Archive of Our Own ^beta

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Some days Jon wakes up to Martin cold and motionless as if not even breathing.

He shakes him awake when it happens, never getting used to the sight of it. Martin wakes easily – he’s fine, physically, after all. His gaze is foggy and he shakes Jon’s hand off his shoulder, but it’s still better than the grim alternative.

“I’m sorry,” Martin says when he realises how he pushed Jon away.

“Don’t worry about it. Let’s get up, I’ll make breakfast.”

He makes Martin’s tea warm and sweet, the way he likes, to see the trace of a smile on his face when he takes the first sip. The cup will thaw his hands out and the rest of him will follow in its own time. It might take a while until he’s back to his usual self; until then, Jon will stay by his side, holding his hand when Martin lets him, and wait patiently for the fog in his mind to recede.

“Aren’t you tired of this?” Martin might ask him later, meaning aren’t you tired of me? , but Jon already knows what his answer will be if he does.

“Never,” he’ll reply softly. “Not when it’s you.”

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The power Jon wields since the world’s gone wrong is unfathomable. Martin has seen him disintegrate all kinds of monsters with his words alone countless times during their journey through the hellscapes. The avatars they’d been fearing for so long before the day of the Eye don’t pose any threat to them anymore, all thanks to Jon. He’s the closest link this new world has to its god.

“Doesn’t it scare you?” he asks Martin once. “I can sense the fear of every living being, but when I look into you, it feels… different.”

And how on Earth does he answer that? There’s no point in hiding that he tends to flinch and break out in a cold sweat whenever Jon gets all… deity-like. It frightens him. 

But it warms his heart just as much, when Jon uses his power to protect him. He feels so incredibly cherished. Sometimes, it sends pleasant shivers down his spine that make him struggle to keep his thoughts pure. Feeling like a precious, beloved belonging is new and thrilling.

“It does –but it also feels right.”

Jon gives him a knowing, seemingly contented look in response. “It feels right to me too.”

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There are bottles of hair care products in Tim’s shower. Shampoo, conditioner, and some other container. He hasn’t paid them much attention, knowing they must’ve been left over by Sasha. She used to stay over at his place quite often… But anyways.

It was only last night that he realised something.

The labels on the bottles say that the products are for curly hair. When he took a moment to look around the bathroom, he even found a bonnet laying around.

It wouldn’t have struck him as odd if not for the fact that Sasha’s hair is pin-straight. It’s always been that way–he's just as sure of it as he is of the fact that he remembers her using these products whenever she stayed the night at his.

But his weird gut feeling about it must be nothing more than him being ridiculous, right? Sasha’s odd choice of shampoo and such isn’t some clue for him to investigate. Maybe she just likes how they smell.

At least that’s what he tries to convince himself of so he’ll be able to go to work tomorrow morning and meet Sasha(?)’s eyes without a sense of unease creeping up on him.

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Since coming back from the dead, Jon dislikes looking in the mirror even more than he did before.

His reflection has so, so many eyes. Every square centimetre of visible skin is speckled with them–green and wide-open, blinking out of sync with one another. Whenever he sees it, he struggles to look away in fear of finding them on his actual skin. They’re never there when he does, but he still checks, in spite of being convinced that it’s just the Eye messing with his mind.

He’s got no way to know about the single bright-green iris sprouting on his nape, hidden under his hair. And even if he saw it in the mirror, there’s no way he could distinguish it from the ones that he knows to be imaginary.

Thus, the eye shall go unnoticed for a long while. The first person to notice it will likely be Martin, the one who looks at Jon the most. He’ll see it but won’t say anything, convinced it’s his anxiety-ridden brain playing a trick on him. And when next to the eye appears another, and then another, he’ll be afraid to admit it–as if telling Jon earlier could’ve stopped the inevitable.

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The archives aren’t pleasant to stay in through the night.

Admittedly, Martin isn’t alone here most of the time. Jon usually leaves home long after dark, hardly ever letting him know when he does, so he’s often surprised when he realises there’s no one there with him.

Regardless of the time, every night Martin finds himself alone in some semi-hidden corner, laying on his makeshift cot.

He sleeps away from the door to the artefact storage–he always hears odd sounds coming from that direction throughout the night. A whistle of wind passing through openings and cracks, despite Martin having checked all of the doors and windows. Scratching on wood, but not the door itself as it never seems damaged come morning.  

Sometimes, he notices a faint sound of footsteps. He convinces himself they must be nothing more than people staying in late at the other parts of the Institute; it takes a lot of effort to ignore how nearby they sound most nights.

His sleep is light and doesn’t come easily; he never feels quite alone in this place. He pulls his blanket up over his shoulders but not his head, unwilling to limit his vision… just to be safe.