down, down, down, stretching far deeper than it should. It’s too dark to see much of anything, and it takes a full minute of descent until he notices that there’s a slight curve to it. With every step, the air grows warmer and more stifling. The revolting sensation of walking through cobwebs becomes a constant, but any time he reaches up to brush away the web clinging to him, he feels nothing but his own bare skin.

  A few minutes in, his bad leg starts twinging again, and he holds on to the wall to steady himself. Before long, his mind begins to wander to the horrifying possibility that the staircase is interminable, and he’s overcome by an image of a funnel web spider waiting patiently for unsuspecting prey. He tries to push the thought away. Just keep moving.

  Between the lack of visibility and being lost in his own head, he doesn’t notice the sharp turn in the staircase until he plows right into the wall, a sharp pain erupting in his left shoulder from the collision. He throws one hand back to steady himself and only barely manages to stay on his feet, his bad leg protesting as he throws his weight into it. After briefly taking inventory of himself and experimentally putting weight on his leg again – painful, but not unbearable – he gropes blindly for the wall again and uses it to guide himself forward, more slowly this time. It isn’t long before the stone of the wall gives way to cool, damp earth, and he shivers with the memory of the Buried.

  After several more sharp, nearly 90-degree twists and turns, a faint glow starts to permeate the darkness. A few minutes later, the staircase opens up into a large, dimly-lit space, garlanded with spider silk. The ceiling, walls, and floor are composed of tightly-packed dirt, and Jon has to fight back a rush of claustrophobic panic at the thought of being surrounded on all sides by the crushing earth. It’s short-lived, as it’s crowded out by a much deeper, more primal fear when he sees the fissure in the ground ahead.

  It’s a repulsive, crooked thing, oozing with a pervasive, tangible feeling of wrongness. It should not be there. It cannot be there. And yet there it is, boldly existing where it has no right or reason to be, a gnawing, open, inflamed wound in the fabric of reality, pulling him toward it like a black hole. It’s a compulsion stronger than the coffin, an abomination more uncanny than the Stranger, a malice deeper than any Dark, an inevitability on par with Terminus itself.

  Jon hates it. At his first glimpse of it, every one of the Archive’s eyes fly open, greedily drinking in the oppressive presence of something so unfamiliar and anomalous, leeching off of Jon’s terror as he beholds it. The scrutiny is fleeting, though, as the sight of it turns corrosive and blistering; all at once, the eyes shrink away and retreat, like a school of fish spotting a bird of prey swooping down for a meal. It takes some of the edge off, having fewer eyes with which to see the thing, but it still weighs him down with dread and revulsion.

  Jon doesn’t know how long he’s stood there, staring unblinkingly at the fault line, before he senses a presence – something colossal and hungry and wrong, malevolence and foreboding given physical form – climbing inexorably toward him. He hears a faint rustling, the whisper of tiny avalanches of dirt scraped loose and sent sliding down the walls of the crevice. He knows exactly what to expect, and still he isn’t prepared when the first of the spider’s legs peeks up over the lip of the fissure.

     How is it that after a lifetime to process a childhood trauma, it still throttles his heart and squeezes the air from his lungs at the mere thought of it? How is it that, despite being the most formidable thing in this world outside of Fear itself, he feels as small and helpless now as he did on the day he met his first of many monsters? Why is he just standing here, letting those hairy, spindly limbs hover and curl around him like an enormous clawed hand, waiting for a fate that is as unknowable as it is inevitable?

  Focus, Jon thinks to himself. Listen to the quiet.

  He slowly reaches into his jacket and breathes a sigh of relief as his fingers close around the notebook safeguarded there. It’s Martin’s, full of poems and sketches and stream-of-consciousness journal entries. Jon has had it with him for a long time now, but he’s never been able to bring himself to look inside it. Martin would occasionally share its contents with him – mostly completed poems, and only occasionally works in progress, as he was always self-conscious about his creative process – but Jon doesn’t want to accidentally see something that Martin would have preferred to keep to himself. Martin might not be beside him right now, but he still deserves to have his privacy respected.

  Still, for Jon, just having it with him is a physical reminder of his anchor, and running his thumb over the cover grounds him in the present. He closes his eyes and looks inward.  

  The Archive gropes blindly for something solid amidst the noise, some elemental truth to serve as a starting point in the chaotic tangle choking this place. The edges of his mind brush against thread after thread and none of them are what he’s looking for. They stick to him, filling his head with cotton, making him sluggish and confused, obfuscating his sight. The Spider watches as he flails, becoming more and more snarled in the web.

  “I closed my eyes and remembered in as much detail and with as much love as I could muster in my despair,” he whispers to himself, anchoring himself in the truth of the statement. He swallows a terrified whimper as something coarse and fuzzy brushes against his face, and he weaves a command into his next words: “Eventually, I opened my eyes again –” 

  The Archive obeys, hundreds of eyes materializing on his skin and blinking open in the space around him, grotesque satellites of varying sizes all seizing on single question, and suddenly he can See –

  There.

  A single thread, out of place among the rest, pulled taut and leading down into the deep gloom of the chasm. He spares a brief thought as to its origin point – Is its anchor here, now, or do its roots begin on the other side? – before silencing it. It’s not a question that needs answering right now. The Beholding objects; Jon reflexively shuts it down and takes an aggravated swipe at the nearest cluster of eyes he can reach, like swatting at a swarm of mosquitoes. He doesn’t think it actually does anything concrete, but when they disperse it brings him a small measure of satisfaction all the same.

  He gives an experimental tug on the thread and – it feels right. That’s good, right? Well, he supposes it could be the Web trying to trick him into –

  God, he’s like a dog with a bone. He could be trapped in a burning building and find part of his mind wandering off to idly ponder the melting point of steel –

  …around 1370 °C for carbon steel; between 1400 and 1530°C for stainless steel, depending on the specific alloy and grade…

  – which, yes, he has done. It’s a good way to dissociate from a crisis. Unfortunately, it’s also a good way to get killed, and the giant spider is still there, Jonathan, focus.    

  He holds fast to the thread – make a path for yourself, tune it to the frequency you need –

  “Everything about being with him felt so natural that when he told me he loved me,” he tells himself, louder this time, “it only came as a surprise to realize that we hadn’t said it already.”  

  – and he follows it, stepping carefully around and between the spider’s legs. He has no idea why it isn’t attacking him – what if this is exactly what Annabelle – no. He shakes his head as if it will jostle the thought loose. Just be thankful for it and keep moving before the damn thing changes its mind.

  Moments or hours or perhaps days later, he’s standing at the precipice of the fissure and looking down. Several eyes are riveted on the massive hairy form poised above him, but most are staring into the unknowable darkness with a gnawing, longing fascination. He stands frozen in place, torn between an overwhelming urge to flee and an overpowering need to Know what’s down there: something new, something fresh, something different – any reprieve at all from the excruciating monotony of this nightmare world.

  The spider shifts above him. It’s now or never. He has nothing to lose, and if there’s any chance at all of changing this doomed future – of seeing Martin again…

  “Sometimes you just have to leave,” he reminds himself, shutting his human eyes tight, one hand clutching the notebook and the other clenching into a fist until the fingernails cut into the palm. “Even if what’s on the other side scares you.”  

  He takes one last deep breath, thinks of Martin – safe hands, warm eyes, gentle touch – and he takes a leap of faith.

   Jon can’t see anything. He can’t See, either. There is an incessant, high-pitched whine screaming in his ears and drowning out his thoughts. When he moves to put his hands over his ears, he realizes all at once that he can’t feel his body. He has no sense of up or down, no fingers to flex, no breath to hold, and – and he can’t See.

  It’s… terrifying. It’s liberating. It hurts, but in the same way that his first gulp of fresh air hurt after three days asphyxiating in the Buried.

  He doesn’t know how long he floats there in that near-senseless limbo, but between one moment and the next a blanket of fog drops over him and the shrill static is muffled. Through the haze, he can just barely make out a voice, coming from so far away – like he’s drowning, and someone is speaking to him from above the water’s surface. He drifts and listens in a daze as the voice cuts in and out.

  “– just – thought I’d – by. Check in – how you’re –”

  It’s a nice voice.

  “– really need you –”

  A safe voice.  

  “– Jon.”

  Wait.

  “– bad. I – how much longer we can –”

  Wait, it’s – that’s Martin’s voice.

  “We – I need you.”

  It’s Martin. Martin!

  Martin is here, he’s here – Jon doesn’t know where here is, but it doesn’t matter, because Martin is here, and – and Jon is so overwhelmed with euphoria that he isn’t actually processing what’s being said. Calm down, focus – focus on the words –    

  “And I – I know that you’re not –”

  Oh.

  “I know there’s no way to –”

  Oh, no.

  “But we need you, Jon.”

  All at once, Jon knows where – when he is.

  “Jon, please, just – please.”

  No. No, no, no, no –

  “If – if there’s anything left in you that can still see us, or –”

  Martin, I’m here! 

  “– or some power that you’ve still got, or –”

  I’m here, I’m here, I’m here –

  “– or, or something, anything, please! Please.”

  Martin’s voice breaks, and Jon’s heart fractures with it.

  “I – I can’t –”

  Jon can just barely make out the buzz of a phone and – oh.

  “I’m – I’m actually with him now.”

  Martin!  

  “You were right.” A pause, and a heavy sigh. “I – will they be safe?”

  Peter Lukas. It’s Peter Lukas. Peter Lukas is still alive, Peter Lukas is hunting Martin, Peter Lukas wants to feed him to the Lonely, Peter Lukas is –

  “Okay. Okay, I’ll do it.”

  Martin, don’t –

  “Yeah. Sure thing.”  

  Martin!

  “I’m sorry.”

  Jon tries to scream, to reach out, to do anything at all, but he doesn’t have a body and he doesn’t have a voice and he can’t See –

  “Goodbye, Jon.”

  Martin, look at me! Hear me, please - see me! 

  He tries to thread a command through the words, but the compulsion doesn't come through, and - 

  Jon hears the rustle of clothing as Martin stands to leave, followed by the soft click of the door as it closes behind him. 

  Fuck. 

   End Notes:

me: i could go into some long-winded exposition about the space-time continuum  also me: OR, alternatively, i can handwave it and say It's The Power Of Love, Don't Even Worry About It

anyway, my gay little heart knows what it's about.

 - Jon’s dialogue is taken from the statements in the following episodes: MAG 146; 054; 151; 139; 168; 101; 134; 010; 037; 008; 019; 167; 108; 103; 146; 048; 013; 146.

- Jon gets some original verbal dialogue starting next chapter. Thought I'd mention it just in case anyone is getting tired of the Archive-speak (though there will still be some of that). :P

- Psst, if you want to read a detour about Jon and Martin's talk about Annabelle and free will and Not Obsessing Over The Web, I wrote that here. (I'm linking it here because it actually originally started as part of this fic but I decided to make it its own thing because my ADHD brain ran with it and it was waaaaay too much of a tangent sdsdhshgh)

This is a long read, but it’s the best damned thing I’ve read in a long time... ~Joe

I stopped watching Chernobyl after the first episode because a lifetime ago, I was a serious physics nerd and everything they were saying was absurd about the levels of radiation. Last night we watched the other 4 episodes and I thought maybe I might try and push the rock up the hill again and maybe open some eyes about where we are right now in this truly dystopic Orwellian nightmare. J. Robert Oppenheimer was a particular hero to me as a teen because he was so brilliant and accomplished the impossible in just 18 months. If you have not read American Prometheus, I highly recommend it because it details a time when we had a government of imbeciles running around with their hair on fire about communists who threw people in jail who wouldn't admit to that old drunk McCarthy that they were communists. Like all demagogues, McCarthy thought he was the lone arbiter of who was and who wasn't a patriot and he rose to such prominence because he was willing to lie about anything to make his baseless allegations. But Joe McCarthy was no patriot nor was his principle henchman Roy Cohn. They used the collective paranoias of stupid people to manufacture a crisis that did not exist. They destroyed lives and relished doing it to what would be referred now as the 'elitist liberals' like Dalton Trumbo and Oppy. Oppy was an extremely educated liberal who spoke to other people like him. Some of whom were communists. This made him a threat in the minds of the men who put Julius and Ethel Rosenberg to death. Ethel was entirely innocent but that didn't matter to a public brought to full froth by the hysteria of the day. Those men beating the drums of patriotism could not conceive of a man like Oppy talking to a communist and not be a communist himself, the same was said of Trumbo. Guilt by association was just enough for the likes of Cohn and McCarthy. "For each lie, a debt to the truth is incurred." Chernobyl Historians have written heroic books about the great generals of WWII, MacArthur and Patton being the most famous and they do deserve their notoriety but they ignored to a large extent who actually won the war for the allies and that comes down to two men: Alan Turing and J. Robert Oppenheimer. By any measure, Alan was the greatest man of the 20th century. Oppy is a bit harder to fit into that calculus and he said so himself because he knew atomic weapons would change the world and not in a good way. It's true the Japanese were whipped and that Doolittle could have continued to firebomb Japanese cities until the Japanese came to heel but that is still speculation. After Nagasaki, the war was over right or wrong, Oppy did that and saved hundreds of thousands of American troops. After the war, McCarthy went after Oppy. He wasn't treated like the hero he was and didn't want to be. He was treated like a Soviet agent and stripped of all of his security clearances because he would not name names. He was threatened with prison, his jobs were taken from him and he was exiled from the community of scientists that *he* built because of the lies of scum like McCarthy and Cohn. Alan Turing didn't fair much better from his government either. The McCarthys of that time didn't really believe in America at all, he wasn't a patriot no matter how loudly his supporters screamed it. McCarthy didn't think the idea of America could survive 'communist infiltration'. He had no grasp of why communism spread in Russia like wildfire because to his primitive and ignorant mind, he didn't know what it was like to live under a Tsar. 'If it spread there then it can spread here' was the thinking because McCarthy didn't understand or believe in the ideals that founded America. To him, they were so weak and feeble that communism would be preferable than what we had in America. That lie destroyed lives, destroyed families and stands as a black stain on our nation's history. The thing about liars is that they have to tell bigger and bigger lies to cover for all the small ones and then that debt to the truth comes due. It came to McCarthy when Joseph Welch lanced the festering boil that was McCarthyism with the truth. Before Welch delivered his fatal blow, he reacted to McCarthy's slander with this: "And so, Senator, I asked him to go back to Boston. Little did I dream you could be so reckless and so cruel as to do an injury to that lad. It is true he is still with Hale & Dorr. It is true that he will continue to be with Hale & Dorr. It is, I regret to say, equally true that I fear he shall always bear a scar needlessly inflicted by you. If it were in my power to forgive you for your reckless cruelty, I would do so. I like to think I'm a gentle man, but your forgiveness will have to come from someone other than me." Then a moment later, he drew the blade that ended the national nightmare when he murdered McCarthy with the indelible truth: Mr. Welch: You've done enough. Have you no sense of decency, sir, at long last? Have you left no sense of decency? McCarthy and Cohn of course had no decency. Cohn delighted in going after homosexuals and destroying their lives while being a homosexual himself. They were the most vile hypocrites the world had ever known. McCarthy incapable of feeling shame, drank himself to death after he was humiliated as the coward he was. I sat there thinking about this as the full horror of what happened at Chernobyl unfolded. The entirety of the Russian government played out exactly like Trump having all of his cabinet praising his greatness, it was vulgar, it was disgusting. Then I remembered all the other dictators I've read about in history who surrounded themselves with sycophants. Martin Bormann being the reference example who served Hitler so faithfully. Bormann was a slack-jowled imbecile who was barely qualified to lick stamps but nobody in the Reich dare cross the thug because he was Hitler's favorite yes man. I remember that day Trump's cabinet took turns telling Trump how honored they were to serve under his super terrifically awesomeness and that they were but boot-licking sycophants. Pence really had to lather up Trump's ass before he could muster a vulgar enough kiss to satisfy that insidious git. I sat thinking that this was the lowest moment in the history of the Republic. What separated them from the Soviet Central Committee under Gorbechev? Not a damn thing. They *all* lie for a living and kiss the dear leader's ass. It was the most unAmerican thing ever done in the White House. It was sheer cowardice by each and every single one of them. Any man who had a lick of honor would have walked out in disgust to save what's left of their honor. The *only* one who got out of this administration with any was General Mattis. And you can see this cult in all of its terrible glory if you just glance at any of the stories coming in from visitors to the concentration camps now open on United States' soil. There are zero testimonials from any objective visitor who says conditions are fine. Last Thursday a government Lawyer argued to 3 appellate judges that giving toothbrushes and toothpaste were luxury items not to be afforded for the $700-$800 a day American tax payers are paying private prison companies to house these thousands of misdemeanor offenders. Republicans have strenuously objected to calling these 'detention centers' 'concentration camps' because nothing offends cult members like the truth about what they are really do. Ask any Scientologist if you're not positive of this undeniable fact. Children are living outside, locked up and fully exposed to the elements without food and running water because the man who concocted this policy is a 32-year-old psychopath named Stephen Miller who has devised schemes to strip parents of their children as a 'deterrent' from coming to the US. I remember wondering as I read The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich how so many people were duped into voting Hitler into office and here I am now witnessing it. I see right wing lunatics actually calling people 'Antifa' as if it is some slur. "Antifa'' meaning 'anti-fascist.' They seem wholly unaware that Americans won a war against fascism because we were all against what the Axis was doing. What the nazis knew was that they needed to control the press. What modern fascists like Rupert Murdoch have learned is that it is easier to control the masses with propaganda and to do that is to obey Goebbels' edict to 'accuse the other side for what you are guilty of.' This is where Republicans are now. There is no Republican party anymore. It is a cult of personality except it isn't Hitler being exalted by the hoards of half-literate morons, it's Trump. Trump lies to them and they breath in his lies and they repeat them with a religious fervor because none of them are aware that for each lie they tell, they incur a debt to the truth. In Germany and in Chernobyl, those lies always caused death on a mass scale either through incompetence or outright evildoing. Here we are at a crossroads in American history with an ignorant electorate chanting 'lock her up' as if that's something that's going to happen. The Secretary of the Treasury is openly breaking federal law in full few of all these miscreants and the cult doesn't care. The Attorney General of the United States, the highest law enforcement official in the land openly committed perjury before the US Congress. The President has committed election fraud, violated the emoluments clause and committed more acts of obstruction of justice than can be counted in full view of the American people and the sad fact of the matter is nothing is being done about it. The Republican cult doesn't even want to pretend like they don't want the Russians involved in the next election. They've done exactly nothing to safeguard our elections from Russian interference because they are so easily bought by Putin that they aren't going to do a damn thing to stop someone who is trying to help them win elections. I don't know what it takes before the people take to the streets but if opening up concentration camps isn't appalling enough to put the spurs in then nothing will. This is how it was done, the chipping away of normalcy with outrage after outrage until insanity became the new normal because as Voltaire so presciently said, 'anyone who can make you believe absurdity can make you commit atrocities.' Little children are locked up outside in the elements without so much as a blanket to protect them. They have no rights to anything because the courts are so overwhelmed with cases now that it will take many years before any of these refugees get a hearing. They're standing children up in front of a judge without a lawyer to defend themselves against imaginary crimes of crossing a line on a rock turning 35,000 mph in a small solar system. Republicans stole a supreme court seat and they will continue to lie, cheat and steal to remain in power. That's why Mitch has delivered over 100 carefully selected members of the Heritage Society to fill vacant judicial posts because he does not care about our democracy, he cares about power. As many Republicans have said, they only need someone to sign stuff, they don't care who. Trump is perfect for their agenda and democracy has never been on their agenda, usurping it is. 20 years of Murdoch's brainwashing has gotten us to this point and if anyone really believed in justice in this country, the heads of everyone at Fox would be rolling down main street as a lesson to future ambitious propagandists who mean to undermine our nation as that rogue Australian has done more than any other. To rid ourselves of this seditious scourge is going to take all of us who agree to speak with one voice at the ballot box. It's going to take protests on a scale not seen in the US. Blood is already being spilled in these concentration camps. Edmund Burke's warning that all it takes for evil to succeed is for good men to do nothing is coming to pass *yet again* and here we are at tyranny's doorstep. How much is enough? What atrocity must be committed on American soil before we get off our sorry asses and start doing something about it? If you don't think we aren't at war with a very determined enemy bent on destroying our country then you need to wake up to reality before we wake up that one morning like Martin Niemöller did when he said, "First they came for the socialists, and I did not speak out— Because I was not a socialist. Then they came for the trade unionists, and I did not speak out— Because I was not a trade unionist. Then they came for the Jews, and I did not speak out— Because I was not a Jew. Then they came for me—and there was no one left to speak for me." Every single Republican in office right now is an enemy of the United States who are conspiring with our foreign enemies to keep themselves in power. So are the people who vote for them because they are no different than the people who voted Hitler into office. I sincerely hope if you agree with what I have said here that you spread this message with any like-minded people because as of yet, I haven't seen any presidential candidates calling these concentration camps what they are. If we don't start preparing for next November today, we could wake up to another 4 years of Trump. Our nation cannot survive such a reckless criminal administration the likes of this one for another four years. The nation will be bankrupt and in its death rattle. We can start speaking in unison this Independence Day by squelching this Trump celebration in DC by turning the real patriots out on a scale he can't imagine. It's time to start fighting and dirty at that while there's still something worth fighting for. #Resist Your very life depends on it as does our future.

- Thomas Clay

Coachella

Day 0:

I get to the campsite and I’m nervous. I’m nervous that Courtney’s on her way to the campsite. It’s inevitable that I’m going to see her this weekend... 

She arrives. I’m afraid to walk Andy over to their campsite because I’m not ready to see her... 

I then go with Andy to the restroom and there she is. Walking over to use the restroom with Sharon. She waves cheerfully from a distance. My heart drops. Why did she wave so cheerfully? Is she not nervous to see me? Is it just me? Am I being overly dramatic and immature by being so afraid?

I go back to my campsite. We drink and smoke a little and go explore. 

The rest of the night, she’s the only thing on my mind. I dream of her all night.

Day 1: 

Wake up hazy and sad from dreaming about her all night... 

I head over to their campsite. Say hi to everyone. Shes on the floor doing her makeup. I go to her and get down to hug her. “Hiya..” 

“...Hiya..” she responds softly, as we hug. 

I head over to Edward’s tent. I’m having a freakin’ blast and I get destroyed. Eventually, Courtney’s group shows up. From that moment on, shes the only thing on my mind yet again. Emily comes up to me and gets a little too close. I tell her “no. stop. my ex is here”. She backs off...

Things get hazy, but I recall speaking to Courtney here and there. Giving her shots. Smoking with her. I recall getting to a point where we were both intoxicated and I talk to her about her about a few things. 

1) Asking her about the Miata. And how she sent that snapchat to Rave Fam so that I’d see it... And then her telling me that it could end up being hers. And I remember telling Andy that she has a Miata now and it was even faster than mine because it’s turbo!!! 2) I asked her how living at home has been... And she said its been rough. And how her parents got really upset at her for getting tattoos. My heart stopped for a second. “You got tattoos..?” She showed me. An “X” on one wrist and a “I I” on the other. I asked her what they meant. She hesitated. And at that moment I knew it had to do with me so I told her nevermind... The rest of the day (and weekend actually, every time I remembered her tattoo, I’d get slightly sad. How much I must have scarred her for her to get those tattoos... The thought killed me more and more... 

Eventually, I get so high I don’t remember much. Just that I really wanted to speak to her and ask her how shes doing. Especially since I was intoxicated then, it should’ve been easy to talk to her. But I was just so high that I couldn’t talk to anyone. 

Next thing I remember, we’re back at their campsite and I nap. They go back to the festival a bit later. 

I go back a few hours later with Andy. 

See her briefly but no conversation. That was that. 

Day 2:

Wake up, head to their campsite again. Drink a lot. Start interacting with her a little more. I recall answering for her for things. Like, “Yes, she wants a drink.” “Nah she can’t drink that much”. Lol. 

We go to Edwards campsite. I feed her a multiple shots. She feeds me water... We’re slightly awkward but interacting. She does a line. Enjoys it for a while then crashes. Falls asleep back at her campsite. 

Wakes up. We drink more. And we do addy + drink together. 

It gets hazy from here. But I remember we spend the entire day together. We text each other. “WHERE ARE YOUUU” “OMG ADDY + DRINK FEELS EXACTLY LIKE ROLLING” “YEAH OMG WHERE ARE YOU”

Hahaha... Gryffin was lit. I don’t think we were dancing or anything though. 

I think we go and get more to drink because we are supposed to drink a lot on addy. Then we head to Martin Garrix. Slowly we start to get closer. I mean the crowd already has is packed like sardines. But a few feelsy songs come on and I recall us starting to hold each other... Scared to be Lonely...

Memory is hazy again. But we were definitely holding each other. My phone died so I used her phone to record videos. 

After that, I think we went to Gaga. I start to sober up. And at the end, I realize I lost my car keys. I go to the lost and found. And I signal for the group to go home without me. 

It seemed like she was going to stay. But then suddenly remembered that we weren’t together anymore. And waved goodbye and went back with the group...

Day 3:

I stress out about my keys. Get them from Mom and Jordan. Get ready, then head to their campsite. We chill, drink some beers. Go to my campsite, take a shot. Then kenny’s tent. Drink more. 

We go in. Then everyone gets food. Courtney and I go off to get food together... We have our usual session of trying to decide what to eat because everything looks good. We settle on a rice bowl and ooey gooey fries. She tries to pay but I don’t let her. We eat, then check out an artist. 

The rest of the group wants to go see another artist while Courtney wants to see another. I choose to stay with her. We see Honne and Jack Garrett. I cry slightly while watching Honne... Every time they sing about two people who can’t be together... We go and get water. Then head over to the treehouse where we meet the rest of the group.

We take our favors. Head on over to Porteon.

The set starts and I’m already sad before I even take my actual favor. I look up at the sky, with sun setting, few clouds, and birds flying above in the distance. I ask her to look. She looks, with those big eyes I remember so well... She keeps looking, in awe. I get even more sad. A few more songs in and I shed a few tears. No one notices. 

I feel the come up. I consider taking more because I’m afraid the set will end before I feel anything. But the come up comes again, even stronger so I rationalize that I should probably wait. 

“Miiiiissing you. Miiiiiiissing you.”

About 30 min in, Divinity played and I broke down crying. Got on my knees and cried a waterfall. It wouldn’t stop. Never cried that hard before. I didn’t know if Courtney was noticing. But a few moments later, she came down, wrapped her arms around my neck, and kissed me. Half missed my lips and definitely got a bunch of my tears. “It’s okay”, she said. “It’s okay...” 

I wanted to let her enjoy herself. I didn’t want to come in like that and interject myself into yet another one of her memories... But I couldn’t help it. She had been on my mind the entire weekend. Even before the favors. 

We listened to the rest of the set. I don’t remember too much. It was a blast. Hanging with everyone. Everyone having feels together. I still had tears coming down here and there. 

Eventually they stopped though. And I think Courtney is the one who kept dropping a tear here and there. 

I also remember this one moment where I was sitting on the ground right next to her leg. And I sat as close to it as possible. Maybe I was tired and needed to sit. But just needed her there with me still... I was almost hugging it. 

Next thing I know, it’s a full on rave. 

I’m tripping on 2, and its just like old times. We’re all sitting there on the grass, pauline on the floor. I’m seeing crazy things. Courtney tells me to just enjoy it. I lay down on her thigh and look at the stars. 

We make our way to Jai Wolf. He destroys us all. I’m half holding Courtney. Half dancing and making memories with the group. Indian Summer comes on. We hold each other tightly. Again, things are hazy. But we definitely enjoyed the set together and each others company... And pictured good times we’ve had with each other in the past. I’m certain we both did that...

Pretty sure after that, we went to Kendrick. Which we weren’t feeling. I was hoping for more feels. Also, at some point I told Courtney to redose. And she took another half. Which I regret... Because thats 1 total... As if coming to Coachella and spending all 3 days and doing favors with me all weekend wasn’t enough... now she’d have to get through a severe comedown too... sigh.

We left Kendrick to go see What So Not. And he was interesting. A few feelsy songs here and there. Then we went to Arctic. While we were waiting in line, I took the opportunity to finally start asking her all the questions I’ve been wanting to ask her. Questions that I may have asked her already but perhaps forgot the answers to because we were so destroyed. 

How are you doing? How’s living at home? How’s studying? The internship? Are you happy? Sad? Do you hang out with friends a lot? What do you do every day? When’s the MCAT? When are you applying to school? 

She was doing “okay...”. Living at home sucked. No freedom. Her Mom cried when she found out about the tattoos. And her Dad told her that she was no longer his “innocent flower”. And then apparently that argument turned into another thing about Trump and feminism. Sigh what the fuck. I caused all this. I said “Sorry”. She said, “Why are you sorry??? It’s not your fault...”. I didn’t respond. But I wanted to say that it was my fault. All of this happened because of me. And I wanted to tell her that I’m sorry that her Dad treats her that way. But the words didn’t come out. 

Continuing on: The internship was great actually. She has really been enjoying it. It’s tiring through, driving to SD every time. Especially since shes taking a double shift so she could get her time all in on one day instead of having to drive back two times a week. She definitely isn’t happy. She doesn’t really see friends. Only when she goes to the gym with them. Her day consists of taking her MCAT course which is online. Then studying. Then picking up her little cousin from school. And going to the gym with her friends. 

Anyways, no point in going on about these tiny little details. Point is, she doesn’t sound happy. And its killing me. 

She asks me similar questions. About what I’ve been up to and if I’ve been doing well. I mainly shrug my shoulders. Tell her about how I’ve been running more because I have a half coming up. Been reading a book about making the most of my 20s. She’s surprised. “Wow, you’ve been reading?” Hahaha. 

We talk about the usual... How I feel like I’ve been feeling like I’m still behind. 

We go watch the show at the arctic. Then slowly make our way back to the campsite. At one point she asked me how it was being single. I kind of shrugged again. Told her that I guess I’ve been working a lot on my own stuff and figuring stuff out. And how if I were still with her, I probably wouldn’t have gone to Boston/NY. I think that kind of hurt her. But I didn’t mean it like that... I meant it in the sense where if I hadn’t gone, I wouldn’t have been able to take in all the sights and sounds. And get a taste of how all my friends were doing out there. Ultimately pushing me to consider moving out there. 

We get back to their campsite and we’re all pretty beat. I eventually fall asleep on the grass and she puts her towel over me a a blanket... Sigh. I sleep some more and when I wake up I don’t see her around. I assumed she went to bed. So I get up and start walking back to my campsite. I run into her as I am leaving. Turns out she just went to use the restroom. I ask her if shes going to shower. She says yes. So I wait for her to grab her shower stuff. We go get mine and we go to the showers together. Afterwards, we walk back to my campsite where we head into my tent. I only intended for us to get to talk some more. But she ends up asking me to lay down with her. I comply. 

We lay there. I’m on the left, shes on the right. I’m laying flat and shes laying on her left side, facing me. Our arms and legs intertwined slightly. Holding hands. Stroking her arm with my thumb softly... We just kind of lay there. I don’t really remember talking too much. A few times I think she shed a tear or two... We make eye contact from time to time. A while later, she drifts off to sleep. She groans as if shes having a nightmare. Twitching over and over. It half scares me and half makes me smile. I look at her closed eyes and sleeping face. Oh wow... I miss this... It’s been a while since shes slept by my side... Definitely my favorite moment of the night... Eventually she wakes up. She uses the restroom. Comes back and closes the tent fully. We get back into position. I’m big spoon, shes little spoon. Just like old times... I try and fit us both into the sleeping back but she can barely fit since I’m taking up most of it. I try my best to keep her warm. I ask her if shes cold and she says no. We fall asleep. I wake up a few times. Readjust. Try and put her into the sleeping bag a few more times. I recall even sleeping facing each other. Something we rarely do... 

Boy was that a beautiful night. Just us two in a tent. After a night of reconnecting... Talking about old times. The present times... How we’ve been doing... The wind was blowing. Keeping each other warm. 

We wake up. I walk her back to her campsite. And we pack to go.