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bubonickitten · 4 years

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

Previous chapter: AO3 // tumblr

Chapter 12 full text & content warnings below the cut.

CWs for Chapter 12: It’s the Buried, so… expect exactly what it says on the tin labeled Too Close I Cannot Breathe, that is to say: claustrophobia, being trapped, descriptions of asphyxiation and immobility, etc. Also: anxiety/panic symptoms; a brief mention of suicidal ideation; mentions of canon-typical worms & kidnapping; swears; and Lonely-typical Martin (isolation, low self-worth, etc.). SPOILERS through S5.

Chapter 12: Lost and Found

Martin was so single-minded in reaching the Archives, he forgot to shroud himself before descending the stairs to the basement. It’s a miracle that no one was around to intercept him before he could make it to Jon’s office and close the door behind him.

For a long minute he stands there at the threshold, staring blankly into the room, taking in the bizarre scene.

A long, wooden crate sits in the center of the room, loose chains snaking underneath and coiled on the floor around it. A heavy padlock affixed to one of the links yawns open, key still fitted into the lock. Dozens upon dozens of tape recorders are arranged like a summoning circle around the box and every single one of them is on, filling the space with a low, jumbled drone of indistinct syllables.

Curiosity getting the best of him, Martin draws closer. When he catches sight of the ominous DO NOT OPEN scrawled on the lid, the realization hits him.

“Is that a coffin?” he says to himself, flummoxed.

“We really need you, Jon –”

Martin jumps just slightly when his ears pick out the sound of his own voice from the rest of the chatter. His eyes wander to Jon’s desk where a single tape recorder rests, isolated from the clutter on the floor. As the statement continues, Martin recognizes it with a jolt.

“We – I need you. And I – I know that you’re not – I know there’s no way to –”

“Where did he get this?” Martin wonders aloud, reaching out to pick the thing up – and only then does he notice the notebook it sits on. “Where did he get this?” he says, a bit louder.

There’s a scrap of paper sticking out of the top like a bookmark. Bewildered, he sets the tape recorder aside and flips the notebook open to the marked page.

Were I prone to flights of fancy, I daresay I would call his words portentous, the paper reads. Jon’s handwriting has always been nearly illegible, and it only got worse after his burn, but Martin is intimately familiar with it after all this time. A tiny swell of affection begins to bloom in his chest before he forces it back.

You can’t, he tells himself, shutting his eyes. Peter’s plan – whatever it may be – requires Martin to steep himself in loneliness.

Yes, he agreed to the plan assuming that Jon would never wake up. And he’s glad that Jon woke up, of course – albeit in a muffled, distant sort of way. He should probably be more bothered by that, but he notes it with only mild interest. It doesn’t change the simple fact that his feelings for Jon were never actually going to go anywhere. That sort of thing just… isn’t for Martin, let alone with Jon.

At least this way, Martin can put those dead-end feelings to some practical use. He has no illusions about being a hero. Even if Peter isn’t mistaken or lying about the Extinction’s emergence, Martin doubts that he of all people could make any real difference. But with any luck, maybe he can keep Jon safe – or safer, at least.

Not from himself, though, Martin thinks, glaring at the Coffin. He’s so…

He heaves a sigh before turning his attention back to the strip of paper with its cryptic message. The makeshift bookmark is held in place on the side by a paperclip. There is a drawn arrow pointing down, and his eyes follow its trajectory to see it pointing at –

Oh.

Martin can feel his cheeks flush. The arrow sits just above a stanza that he could best describe as blatantly pining, and…

“Oh, god, did Jon read this? That’s –”

“Embarrassing?”

Startled, Martin whips around to see a woman standing in the doorway. He hadn’t even heard the door open.

“Martin, right? Your ears are very red right now,” she says with a smirk. “Don’t worry, he liked it. You saw the note, didn’t you? A bit heavy-handed. He’s always been dramatic, but he never used to be such a sap.”

Martin opens his mouth just slightly, but no sound comes out. The idea of speaking with another person grates at him, bringing his thoughts to a grinding halt like a crowbar jammed between corroded gears.

“I’m Georgie. Jon’s friend.” Martin shuts his eyes and grits his teeth, willing her to go away. She doesn’t, though; doesn’t even wait for him to reply before continuing: “We need to talk.”

It’s worse than it was the first time. How is it worse?

Did the stairs end so soon last time? Did the walls close in so quickly? How long has he been here already? How much longer will he have to stay?

Jon stops for a moment, panting in short gasps, desperate for whatever stagnant air he can force into his lungs. As if to protest the delay, the walls press in tighter and squeeze a breathless whimper out of him.

Keep moving, he tells himself. Just – keep moving. There’s an end, and if you keep moving, you’ll reach it faster.

Without warning or invitation, the tape recorder clicks on and Daisy’s statement begins to play.

“…kept walking into the earth” – a peal of static – “completely out of sight” – more static – “the lid closed very slowly, and then he was gone.”

That’s… not where he paused the tape the last time he listened to it, he realizes with crawling dread. Why did it pick up there? And it’s – is it making its own sentences, mimicking his clumsy attempts at communication? Is it mocking him, trying to stoke his fear? Can the Buried somehow affect the tapes? What else could possibly be doing it? The Powers usually hold no sway in one another’s domains – except for… except for the Watcher, after Jon opened the door.

He’s fairly certain that that no longer holds true. It’s not as if he can still direct the Ceaseless Watcher’s focus; that was in a future that has not – will not – come to pass. But still… curiosity is as much of a pest as it’s always been. Jon resists for a brief few moments before giving in to the urge to Know, even as he curses himself for it.

It becomes immediately clear that just like the last time, he can’t See anything in this place. Reassuring, in some ways – the Eye can’t reach him here, and neither can Jonah Magnus – but the Archivist in him still recoils at the confirmation: he can’t See, he can’t Know, he can’t –

Attempting to tamp down his mounting panic, Jon lets out a shaky breath.

Breathe, he tells himself – and an instant later, he realizes his mistake. Predictably enough, when he tries to draw in a breath, the earth contracts again and chokes him before he can get to the two-second mark. The forced exhale comes out as a whine, and he hates himself for it.

You can’t stop here, he thinks. Keep going.

Blinking grit out of his eyes, he presses on.

“I shouldn’t be here,” Martin mutters to himself, frowning at the weathered stone floor.

“What was that?” Georgie asks, glancing at him as she reaches the bottom of the ladder.

“I wasn’t talking to you.”

Georgie makes a show of scanning the tunnel.

“Well, I’m the only other one here.”

Martin’s gotten used to talking to himself, but he doesn’t bother explaining that. He’s already exhausted from what brief interaction he’s had with her so far, and he doesn’t care enough to push through the haze.

Georgie starts walking towards a collection of chairs arranged in a loose circle a little ways down the tunnel. Why are there chairs down here? he wonders idly, before discarding the question with deliberate indifference. He cannot afford to give his curiosity any quarter, no matter how mild.

“Well?” Georgie says, sitting down. “Pick a seat and fall into it. You look dead-on-your-feet tired. Honestly, I’m starting to think chronic fatigue is a job requirement for you lot.”

Martin lets out the beginnings of a small chuckle. Almost instantaneously, he strangles it, but the noise echoes in his head, unwanted and unsettling. It sounds wrong to his ears, discordant and out-of-place. It’s only now that he thinks to wonder how long it’s been since he’s laughed.

It doesn’t matter, he tells himself automatically before repeating: “I really shouldn’t be here.”

“Listen,” Georgie says, taking on a more serious tone, “I promised Jon I’d pass a message to you, and this is the only place we can talk without your creeper boss spying on us.” She holds up a folded piece of paper. “He left you a letter, too.”

“Fine,” he says flatly, approaching and holding out a hand. “Give it here.”

“You can’t read it outside the tunnels.”

“Fine,” he says again through clenched teeth. She stares him down for a moment – he resists the impulse to back away – but she does hand it over. He meets her halfway, avoiding skin contact as he takes it from her. He doesn’t even have to put conscious thought into that anymore; at this point, it’s become second nature.

Taking a few steps back, he stares down at the paper held loosely in his hands. There is a part of him – shoved into a dusty corner of his mind, forcibly stifled and neglected – burning to unfold it. His thumb toys with one of the corners, peeling the top layer up ever so slightly before letting it snap back down with a soft fluttering noise. A more prominent presence overshadows the first, though, looming over his shoulder, whispering insistently about restraint and resolve and a greater purpose.

When he notices that Georgie is watching him, he sets his jaw and forces himself to meet her eyes.

“I can read just fine on my own. I don’t need company.”

“Don’t know about that,” she says, not quite under her breath. Then, in a more conversational tone: “There are a lot of things that Jon couldn’t communicate. I’m here to fill in the gaps.”

“He went into the Coffin.” Martin barely recognizes the monotone as coming from him.

Georgie makes an affirmative noise. Something ugly and unwanted simmers just underneath Martin’s contrived calm, a nagging itch clamoring for attention in the back of his mind. When Martin takes a breath, he can only manage to fill his lungs halfway.

“Why would he…”

Martin falters. It’s too broad of a query, and just scratching the surface is enough to break the uneasy ceasefire between the Powers laying claim to him. Martin can feel the pull of the Eye begging the question, the pushback of the Lonely at the prospect of involving himself with others.

“It says ‘do not open’ in big letters,” Martin says instead. Not a question, just an observation: a tangible, easily digestible detail that he can latch onto, enough to distract the Eye but impersonal so as not to offend the Forsaken.

Georgie snorts at that. “No better way to entice Jon to do the exact opposite.”

If she was trying for levity, it falls flat to Martin’s ears. The carefully constructed stillness he’s grown so adept at cloaking himself in shatters. When he speaks, his voice comes out sharp, louder – more emotional – than he had intended.

“Why is he so – why would he go in there?”

“Because –”

Martin makes an agitated noise before he can stop himself. The slight echo of his own voice bouncing back at him off the tunnel walls is already too much company; being repeatedly reminded that there is an entire other person here is unbearable. Every atom of his existence is screaming at him to turn his back on her and get away.

Georgie falls quiet and waits. After a few minutes cocooned safely within his own thoughts, Martin looks up and is surprised to see her still sitting there. He doesn’t know why he’s surprised; he didn’t see her leave. There’s just some part of him that cannot reconcile the concept of someone else being physically present in the same space as him.

“Sit,” Georgie says. Just a single word, spoken softly but with the weight of a command.

Before he even consciously makes the decision to move, he’s closing the distance between them and lowering himself into a chair. Unthinkingly, he chooses the furthest possible seat from her, and when he sits, he scoots backwards a few feet, as unconscious and instinctive as breathing. If she notices, she doesn’t comment on it.

“It was important to him that you read that,” she says, nodding at the paper still clutched in Martin’s hands.

“‘Was’…?”

Georgie gives him a peculiar look. “It’s not a suicide note, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“What? I wasn’t – I didn’t…”

The thought hadn’t crossed his mind. Should it have? Is that something he should have thought to worry about – that he would have thought to worry about once upon a time? It – it is, isn’t it? He knows how Jon can be, how he spirals, how he’s his own worst enemy – how when he’s not actively putting himself in danger, he’s hurting himself through casual self-destruction and neglect. How much has Martin changed, that that possibility of Jon deliberately hurting himself didn’t even occur to him?

Wasn’t half the point of Martin doing this to protect Jon? Because he cares about Jon? When did he become so out-of-touch with that part of himself?

“Should I be worried?” he whispers to himself.

“No! I mean, not about that – not now, anyway – I mean –!” Georgie grimaces. “Shit. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to give you something new to worry about. You just – you seemed hung up on the past tense?” She chuckles drily. “I think I’ve just been spending too much time with Jon. He overanalyzes things like that.”

“Semantics,” Martin says obscurely. He isn’t even entirely sure what he means, but Georgie nods as if she understands.

“Always have to be conscious of word choice around that man. I have seen him brood over verb tense for days trying to find meaning where none was intended, instead of just asking –”

“So what is it, then?” Martin interrupts, his voice tight, staring down at the paper in his hands again.

“It’s… hmm.” Georgie gives him a look that he can’t quite identify. “I think you should just read it. Take your time, and let me know when you have questions.”

“I don’t think –”

“Trust me,” she says with a tight smile, “you’ll have questions.”

“Fine,” Martin says, grinding his teeth together. Georgie seems nearly as stubborn as Jon. The sooner he gets this over with, the sooner he can shake her off.

He heaves a longsuffering sigh and begins to read. As it turns out, he does have questions, the first of many making itself known mere seconds after he begins reading.

I’m sorry I left you.

…now I’m here, trying to explain things –

– had changed since he left –

– it seemed he was alone –

“Who is ‘he’?” Martin asks.

“Hm?”

“It keeps referring to a ‘he.’”

Georgie blinks. “You’re kidding, right? I know Jon is oblivious, but –”

“What?”

She frowns. “How far are you?”

“Only a few lines in…? ‘You’ is me, I’m assuming, since it is written for me, but then he jumps right into –”

“Oh,” Georgie says, sounding relieved for some reason. “Yeah, I suppose you wouldn’t know yet – don’t get too tripped up by the pronouns. Ever since he woke up, Jon’s only been able to speak in statement quotes. Limits his options a bit.”

“That… explains some things,” Martin replies, remembering his brief encounter with Jon a few weeks ago. Martin had recognized some of the words as his own. It was bizarre, but he’d been trying not to dwell on the peculiarities of the one-sided conversation. Thinking about Jon at length always made it more difficult for Martin to stay away. But now that the subject is free-floating in the air like this, his sense of curiosity is making demands again. “Why?”

“No clue. Jon hasn’t really said, and I haven’t pressed him on it. I can tell there’s some baggage there, but I wasn’t going to make him unpack it when he wouldn’t have the time or space to actually sort through it just yet. I think it’s safe to assume it’s supernatural, though, not psychological. And it definitely isn’t by choice.”

Great, Martin thinks bitterly. Just what they need: more complications. When he turns his attention back to the letter, he doesn’t get much further in his reading before he has to stop again.

“Are you sure that Jon wrote this?”

“Mhm. He fussed over it for hours.”

“It’s just…”

“Weirdly communicative?” Georgie suggests, a knowing smirk on her face. “Uncharacteristically revealing and insightful? Indicating a level of self-awareness seemingly not typical for one Jonathan Sims?”

“I… I was just going to say ‘open,’ but… yeah?”

“Yeah,” Georgie echoes with a dry chuckle. “Just keep reading.”

Jon is stuck.

One arm is pinned to his side, elbow bruising where it presses against the wall. The other is stretched out ahead of him, bitten-short fingernails digging into the dirt for purchase. Useless; the earth is packed so tightly, he can’t quite get a grip. His bad leg is throbbing painfully with every slight shift, and he can’t seem to move the other at all. He tries to breathe through it, but he can’t seem to force his lungs to expand, trapped as he is in –

“A squeeze can be a hole less than a foot wide, sometimes going on for a long way, the rock pressing in on all sides of you,” the Archive recites matter-of-factly. “In a particularly bad squeeze, there are parts where the walls and ceiling are so close that you can’t move your arms or bend your legs to push forward, and you just have to squirm your way to the other side like a worm –”

Jon wriggles frantically, trying to pull one arm free to clap a hand over his mouth, but he’s stuck –

“– down, down, down, down, down below the earth, there was a worm. He had not always been a worm, of course, but time and tide and life had pushed him to it – and he was, as definitely always had been the case, trapped. Boarded on all sides with no escape and no recourse.” The words are strained and faltering, the pressure on Jon’s chest being what it is, but the Archive carries on, punctuated with the occasional gasp or grunt of pain but otherwise unrelenting. “Even in his faint and fading memories of a life that wasn’t simply stone and rancid, reeking soil, he wasn’t sure he’d ever known a thing that might be called freedom. Choices he had had, that’s true, and certainly compared to the relentless press of all the weight and dirt now on him, the simple choice of left or right or stand or sit would now seem the most outrageous of luxuries –”

Shut up, shut up, just shut up, Jon rails against the Archive, redoubling his struggling, but it forges ahead, as if to highlight the fact that Jon cannot.

“…this was a particularly bad squeeze. Near the end, it got so bad that, if Alena hadn’t gone in first, I would have told her to go back and forget Lost Johns’ Cave.”

Very funny, he thinks acidly.

“When had the crushing pressure in his chest become literal? When had the empty promise of the horizon finally vanished completely, replaced by the pitch darkness of this – forever wall of earth?”

Suddenly, the aforesaid earth expands outward like a vast beast drawing in a breath, and Jon pitches forward as the passageway widens just enough for him to move. It’s still a squeeze, but he can at least inch his way onward again. He takes advantage of the opportunity while it still exists, blunt fingernails scrabbling against the walls as he pulls himself along.

Something in Martin gives – an overlong tug-o-war brought to an unceremonious end by a snap in the rope, sending both sides careening backwards to the ground. Like a tightly-coiled spring let loose, he stands abruptly and begins to pace, trying to suppress the uncomfortable stirrings of emotion threatening to break through the fog.

“He’s only saying this because he thinks it’ll change my mind about working for Peter,” he mutters heatedly, running a hand through his hair, making sweeping gestures with his other hand. The letter still clenched in his fist flutters and crinkles with his sharp movements.

“What?”

“He’s just –” Martin throws his head back with an aggravated sigh. “He’s always been insensitive, but mostly in an – an awkward, off the cuff sort of way. And he can be snappish, but that’s mostly when he’s… scared, or overtired, or… but this,” Martin smacks the paper in his hand with the backs of his fingers, “this is just cruel.”

“I don’t understa-”

“Of course you don’t,” Martin spits out. “Just – using my – my feelings for him to try to manipulate –”

“Hey, hey, whoa,” Georgie interrupts, “that’s not –”

“What, then?” He laughs, and it feels almost caustic on his tongue. “He just – he’s gone for six months and then he comes back and suddenly he’s – he’s giving a love confession?”

“Yeah, he was worried that you wouldn’t be-”

“He doesn’t even like me most of the time!” Martin’s voice cracks, but he can’t bring himself to care. “Even after – I mean, he was nicer in the months before…” He closes his eyes and swallows around the lump in his throat, unable to say the words. “But he wasn’t around much, so it makes sense. He wasn’t having to put up with me on a daily basis. Made it easy for him to forget all the things about me that he hated.”

“I don’t think –”

“And – and even when he was here, he was distant. Avoiding all of us, like it would keep us… I don’t know, safe?” Martin’s arms fall limp at his side, the fight gone out of him. “And – and then he… just…”

He trails off feebly, his burst of energy sapping away from him. When he doesn’t rally, Georgie begins to speak.

“Well… being avoidant and snippy, that definitely sounds like Jon,” she concedes. “But trust me, he’s not capable of using your feelings for him to manipulate you.”

“What?” Martin eyes flick to her.

“Don’t get me wrong, he’s an ass sometimes. I know he mistreated you. He knows he mistreated you. He said as much when he was staying with me.”

He did?

“Judging by your reaction, I’m assuming he never told you as much.” Georgie sighs. “I told him to try talking to you. He was isolating himself, and he needed more than just me – needed someone who actually knew about… well, everything that goes on here. And I suggested you, since he talked about you all the time.”

He did? Martin thinks again, disbelieving.

“And based on what he said, it seemed like you cared about him? Though I don’t think he realized how much. Honestly, he didn’t even notice how much he went on about you until I started pointing it out.” She gives him an amused look, and Martin averts his eyes. “He’s astonishingly oblivious sometimes. He gets so focused on the little details that he misses the big picture. But you already know that, don’t you?”

Martin continues to stare at his feet, muscles tensed and knees locked.

“Anyway, he was worried about you, too. I kept nagging him about it. Eventually he did say he talked to you, but I’m willing to bet it wasn’t exactly a heart-to-heart.”

“No,” Martin says quietly. “I mean, he did talk to me after he was kidnapped for the first time –”

“The first time?” Georgie repeats. “It happened more than once?”

“Yeah,” he sighs, rubbing his forehead with his free hand. He hates that he has to specify which kidnapping. “He… wanted to check in with me before going traveling. And he… did seem worried, I guess?” After a beat, Martin adds hurriedly: “About – about all of us.”

“But he mentioned you specifically. Said you were taking on too much.”

“I was –” Martin splutters, pulling his hand away from his face and flinging his arm out in agitation. “How can he of all people say –”

“I know, I know,” Georgie says, placating. “He’s a self-destructive workaholic throwing stones at glass houses.”

“Boulders, more like,” he huffs. Georgie chuckles at that.

Martin thinks back. Elias had had him start reading statements to keep up with the workload while Jon was… in hiding, then doing independent investigation, then kidnapped – which Elias had neglected to even mention. Jon had always seemed fixated on the statements to the point of possessiveness, and Martin had been anxious that Jon would feel like he was… infringing, somehow? And Jon had been upset, but not jealous or territorial as Martin had expected. He was… he was worried, wasn’t he? That the statements would take a toll on Martin’s mental health? Because Jon knew what they were like, and…

More like setting an avalanche on a glass house, Martin thinks, pressing his lips together in a thin line.

“Couldn’t wrap his head around the idea that someone might be worried about him.” It isn’t until he hears his voice that he realizes he’s spoken the thought aloud.

“Yeah. He’s always been like that. I think he’s working on it, though?” When Martin doesn’t respond, Georgie continues. “But, back to my earlier point… yes, he can be an ass. But saying that he loves you, just to convince you to come back? Does that really sound like him to you?”

“It’s more likely than the alternative,” Martin says stubbornly, and Georgie sighs.

“It’s just… not something he would even think to do in the first place. His guilt complex wouldn’t allow for it, first off. And he can be thoughtless, but even when he’s being harsh, it’s not premeditated. But more than that, he’s not… hm. How to put this nicely…” She taps the knuckles of one hand lightly against her lips. “Jon doesn’t have the emotional intelligence necessary for that.”

Martin blinks several times, lips parted just slightly.

“That was… uh, blunt.”

“Well, it’s true.” Georgie shrugs, unconcerned. “He’s clever in a lot of ways, but this sort of thing doesn’t come naturally to him. Has trouble enough processing his own feelings, let alone managing others’ emotions. He’s always been either hypervigilant or oblivious with not much middle ground.” She casts a pensive look at the floor. “He seems… better than he used to be – or he’s trying, at least – but I still wouldn’t call him socially skilled. And even if he was, he’s still just not subtle enough to be deliberately manipulative.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean he’s a shit liar.” Martin snorts at that, and Georgie grins. “I take it you’ve noticed.”

“A little over a year ago, he got stabbed –”

“Of course he did,” Georgie groans.

“Refused to explain how it happened. Said he cut himself with a bread knife.”

“A bread knife?” This time, she laughs outright.

“I know, right?” Martin exhales with a little heh. “He just – I knew he was lying, and he knew that I knew he was lying, but he just – he stuck to that story.” His lips curl into a small, timid, but inarguably fond smile. “Just… stubborn, you know?”

“Yeah,” Georgie says, the corners of her eyes crinkling when she mirrors his expression.

Martin clears his throat, smile fading. “But – but that doesn’t mean anything.”

“It does, though.”

Martin looks off to the side, chewing on the inside of his cheek.

“Look,” Georgie says, “I’ve known Jon awhile. We even dated for a time.” Martin’s knee-jerk flicker of jealousy must show on his face, because Georgie grins. “Don’t worry, we’re not romantically compatible, as it turns out. Strictly platonic.”

“I didn’t say any-”

“You didn’t have to.” Before Martin can protest again, she presses on. “Point is, you can trust me when I say that he’s not the type to throw the word ‘love’ around carelessly, let alone to use it for emotional manipulation.”

“Fine,” Martin says tersely, digging his heels in again. “Then he’s just mistaken. What he feels isn’t love. He just feels guilty, and – and lonely, and he thinks this will make it hurt less.” Martin scoffs. “Or, hell, even the opposite: he knows this won’t work and he’s hoping it hurts when I push him away, so that we’ll be even. Using me to – to punish himself.”

“Yeah, I can see why you’d think that,” Georgie says. “But it’s not the case. He’s… changed a lot.”

“When? How? You – you keep saying that, but what is that even supposed to mean?” His lips move soundlessly for several seconds before he bursts out, “He was asleep for six months, not – not getting therapy!”

Georgie raises her eyebrows at the increasingly battered letter trembling in Martin’s clenched fist.

“I think you should keep reading.”

“H-h-hello?”

The voice is weak, almost a whisper, but it startles Jon all the same. It sounded like it was coming from some immeasurable distance to his right, and he strains his ears for more.

“Is – is someone there? P-please, please help me, I can’t – I don’t know where I am, I – I can’t –”

It cuts out with a strained wheeze, but Jon’s heard enough to recognize it.

Well, he doesn’t know who it belongs to, but he’s heard it before, the first time he was here: a hapless plea from a stranger who Jon failed to save. The words are exactly the same. He knows, because they’ve haunted him since the first time he heard them, playing over and over in his mind on sleepless nights. Even after the ritual, they remained etched in his memory, only now they had to compete with the cries of the billions of other souls that Jon had condemned. That he could not help.

“Please,” the voice tries again. “Please, are you still there?” Jon tries to grasp for a statement, but the Archive is eerily silent. “H-hello? Please, please say something.”

Jon was unable to find him last time, but maybe… maybe this time, he can –

As if to quash that thought, the earth begins to shake, rattling his teeth and sending a shooting pain through his bad leg.

“Help me–!” The stranger lets out the beginning of a muffled scream, cut short when the earth surrounding them begins to properly heave and thunder.

The packed dirt beneath Jon’s feet begins to give way and then he’s falling, swept down, down, down. He doesn’t know how long the landslide continues before the earth becomes solid again, compressing around him and arresting his descent.

“I’m sorry,” Jon whispers to no one, as his ragged panting begins to subside. “I –”

His eyelids fly open and he barely registers the grit that begins to sting his eyes.

“It’s me?” he murmurs with a sense of wonder. Daring, he tests again: “Not the Archive.” He lets out a disbelieving laugh. “Just – just me –”

The hungry earth constricts again as if with a vengeance, smothering the words before they can leave his throat and filling his mouth with the taste of soil.

As Martin reads on, his restless pacing continues.

After leaving the hospital, the next thing that is properly clear in my mind is –

– I need him to be okay.

I couldn’t see him or hear him –

– I didn’t even get a chance to speak to him – asked what had happened, he was just gone. And I was alone again.

Jon doesn’t know what it is to be Lonely, Martin thinks bitterly. Martin of all people knows what it is to be alone, and Jon isn’t alone. And as long as Martin can keep Peter distracted, he won’t be. Martin made his choice. He has to see this through.

A moment later, though, he’s admonishing himself. He’s being unkind. Unnecessarily harsh. It isn’t Jon’s fault that Martin’s Lonely. This is just a poorly veiled attempt to distract himself from the surge of guilt he feels at reading the words. Because… because there’s no denying that Martin wasn’t there when Jon woke up; that he hasn’t been there since Jon came back. Jon might not need him, not really, but… Martin still should have been there, right? What if he never gets another chance?

Martin’s blood runs cold in his veins, his chest tightening more with every passing moment.

What if… what if Jon never comes home?

I wanted to say something reassuring, to reach out and let him know I was still there –

– I wanted to act, to help, to do something, but – I felt helpless to do anything but watch as events progressed.

I think he might be part of something really awful, and I don’t know how to make him see that – of course I did worry. I knew that, secretly, he was as well.

Martin huffs, blinking rapidly against the sting in his eyes.

“What?” Georgie asks.

“Nothing,” he says, tongue feeling thick and heavy in his dry mouth. “He just… sometimes I wonder if he actually hears himself speak.”

“Mm. Yeah, I get that,” she says after a moment, but Martin is already looking back down at the letter.

I know how that sounds – but – I ask you to read on.

Don’t… misunderstand me, please –

– I trusted his instincts almost as much as I trusted my own.

There was a time – not even that long ago – that hearing Jon say that he trusted him would have meant… everything. Now, it skates right over him, leaving only the barest impression. Or, that’s what Martin tells himself as he reads on.

More truthfully, it’s that he doesn’t dare pause to examine his emotional state right now.

Jon continues… begging, really, for Martin to listen to him. Ironic, really. How many times have the roles been reversed? How many times did Jon brush off Martin’s sincere attempts to take care of him, to encourage him to take care of himself?

And then –

Statement of Georgina Barker regarding –

– travel through time.

Martin rereads the lines silently to himself several times, his brain wrapping around the individual words without quite comprehending the whole.

“Travel through time?” he says, as if it will make any more sense spoken aloud.

“Right.” Georgie takes a breath, claps her hands on her knees, and gives Martin a significant look. “You… may want to sit down for this part.”

Partly to keep himself company, partly to make strategic use of this newest development in his overly convoluted existence, Jon records a statement: a rambling, stream-of-consciousness explanation, cramming as many of his own words as he can onto the tape while he has the chance.

“Every – every single mark was orchestrated by Jonah. Well, almost every one. I was marked by the Web when I was – when I found – when…” Even now, he cannot bring himself to share it where someone else might hear. “Before I ever started working at the Institute,” he says instead, “which is partly why Jonah saw me as a candidate in the first place. That and… and how easy I was to manipulate. You were right, Georgie, when you suggested that I was chosen because of my inexperience, not in spite of it. He… he read me like a… he knew I would play right into his hands.

“And – and of course being marked by the Eye, that happened when I signed the contract to become the Head Archi- well… the Archivist. Though, I think what crystallized it may have been my, ah – need to know, and – and paranoia, after…” Grimacing, Jon scrapes by another tight segment of the passage. “After finding Gertrude’s body. After Jane Prentiss. Jonah knew that she was targeting the Institute, and he let it happen. Put everyone in danger just to see how resilient I was, if I was… if I was a survivor, if I was worth investing in or if I should just be – eliminated, so he could move on to more promising candidate –”

Jon lets out a strained whine as he struggles through yet another squeeze.

“And I – I survived. Not that I had anything to do with that. It was… it was Sasha’s competence, her ability to act under pressure and think on her feet, which was – the last time we saw her, the real her, and I should have…” Jon swallows thickly. “And – and Tim, finding the fire extinguishers, and coming back to help Martin and me, because he… he was brave, and he wouldn’t abandon us. And Martin, being… well, being Martin. Making the fear bearable, because that’s just… how he is, isn’t it?” His fond chuckle dies in his throat, choked with dirt and persistent, unshed tears. “Caring, stubbornly caring, even when we were both about to die, even though I’d done nothing to deserve his consideration.”

The squeeze opens up a bit, allowing Jon to draw in a shallow breath. The air is stale, humid, and saturated with dust, but at least it lets him exercise his lungs a little.

“An-anyway – Jonah, ah, he was watching the whole time. Deliberately waited to activate the sprinkler system until the worms had…” Jon shudders, trying to ignore the way his scars begin to itch and crawl. “And Tim – he got caught up in it, too, just because – because he was too close to me at the wrong time. I guess that – that never stopped being true, did it?

“The next few marks were… well, I couldn’t have made it any easier for Jonah.” Jon laughs, a bitter wheeze of a thing. “I just had to go looking for answers. Stupid. All he had to do is leave me a few pertinent statements and watch as I walked right into the Vast and the Desolation…”

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Martin says flatly.

“Not at all.”

“Time travel.”

“Yep.”

“Actual, legitimate time travel.”

“I don’t know what distinguishes legitimate time travel from illegitimate” – Martin rolls his eyes – “but sure?”

“How?”

“Not entirely sure? Jon’s had trouble going into detail given… well, his current limitations. Something about a wormhole in a spooky house?” She frowns. “And he mentioned spiders offhand once, but I still don’t know whether he meant it literally or metaphorically.”

Martin doesn’t reply to that. He paces, paces, paces in short, erratic bursts. The hand not holding the letter curls into fist, fingernails cutting into the palm.

“Tell me what’s on your mind,” Georgie ventures.

“I… I don’t know,” Martin answers truthfully. “It’s just – a lot. Elias is Jonah Magnus, and – and he forced Jon to…”

He stops his pacing and unclenches his fist, only for his fingers to begin twitching and flexing, as if itching for something to wring or throttle or crush. The pounding in his ears nearly drowns out his own noisy breathing, and he has to take a minute to relax his jaw before he speaks.

“How… how is he?” He manages to keep his voice remarkably calm, considering the crackling, pent-up energy roiling within him.

“Handling it better than I would have expected, honestly? I mean – don’t get me wrong, he’s… traumatized. Guilty. Keeps referring to himself as a monster, and I don’t think that’s entirely because he doesn’t have any better words to use. Still not taking care of himself as much as I would like, but… for once, I don’t think he’s just being careless? It’s more like… I don’t know.” She leans forward with her elbows on her knees, hands clasped together in front of her mouth and gaze fixed on the floor. “He’s afraid to sleep, afraid to read statements – which I guess is like eating for him now? It’s like he has to choose between fulfilling a basic need and… well, triggering a panic attack. It’s not a fair choice to ask him to make, and it would be unfair for me to hold that against him.”

“None of that sounds like ‘handling it.’”

“Except he’s not just giving in to despair, and for once he’s not going it alone. He’s actually asking for help, and accepting it when it’s offered.” She straightens in her seat again, and Martin resolutely ignores the pointed look she gives him. “He’s been openly communicating – not just about the facts, but about his own feelings.”

“Not enough to keep him from taking it upon himself to – to bury himself alive, apparently. And for a person who tried to slit his throat and – and leave him to… you know, if Basira hadn’t stepped in, I – we never would have known what happened to him.”

Martin thinks back to the day Jane Prentiss attacked the Institute.

“I don’t want to become a mystery,” Jon had said. “I refuse to become another goddamn mystery.”

That was the first time he had really seen Jon with his guard down. Martin remembers every detail: the tone of his voice, the set of his jaw, the thinly veiled desperation in his eyes when he finally offered Martin a candid glimpse of what lives behind all those obdurate walls he hides behind…

“Because I’m scared, Martin!”

So much about Jonathan Sims had made sense after that.

“Well,” Georgie says, “he trusted us enough to tell us where he was going this time.”

“And you let him go?” Martin says, far more vehemently than he had intended.

“First off, there’s no letting him do anything,” Georgie says sternly. “He’s an adult; I can’t control him. It’s not my job to control him. But yes,” she continues after a pause, softer now, “he explained the situation and I told him I’d support him.”

“Why?”

“Because he said he knew what he was doing.”

“And you actually believed him?”

“Yes. Because I really do think he’s changed. He promised me that this isn’t more of the same, and I believe him.” Georgie shrugs. “Also, he’s from the future and he’s done this once already. Though I’m willing to bet that the last time, he didn’t tell anyone what he was planning.” Staring at Martin intently, she leans forward again. He takes an automatic step back, as if pushed. “He’s trying to do better. I think he deserves a chance to prove it – maybe to himself more than anyone else.”

“I’m not saying he doesn’t –”

“Then sit back down and read the rest.”

He doesn’t sit, but he does return to the letter. And it’s… well, he doesn’t know what to make of it.

Jon knows about the Extinction. He knows that Martin is cooperating with Peter partly to protect him. He knows that Peter’s plans involve Martin’s isolation.

None of that is surprising, if Jon actually is from the future. He seems confident that the Extinction isn’t as imminent a threat as Peter claims, so if Jon does have future knowledge, then… well, Martin might have to reevaluate some things.

But despite the weight of that revelation, that isn’t what’s dominating the forefront of Martin’s mind right this moment. What’s tripping him up right now is…

He deserved to –

– to be – beloved –

– cared for – trusted –

– being wanted and appreciated –

– being genuinely loved –

– no matter how wrong it might feel –

– when you’re at your lowest point, when you’re your most emotionally vulnerable.

I need him to be okay –

– and the world is so much better for –

– the easy, charming man I’d fall in love with –

– being in it.

Almost sedately, in stark contrast to his earlier burst of manic energy, Martin finally lowers himself into the nearest chair. It’s only later that he’ll realize that he didn’t pause beforehand to assess which seating option offered the furthest physical distance from Georgie.

“You’re… sure Jon wrote this?” he says meekly.

Georgie sighs heavily, but when she rolls her eyes, it’s with amused exasperation rather than true annoyance.

“Like I said the last eleven times you asked, yes. They aren’t his words exactly, but the meaning behind them is his. And I don’t think it was the apocalypse that made him so sentimental.” Martin gives her a bemused look, and she sighs again. “It was you, okay? And it started way before whatever happened in his future. He was besotted when he was staying with me last year, even if he didn’t realize it for what it was. And he might be clumsy at expressing it, but… you know as well as I do that he overthinks everything, and I don’t think that’s changed any. If he was confident enough to say all those things, he means it.”

“It’s just…” Martin trails off, gesturing vaguely with one hand. It isn’t impossible for him to conceptualize of Jon as someone capable of love. The impossible part is that… “It’s me, you know?”

“Yeah, and so does Jon, and it seems he likes you as you are.” She waits for Martin to look up before she continues. “I won’t tell you what to do with that information. I think he would agree with me when I say that you aren’t obligated to reciprocate. But I will tell you that he had the exact same reaction to you caring about him. Regardless of how you see yourselves, neither of you seems to think that the other is unlovable.”

Martin… doesn’t know what to say to that. It’s too much, too fast, too unexpected – too unbelievable.

“Did he, ah…” The Lonely kicks up a furious objection, but Martin forces himself to ask the question. “Did he say how long he would be gone?”

Yet again, Jon is pinned, panting and shaky from the exertion of struggling fruitlessly for… well, he isn’t sure how long he’s been stuck. He isn’t even sure how long he’s been in the Coffin. He managed to dodge giving a specific timeline for when to expect him back – he didn’t want to worry anyone if he missed a deadline – but he did insinuate that it shouldn’t take more than a week. Secretly, he hoped he could return more quickly than he did the last time.

As expected, though, he has no sense of the passing of time in here, beyond just too long. Too long without air, too long without stretching, too long without Seeing –

That familiar rumbling is starting up again, distant at first but moving closer, closer, closer like an oncoming freight train, volume climbing louder and louder until the entire earth is roaring. The walls contract abruptly with an earsplitting crack, punching the scant amount of air in his lungs out in a wracking wheeze. From all around him come the grunts and groans and yelps of pain from who knows how many fellow trapped souls, but there is one cry in particular that draws his attention.

“Daisy?” His hoarse voice cracks, and he clears his throat before trying again. “Daisy!”

“Jon!”

End Notes:

Sorry for the delay!! Last week was very busy for me; I didn't have much time for writing.

Citations are as follows: Section 1: The ‘we need you’ bits are from Martin’s dialogue in the S4 trailer. The ‘Were I prone to flights of fancy…’ line is from MAG 007. Section 2: Excerpts of Daisy’s statement are from MAG 061. Section 3: None. Section 4: Jon/the Archive’s dialogue comes from the following episodes, in order: 015, 166, 015, 166. Sections 5 & 6: None. Section 7: See last chapter for citations for Jon’s letter to Martin. Section 8: Jon quotes are from MAG 039; see last chapter for citations for the letter excerpts. Section 9: None.

Also,,, my ace/aro-spec ass is not a poet, and I wasn’t going to embarrass myself by attempting to write a love poem. Just pretend it’s affecting, S1-S2-era awkward Martin yearning, complete with that very relatable experience of reading your past writing and cringing because oh, god, the mortifying ordeal of confronting the person you were a minute ago, let alone years ago.

#the magnus archives #tma #tma fic #long post #tma spoilers

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