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Chapter Text

Jon wakes on cold, hard asphalt, with a splitting headache and a deep pain in his chest. He squints his unfocused eyes, sitting up to try to get his bearings. He's in the middle of a (fortunately empty) road. He tries to stand, scramble to the pavement, but can only manage a slow crawl. He brings a hand to the centre of his chest as its ache slowly subsides, feeling the hole in his shirt, caked in dried blood, and his freshly healed wound beneath it.

Martin.

The thought startles him out of his stupor. He looks around at the deserted street.

"Martin!" he calls out. There's no answer. He painstakingly pushes himself to his feet. "Martin!"

"Jon!"

He turns around to see Martin sprinting towards him from a few dozen metres away with an energy Jon wishes he could muster to meet him halfway.

Martin immediately pulls him into an embrace when he reaches him, only drawing back to dive back in for a kiss.

"Martin…" Jon murmurs, cradling Martin's face between his hands almost in disbelief.

"It worked… Jon, it worked, we're alive, we're…" He laughs breathlessly, tracing soothing circles into Jon's hair. "Where are we?"

"I don't… Oh…" Jon trails off, realising that he does know. He knows that they're in a distinct universe from their own. He knows that it's 10:36 P.M. on the ninth of September, 2019. He knows what part of London they're in and the name of the street they're on. He knows the location of the nearest ten spiders. "I… It worked, Martin."

"Jon?"

"We're in another universe. A parallel universe. And they've followed us here." He laughs joylessly. "Maybe it's more accurate to say that we followed them."

"You can still feel it? The Eye?"

"Yes. It's much weaker now, than…" He trails off again, remembering what it felt like to have all the fear of everyone on Earth surging through him. To have all the knowledge in the universe pulsing through his mind at once. "It's weaker. But it's still there."

Martin's mouth flattens into a thin line of concern, but he doesn't voice his thoughts. Jon refrains from looking at them anyway.

"Are we the only ones who were pulled through?" Martin asks. "Is- Is Annabelle Cane here too, or something?"

It takes a lot more effort than Jon is used to to check. "No. Annabelle Cane… The Annabelle Cane we met isn't here." There is another version of her here, though. A normal woman, untouched by the powers… Jon makes himself draw his attention away from her. He tries to focus on the interdimensional pull, retracing their path to look for others who may have been strung along.

His blood runs cold when finds one.

He stumbles away from Martin slightly, gripping his arm for balance as he walks as fast and determinedly as he's able. Martin walks beside him, supporting his weight as Jon leads him to an alley down the street. An alley containing a man, slouched on the ground breathing heavily with his head angled to the starry, eyeless sky.

A man who shouldn't be breathing at all.

Jonah Magnus turns his head towards Jon and Martin as they approach, greeting them with a smile that doesn't mask his exhaustion.

"Hello, Jon. Martin."

"Why won't you fucking die?" Jon spits, tightening his grip on Martin's arm.

"Same reason as you, I'd imagine," Jonah says, breathily, eyeing the bloody mess on Jon's shirt. Jon grits his teeth, fighting the instinct to cover his wound. "The world we created wasn't conducive to letting its inhabitants die from something as trivial as stab wounds."

Jon's stomach turns at the use of we.

"I thought you knew that."

Jon hates him.

He opens his mouth to reply, but feels Martin put a hand on his shoulder, squeezing slightly before slipping out of his grip. Jon sways slightly without the support, and watches wide-eyed as Martin strides over to Jonah and delivers a swift kick to his ribs. It knocks him fully on the ground, and Martin kicks him again while he's down.

"Fuck you!"

Jonah is coughing on the ground, shielding his face with one arm and gripping the part of his torso where Jon stabbed him with the other. It's purely psychological, Jon knows. His wound is fully healed, just like Jon's.

"M- Martin-" Jonah stammers out, interrupted by another kick that renews his coughing.

Jon tries to approach them, but the world starts spinning, and he catches himself roughly against the brick wall of the alley.

"Jon!" Martin rushes back to him, putting a hand on his arm.

Jon grips Martin's hand tightly, bringing his other hand to his pounding temples. He hears Jonah's coughing slowly subside in the distance.

"Stab wounds really take it out of you, don't they?" Jonah aims for the smug confidence that he's always portrayed, but the tremble in his voice betrays him.

"Shut up!" Martin snaps, his volume making Jon's head throb.​​ To Jonah's credit, he does. Jon spares a glance at him. He's looking back at Jon with the same fear in his eyes as when Jon had stabbed him in the Panopticon. He thinks Martin is going to kill him. Hell, he might be right…

Jon needs to get out of this alley. He needs to find somewhere they can go to just get out of here. He squeezes his eyes shut, letting out a wretched noise of relief at the realisation that that's something he's capable of again. He hears Martin speaking to him, his voice laced with concern, but he's far away, looking, searching.

He opens his eyes and lists off an address.

"What?" Martin blinks at him.

"Flat fifteen on the first floor. Emery Smith died in a hiking accident two days ago. She didn't have friends in the area, and no family have noticed she's gone yet. Her flat is empty and stocked with food. I know where she keeps her spare key."

"What?" Martin stammers. "Jon, we can't just camp out in a dead woman's flat! That's-"

"What else are we going to do?"

"I…" Martin stays silent for several moments, turning the situation over in his head. "Okay. Okay, let's go. You know the way?"

"Yes." Jon pushes himself off the wall, leaning into Martin again for support. Martin looks back into the alley.

"What are we going to do with him?"

Jon looks back at Jonah, slouched back against the wall, gripping his side where Martin kicked him, peering back at them, failing to fully disguise his fear. It's almost unsettling to see him so unravelled.

"Leave him," Jon says, looking away. "I can't… I can't stomach this. Not right now."

Martin looks at Jon, back to Jonah, and back to Jon. His eyes gravitate to the blood on Jon's shirt. To the wound he made.

"Alright," he says, quietly. "Alright, let's go. Lead the way."

Martin helps walk him out of the alley, starting their trek towards Emery Smith's flat. Jon can't stop himself from looking back to see the look of rapturous relief on Jonah's face.

Chapter Text

It's around eleven when they arrive at Emery Smith's flat. Jon practically collapses as soon as they get in the door, and Martin ends up almost carrying him into Emery's bedroom.

He tucks Jon into bed, and takes a moment to just look at him. His eyes are closed, his mouth unmoving, his limbs still and un-twitching under the blanket as his chest rises and falls. This is the first time Martin has ever seen Jon look peaceful in sleep. His heart aches when he catches sight of the dark stain over Jon's chest.

He leaves the bedroom to get a better look at the flat. It's not a huge place, but bigger than Martin's old one. The kitchen and living room aren't separated, but it's rather spacious. The bedroom is down a small hallway, the bathroom across from it. The kitchen is well stocked. It looks like Emery had gone shopping recently…

Martin shuts the cupboards, trying to push thoughts of the flat's unfortunate owner from his mind. He goes to the living room to lie down.

He tries to settle down on the sofa, but his mind won't let him rest.

The Fears followed them through. Not only are they here with them, Jon is still connected to the Eye.

Elias- Jonah is still out there. He came here with them, they have no idea what he's capable of here, and they just left him out there.

He can't stop thinking about Jon in the Panopticon. It's like he's still there, still realising that Jon's betrayed him, still driving the knife into Jon's heart.

He tries to keep his crying quiet. Jon needs the sleep.

Jon wakes up for a second time in this new universe, alone in a dead woman's bed. He can barely remember the journey to the flat, but recalls that Martin helped him to the bedroom, and he was asleep practically before his head hit the pillow. His dreamless sleep felt almost restful, but a bone deep tiredness still aches through his entire body. He wishes Martin was there. The clock on the bedside table reads 10:46 A.M. (though the Eye is sure to let Jon know that it's actually 10:48), so he's probably been up for a bit.

Jon manages to stand on his own, using the bed frame for support, and makes his way to the door. It's already cracked, and he pushes it open further and leans out, gripping the doorframe.

"Martin?" His voice comes out groggier than he expects. He sees the other man on the sofa, his head whipping around to look at Jon.

"Jon!" Martin bolted up from the couch, rushing over to him. "Are you alright? How are you feeling?" He looks Jon up and down, eyes lingering on his chest.

"I'm fine, Martin, just…" He takes Martin's hand, still leaning on the doorframe. "Tired. I'm… Not sure sleeping helped much with that."

Martin's mouth flattens with concern, and he gives Jon's hand a squeeze. "You go sit down, I'll make breakfast." He flits off to the kitchen, as Jon unsteadily makes his way to the table and chairs.

"We've got oatmeal, eggs, beans…" Martin lists off. "There's bread, but the toaster's broken, I tried it earlier. Bagels in the cabinet, but no cream cheese. No milk or cheese at all, actually."

"Emery was lactose intolerant," Jon says, instinctively.

"Right," Martin stiffly replies. "Yeah, that makes sense…" He's quiet for a moment after that. Jon clears his throat.

"I'll uh, I'll take some eggs, if that's alright. And oatmeal."

"Right! Yes, alright," Martin starts moving around the kitchen with more purpose. "How do you want the eggs?"

"Scrambled, please."

"Alright!"

Martin spends a few minutes distracted in the kitchen while Jon sits at the table, thinking. Obviously they can't stay in this flat long term. They should be out by the end of the day if they can manage it. Jon knows Emery kept spare cash under the kitchen sink. Enough to pay for a few days at a cheap hotel, and clothes that haven't been bloodied and dragged through a hellscape for an unmeasurable length of time. There's a charity shop nearby, that'll be a good start.

He's startled out of his thoughts by the clink of a plate on the table in front of him, a glass of orange juice beside it.

"Ah, thank you, Martin."

"Of course!" He sits down at the other chair beside Jon, and the two are quiet for a few minutes as Jon eats.

It's strange to eat again after so long in a world where it wasn't a necessity, or even really an option. The acts of chewing and swallowing feel almost foreign to him. It doesn't help that he was never very fond of eggs, eating them mostly out of convenience. The orange juice tastes sort of pleasant, almost making up for the discomfort of consuming it. He distantly wonders if he's human enough again to have to worry about his vitamin C intake. Probably not, but with all his scars, he doesn't want to risk getting scurvy. He takes another sip of juice.

He realises halfway through his breakfast, with Martin watching him intently as he eats, that they haven't actually talked about any of it. The betrayal, the broken promise, this new, innocent universe they've doomed. Martin keeps looking down at Jon's chest, despite obviously trying not to.

"It's healed up," Jon says. Martin jumps slightly at the comment. Jon brings his hand to his heart, covering the blood stain as much as he can. "It's just a scar now. I'm alright."

Martin's face twists. "You're not alright, Jon! Look at you!" Jon tries to reach for Martin's hand, but Martin draws it away to wipe his eyes. "Eli- Jonah said it was b- because of the-" His voice breaks. "Because of what I did!"

"Martin, that wasn't your fault!" Jon's heart aches that he can't reach Martin from his chair, but the risk of falling over if he tries to stand is too high to go to him. "It was the only way to-"

Martin cuts him off with a dry, hopeless laugh. "Except it wasn't the only way. Was it?" Martin shakes his head, wiping his eyes again as tears start to run down his cheeks. "How could you do this, Jon? We- we had a plan!"

Jon stares down at the table, tightening his grip on his fork. "A plan to condemn an unknowable amount of worlds to the same horrific fate as our own-"

"You don't know that, Jon!"

"The Fears are here now, Martin." Jon's voice is quiet. "We spread them to this world like a plague."

Martin is silent in response. Jon just stares down at his remaining eggs and oatmeal, finding it increasingly unappetising.

"Ms. Smith has a few hundred pounds stashed under her kitchen sink," Jon says, eventually. "There's a charity shop nearby where we can get new clothes, and after that we can work on finding a cheap hotel. We shouldn't stay here another night."

Martin is silent for several moments before quietly replying. "Alright."

They try to leave the flat exactly how they'd found it, minus the missing food and cash. Jon also steals a slightly oversized university hoodie from Emery's closet to cover his bloody shirt.

Finding a cane at the charity shop is a blessing and a half. Jon has had to lean on Martin almost at all times since leaving the flat, and is hugely grateful for the freedom of independent movement. In addition to the cane, they end up buying two shirts and a new pair of trousers for each of them. Martin also picks up a light blue jumper that resembles one he used to wear at the Institute. None of it ends up costing much, and they're left with enough money for about two weeks at a nearby hotel, which they check into soon after finding it.

The next order of business is finding the nearest public library, in hopes that it has all the same services available as libraries did in their original world. Namely, public computers. Luckily, there's a library a relatively short walk from their hotel, and there are public computers available.

"So, do we just Google jobs in the area?" Martin asks, as Jon sits down at one of the computers.

"I suppose?" Jon goes quiet for a moment, clicking and typing, then squints incredulously at the screen. "I don't think they have Google…"

"What?" Martin peers over his shoulder. "What do you mean they don't have Google?"

"The default search engine is Yahoo, there's nothing coming up when I search for Google."

"Huh…"

"Yeah…" Jon shakes his head. "Let's just see if they have Indeed or Craigslist."

They do have Craigslist, and while they don't have Indeed, they have a functionally identical alternative. Martin has more luck on Craigslist finding odd jobs that don't require any sort of government ID. That's a problem they're going to have to figure out sooner rather than later. He has experience faking his CV, but he still had ID and a birth certificate then, and he's positive that the only reason El- Jonah overlooked his fake details in the first place, was because his anxiety about being found out was feeding the Eye. This is an entirely new ballpark, and Martin doesn't know how he's going to handle it.

He manages to find a few odd job listings that could make him enough for a few more nights at the hotel while they try to figure out their long term plans. If the posters respond to him, at least…

When he spares a glance at Jon, he sees that he's stopped looking for jobs altogether, and is viewing someone's LinkedIn profile. He squints at the screen.

"Who's that?" he asks. Jon startles slightly at Martin's comment, looking almost like he's holding back tears. He clears his throat.

"This universe's Sasha James," he says, quietly.

Martin's eyes widen and he looks closer at the profile. This woman went to the same university their Sasha had. She has a rather well-paying academic job, with history in a few different respectable university research departments.

"Is- is there a photo anywhere?" Martin stammered out. The profile photo was set to default, and he didn't see pictures anywhere else.

Jon clicks on her most recent job and scrolls through their page until he finds a photo of a group of people at a conference. He zooms in on the photo and points at a woman on the left side. "That's her."

"Oh my god…" The tall, curvy woman in the photo is a stark contrast to the short and thin Sasha he remembers. Her hair is long, dark, and curly. She has glasses and a big, toothy smile in the photo. It's hard to mentally reconcile the clash between the image and his memories of her. "Is that… Is that how she originally looked? Our Sasha?"

"I- I think so…" Jon says. "I don't… I don't know know, but I'm pretty sure, yes."

"Are there other versions of all of us here?" Martin asks. "Like me and you? Or Tim, or Melanie?"

"There aren't other versions of us here," Jon says, definitively. "That was one of the first things I tried to know about this place. There's no other Jonathan Sims or Martin Blackwood running around that we have to worry about."

"That's good…" Martin isn't actually sure whether that's good. "What about the others?"

Jon is silent for a moment, and Martin sees his eyes glow a slightly unnatural green for a split second before he opens a new tab and starts typing. Martin watches him scroll through the search page for a moment, before opening an Instagram profile.

The account is Tim's. This universe's version of Tim Stoker. Jon scrolls through photos of him rock climbing, kayaking, lounging at the beach, surrounded by other attractive and active-looking people. He clicks on one particular photo with another man whose shoulder Tim is gripping as they both smile wide.

"That's…"

"Tim and Danny," Jon says, quietly. Martin lets out a soft breath, feeling his eyes well up. He'd never seen Tim look so carefree, even in the early days, and the Danny in the photo looks older than the Danny he heard about ever got to be.

He watches Jon scroll through Tim's page for a bit longer before he stops and closes the tab.

"This… I don't think this is a good idea. Dwelling on these things. These… These aren't the people we knew, and we can't… It's not a good idea for us to get attached to the idea of them here. We have to stay focused."

"I... Yeah. You're probably right…"

Martin leans back towards his own screen, replaying the images of Sasha and Tim and Danny in his mind. They looked so happy, out there living the lives they deserved to have. The lives that were taken from them too early in the old world. Taken by Powers that have now crossed over…

He tries to collect himself and refocus.

"How's the uh… job search going?"

Jon sighs. "Not well. Almost everything requires ID, and what doesn't is… physically demanding."

Martin flattens his mouth, looking down at his keyboard. Jon can still barely walk, let alone perform physical labor.

"I found a listing from an older woman who wants someone to cook for her a few nights a week," Martin offers. "Pays decently for what it is… I'm going to try to contact her."

Jon looks up and gives him a small smile. "That's great, Martin."

"Yeah." He forces a smile. "It's definitely a good start…"

Chapter Text

It's been nearly a week, and Jon has spent every day they've been here trying not to panic about their living situation. Martin is out now cooking for the woman he found on Craigslist, but they both know it won't buy them much time. They're rapidly running out of money, with only enough left for another week at the hotel. They need documentation, and they need a place to stay long term.

Jon breathes a frustrated sigh as he pushes the cooling food around on his plate. He feels useless just sitting in bed in their hotel room, failing to eat a TV dinner. He'd got so used to not needing to eat at all, and he can't stand the microwave food they have to rely on during their hotel stay. Even with how much closer to human he is again, physical food doesn't feel like it does much for him. Martin as his witness, he's been forcing himself to eat three meals a day, and he feels like he's just getting weaker. The same way sleep isn't helping the feeling of tiredness anymore. He knows what that probably means. He and Martin dance around it every time the topic of his health is broached. He doesn't want to hurt anyone else. He knows Martin doesn't want him to, either. His health is a small price to pay after everything he's done.

He's jolted from his thoughts by a knock at the door. It's not Martin. Martin has a key, why would he be knocking? But who else would be at their door?

He knows it's Jonah.

Jon scrambles off the bed, swaying as he stands up too quickly. By the time he pulls the door open, no one is on the other side. His heart is beating out of his chest as he looks down to see a crisp white envelope with his name on it. He looks around outside the door, and Jonah is nowhere to be seen. Jon isn't in any state to try to pursue him, so he picks up the envelope and shuts the door, bolting it.

He knows what's in the envelope the moment he picks it up. He doesn't even make it back to the bed before opening it, settling on the floor with his back against the door as he takes the paper out of the envelope. He almost misses the sound of a tape recorder clicking on from inside a drawer beside him.

"Statement of Kate Yang, regarding a strange doll that her husband brought home after a business trip in Beijing. Original statement given September 14th, 2019. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, the Archivist. Statement begins.

"When Marcus and I got married, we decided very early on that I would be a stay at home wife, and he would focus on his job. He's been climbing the corporate ladder for years, and we're very well off financially because of it, but it requires him to be away for work on a fairly regular basis. Our daughter Olivia is six now, and he's always adored her, but is away quite often. It's hard for her, but he always brings her back a doll from wherever he goes, to make her feel better. I always thought it was sweet, and Olivia loved the dolls. She played with them constantly, talking about how her daddy is going to bring her more soon. She even has a special shelf for them in her room.

"Marcus got back from a trip to Beijing on the tenth of September, and brought a doll back for Olivia as always. I still can't put my finger on what it was about the thing that instilled in me this sense of dread and unease, but I knew deep in my gut that there was something wrong about it. I don't know how to explain it, except that it just looked… off. Uncanny almost. The eyes were too realistic, the head was bulbous, the hands were shaped wrong… I asked Marcus about it, but he said he just got it from some shop, and nothing seemed weird to him. Olivia loved the thing, and I didn't have any actual justification for finding it so creepy, so I just let it go.

"Olivia started acting strange the next day. She kept following our maid around the house, constantly pestering her to look at her doll, asking her what she thought of the doll, asking if she wanted them to play with her. She specifically phrased it that way. 'Do you want us to play with you?' I told Olivia to stop bothering the woman, but she kept at it, and I eventually got tired and just left them alone.

"I didn't see the maid leave that day, but I don't usually keep up with all the comings and goings of the staff. I didn't notice anything was off until she didn't show up the next day, and she didn't answer any of my calls. Even then, I just ended up ranting to Marcus about how unprofessional it was, without thinking much of it.

"Olivia shifted her attention to our chef that day. Subjected him to the same pestering and questions that she had the maid. He was less polite to her about it, which I scolded him for briefly, but it did help me manage to rein Olivia in. I saw her run back to the kitchen after dinner that night, and sent Marcus to deal with it. He came back with her, but said that the chef wasn't back there, and the kitchen was still a mess. I had to clean it up myself, as Marcus went to tuck Olivia into bed.

"Neither the maid, nor the chef showed up the next day, and I was honestly fuming. I ranted some more to Marcus about how irresponsible it was, how I should fire them both when they do show up.

"Marcus listened to me, but Olivia was focused on him, now. 'Look at my doll!' 'Isn't she pretty?' 'Do you want us to play with you?' He was indulgent with her, playing along, even as we had better things to do. He entertained her while I made a few calls, but when I went to find him to suggest ordering in for dinner, Olivia was alone in her room playing with her dolls.

"I know how it sounds, Elias, but I am not crazy. I swear this on my life, and you have to believe me.

"In one hand, Olivia had the doll Marcus had brought her from Beijing, and in her other hand, there was a doll of the same make, that looked just like Marcus. His clothes, his hair, even its little painted face resembled his. His eyes looked real, staring aimlessly out, like they were frozen with fear. My heart sank like a stone in my chest as I saw two other dolls sprawled on the floor beside her that looked similarly identical to the maid and the chef, with a similar painted terror on their faces. Olivia just smiled up at me, and asked me that horrible question.

"'Do you want us to play with you? Look!'

"I screamed as she held up her foreign doll, staggering back towards the door. I don't care what it says about me as a mother that I ran from her. I left her alone in that house because I'm not going to be next. I can't be next, I can't.

"I'm sorry to just drop all of this on you after it's been so long, but I didn't know where else to go. You've always been there for me when Marcus isn't, when I can't handle this life I live… I'm so scared to go back home. I'm so scared, and I'm so lost.

"You were right at least that it helped to write it down.

"Statement ends." Jon exhales deeply and throws his head back against the door. "A clear cut manifestation of the Stranger. Not dissimilar to the clown doll described by Leanne Deniken in her statement, though this situation progressed much more quickly. I… I worry that the unusual speed is due to the sudden arrival of the Fears into this world… Fuck."

Jon pulls open the drawer in the dresser beside him and turns off the tape recorder. It's covered in cobwebs, naturally.

Jonah Magnus is back to impersonating Elias Bouchard. Did he just manage to fool this woman, or has he done something to this universe's Elias?

Jon picks the envelope back up to find another sheet of paper inside. This one isn't a statement. He takes it out and starts reading.

Hello, Jon.

I assume you haven't taken any statements since arriving here, so thought I'd do you a favor when I came across one. I'd like to say I found her by coincidence, but I saw a spider on her shoulder, and you know how that is.

Best wishes,

Elias Bouchard

P.S. The Bouchard real estate company is usually quite thorough in vetting their employees, but I would be willing to make an exception for you.

Jon shoves the letter and the statement back in the envelope and stuffs them both in the drawer, shutting it hard.

The Web isn't done with him. Of course. Why would it be? It's had him his entire life, why would it let him go now? He buries his head in his hands.

Jonah Magnus has replaced Elias Bouchard, for a second time . Jon hates himself for being the one who made that possible, he hates himself for feeling so much better after reading that statement, and he hates himself for legitimately considering the job offer.

He feels sick at the idea of Jonah being his boss again, remembering being ignorant and powerless against his plans, remembering the feeling of his body and voice being hijacked and forced to speak the Fears into their world in Jonah's voice. But what other option does he even have? He has no money, no ID, no counterpart of his own to impersonate, not that he would. He has no other options, and he knows Jonah is fully aware of that.

He's got up and started pacing back and forth on the floor. He didn't even realise he'd started doing it.

He hears another knock at the door.

Martin is actually a bit excited to get back to the hotel room. The woman he cooked for let him take home leftovers, and he feels proud to finally be able to provide a real meal for Jon. He knows how much he hates the TV dinners they've been needing to rely on, as much as he tries to hide it.

When he gets back to the hotel, the door doesn't open when he unlocks it. He jiggles at the knob for a moment to no avail, before knocking.

"Jon? Did you bolt the door? It's not opening."

He hears the bolt click out of place and the door swings open.

"Martin!" Jon is looking at him wide-eyed.

"Jon!" he replies, bemused. "I uh, I brought leftovers! Clarisse let me take them home."

"Ah! Right, yes, come in." He steps aside to let Martin through. Martin steps through the door and puts the food on top of the dresser. Jon has started pacing around the room.

"Do you… want some of the food now?"

"No. No thank you, I already ate." He continues pacing. There's a TV dinner sitting on the bed nearly untouched. Jon's cane is leaning against the wall next to it.

"Jon…"

Jon stops pacing, looking back at Martin. There's color in his face. The dark circles under his eyes are less prominent.

"Jon, what happened while I was gone?"

Jon bites his lip and starts fiddling with the sleeve of his shirt. "I… I didn't mean to do it, it wasn't-"

"Jon, did you take a statement from someone?"

"No! Not directly, I-" He groans, stalking past Martin to the dresser and pulling open a drawer. "There was a knock at the door, and this was outside…"

"Oh…" Martin recognizes the handwriting on the envelope before it's even in his hand. He pulls out a statement and a note from Jonah. "Oh, god…"

"Quite." Jon resumes pacing.

"He… He's offering you a job? At…" At a Bouchard company. He signed the note under Elias's name. "Oh my god."

"Quite…"

"You can't take it."

"I know …" He starts fiddling with his sleeves again. "But what other option is there?"

"Jon!"

"How much did you make from cooking tonight?"

Martin doesn't answer.

"Forty pounds," Jon says, because he already knows.

"And a dinner!" Martin snaps.

"Forty pounds and leftovers." Jon puts his fingers to his temples. "That's not even enough for another night here, Martin, you know this isn't sustainable."

Martin clenches his fists at his sides. "He forced you to end the world , Jon! Is a statement all it takes to lure you back into his- his clutches?"  

Jon looks at him like he's been slapped. "This isn't about the statement! "

Martin looks away. "You can't work for him, Jon, not again."

"What other choice do we have, Martin? Destitution?"

Martin flattens his mouth into a thin line. "We have to keep trying. We have a week left here, and you're up and about now, you can find work too! We have to keep trying."

Jon is quiet for a few moments before letting out a tired sigh.

"Alright. We can go back to the library tomorrow."

"Okay." Martin takes a breath. "Okay. Thank you, Jon."

Jon hums in response, looking deep in thought.

"Are you sure you don't want the leftovers?" Martin offers, again.

"Yes," Jon says, looking at Martin, then away. "Sorry, I'm… I'm really not hungry."

"Okay. Alright, that's fine."

Martin heats up the food for himself, and the two of them sit in silence as he eats.

Chapter Text

Even in better condition, Jon doesn't have much success in his job search. Martin spent years of his life before the Institute lying on his resume and working odd jobs to support his mum. He's good at this. Jon is an academic through and through, with few applicable life skills for the type of work that doesn't require ID.

Martin keeps working for Clarisse, picking up a few other one time jobs here and there. Jon spends most of his time in the library, both for his continued job search and just to pass the time.

He's been by himself at the library for a couple of hours now. Martin left to go cook for Clarisse, and Jon decided to stay awhile instead of going back to the hotel. He's spent most of that time researching this universe's Bouchard family, and the history of their business. It seemed to be a fairly standard real estate investment company. The criticism against them is mostly focused on the hiking up of rent prices, and concerns about gentrification. Certainly not great, but nothing more sinister than you'd expect in that line of work. 

This universe's Elias Bouchard was on the Board of Directors at his family's company, and was the only one of his siblings there. He had a considerable net worth and inheritance, though both had been split during a divorce about seven years ago. His eyes were light blue. Not far enough off from Jonah Magnus's steely grey for anyone to be likely to notice the change. Jonah had probably taken that into consideration the first time around.

What does Jonah still want from him? He hired Jon, promoted him to Archivist, led him blind through a labyrinth of nightmares, all for a single purpose. Jon had reshaped their world exactly like Jonah planned, served his purpose exactly like Jonah wanted. What does he want now, in this new world? What else is there?

Jon has less than three days to either contact him or not. He knows he's going to do it. Martin is doing what he can, but they just don't have another option to make a proper living.

He sighs and leans back in his chair. His eyes ache from staring at the computer screen, and he is very tired. A very specific kind of tired. One that has plagued him since they left their world, with the statement Jonah delivered to him being the only modicum of respite he's got. A respite that's waning concerningly quickly. He knows Martin has noticed, despite his best efforts. Jon's been moving more slowly again, losing focus more easily, leaning on him more when they're out together… It's been less than three days since he recorded that statement.

He rubs his temples, failing to relieve their ache. Maybe he should keep looking for jobs. He at least owes it to Martin to keep trying, hopeless as it may be. He wishes they had enough spare cash for a pack of cigarettes. The prices are even worse in this universe than their own…

"Sir?"

Jon turns his head sharply, startled out of his thoughts. His breath catches when he sees the young woman standing on his left. Her hand is out like she was getting ready to tap his shoulder. She's wearing a turtleneck, and there are multiple tiny red marks on her face. He knows her name is Camille Robertson.

"Sorry to startle you." She draws her hand back. "I was getting ready to close up, we're only open till 6:30 on Fridays."

He barely registers what she's saying, laser focused on the fear he feels emanating from her.

"Tell me what happened."

He watches her eyes widen as her story begins flowing from her.

"I've always been afraid of spiders. One of my earliest memories from my childhood is of playing in the backyard in my playhouse, and walking into a cobweb I hadn't realised was there. Feeling the little spindly legs scuttling over my face, and into my hair. It took my parents a long time to calm me down, and I've been terrified of spiders ever since.

"I've killed every spider I see since I've been old enough to know how. Horrible little things. I've had people tell me they're necessary and good for the ecosystem, and I understand that, but I just can't stand them. The fear and disgust just takes over when I see one, even outside, and I always kill it immediately. Well, I always did…

"I saw a spider in my bedroom last week. On the wall right above my headboard. I felt the same disgust and spike of fear and adrenaline that I always have, but I… I didn't kill it. I stared at it for a while, like I was unable to move at all, and then I just… left the room. I went about my day like I'd never seen it. I guess I was trying to distract myself, to occupy my mind. I cleaned my living room, did the dishes, read a book… Tried not to think about it.

"It was still on the wall when I went to go to bed that night. I'd figured it would've at least hidden somewhere, like it's normal for spiders to do, and then I could keep trying to forget about it, but it just stayed there, right above my bed. It's like it was… watching me, as I walked in the room, like it knew I couldn't do anything.

"I wanted to kill it. I wanted so badly to kill it, I couldn't stand to be in that room knowing it was in there with me, but I just… I changed into my pyjamas, and crawled into bed, with the spider still there. I didn't want to get into bed, I didn't want to be anywhere near it, but I just… got under the blankets, and lay on my side like I always do. I couldn't even see the spider with how I was laying, and after a few minutes of frozen terror I started to feel it crawling over me. I wanted to jump out of bed, shake it off of me, but I couldn't move. Every time I tried to get my useless limbs to move, I felt my blanket wrapping tighter around me as the spider crawled over me.

"I don't know how I got to sleep that night, I… I think I just cried until I wore myself out. I didn't even realise I'd been asleep until I woke up. I thought maybe the whole thing was a weird nightmare, but… the spider was on my wall when I woke up, and I had a spider bite on my right hand.

"I tried to ignore it. I knew I couldn't kill it, so I just grabbed some clothes, got dressed in the bathroom, and headed to work early. I spent the day trying not to think about it, and hoped it would be gone when I got home.

"It wasn't gone when I got home. It… It was still there, on the wall above my bed, but now there were two. The new one was slightly bigger, I… I think it was a different species, but it just sat there on the wall right next to the other one, and… and the same thing happened again. I went about my day like everything was normal, like I was wishing everything was normal, and then I crawled into bed and felt my blankets cocooning me in as the spiders scuttled all over me. I woke up with two more spider bites.

"It's got worse every day. Every day when I get home from work, there are more. First there was the one, then two, then four, eight, sixteen… I've lost count. Every night I feel them crawling over me… I think the venom is starting to affect my health… There's more bites on me every night, and I'm starting to feel weaker, and sick. I'm so scared to go home tonight. I know I'm going to get home and do everything I normally do, eat, clean, read, and then go to bed. I don't have another choice. No matter how hard I try, I can't not get into that bed. I'm going to go to bed tonight and I'm going to feel dozens and dozens of spiders all over my body at once, on my arms and legs and throat, on my face, in my mouth… There's nothing I can do to stop it, and I'm so scared."

Jon lets out a small sigh when she stops speaking, breaking eye contact.

"Thank you, Camille," he says. "I'm uh, I'm sorry about that."

She starts stuttering incoherently, confusion and fear colouring her voice.

"I'll be on my way in a few minutes, I just need to take care of a few things."

Camille opens her mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. She turns around and walks away, and he faintly hears her footsteps break into a run once she's out of sight.

 He takes a deep breath, lowering his head into his hands. God, the Web makes his skin crawl. Camille being here, directly approaching him with no one else around, is not a good sign. The tape recorder in their hotel room already had him worried, but this was even more direct of an interference. What could it possibly still want from him?

He finds himself unable to dwell on it for long. He feels rejuvenated after Camille's statement. It felt so good to compel her, to pull her story from her. It scares him how good it felt. It scares him that guilt over having traumatised this woman is something he has to actively remind himself to feel.

Jon gets up from his chair, and walks to the front of the room, where he knows there's a phone behind the librarian's desk. He takes the phone from its charging port and knows the number he needs to dial. It rings twice.

"Hello?"

"Why do you want me to work for you?"

There's a sharp inhale on the other end, followed by a dark chuckle.

"Your compulsion is a lot weaker over the phone, Jon."

He puts even more force into it. "Tell me what you want from me!"

Another breath, followed by a deeper laugh.

"You'll have to come discuss it in person, if you're interested. I believe you know the address."

Jon can hear the smug grin on the other man's face. He can see it like Jonah is in the room with him. Jonah hums at his silent seething.

"I'll see you soon, Archivist."

Jonah hangs up.

Chapter Text

"I'm back!" Martin calls out as he opens the door to the hotel room. He slips off his shoes near the door. "I made curry this time, and there was enough left to take home, so…"

Martin trails off when he turns to see Jon already asleep on the bed. He feels a mix of endearment for his boyfriend, and worry that he may have just gone to sleep without eating anything again. He squashes the latter feeling down, and lets himself smile at Jon's sleeping form. He packs the container of curry away in the hotel's mini-fridge, and wriggles out of his trousers before crawling under the blanket with Jon.

Jon sleeps curled in on himself, his fingers twitching slightly as faint snores escape him with the rise and fall of his chest. His long, salt and pepper hair lies in loose waves over his face, obscuring most of his features. Martin slowly reaches up to try to brush it away without waking him.

He startles back when he sees that Jon's eyes are wide open, lit up with that soft green glow.

"Jon?" he sputters out. No response. He falters for a moment, before cautiously waving his hand in front of Jon's face. No reaction. He's fully asleep. Martin takes a deep breath.

Jon is asleep. He is asleep, and his eyes are open and glowing. This isn't new. He did this every time he slept in the old world post-Change, but it hadn't happened since they'd arrived here. Even after Jon read that statement.

Martin has a sinking feeling in his gut. Did something happen? He was only alone at the library for a few hours… Has Jonah done something again? The thought of that man getting anywhere near Jon makes his stomach turn. He wants to wake Jon up, ask him all the questions running through his mind.

He doesn't do it. Jon's sleep doesn't look peaceful anymore, like it has the past few weeks, but that doesn't mean he doesn't need it. He might need it even more than he would need a dreamless sleep. Martin doesn't want to think about that.

Jon's nightmares have their tradeoffs, even aside from the misfortune of those he haunts.

For the first time since they arrived in this new universe, Jon wakes up feeling thoroughly rested. He's focused, energized, powerful, still riding the high from taking a live statement.

However, with the attainment of physical rest, Jon loses the emotional reset that sleep provides for most. His nightmares keep his mind constantly active and on edge during the night, still vibrating in his skull with the energy from the previous day the moment he wakes. 

The nightmares are eventually pulled from his grasp, and he finds himself blinking awake at exactly 8:00 AM. He assumes Camille Robertson's morning alarm has gone off, and Beholding promptly confirms his suspicion.

Jon can hear Martin in the bathroom when he wakes up. He doesn't waste time before getting dressed, wanting to head out as soon as possible, and Martin comes out to see him putting on his shoes.

"Jon?" His hair is damp, and he's already dressed.

"Martin!" He finishes tying his laces and stands up.

"Are you going somewhere?"

"Yes." He takes a deep breath, realising belatedly that Martin is really not going to like where this conversation is headed. "I'm going to see Jonah."

"What?! Jon, we still have another day!"

"Martin-"

"Clarisse gave me a recommendation for a cleaning job last night! Someone she knows needs a cleaner. I was going to meet them today, there's still-"

"Martin-"

"What happened last night?" Jon's eyes widen slightly, and he opens his mouth to speak before Martin interrupts. "You were sleeping with your eyes open, Jon. Open and glowing like they were during… After the change. Did- did you already see Jonah?"

"No! I didn't see Jonah, I-" He swallows, looking away. He isn't going to mention the phone call. "Someone at the library had a statement. A volunteer librarian, I think. Camille Robertson."

Martin's expression is carefully blank when Jon looks back, the slight tilt of his eyebrows the only thing that expresses his worry. "And she told you about it?" His tone is even.

Jon looks away again.

"Jon…"

"I- I didn't even think about it, I just- saw that she had a statement, and instinct took over-"

"Instinct?"

"I know , I know , I'm sorry…"

"Don't apologise to me!"

Jon bites his tongue, holding back a decidedly insensitive comment about how Camille didn't want the apology he gave her either.

"Jon…"

Jon kicks off his shoes and sits down on the bed behind him. "I'll stay here while you meet with your potential client.  But I'm going to see Jonah tonight."

"Jon-"

"We don't have much of a choice, do we?"

Even Jon realises how much that sounds like an excuse, but Martin bites his tongue.

"Fine." He isn't looking at Jon. "Fine, but I'm going with you. You're not facing him alone."

"Alright," Jon says. "Alright, yes, good. I want you there."

"Good."

The words hang between them in the air for a long few moments.

"I'm supposed to meet with the client at ten," Martin eventually says. "It's a bit of a walk, so I should get going."

"Right, right."

"I'll see you in a few hours." He still isn't looking at Jon.

"Okay." Jon bites his lip as Martin opens the door to leave. "I love you."

Martin pauses in the doorway, turning his head just slightly. It's too long a moment before he says "I love you too."

By late afternoon, Martin is still not back. Jon has a hunch that he's prolonging it on purpose, but tries not to think about it too hard, lest the Eye start feeding him knowledge about Martin's thoughts that he deserves to be able to keep private. Jon owes him that much, at least.

There is very little to do in the hotel room. They'd been solving that problem by spending most of their time in the library, but Jon told Martin he would wait for him here, and returning to the library so soon after the events of last night may not be the best idea regardless. He tries to keep himself occupied with the library books he's taken home, but they can't keep his attention as his mind races thinking about the imminent meeting with Jonah.

It's good that Martin is coming. He loves Martin. Martin loves him. Martin is his reason for pressing on, his anchor to his humanity. Martin will help him stand his ground against Jonah and keep him from blindly pushing forward in any direction the Eye pulls him.

He thinks a lot about taking Camille's statement. Of pulling her terror from her and drinking it up like cool water after weeks in a desert. He thinks of the statement Jonah left him. The fresh echo of Kate Yang's fear coursing through him as he recited it. He remembers all the fear in the world coursing through him at once, the overwhelming, euphoric satiation . He remembers giving it up, reminds himself why he gave it up. The people he was hurting, the people he saved by releasing the Fears into this new, innocent world.

He doesn't know if Martin is coming with him because he doesn't trust Jonah, or because he doesn't trust Jon. Why should he trust Jon? He left him in the old world to kill Jonah on his own. Betrayed his trust and went behind his back to destroy the world. Even in this new world he's so goddamn inhuman he can barely eat real food anymore, and he's only making it worse. Taking statements again, even after everything. Martin is right not to trust him. He doesn't even know that Jon called Jonah last night, and Jon isn't going to tell him.

It's past four when Martin gets back. He got the cleaning job, which pays moderately well, but is only one day a week, and predictably won't nearly be enough to achieve stable housing. Martin says he took so long to get back because he stopped by Clarisse's to cook for her early. The Eye doesn't need to interfere for Jon to know it's an excuse, but he doesn't comment.

They call a cab around five, and Jon gives the driver Elias Bouchard's home address. He's not sure exactly when that nugget of knowledge made its way into his head. The cab ride is almost silent.

After a few miles, Martin takes a deep breath.

"Jon?"

"Yes, Martin?" Jon glances over to see him staring out the window.

"I need you to promise me you won't do anything stupid."

"I'm not going to-"

"Nothing reckless, nothing self-sacrificial, nothing where you just assume you know better than everyone else, and ignore their- ignore my input."

Jon looks down at his hands in his lap. "I'm… I'm sorry."

"Just- Please promise me, Jon."

"I… I promise." Jon pushes the words out through a thick lump in his throat. Martin turns to look at him, and Jon meets his eyes. Martin's sombre expression twists with a forced smile.

"Thank you, Jon."

Jon tentatively reaches over the seat between them, and Martin takes his hand in his. They don't talk the rest of the way there.

Elias Bouchard lived in a large house in a nice area of London. Not large enough to be called a mansion, but not far off. Three storeys tall, with hedges and a small garden outside. It's excessive.

They pay the cab driver and step out onto the pavement.

"This is where Elias lived?" Martin asks, discomfort evident in his tone.

"Yes…" Jon answers. "He bought the house in 2013 after his divorce," he adds instinctively.

"Right…" Martin responds.

Jon clears his throat and starts walking to the door. Martin follows, taking his hand again.

Jon tries to clear his head and focus on what's ahead of them as they approach the house. He doesn't waste time when they reach the door, knocking firmly three times, and waiting for a response. Martin gives his hand a squeeze before a woman answers the door.

"Bouchard residence, can I help you?" The woman is middle aged, and looks to be a servant of some kind.

"We, uh- We're here to see Mr. Bouchard."

The woman gives them both a once over, and her eyes narrow. Before she can voice any kind of suspicion, a familiar voice calls out from behind her.

"Don't worry, Eleanor," Jonah smiles, "I've been expecting them."

The woman seems even more put off by the two of them when they start glaring at Jonah. She mumbles a nondescript excuse before scurrying off, leaving Jon and Martin facing Jonah in the doorway.

"Hello, Jon," Jonah says, pleasantly. "Martin." The change in his tone is minute, but makes it quite clear that he's holding a grudge. He smiles politely and steps back, gesturing inside. "Do come in."

Jon enters first, Martin close behind him, and Jonah shuts the door behind them. He turns to look at Jon, pausing to give him a once over.

"You look well," he says, approvingly. Jon supposes that means he can tell Jon took a statement. Martin squeezes Jon's hand protectively.

Jonah himself doesn't look well. He's wearing foundation to hide what remains of the bruises on his face, and is dressed in a simpler, more modern type of suit than he usually wears. His hair is cropped close like this universe's Elias kept his, and his face is clean shaven. Seeing him take on Elias's style so completely is almost uncanny.

"Assuming this is about the job offer, I suggest we discuss it in my office." He casts a brief look at Martin, before turning and walking off. Jon and Martin share a glance before following.

The office is very modern. The furniture is all sleek, adhering to a contemporary minimalist aesthetic. Black, grey, and white are abundant. On the desk sits a new-looking silver desktop computer. The few books present in the room are all about business and the stock market, with one outlier about the science of cannabis. It's all quite antithetical to the austere, Victorian furnishings of Jonah's office at the Institute, and Jonah looks incredibly out of place sitting down in the spinning office chair near the desk.

"You'll have to excuse the state of the place," he says. "Too soon to start redecorating."

Jon feels Martin's grip on his hand get slightly tighter. Jonah gestures to a couch across the room from the desk. Jon moves to sit, but Martin holds him back, glaring sharply at Jonah.

"What do you even want in all of this?" he demands.

Jonah smirks at the echo of Jon's sentiment from last night.

"That is the question of the hour, isn't it?" he says, looking at Jon.

"Answer him," Jon orders before Jonah can deflect from the question.

Jonah inhales sharply, shifting and leaning back in his chair.

"I…" He takes a ragged breath, making eye contact with Jon as he grips the arm of his chair, fighting a losing battle against the compulsion. "I want you in my sphere of influence as an ally, because of your connection to the Eye… and your former connection to my Institute…" He lets out a breathy laugh, still staring. "Your compulsion is a lot stronger than the last time you tried this, Archivist."

"An ally?" Martin exclaims. "After everything you've done?"

Jonah hesitates to break eye contact with Jon, but turns his gaze to Martin. "And everything you've un done." He straightens in his chair, smoothing wrinkles in his shirt. "At this point, I imagine our goals align quite neatly."

"What goals?"

Jonah sighs as Jon threads more compulsion into his voice.

"Mostly collecting statements." He lets this answer out much more easily than the last. "You may have noticed that we're down two hundred years worth of them."

"There is no 'we' in this!" Martin spits. "The Institute is gone, and we're not a- a team."

"Quite right." Jonah glares up at him. "You are no longer bound to me as the heart of the Institute, and are perfectly welcome to walk away." His scowl morphs into a flat smile. "But if you actually planned to, neither of you would be here."

Martin grunts at that, but says nothing. Jonah turns his eyes to Jon.

"And I suspect the loss of the archives is hitting Jon a lot harder than it's hitting me."

Martin's grip tightens on Jon's hand again, and Jon stares down at Jonah. Their silence is as good as an admission. Jon squeezes Martin's hand, before slipping out of it, and moving to sit down. Martin hesitates, clenching his fists at his sides before following to sit beside him.

"What kind of job are you offering me?" Jon resists the urge to compel him just for the sake of it.

"It depends." Jonah shrugs. "It would mostly be a front to allow us to establish a professional relationship to work on private projects without arousing any sort of suspicion. I believe it would be easiest for you to take on a bookkeeping role." He leans back, pressing his fingertips together. "I'd like to get you in a proper archivist position eventually, but Elias wasn't very involved in academia," he gestures to the few books present in the room, "and I'm going to have to spend time establishing a personal interest in the paranormal before I start putting too much focus into the development of a proper Institute. Fortunately, I believe my recent encounter with Mrs. Yang will serve as a convincing catalyst for that interest."

"The development of an Institute?" Jon repeats.

"Our patron needs a temple if we are to properly serve it, Jon," he says, with an air of condescension.

Jon narrows his eyes. "This isn't about ' our patron. ' You've never cared about serving the Eye beyond what power it could give you."

Jonah leans back in his chair, expression neutral. "Being connected to the Eye's place of power again certainly wouldn't be a downside to the arrangement."

"You expect us to just drop that power back in your lap like you didn't end the world with it last time?" Martin demands.

"I don't expect you to do anything, Martin," Jonah responds, evenly. "And remaking the world was a collaborative effort, if you recall."

"Shut up," Jon bites. "You forced your ritual on me, I never wanted that."

"Maybe not at first."

"We saved our world," Martin interjects. "We changed it back, and the Fears can't reach it anymore."

Jonah glowers at Martin. "Quite. And now we're here, in this fresh new world."

"And so are they…" Jon mutters. He sees Martin turn to him in his peripheral vision, but stares down at his hands instead of looking back.

Jonah lets out a quiet hum. Jon looks up to see him watching him intently. Jon narrows his eyes.

"You don't just want me as an ally," he says. "You need me to restart the Institute. I'm still the Archivist, you can't do it without me."

Jonah is silent for a long moment, simply staring back at Jon.

"I would say that's an accurate assessment of the situation, yes," he eventually says. He leans forwards slightly before continuing. "But as much as you may like to act like I'm forcing this on you, you need a new Institute more than I do." Jon opens his mouth to respond, but Jonah continues, cutting him off. "You've gone from having all the fear in our beautiful new world flowing through you at once, to an almost barren ecosystem with two hundred years of reserve completely gone." Jonah hasn't broken eye contact with Jon. "Now your health starts deteriorating after only a few days without a fresh statement. A new archive will stabilize you, help you regain your strength and control."

Jon swallows, trying to find the words to respond as he's still locked in Jonah's gaze.

"Just because you need him to start an archive, doesn't mean he needs you," Martin asserts. Jonah breaks eye contact to look at him, and Jon almost sighs with relief.

"Maybe not in a metaphysical sense," Jonah concedes, easily, "but in a practical sense, neither of you have the resources necessary for such an endeavor. Not to mention experience actually running an institute."

Martin scoffs. "I think you'd be surprised how much of your job I was doing while you were in prison."

Jonah glares at him. "My point stands."

Jon lets out a deep sigh, running a hand through his too-long hair.

"I'm going to do it, Martin." 

"Jon-"

"Martin."

Martin looks at him with a silent pleading. Jonah's expression is calculatedly neutral, but his eyes are bright with satisfaction. Jon takes a deep breath, loathing that he and Martin can't have this conversation privately.

"We need a source of income, and he's right that I need an archive."

Martin opens his mouth to protest, but turns away without speaking. They both know there's no other option financially. They need long term housing and stability. The need for an archive feels just as urgent in a way Jon struggles to justify, but working for Jonah is the only option regardless, so he doesn't bother trying.

Jonah lets the silence permeate for a few moments before breaking it.

"Well then." He spins around in his office chair and picks up a scheduling notebook off the desk behind him. He spins back and flips through it as he speaks. "I have some employment paperwork I need to get in order, and will need to contact someone about falsifying documentation for you. There don't seem to be counterparts for either of you in this world, so you can keep the same names if you'd like." He looks up from the agenda at Jon. "I'll make us a dinner reservation for tomorrow to discuss the details of what your employment would entail."

"What?" Jon blurts. "Dinner? Why can't we just discuss it now?"

Jon doesn't even realize he's compelling Jonah until he sees the man shiver slightly in response. He lets out an uncharacteristically deep sigh, setting the agenda down on the desk behind him.

"I have other plans that I need to attend to tonight."

"What plans?"  

Jonah legitimately grimaces as he responds. "Elias was in a bowling league."

Martin barks a laugh at that.

 "What, you can't skip a week?" Jon questions, keeping the compulsion out of his voice.

"I skipped last week, shortly after we arrived, and was met with excessive questions and concern." He's irate as he recounts it. "This universe's Elias grew to be considerably more social than the other ever did."

"What a shame you didn't get here to murder him sooner," Martin says, voice dripping with sarcasm.

Jonah glowers at him, but doesn't dignify the comment with a response. He stands from the office chair, brushing off his clothes.

"I'll call you a cab," he says.

Jon stands as well, Martin following.

"I'd like reimbursement for the cab ride, if you don't mind." Jon phrases it like a suggestion, but his tone makes it clear it's a demand. "Here and back."

Jon catches a brief look of surprise on Jonah's face before his expression turns to one of mild amusement.

"Of course."

Chapter Text

"I'm going to cancel with Clarisse tonight," Martin states, pressing the buttons on the hotel microwave too hard.

Jon looks up from his book, brows furrowed as they so often are. "Martin, don't do that-"

"I don't want you to be alone with him."

"I'm working for him, I'm going to be alone around him quite a lot."

"A dinner is different than an office." Martin crosses his arms, trying not to phrase this like a jealous boyfriend. "I don't like the way he looks at you, Jon."

Jon gives him a look.

"I don't mean in a Beholding way!" He runs a hand through his hair, leaning against the wall. "He gave you a full up and down leer when we first walked in!"

"He could tell that I took a statement," Jon says, incredulously.

"Jon-" Martin takes a breath.

For someone so observant, Jon is incredibly oblivious to some things. Jonah had spent the entire duration of their visit staring at him with undisguised want, and the entire job offer was a transparent attempt to get Jon back under his control. His intentions weren't subtle before the dinner plans.

Jon sighs as the microwave beeps.

"I'm going alone, Martin. I'd imagine the restaurant reservation is only for two anyway."

"Oh, and isn't that convenient for him," Martin sneers, as he grabs his food. Jon sighs more deeply.

"Martin…" He looks like he's working out his phrasing to soften a blow. "You did literally try to beat him to death in an alley when we first got here…"

Martin scoffs. "You stabbed him! Multiple times, like an hour earlier!"

Jon scowls, turning away slightly. "That's different."

"It's different because he's weird about you."

"It's different because…" He falters, eventually just gesturing vaguely around his eyes.

"Oh, it's an Eye thing," Martin groans. "Great." As if that makes it better.

He moves to sit in the chair across the room from the bed, and spends a while just pushing his food around on the plate.

"Do I have to be worried about this, Jon? I don't mean- not like that!" he quickly clarifies, as Jon opens his mouth with a look of offence. "I mean… The Eye… Are you… Are you still with me?" Martin's chest twinges with guilt seeing Jon wince at his words.

"I- I'm still me, Martin," Jon says, hurt evident in his voice.

"I know, I know that," Martin says, quickly. "Just… Are we still on the same page? Are we still… working against these things? Trying to reduce what harm we can?"

Jon is quiet for a long moment, fiddling with the pages of his book with an unreadable expression. Eventually, he shuts the book, not looking at Martin.

"I don't know if we can anymore, Martin. I-" He pauses, trying to control the tremble in his voice. "I don't know if I can." He pulls his knees to his chest. "This isn't like it was before, in the safehouse, or back in the archives. I can't… I can't survive off of a few written statements a month, anymore. I'm…" He takes a breath. "I had the Eye flowing through me, Martin. I was wholly and entirely its vessel, and it- it was like I was made for it…" His shaking voice carries a sense of reverence, before he shudders and shrinks in on himself. "I'm not human anymore, Martin. I'm never going to be able to live like one again. I'm never going to be able to live without hurting people." His voice breaks.

"Jon…" He leaves his food forgotten on the dresser near his chair and goes to Jon on the bed, putting a hand on his back.

"It was a mistake to wake up from my coma," Jon murmurs, so quietly Martin almost can't hear him. "I chose wrong."

"Jon, don't say that!" Martin pulls him into an embrace.

"I've doomed this world, Martin, just like I doomed the last one, and even now I- I can't even-" He cuts himself off with a quiet sob, burying his face in Martin's shoulder.

Martin holds Jon for a while with tears in his own eyes, stroking a hand through his hair and whispering substanceless reassurances that he knows comfort neither of them. He doesn't know what else he can do. He isn't sure there is anything else.

Martin reluctantly leaves to go cook for Clarisse that evening, like he had planned. He still didn't want to leave Jon, but Jon insisted that he was meeting Jonah alone, and that it'd be better for him to get out of the hotel for the night than to cancel his plans just to stew there.

A cab arrives outside the hotel about 30 minutes after Martin leaves, and only after knowing it's for him does Jon realise that Jonah never actually gave him any details about where they were going. The Eye is frustratingly unwilling to assist beyond letting him know that Jonah hasn't arrived wherever it is they're going yet, either.

"Hello," he says to the driver as he climbs in the cab, "sorry, did the man who sent you give you an address? He made the reservation, I'm not sure-"

"Yes, don't worry," the driver says, with a friendly smile. "He let me know the situation."

Jon narrows his eyes at her. "What exactly did he tell you?"

"He doesn't want you to know that we're stopping by his flat first, and that he's got a surprise for you when we get there. And you're going to a restaurant after, but he didn't tell me where yet." The driver's face goes beet red. "Oh- Oh my god, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to say any of that!"

"Er, it's fine." Jon waves a hand, dismissively. "Don't worry about it."

Jon tunes out the driver as she continues babbling apologies. Jonah doesn't even have a flat, what on Earth was that about? Of course the woman has no actual details, Jonah probably expected Jon to compel her. He slumps against the window with his face in his hands as he realises the subtext the driver has likely inferred from Jonah's explanation. He supposes the guise of a surprise from a romantic partner is an effective enough way to convince a cab driver to keep something from their passenger, but he considers whether he should be reevaluating Martin's suspicions about Jonah's intentions.

His heart aches thinking about the conversation with Martin. He's right to worry about Jon's morality. He hates that he's hurting people, but it's hard to keep feeling bad about it. Especially when not doing it isn't an option anymore. If anything, creating an archive will reduce the number of live statements he has to take. The more written statements he has available, the less people like Camille Robertson will have to see him in their nightmares. It'll be a good thing.

He shifts in his seat, remembering the looks Martin gave him last night every time he tried to justify accepting the job. That's what he's doing, making excuses to try to justify it. He wants this and he's already decided he's going to do it, independent of whether it helps anyone but himself. 

He wishes, not for the first time, that Martin hadn't come up to see him in the Panopticon. That he had been able to just snuff these things out at their source. That he could have felt the power of Beholding coursing through him until the very end.

It doesn't take too long to get to the block of flats that is apparently their destination. His thoughts are interrupted by the sight of Jonah waiting on the pavement outside the building with a self-satisfied grin. Jon gets out of the car quickly after it parks.

"Good evening, Jon," Jonah greets him.

"What the hell is this?" Jon demands, gesturing at the cab, then the building.

"I'm sure the cab driver told you."

"You didn't tell her anything."

"I told her it was a surprise."

Jon seethes. Jonah's smile persists. He looks Jon up and down again, before turning around and starting towards the building. Jon starts to protest, ready to pull answers from Jonah like teeth, when Jonah turns back and interrupts him.

"Don't you think seeing what's inside will be better than hearing about it?"

Jon falters at that for long enough that Jonah slips inside the building, too far ahead of Jon for them to have a proper conversation. Jon speedwalks after him, being led through a hall, and up a flight of stairs.

"Jonah!" he calls after him in the stairwell. Jonah doesn't respond.

He stops in front of the door of a flat on the first floor, and takes out a key to unlock it. Jon stops beside him, catching his breath.

"What is this?" he demands, again. Jonah sighs, riding the wave of the compulsion.

"This is your flat," he says, pleasantly. With that, he pushes the door open, heading inside.

"What?" Jon follows him in.

The flat is nice. It has a decent view of the street, and the furnishings are nice, if generic. It's nicer than any flat he'd had in their old world. He notices a black briefcase on the coffee table. Jonah hasn't stopped walking, moving through the living room and a short hallway to another door.

"What do you mean, my flat?" Jon presses, darting after him into what appears to be a bedroom. Jonah has opened a closet to reveal a small collection of suits hanging up in it. He leans his head back with a smile before answering the compulsion.

"After I found you and Martin in that dingy hotel, I took it upon myself to secure housing for you, in anticipation of us working together." He hums, turning back towards the closet, and starting to go through the suits hanging up. "It was easy enough, the Bouchard company already owns the building."

Jon is left a bit speechless at that. He takes a moment to look around, at the bedroom. Still fairly generic, but a few eye-themed decorations have been placed around the room. A few nazars hanging in various places, a small hippie-style poster with an eye on it, and a kitschy dreamcatcher with an eye design in the netting. He also notices that the small bookshelf next to the bed is filled with copies of books that he'd had in his old flat, before he started living at the Institute. He shoots Jonah a questioning look, but the other man is still occupied with the closet. He pulls out a suit on a hanger.

"I'd prefer you start work as soon as possible, so I stocked your wardrobe with acceptable business attire after securing the flat," Jonah explains. "And the restaurant I booked a table at is rather high end, so it'd be best if you changed into something more appropriate." Jon flinches back slightly when Jonah holds the clothes out towards him. 

Jon opens his mouth to protest, but his words catch on his tongue. Jonah isn't wrong that he's dressed inappropriately for a nice restaurant. He did what he could, but nothing from the charity shop would've been adequate, and his post-change travelling clothes certainly weren't either. He resents that he's been maneuvered into this situation with no options besides doing what Jonah wants.

Jonah is looking at him with a smug satisfaction that tells Jon he's been following along with his thought process. Jon snatches the hanger out of his hand, inspecting the suit. It's a white dress shirt and grey trousers, with a cobalt blue blazer.

"This looks…" Stylish. Comfortable. Jon's favorite shade of blue. "...Expensive."

"The Bouchard company does have certain standards for its employees," Jonah says, closing the closet. "Don't worry about the cost, it'll be deducted from your first paycheck automatically."

Jon glowers at him, but he doesn't respond.

"I'll wait for you in the cab." He nods at Jon before leaving the bedroom, and shutting the door behind him.

Jon's hesitancy to change out of his charity shop clothes wears off relatively quickly, and the suit is more comfortable than he expected. The fabric is obviously high quality, and it fits him perfectly, which he supposes isn't any more unsettling than all of his old books being here. It occurs to him that he doesn't have anywhere to put his charity shop clothes to carry them with him, so he ends up just leaving them on the bedroom floor.

The briefcase is gone from the coffee table when he leaves the bedroom, so he assumes Jonah has taken it to the cab. There is a pair of dress shoes on the doormat that look to be his size, which he changes into a bit sadly, leaving his well worn combat boots next to the door.

Jonah regards him appraisingly when he gets in the cab.

"That colour suits you," he says, as Jon buckles his seatbelt. 

Jon grumbles indistinctly, before glancing back at Jonah. This is the first time he's really noticed what the other man is wearing; his suit is black, with a white shirt and a grey waistcoat that matches his eyes. He has the briefcase from inside on his lap, and his tie is the same shade of blue as Jon's blazer.

"Shut up," Jon scowls.

Chapter Text

The ride to the restaurant is short, and mostly silent. Jonah makes idle conversation with the driver at one point, which Jon can tell is mostly just him delighting in her anxiety about not knowing whether Jon told Jonah that she told him about his surprise. He wonders if that was the point of telling her as much as he did to begin with.

The restaurant they arrive at is indeed high end enough to justify the change of clothes. Jon isn't actually sure they'd be let in if he hadn't changed. There's a line at the front, but Jonah gives his name (or rather, Elias's name) and they're shown to a table in the back promptly. Jonah sets his briefcase beside his chair, and they're given menus, water, and a bread basket.

"This place seems… Expensive." Jon opens the menu and frowns, flipping through it to see that none of the food is priced. "Not that you could tell from the menu."

"Only yours doesn't have prices listed," Jonah says, not looking up from his own menu.

"What?" Jon reaches over to tip Jonah's menu down, and sees price listings next to every dish. "Why?"

Jonah sighs in response to the compulsion. "Because you aren't the one paying." He smiles. "You abuse that, you know."

Jon hadn't even done it on purpose. "How do they know I'm not paying?" Focusing on keeping the compulsion from his voice, he fails to mask the mild offence in his tone.

Jonah just keeps smiling and flips through his menu, reminding Jon why he had been so keen to use compulsion on him in the first place. He decides this particular issue isn't worth pressing.

"What's in that briefcase you brought?" he asks, instead.

"A few things." He continues flipping through the menu without elaborating. Jon lets out a noise of frustration.

"What is in your briefcase?"

Jonah sighs, making eye contact with Jon and taking a sip from his glass of water before answering.

"Mostly papers. Forged identification documents for you and Martin, various contracts and paperwork relating to your employment at my company…" he pauses, smirking, "...a statement…"

Jon subconsciously straightens in his seat. "You brought another statement?"

"I was going to give it to you when you arrived last night, but I hadn't expected you to have fed on your own so soon." He tilts his head slightly, his gaze boring into Jon. "You continue to surprise me."

Jon swallows. He'd taken a live statement less than forty-eight hours ago. In the old world before the change, that would've lasted him a week or more before he even felt drawn to another statement. He shouldn't feel so desperate for another after so little time. Jonah is still smiling.

Jon's thoughts are interrupted by a waiter approaching their table. He greets them, placing a bread basket on the table and asking if they're ready to order. Jon abruptly realises he hasn't so much as glanced at his menu since noticing the lack of prices.

"Um, sorry, could we have another few minutes actually?" he asks.

The waiter just stares at him blankly for a moment, before Jonah interjects, entirely ignoring Jon's request for more time, to order himself a steak, and order Jon a salmon fillet. The waiter smiles and nods, collecting their menus. Jon glares at Jonah as the waiter leaves.

"I can order for myself," Jon says, coldly.

"You barely glanced at your menu," Jonah says, dismissively. "And last I remember, you don't speak French."

"What?" Jon blinks. "You were speaking French?" Jonah gives an odd smile as Jon looks between him and the waiter, who's now talking to diners at another table.

"It is a French restaurant, Jon."

Jon scowls at the condescending tone. His instinct is to complain about what Jonah ordered for him, but he probably would've ordered the salmon himself if he had actually looked at the menu. He decides to change the topic.

"You said you wanted me to start work as soon as possible," he says. "What would that actually entail?"

The compulsion is intentional, as this isn't something he wants Jonah to be able to lie to him about, but Jonah's blatant enjoyment of being compelled vexes him severely.

"As I said last night, your official job title would be mostly for show, but you would actually be handling some company finances." He sighs between sentences. "Most of what I have in mind for your more important work would involve tracking manifestations of the Fears, and tracking down potential statement givers." He sighs again, taking a sip of water. "I suspect that the manifestation of the Fears in this universe will be different than we're used to, at least at first, which is why beginning to study them as soon as possible is crucial. You'll remember that Mrs. Yang's encounter with the Stranger escalated much faster than we are used to seeing."

"Yes." Jon furrows his brows with concern. "I observed the same thing with Camille Robertson- a victim of the Web I encountered. She had always been afraid of spiders, but the supernatural manifestation of that fear escalated incredibly quickly, for the Web."

Jonah hums thoughtfully, leaning back in his chair.

"It's too early to call it a trend, but it could have significant implications if it turns into one," Jon continues, absentmindedly fiddling with the cloth napkin on the table in front of him "There's a chance the Fears are manifesting more strongly because they've been introduced to this universe so recently. It could be a sort of inverse of how specific powers were weaker for a period of time after a failed ritual flung them back from our reality…"

Jon looks up from the napkin to see Jonah watching him intently, listening with keen interest. He glares at him.

"Any input?"

Jonah takes another, slow sip of his water.

"I agree that it's too early to tell," he says, simply. Jon scoffs.

"You complain about me 'abusing' my compulsion, but getting anything from you without it is like pulling teeth."

"I don't recall complaining." He takes a piece of bread from the basket between them. "Just a statement of fact." Jon glares, and Jonah bites into the bread. "Saving your appetite for the entrée?"

"Hm?" Jon realises he's just been watching Jonah eat and drink. "Er, yes," he lies, compulsively. He takes a sip of water for show, despite not being thirsty. Jonah hums and takes another bite of bread. 

"Why are we even at a restaurant?" Jon asks, sharply. "Could we not have had these discussions at your house, or office? Or-" He stumbles on whether 'your' or 'my' would be more appropriate. "...the flat?" Jonah settles back into his detestable smirk.

"Can a man not treat his archivist to dinner?"

Jon seethes in frustration, glaring hard at Jonah.

"Why are we here?"

Jonah takes a deep breath in, putting his bread down on his plate to grip the edge of the table in a way that manages to almost look casual.

"I wanted to test your appetite." His voice is breathy, as the words spill from him.  "Whether you still need to eat normally, after everything. Whether you even can…"

"You could have just asked!" Jon snaps, irate that Jonah has already caught on to his newfound distaste for food. "This is completely unnecessary."

"I wanted to see it for myself… and…" Jonah spends a few moments genuinely fighting what's left of the compulsion before sighing with resignation. He makes eye contact with Jon as he speaks. "I simply wanted to have dinner with you, and see you in that suit."

Jon's thought process completely stalls.

"What?"

That question is too vague to carry compulsion, so Jonah simply hums and shifts in his chair. Before Jon can press him on what on Earth he means by any of that, their waiter comes by with their food.

"Ah, er, merci," Jon stammers, trying to remember any French words.

Jonah greets and thanks the waiter in many more words, seeming to find entertainment in Jon's inability to match him. Jon tries to hold back his glare while the waiter is still in front of them.

The waiter eventually leaves, and Jon levels his gaze at Jonah, who doesn't look up from cutting his steak.

"The suit?"

"I suspected the blue would suit you," he says, casually, as he brings a piece of steak to his lips. He gestures with his fork at Jon's plate, and Jon glowers at him before picking up his fork, and poking around at the fish, trying to find an appetizing bit. When there isn't one, he returns his gaze to Jonah, who's looking back with a smile.

"Are you enjoying yourself?" Jon feels his face heat up slightly as what was supposed to be a sarcastic quip pulls another pleased sigh out of the man across from him.

"Yes, Jon," Jonah answers, "I am." He looks at Jon with an expression that's difficult to parse; satisfied and prideful, but almost affectionate. Jon flees from it, looking down to resume poking his food. Jonah breathes a quiet laugh, but doesn't comment.

They both let silence permeate for a while. Jonah eats his steak and vegetables, while Jon manipulates food around his plate, taking sparse bites as he fails to summon a human appetite. He finds his mind constantly wandering to think about the statement in Jonah's briefcase. A fresh statement less than a metre away, and he has to sit here pretending to eat salmon. He forces himself to take another small bite, resenting that he can't just be satisfied with a fancy salmon dinner like a person.

Eventually, Jon looks up to see that Jonah's plate is empty. The other man is leant back in his chair, studying Jon scrupulously. Jon makes himself take another bite of his barely touched dinner.

The waiter comes by to take Jonah's plate, and frowns when he sees Jon's still nearly full. He asks Jonah if there's a problem with Jon's meal. Jon seethes as Jonah explains it's no trouble, and that his "companion" is simply not feeling well. He asks for a to-go container and the waiter goes off to grab one.

"You couldn't have taken me to a restaurant where they spoke English?" Jon snaps.

"It's not as if you don't know what we're saying," Jonah counters. Jon doesn't dignify it with a response.

After the waiter returns, Jon boxes up his dinner and Jonah pays the bill, leaving a generous tip. Though, Jon isn't sure whether giving away the stolen money of a man he recently murdered can really be considered generous.

Outside the restaurant, Jonah hails another cab, and gives them an address Jon hasn't heard before, but knows is to Elias's company office. It's only a few blocks away, and they really could have walked, but Jon is too focused on the impending promise of a statement to comment on it.

The office is on the third floor of a rather modern looking building. The main room has various similar-looking desks around the room, some with cubicles separating them. The outer walls are taken up mostly by large windows with a view of the city outside. The furnishings are similar to those in Elias's home office, sleek, modern, a lot of white, black, and grey.

Elias's office is a separate room walled off from the rest. The desk faces the door, and there are two chairs on the opposite side of the desk from Elias's office chair. Jon pulls one up close to the desk and sits down as Jonah rounds the desk and puts his briefcase down on it.

He opens it to reveal a thick folder full of paperwork, an envelope just like the one he'd left outside of the hotel room, and a tape recorder. Jon frowns at the tape recorder, mildly concerned that Jonah neglected to mention having it even though Jon had compelled him.

Jonah picks up the envelope in one hand, and places the tape recorder on the desk with the other. Jon's eyes are fixed on the envelope, which Jonah seems to find humourous, as he turns it over in his hand a few times before holding it out to Jon. Jon has enough self control to remember to glare at him before snatching it from his hand. Jonah smiles as Jon opens the envelope and unfolds the statement. He watches intently as Jon clicks the tape recorder on, and begins speaking.

"Statement of Maxwell Zimmerman, regarding an experience on a flight back from America. Original statement given September 18th, 2019. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, the Archivist. Statement begins.

"I'm not really sure how to start this off. Thank you for stopping by, Elias. You're the first person who's visited since this happened. I know we've never been close, but I've needed a friend these past few days. Hopefully my writing will be more coherent than my ramblings to you have been so far.

"Ever since I can remember, I've loved travel and hated flying. Some of my fondest memories from childhood are of family holidays overseas, but I never boarded a plane without a deep sense of terror in my bones. I was quite loud about it as a child, to my family's severe annoyance. Even as a teenager, I was terrified. I had multiple panic attacks at the airport and on planes before and after holidays. I never grew out of it like my relatives were convinced I would. In my adult life, I've spent all my holidays in Europe, quenching my thirst for travel with train rides around the continent. This year, though, I decided I wanted to finally see America again. It had been decades since I tried to get on a plane, and I figured that I'm an adult, and shouldn't let myself be held back in life by some silly, irrational fear like this.

"I booked a flight to New York, and planned to explore the city, take a rented car upstate to hike and explore the scenic towns, then return to the city for the flight home. I was still terrified to get on the plane, and agonized for days before the flight, but swallowed my discomfort and pushed through it. Predictably, to any logical person, the flight there went fine. I arrived in New York exactly as planned, and thoroughly enjoyed the holiday. I boarded my flight home almost able to ignore the deep seeded anxiety and fear within me. I had a pleasant conversation with the woman next to me about birding, and managed to fall asleep after about two hours.

"Things were different when I woke up. It was so loud. I looked around to find the seats surrounding me empty, and there was a howling wind blowing through the plane. My ears hurt like hell, and there were thin streams of blood trickling out of them. The flight was at least three-quarters full when I boarded, but there was no one else in sight, then. Not a single person. I tried to call out, but I could barely hear myself through the wind. I felt the plane tilting and shaking as I sat there, gripping onto my seat for dear life. Looking around, I realized the windows around me were missing the panes, completely open to the sky outside. When I turned around I could see the emergency exit door swinging open only a row behind me. I felt the winds pulling me towards the open door, and my seat shook like it wasn't fully secured to the floor. I sat there paralysed in fear for far too long, just praying that the seat would hold.

"Eventually I pulled myself out of my seat, clinging onto the ones in front of me and around me, fighting the pull of the wind as I dragged myself to the front of the plane, to try to find the pilot. I don't know what my plan was, for when I found him, even at the time I didn't know. I wasn't thinking clearly, but I knew I couldn't stay there, and figured if anyone could help me, if anyone would know what to do, it would have to be the pilot.

"The journey was treacherous, and I had never been so terrified in my entire life. The plane kept shaking and tilting, and I was so afraid I would lose my footing and be pulled back towards the open doors. I did make it to the cockpit, eventually, but that door was closed. I clung to the handle, trying with all my strength to pry it open, and it eventually worked. I felt a brief sense of relief when it opened, and I was finally able to stumble through into the cockpit. God knows that that relief was misplaced.

"The cockpit was empty. There was no pilot, there was no one. Just a blinking, indecipherable control panel, and a giant hole in the wall of the plane where the windshield should have been. No glass, no protection, just the howling wind from that endless sky, impossibly high above the ground. I started crying when I saw it, and I am not ashamed to say so. There was no one steering the plane, no one piloting, but I knew in that moment that that plane would never crash. That it would stay in that horrible sky, with those vicious winds, until I either died inside it, or was sucked out into that pale, bottomless blue. I crawled back into a corner of the cockpit, as far away as I could get from the opening, and just cried and prayed for mercy to a God that did not answer.

"It felt like days went by in that place before I came to in an A&E near the London airport. They told me that I'd stayed in my seat when the plane landed, unresponsive to attempts to remove me. The flight attendants suspected a medical emergency and had me taken to the A&E. I snapped out of it and woke up screaming about as soon as they got me in the door.

"I told the doctor what happened. He told me I likely experienced a psychotic episode, but he couldn't explain my ruptured eardrums. They kept me for a few days before it was determined that I wasn't a threat to myself or others, and I was sent home with a referral to a psychiatrist and an ENT.

"I know it was real. I don't know what that place was, or how I ended up there, and I don't know how I got out alive, but I know it was real. I know you won't believe me, no one else has, but I swear it on my life.

"I wish I had never got on that plane.

"Statement ends."

Jon and Jonah let out simultaneous sighs when Jon finishes speaking. Jon takes a moment to regain his composure before narrowing his eyes at Jonah, who is still standing over him on the other side of the desk.

"Awfully convenient that such fates keep befalling Elias's associates."

"It is, isn't it?" Jonah replies, nonchalantly, finally sitting down in Elias's office chair. He leans back, steepling his fingers. "I assume it's the same sort of convenience that caused a tape recorder to appear in his office this morning."

Jon lets out a deep hum, thinking to himself.

"Most Vast encounters I've read about that manifest like this involve avatars that trigger the events," Jon thinks out loud. "The lack of one makes some sense, I suppose, given how you and I may very well be the only fully realised avatars in this universe at the moment…" He ignores the feeling of Jonah's stare intensifying at that comment. "But it's still a notably unusual manifestation of the Vast compared to what's usually seen… How long will it take for avatars native to this world to start appearing?" he asks, rhetorically. "Objects are already turning up imbued with the powers, as evidenced by Kate Yang's encounter… Her experience began remarkably soon after we arrived here…" Jonah hums in agreement, and Jon glares at him again.

"Anything to add?" he prompts.

"Nothing much," Jonah replies, spinning his chair slightly. "I do expect that statements about spontaneous Entity manifestations and unexplained cursed objects will likely make up the bulk of our caseload for a period of time, but there's no way to tell. This is very much uncharted territory."

"Indeed…" Jon says, thoughtfully.

"With that out of the way," Jonah picks up the tape recorder off the table, "I think it's time to discuss your employment." He clicks the recorder off. Jon hadn't even realised it was still going. "Specifically, the paperwork side of things."

"Right."

Jonah sets the tape recorder back in the briefcase and removes the folder, before closing the briefcase and setting it down beside the desk. He opens the folder and takes out two small stacks of papers, each held together with a paperclip.

"These are various forms of identification for you and Martin, including fabricated histories for each of you that resemble your true histories in our world. Yours includes an Oxford degree matching your legitimate one, and a false employment history that includes research jobs and finance positions to justify your employment here. Martin's resembles his legitimate history as well, including positions in libraries and archives of privately owned institutes. Requests for references will make their way back to me, and I'm very willing to bend the truth to legitimise his résumé."

Jon blinks at that. "I… Thank you."

"Of course." Jonah smiles, genuine in a way Jon finds suspicious. He narrows his eyes at him, but doesn't press the subject. 

"I've already begun the process of getting you hired. Your information is in the company system, and all that's left is to get your signature on the relevant documents." He pulls more papers from the folder, and places them in front of Jon on the desk, grabbing a pen from Elias's pencil cup. "You'll know where to sign." He holds out the pen.

Jon takes the pen, and stares Jonah down. Jonah tilts his head slightly in response. Jon doesn't beat around the bush.

"How exactly are you planning on funding this Institute?"

Jonah tilts his head back with a pleased sigh. "I was planning using a mix of personal and company funds."

"How involved are you going to be with the Institute's founding on paper?"

Jonah gives a defeated smile. "The plan was to put everything in your name, as Elias wasn't previously interested in this field."

Jon scoffs.

"So your plan was to hire me as a bookkeeper, and then misappropriate company funds to an organization run entirely under my name?"

Jonah laughs, running a hand through his hair as the third compulsion washes over him. "Yes, Jon, that was the plan."

"You're unbelievable."

"Well-" Jonah starts.

"Did you expect me to just not notice?" Jon cuts him off, standing from his chair. "Are you trying to organize some kind of sabotage? Is this a bloody revenge scheme over me ruining your little apocalypse?"

Jon uses his compulsions vindictively, and Jonah is almost panting at the back to back questions. Jon almost regrets pushing so far when the other man moans before giving his answer.

"It was only meant to be a backup plan," he says, raggedly. "I wanted a personal safety net in case others in the company discovered the misuse of funds." He takes a deep breath before continuing. "There isn't a Lukas family in this universe to manipulate donations out of… If we lose Elias's resources, we lose everything."

"You mean you lose everything?" There's no reason to keep compelling him, but it feels good to make Jonah lose his composure. To watch him squirm under Jon's scrutiny. To have power over him, for once.

Jonah moans again, leaning back in his chair. "Yes, Jon." He sighs deeply. "Yes, that's what I meant." He chuckles, looking at Jon with half lidded eyes and a wide grin. "Are you enjoying yourself, Archivist?" He asks it like he's savouring every word, lingering on Jon's title.

Jon can't stop himself from shuddering at the echo of his own words from earlier. He feels his face flushing and knows he needs to stop.

Jonah's breathing is still heavy. Ragged. His hair is slightly mussed from running his hand through it, and he looks up at Jon with an unreadable expression. Satisfaction… Fear… Veneration…

It takes Jon far too long to make himself look away.

He sits back down, ignoring the potent weight of Jonah's stare to flip through the employment contract. Luckily, he only needs to skim it to have all the relevant information deposited in his mind. It's a standard company contract, with no questionable fine print made for Jon specifically.

Jon considers his options carefully. Jonah has already given him forged papers for himself and Martin. He's got them a flat, that's likely paid for for at least the next month, if not more. The reason Jon had agreed to this at all was to obtain those things, and now he has them without having signed anything. He could walk out of this office right now.

He looks up to see Jonah watching him. His gaze locks onto Jon's own the moment Jon looks up, his steely grey eyes piercing through him. Jonah says nothing of his considerations. No attempt to manipulate or coerce him into signing. It's a silent acknowledgement that Jon really could walk away if he wanted to, and a show of confidence that he will do no such thing.

Jon signs without breaking eye contact.

"Everything to do with our research and archiving is going to be under both of our names." He flips through the papers, signing initials where they're needed. "If you break that rule, I will refuse to cooperate with anything outside the description of the job outlined in this contract." He signs the last page, and pushes the papers across the desk. Jonah smiles with satisfaction.

"Fair enough."

Chapter Text

Martin gets back to the hotel room around six thirty. Jon is still out, and Martin is an absolute bundle of nerves.

He tries to read one of the books they borrowed from the library, but can't focus on it. His mind keeps wandering to Jon. How he's facing Jonah alone, subject to whatever vicious attempts at manipulation and coercion the man has up his sleeve, all for basic economic stability.

Martin hopes it's really about economic stability.

He keeps thinking of the way Jon was after the Change. Trekking through the fearscape, disparaging all he saw alongside Martin, but failing to fully hide the awe he seemed to feel looking upon the world he'd been forced to create. He thinks of Jared Hoppworth's accusation that Jon found that horrific, disgusting garden as beautiful as he did, and the way Jon told him to shut up without even bothering to deny it. He thinks of the way Jon looked at Jonah Magnus in the Panopticon when they first arrived, the wonder and envy in his expression. He thinks of earlier that day, when Jon opened up, how he talked about being the pupil of the Eye like he missed it, despite everything.

Martin doesn't know how much of this is actually Jon needing an archive, and how much is him giving in to feeding on the terror of others like it's an addiction. He tells himself that it's fine, that it'll be better anyway for Jon to have written statements again than to have to take them live from others. Jonah being involved is bad, but maybe they can handle him. He doesn't have a ritual to plan anymore, and Jon is stronger than he was before. Maybe things can be better this time.

It's past eight by the time Jon gets back, and Martin springs up off the hotel bed to greet him.

"Jon!"

"Martin!" He smiles with what looks like relief as he comes in the door. Martin pauses for a moment to take in what he's looking at.

Jon is holding a folder filled with papers under his arm, with a restaurant to-go box in hand. He toes off his shoes after closing the door, and they're not his combat boots, but a pair of shiny black oxfords. He's wearing an expensive-looking suit, with a bright blue jacket. It looks really good on him, definitely his colour, but… What? It takes a moment for the realisation to hit that it isn't just the suit making him look good either, his skin and eyes are radiant . He's practically glowing. Metaphorically, not in a spooky haunted way. Though, thinking about it…

"Did he give you another statement?" Martin asks. Jon looks at the floor. "That's not an accusation!" Martin rushes to clarify. "I was just- You look good." He clears his throat. "What's, uh… What's with the suit?" Jon deflates slightly at the mention.

"Let's start with the good news," Jon says, tiredly. He puts the to-go box in the fridge before sitting cross legged on the hotel bed. Martin sits beside him as he opens the folder, and takes out two stacks of papers.

"These are our forged documents." He smiles a bit at that, grabbing one of the stacks and starting to flip through it. "This is everything you'd need to get a job, rent a flat, open a bank account, whatever. It's even got a forged CV."

Martin takes the papers and flips through them. Government documents, a GCSE, a university diploma in library sciences, a CV listing jobs at various libraries and an archive, with references. There's also a typed up page describing his new life story. Most of it is more or less accurate to his real life, with only details about his employment and education history having been changed.

"This is… Jonah made this?"

"Yes," Jon nods. "I have one too."

"So… Wait, so we can use these to get other jobs! You don't have to…" He trails off as Jon's face falls.

"I signed the contract Martin," he murmurs. "It's…" He trails off.

"It's a good entry point," Martin finishes for him. "You work for him as long as you need to, and I'll work on accumulating enough money to support you through another job search." He flips back through the papers. "God, real jobs! We can get a flat, clothes-"

"Oh!" Jon interrupts. Martin looks up at him. "We, uh…" He falters, looking like he's trying to figure out how to phrase what he wants to say. "We've already got a flat. He- Jonah got us a flat."

"He what?" Martin blinks. "Why would… Why?"

Jon shrugs. "Honestly, I'm not entirely sure. But it's a nice place, and I think he already paid an advance on the rent. Though he'll probably take it out of my salary…"

"What exactly…" Now Martin pauses to try to phrase things. "What happened? Tonight?"

Jon sighs, bringing a hand to his temples.

"He sent a cab to pick me up, but instead of the restaurant he said he'd reserved, the driver took me to a block of flats. Jonah was waiting outside, and wouldn't tell me what was going on until I followed him to a flat on the second floor, which he said was my flat, that he'd got ready for us for when I started work." Jon sighs and rolls his eyes. "The plan was to go from there to the restaurant, and he made a fuss about how 'high end' it was, and how I needed to wear something more 'appropriate.'"

Martin looks him up and down again.

"That's what the suit is about?"

"Yes," Jon says with a sigh, shaking his head. "He wasn't lying about the restaurant at least, I don't think they'd have let me in in my other clothes." He mutters something under his breath about Jonah being a 'pretentious prick.'

"What happened at the restaurant?" Martin asks, instead of voicing any of his thoughts about how weird and creepy Jonah is for making Jon change into some suit he just had on hand.

"Well, we discussed the Fears and their manifestations in this world, and our half-formed hypotheses about the similarities and differences compared to our own. When I made him tell me why we were even at a restaurant to begin with, he said he wanted to 'test my appetite' for normal food." He gestures defeatedly at the fridge where he'd put the to-go box. "He was evidently correct in his suspicion that I don't… have one anymore."

Martin swallows the lump in his throat at the spoken confirmation of what they've been tiptoeing around for a week and a half.

"Not at all?" he asks.

"No," Jon responds. "I try to force it, but… eating feels disgusting, and it doesn't feel like I'm gaining anything from it. Just putting myself through discomfort, trying to cling to a normalcy I can't really achieve."

Martin nods slowly, trying to process the realisation that his boyfriend is so far from being human that he can't eat. Jon continues talking, after a moment.

"Anyway, we went back to his office after that. Elias's office," he corrects himself. "He… He did give me another statement when we got there. Another associate of Elias's, who had an experience with the Vast. Jonah didn't seem to have anything to do with it. Blamed the Web when I commented on the convenience."

Martin hums, unconvinced.

"After that we just did paperwork, and went over what the job would entail…" Jon stares down at his lap for a moment before continuing. "He's a bastard, and had a contingency plan that involved implicating me for fraud, but-" 

"Implicating you for fraud?" Martin echoes, in disbelief. "Jon-"

"It's fine, I…" He pauses again, biting his lip. "...I told him off for it, essentially, and made it clear that I wouldn't cooperate with anything of the sort. We shouldn't have to worry about it."

"Jon…"

"It's alright Martin, it's- Really, it's fine."

Martin frowns, but waits for Jon to continue.

"It's a bookkeeping job on paper, and I will be doing some of that, but a lot of it will be external assignments related to the Fears. Without a, um, reputation, like the Magnus Institute had, we're going to need to be more active with finding statement givers, and tracking how the powers manifest, as it isn't likely to be exactly the same as in our original world. Even with the three statements I've already taken, I'm noticing differences in regards to the speed and intensity of the manifestations…"

"Is the plan for you to take statements from people directly?" Martin asks, concern showing in his voice.

"I- well," Jon stammers. "To a point, yes, it's not-"

"And you're just okay with doing that?" Martin interjects. "Taking someone's statement gives them nightmares permanently, Jon! You can't just-"

"I know, I know." Jon puts his face in his hands. "I'm sorry, Martin, I just…" He takes a deep breath, putting his hands back in his lap. "I… I could try to convince Jonah to take written statements from people I find-"

"He won't," Martin scoffs. He regrets his tone when Jon shrinks on himself slightly. "He won't get his hands dirty with… field work, like that, especially if he wants you to be taking statements in person. And I honestly don't think we could trust him not to make the experience traumatic for people in his own way." Martin pauses, considering his next words carefully.

"I'll help you collect statements, Jon," he says, eventually. "I want to do whatever I can to help you, and that includes making sure you don't hurt people." Jon looks away, shrinking further. "I know you aren't doing it because you want to, and that you need statements, but there are ways to go about this that will reduce the harm you cause to people. It'll be good to have someone there to help keep your… avatar tendencies in check."

"Martin…"

"I don't want you to be in this alone, Jon. I've been your assistant before, and I want to help."

Martin reaches a hand over to cup Jon's cheek, turning his face towards him. He falters when their eyes meet, Jon's gaze burning into his like he's looking straight at the sun. Giving up on eye contact, he pulls Jon into an embrace.

Jon doesn't put his arms around Martin, but he leans into the embrace, burying his head into the crook of Martin's neck. Martin starts stroking Jon's hair, and they stay like that for a while, in silence.

Martin can't deny that he's happy to finally be checking out of the hotel. The last couple weeks have been nothing but stress, conflict, and shitty microwave dinners. He's looking forward to having a flat, with multiple rooms and a real kitchen, that they'll be able to live in without worrying whether they can afford to stay another week. As much as Martin hates the corner that Jonah's backed them into, he can't bring himself to be properly upset about the flat.

They barely have any belongings to worry about taking with them. Their limited wardrobes and the library books they still have out all fit in the plastic bags they got from the charity shop. They bring the tape recorder that appeared in the hotel room as well, just to have one in case they need it. Jon ends up wearing the suit again, both because he left his jacket and boots at the flat last night, and because the blazer would have been harder to fit in the plastic bag than the other things he had from the shop. He also somewhat sheepishly admits that the suit is quite comfortable.

They have enough cash left to pay for a cab to the flat, but not enough to leave a very good tip, regrettably. The building is nicer than Martin expected, in a richer part of the city not far from where Elias lived. Jon mentioned earlier that it was relatively close to the office he'd be working at. He leads Martin up the stairs to the second floor, unlocking the door with one of the keys Jonah gave him.

The interior of the flat is generic, but sort of homely. There are blankets hung over the two sofas, basic art that you could buy at a department store hung on the walls. Martin wonders if the furnishings just came with the flat. The kitchen and living room are connected, with a hallway leading back to a few different doors. Martin notices Jon's combat boots sitting off to the side near the door. Jon is immediately drawn to a black box on the living room coffee table.

"What's that?" Martin asks, as Jon picks it up.

"It wasn't here last night…" he says, removing the lid. "Huh…"

"What?" Martin walks over to peer into the box. "Oh. Huh…"

There are two new-looking smartphones inside. They look to be the same model, with one in grey and one in rose gold. Martin picks up the rose gold phone, turning it over in his hand. It has the Apple logo on the back.

"Are these iPhones?" he asks, as Jon begins inspecting the grey phone. "They look a bit different…" The camera is in the middle of the phone instead of off to the side, and the on/off button is on the top of the phone instead of the side. It also has a headphone jack, which is a plus in Martin's book.

"I suppose…" Jon says, sounding unsure. Martin snorts.

"Forgot you had an Android," he says, with a teasing tone.

"It was very reliable," Jon says, defensively.

"I'm not arguing," Martin puts his hands up in mock surrender. "Do they even have Samsung here?"

Jon stops to think, eyes gleaming slightly. "Yes, they do. Though, they went a slightly different direction with their smartphone line… Less successful on the market."

"Huh…" Martin wonders half-interestedly who Apple's main smartphone competitors are here if not Google and Samsung, but doesn't care enough to press the topic.

He turns on the phone to find all the default iPhone apps. He opens and closes a few of them, unsure of what exactly he's looking for.

"Did he just… Give us phones?" Martin asks, bemused.

"Does yours have anything in the notes app?" Jon questions.

"Uh…" Martin opens the notes app. "No, nothing. Does yours?"

"Yes."

Martin frowns, looking over Jon's shoulder to read the note.

Hello, Jon.

I thought it was a good idea to ensure we have a means of contacting each other outside of the workplace. You'll see I've provided a phone for Martin as well. My work and cell numbers are in both of your contact lists.

Don't worry about cell service payments, I'll be deducting them from your pay automatically.

See you soon,

Elias Bouchard

Martin scoffs when he's finished reading. "Yet another dick move from Jonah to only leave a message on your phone." He seethes a bit at the fact that Jonah is familiar enough with their aesthetic preferences to have set this up knowing which phones they'd take.

"Indeed," Jon remarks, opening the contacts app. It has both of Jonah's numbers as described, in addition to Martin's and a company number. Martin opens his contacts to see that he has the same, but with Jon's number.

"Well," Jon says, putting his phone in his trouser pocket, and holding up the plastic bag in his hand. "I'm going to put these away in the bedroom."

Martin nods, and follows Jon back to the hallway, where there are four doors. Three of them are ajar, showing that they lead to a bedroom, a bathroom, and what looks like a home office. Jon goes straight to the bedroom, and Martin tests the fourth door, to find that it's just a hall closet.

When Martin enters the bedroom, Jon already has the dresser open, and is folding the clothes from his bag to put in it. Martin furrows his brows as he gets closer and sees that the drawers already have clothes in them. Jon sees his questioning look and rolls his eyes.

"I thought it was just what's in the closet, but apparently the flat comes with a fully stocked wardrobe. All in my size..." He adds the last bit somewhat apologetically.

Martin opens the closet to see a whole collection of suits. "He just… Bought you a bunch of clothes?" Jon gives an annoyed grunt in response, shutting the dresser drawer.

"Apparently," he says with a sigh. "I suppose I can't say it's inconvenient to not have to buy clothes for work…"

"That doesn't make it less creepy," Martin remarks, looking through the suits.

Jon just shrugs.

"I mean… at least we don't have to worry about budgeting for new clothes?" Martin puts forward.

Jon snorts. "He already told me he's deducting the cost from my paycheck."

"What?" Martin blinks at him. "He custom picked your entire wardrobe, and is making you pay for it?"

Jon shrugs again.

Martin grunts wordlessly, thoughts once again swirling with commentary about what a prick Jonah is, that he decides would be best kept to himself.

He looks around the room, taking in more of the details. Like the living room, it's fairly generic. He wouldn't be surprised if most of the furniture came from Ikea, or whatever this universe's equivalent is. He pauses when he notices several eye-themed decorations placed around the room.

"Uh, Jon," he says, not taking his eyes off a small poster on the wall with a big eye in the centre. "Do you remember how you said Gertrude thought Jonah could see through any image of an eye?"

Jon doesn't say anything, and Martin turns to see him staring off into space with that faint glow in his eyes. Eventually he blinks, and furrows his brows.

"He can't do that here," he says, definitively. "He… He's actually a lot weaker in this world, without the Panopticon. He's still an avatar, still has powers, but they're nowhere near what they were…"

"Oh," Martin responds. "That's good."

"Yes…" Jon looks lost in thought.

"Will…" Martin treads carefully. "Will creating a new institute help him gain that power back?"

"Definitely not all of it." Jon brings a hand to his chin. "Without the Panopticon he'll never be able to have the sight he used to."

"So should we be concerned about his extensive real estate connections then?" Jon doesn't respond. "Or the fact that he literally helped design the original Panopticon, and would know exactly how to rebuild it?"

Jon bites his lip, his eyes glowing faintly again. "The Bouchards have no connections with prisons. There's no way he could get such a controversial design approved with no reputation or connections in the area."

"And how do we know he won't try to build something else? Some other monstrosity of Fear architecture?"

"I won't let that happen," Jon says, firmly. "I'm going to be working closely with him, and I'll make sure he doesn't try anything."

"How can you ensure that, Jon? You were working with him before too, and he still…" Martin cuts himself off early, but they both know where he was going with that. Jon tenses, fists clenching.

"This isn't going to be like that," Jon says, sharply. "I'm stronger than him now, and I would never let that happen again."

"You didn't want to 'let it to happen' the first time either!" Martin resists the urge to wince as Jon flinches slightly at his words. "Jonah Magnus is dangerous, Jon! Even if you think you're in control, it's not worth the risk!"

"Well, what else am I supposed to do?" Jon retorts. Now Martin flinches as Jon looks him in the eyes, his gaze sharp and piercing, tearing through him. Martin looks away quickly, and Jon does the same, staring at the clothes in his lap. Neither of them say anything for a while.

"I'm worried about this, Jon," Martin says, eventually. "I'm worried about you, and I'm… I'm worried about the people that this is going to end up hurting."

Jon doesn't say anything, just staring at the folded shirt in his lap.

"Just… Please be careful, Jon. Please."

Jon looks towards Martin, not directly at him. "Okay."

There's another moment of drawn out silence before Martin speaks again.

"I'm… I'm going to go in the other room. Work on getting through that poetry book."

"Right."

"…I love you."

"I love you too," Jon answers, without looking up.

Martin retreats to the living room, sitting on the sofa to stare at the pages of his book without reading them.

It scares him how willing Jon is to overlook things like this. Glaring opportunities for Jonah to swoop in and regain the same power he once used to plunge the entire world into horror and fear. The horrifying realities of the people he could hurt in pursuit of an archive. For someone who knows and sees so much, Jon seems to have this massive blindspot when it comes to absolutely anything that will feed the Eye. Martin supposes maybe that's the point.

It's so nice to be out of the hotel, but fuck are the circumstances bad. Jonah forcing himself into their lives once again, trying to keep his hold on Jon as a tool for his plans, whatever they may be now. It makes Martin sick just to think about it, and Jon is just playing right into his hand with the promise of statements. It's like they're the only thing driving him anymore. Damn everyone else, if he can just get his statements.

Martin mentally chides himself for being unfair to Jon. He never asked for this, it isn't his fault that he's dependent on statements. It's Jonah's fault. Jonah who has just wormed his way back into having power over both of them. Who Martin needs to do everything he can to protect Jon from, despite not even being able to keep Jon away from him anymore. Who will now be around Jon almost daily for the foreseeable future.

Martin closes the book and buries his face in his hands.

Chapter Text

The days between moving into the flat and Jon starting work could, to a certain extent, be described as pleasant. Definitely better than being at the hotel. Martin is vocally thrilled to have a full kitchen, and the cupboard was lightly stocked when they'd arrived, so he had been able to cook from scratch right away. He's continued working for Clarisse and her friend, Thom, and is applying for jobs elsewhere with his forged CV. It's nice to have more places to lounge than the bed and single uncomfortable chair that the hotel room had to offer. The sofas in the flat are quite nice, and the office has a comfortable chair that Jon likes to read in.

Perhaps more noticeable than the pleasantness, though, is a thick and constant air of tension in the flat. Jon can tell Martin is upset about Jon not being able to eat his cooking, even though he denies it. Jon dodges every attempt to discuss work in any capacity. Martin doesn't like that Jon won't let him throw out the weird eye decor Jonah left in the flat, insisting on putting it in storage instead. Neither of them openly acknowledge the way Jon is getting slightly more lethargic every day. The tension gets worse and the eggshells more difficult to walk on as Jon's first day of work approaches.

He leaves early on Monday, to try to be one of the first at the office. Leftover habit from the archives, he supposes. Martin is obviously upset and uneasy about him going in, but doesn't voice it. He wishes Jon good luck, and Jon thanks him before heading out.

The office is only about a ten minute walk from the flat. When he gets there, there are two people he doesn't recognise in the main office area. They both look at him as he enters.

"Er, hello," he says. He abruptly realises how long it's been since he's had to navigate social situations in a normal workplace. He reaches out his left hand towards one of the two people in front of him, to avoid drawing attention to the burns on his right. "Jonathan Sims. I'm the new bookkeeper, today is my first day."

"Ah, nice to meet you, Mr. Sims," the man replies, shaking Jon's hand firmly. "Can I call you Jon?" Jon nods, and the man smiles. "I'm Neil, I'm a data analyst. This is Cathy, she's in sales."

"Nice to meet you," Cathy shakes Jon's hand as well, less firmly. Jon is suddenly aware that Neil is left handed, and Cathy is not. "You're the bookkeeper Mr. Bouchard mentioned?"

"Yes, I would assume so," he answers, wondering what on earth Jonah has told them. 

Jon resists the urge to adjust his collar as he notices Cathy's eyes keep darting to his neck like she's trying not to look. Most of his scars aren't easily visible, apart from the worm scars, which can pass as some kind of skin condition. Unfortunately, the scar Daisy gave him is too high on his neck to be properly hidden without a turtleneck.

Jon hears a door open across the room, and the three of them turn to see Jonah exiting Elias's office. It's the second time Jon has seen him actively pretending to be this universe's Elias, and it's not any less strange than the first time. The plain grey suit and black tie seem so wrong on him. Nothing slightly old fashioned, no half hidden eye designs, no waistcoat even. Jon wonders if frustration over his own lack of control of his clothing choices is what led to him start micromanaging Jon's. The thought unfortunately reminds him to be self conscious of the fact that Jonah personally picked out everything he's currently wearing.

"Ah, Jonathan," Jonah says, with a bland smile. "You're here early." Jon tries his hardest to mask his irritation at the use of his full first name.

"Jon, please," he says, attempting to bury his annoyance under a professional tone. "I wanted to get here a bit early so I could make sure everything is in order, and clear things with you before your time is otherwise occupied with your plans for the day."

"Of course," he responds, dully. "I've left everything you should need to get started on your desk," he gestures towards a desk near a large window, "including the temporary password for your computer, and instructions on how to reset it, in case you need them."

"Thank you, Elias." Irritating as it is to have to pretend that Jonah isn't Jonah, it's very easy to slip back into calling him Elias in a work environment. He's feeling mildly satisfied with himself for this ease, when he notices Neil and Cathy both looking at him strangely.

"Cathy," Jonah says, drawing everyone's attention back to him, "please follow up on the contract negotiation for the Richmond development, and let me know when you hear back from Mr. Greenwich about the building codes."

"Of course, Mr. Bouchard," she replies. She continues, explaining what the current state of negotiations was like, but Jon loses focus completely at the realisation that this isn't an office where people are on a first name basis with the boss. Jonah's bland poker face is airtight, but Jon can feel the smug amusement radiating off of him. Jon realises he's missed some back and forth between Jonah and Cathy as Jonah turns to him.

"I'll be out for most of the day for a meeting, but we can talk at the end of the day to review your work."

"Of course." Jon nods, gritting his teeth between sentences. "Thank you, Mr. Bouchard."

Jonah smiles politely and nods at Neil and Cathy before turning back to his office. Jon avoids eye contact with his coworkers and goes straight to his desk to start work.

Despite his lack of experience in finance, Jon finds bookkeeping surprisingly easy. He had been reading a book on basic accounting that Jonah left in the office of the flat, but was still expecting a bit of a learning curve when he actually got here. It mostly consists of recording and organizing information, though, which is obviously his area of expertise. It's not as fulfilling as archiving is, but it scratches the itch he's been feeling to document and sort things again. He doesn't notice other employees filtering into the office as the morning continues, and finds the hours go by quickly, though not without distraction.

Jon has a clear view of the street below from his desk, and repeatedly fails to stop himself from staring at passersby. He means to draw his attention away after a while each time, but never follows through quickly enough. The person he's watching will rub the back of their neck and look over their shoulder, knowing that they're being watched, and searching anxiously for the source of the feeling. Jon is certain Jonah gave him a desk with a street view on purpose, and resents him for how right it feels.

Around noon, a stretch of Jon's inappropriate staring is interrupted by an unfamiliar coworker coming over to his desk, startling him slightly as he begins to speak.

"Hey new guy! Jon, was it?" Jon nods. "We all usually take our lunch around now at the café down the street. You in? I'm Rob, by the way."

Jon thinks of Tim. He used to try to lure Jon out of his shell with offers like this, back in Research. Before everything. His heart aches at the reminder.

"Uh, no. No thank you, I'm not hungry. I was just going to keep working." Judging by Rob's expression, this was the wrong answer. "Maybe I'll grab something later, I mean-"

"Mate," he rests a hand on Jon's desk, voice taking on a sincere quality that makes Jon's guard immediately go up. "I know how it feels to want to prove yourself at a new job, make a good impression. But you need to eat, and the work will be here when you get back. Come on, it'll be good to get to know the team."

Jon grimaces slightly, staring at his computer screen. He does not need to eat, nor is he interested in acquainting himself with anyone. But a look around the office shows everyone else mingling and preparing to leave, and he doesn't want to single himself out.

"Alright, yes," he says with a sigh. "Let me just finish up here."

"There you go, mate!" Rob slaps the desk where his hand was resting, making Jon jump a bit, before going back to talk to someone else.

Jon continues what he was working on briefly, before putting a pin in it and joining the group heading out to lunch. Neil and Cathy greet him when he joins, but afterwards he just observes the conversations amongst others on the way to the café.

It seems like a fairly nice café, at first. It's only a short walk from the office in that nice area of London, and the exterior and decor of the place create an appearance of quality. But the closer Jon looks, the more he notices that makes it all seem less nice. The food all seems of passable quality, but the Eye lets Jon know that it's all pre-made, reheated in microwaves. Everything anyone buys is served to them in disposable plastic, be it a plastic sandwich bag, a clear plastic takeaway box, or unnecessary cling wrap. They even pour bottled sodas into disposable plastic cups before giving them to customers. It all seems ridiculously wasteful. They don't even have a recycle bin.

 Despite both not needing to eat, and being aware of the facade of the food's quality, Jon is obligated by social pressure to buy something he can pretend to eat. He gets a bottle of water and a croissant, which they give to him in a little plastic bag.

There are a little over half a dozen people in their group, and they sit in a cluster of a few tables near the back. Rob makes a comment about his croissant when he sits down, and he lies about having eaten a large breakfast. He forces small bites here and there to dissuade suspicion. It's not like anyone is going to figure out he's an avatar of a dark Power, but propagating rumours that he's anorexic or some such is the last thing he needs. He's mostly able to stay out of the conversations of his coworkers, and finds himself observing other patrons in the café.

Most of the customers seem to be taking breaks from work, similar to Jon. There are others with laptops that Jon assumes are students. One in particular catches Jon's eye; a young woman with bleached, damaged hair cropped short, typing speedily, and sipping from an iced coffee with her gaze fixed on her computer. Jon senses something off about her, knows that she's being influenced by some Dread Power, but finds that he can't quite place it. The feeling of uncertainty throws Jon off severely. He hasn't been unable to immediately tell something like this since before the Change.

His thoughts are cut off by a hand tapping his shoulder. He flinches slightly, turning sharply towards the person beside him.

"Alright, mate?" Cathy blinks at him, caught almost as off guard as Jon by his reaction.

"Yes, sorry," he clears his throat. "Zoned out, I suppose." He hopes he's coming off as awkward and introverted rather than creepy, and feels a dreadful sense of deja vu for his horrible experience with work outings at the Institute before his transfer to the archives.

"Ah, well," she continues, "I was going to ask if you knew Mr. Bouchard before you started working here?"

"No," Jon lies, proud of how neutral he keeps his expression. "Why?"

Cathy hummed, looking slightly disappointed. "You just seemed sort of familiar with him earlier, that's all." She glances at Neil, whose expression is difficult to read. "We were just saying he's been acting a bit off the last few weeks, and thought you may have some insight."

"Oh." Jon frowns. "Well, I wouldn't really know… Off how?" Cathy bites her lip, and Neil chimes in across the table.

"He's been acting a lot more standoffish," he says, brows furrowed. "He's been a lot more… impersonal with everyone, I guess. He always used to say we were like a family or a team at the office, and chat with people about his life outside of work fairly regularly. He's got a lot more hands-off lately, and isn't going beyond work talk or basic smalltalk with anyone."

Less than two weeks and people are already picking up on something being off with Jonah. Jon tries to think on his feet, mentally combing through the fabricated life story that Jonah concocted for him. He makes an executive decision to take some creative liberties that Jonah can help him iron out later, as a thank you for covering his arse.

"Well…" he starts, rubbing the back of his neck with his hand. "I don't know if I should say anything, but I did meet him once previously, through someone I used to work for."

"Oh?" Cathy leans forward slightly, interest clearly piqued. Neil is listening intently from the other side of the table too.

"We weren't well acquainted or anything, but he was a friend of my old boss, Marcus Yang. It seemed like they were close…" Jon takes a deep breath, lowering his voice as he continues. "I heard last week from an old coworker that Mr. Yang and his wife are both missing." Cathy covers her mouth with her hand and Neil raises his eyebrows in surprise. "No one has seen either of them in two weeks."

"Oh my god." Cathy drops her hand to her chest, clutching at non-existent pearls.

"Yes…" Jon pauses before his next sentence. "I'd imagine being so worried about a friend like that could make a person seem… off."

"That does explain the distant energy," Neil says, with a look of concerned dismay.

"Oh my god…" Cathy repeats.

"Yes." Jon clears his throat. "You heard none of this from me, for the record. I try to stay out of workplace politics when possible, but I… I don't want people drawing the wrong conclusions about a person when there's something like this going on behind the scenes…"

"Of course! We completely understand." Cathy puts a sympathetic hand on Jon's shoulder, which Jon manages to avoid tensing under. "Thank you for letting us know. Horrible to hear, but it does make sense."

"Yes, well… I'm glad I could clear things up, at least."

Neil nods, and Cathy hums in agreement. They go quiet for a few minutes before starting a more lighthearted conversation that Jon tunes out.

The woman across the café has continued her work on her computer, paying no mind to her surroundings. Jon focuses a bit harder on her, trying to place her Fear connection more clearly. It feels like the End, but somewhat… off? He senses a hint of Corruption, a hint of Stranger, a hint of Desolation… but it seems unlikely that one person could have encountered all four in what little time they've even been present in this universe.

The woman suddenly stops typing, her eyes focused on a static point in the middle of her screen. She furrows her eyebrows as she jerks her head up to make eye contact with Jon. Jon realises what he was missing as soon as she meets his eyes.

It's Extinction.

The eye contact is broken quickly when an obstacle moves between them across the table. Jon looks up and sees that it's Rob. The others at the table are all getting ready to leave. None of them seem to have noticed his staring, luckily, and he gets up with them, wrapping his nearly untouched croissant in a napkin to discreetly throw in the bin on the way out. He moves with the flow of his coworkers out the door, glancing back at the woman with the computer to see her still staring at him. He leaves the café with two conflicting trains of thought.

The first is a hope that this person doesn't become a problem for him. The Not!Them and the Hunters' attack on the Institute feels fresh in his memory after looking into that woman's eyes, and he hopes what he saw in her was not the animosity he worries it was.

The second is borderline excitement at having found a possible lead to a statement already. Not even just any statement, but such a novel one. The Extinction. He wonders if Jonah knew she would be here, if she frequents this café. He decides to bring it up at the end of the work day.

Jon is able to get back to his desk without being pulled into any more conversations, and works the rest of the day without incident. Jonah gets back late from his meeting, about an hour before the end of the work day. He comes to Jon's desk about twenty minutes before everyone is scheduled to leave.

"Ah, Mr. Bouchard," Jon says, trying to act like someone who's intimidated by his new boss, rather than someone who's vexed by… whatever Jonah is to him at this point. 

"Hello, Jon," Jonah replies with a smile. Jon loathes the way he says those words, the way they sound just like they did in Jon's own voice. "Is now a good time to go over everything?"

"Ah, yes." Jon saves and closes the document he has open. "Of course."

"Good, good." He steps back, giving Jon space to come around the desk, and starts back towards his office as Jon follows.

"Well, then," Jonah says, sitting down as Jon shuts his office door. "Any questions or problems with the actual bookkeeping aspect of everything?"

"No, the book you left in the flat was more than enough preparation. It's essentially financial archiving."

Jonah hums in agreement, gesturing for Jon to sit down. He does.

"That is why I selected the role for you. Have you been having any trouble with Excel?" Jon shakes his head. "It's a bit different here. Functionally the same, but organised differently. I prefer it this way, personally, but it can take a while to get used to-"

"Shut up," Jon says, curtly. "I don't care what you think about Excel. Do you know about the woman with the bleached hair and the computer at the café?"

Jonah takes a moment to resist the compulsion, like he always does, before answering with a sigh. "I believe I know who you're referring to, but I'm not aware of her significance."

"Really?" Jon asks, with genuine surprise. Jonah furrows his brows.

"Really." He leans forwards in his chair. "Why do you ask?"

"I sensed the Powers on her, but couldn't tell which one was affecting her at first. It seemed… Muddy. Eventually we made eye contact and I realised it was the Extinction."

"The Extinction?" Jonah's expression is a mix of confusion and incredulity.

"Yes," Jon answers, definitively. "I didn't recognise it at first, because I'd never seen it manifest before, outside of a single domain, post-Change."

Jonah hums with what sounds like a deep concern, steepling his hands in front of his face, considering.

"This person didn't seem like a victim either," Jon continues. "She seemed on the path to becoming an avatar."

"That… is worrying."

"What? Why?"

"That strong a manifestation of a newly emerging Power is not a good sign." Jonah leans back again in his chair. "Especially considering this is the closest thing to a native avatar we've encountered here, so far."

"Since when do you consider the Extinction any kind of threat?"

Jonah laughs. "Since I've had to live in a world where its emergence isn't preceded by our grand ritual. I'm not anticipating the sort of cataclysmic event that Peter was, but I'm not naive enough to think its full manifestation won't have serious consequences." He keeps eye contact with Jon as he continues. "I'm old enough to have witnessed the emergence of the Flesh as an independent power firsthand. It was a beautiful thing to behold, the rise of such a new and alien variety of fear, but it also led to some very dangerous manifestations, and was much more unpredictable than the other Powers that had had more time to develop."

Jon listens raptly to Jonah's vague description. He had known logically that Jonah Magnus was around during the same period of time that the Flesh first emerged, but he had never really put two and two together before to realise that someone so close to him had direct experience with the birth of one of the Powers. He doesn't even notice the compulsion on the tip of his tongue until Jonah smiles and holds a hand up towards him.

"Perhaps I'll give you that statement another time, Archivist."

Jon hates the way Jonah says that word. The fondness in his voice as he draws attention to Jon's inhumanity. Through the frustration, though, Jon does recognise that it would be quite a bad time to take a statement from him. There are still more than half a dozen other people on the other side of the door, and Jon doesn't actually need another statement yet. He's barely started to feel withdrawal effects after the last one, he'll be fine for a while longer. He suppresses the urge to ask by changing the subject.

"My coworkers are already suspicious of you, by the way," he says, bluntly. Jonah's amused expression quickly falls into a controlled neutrality.

"How so?" he asks.

"You're doing a rather poor job of imitating this universe's Elias. Neil and Cathy asked if I knew you before starting here, to see if I had any insight as to why you'd been acting differently."

Jonah gives a low hum, keeping his expression static as he waits for Jon to continue.

"I ended up having to deviate from your cover story to try to explain it away." He catches Jonah's brow twitch at that, but continues regardless. "I told them I used to work for Marcus Yang, met you once as a friend of his, and then recently heard about his disappearance from an old coworker." Jonah's lips press into a thin line. "They seemed convinced that worry for a friend was a reasonable explanation for the change in behaviour."

Jonah nods at that, looking deep in thought. He lets out a frustrated sigh. "Impersonating someone is considerably more difficult when you haven't had time to study them prior. I will admit that I was, perhaps, unprepared to take on this level of deception."

"Bit of an understatement," Jon snarks.

"Yes, well." Jonah straightens in his seat, smoothing the wrinkles in his shirt. "Thank you for covering for me, Jon."

"Um, yeah." Jon is caught off guard by the sincerity in Jonah's tone. "People being suspicious of you doesn't exactly benefit me." He tries to inject an attitude into the words, but Jonah just smiles at him.

"True enough," he replies. "I appreciate it nonetheless."

Jon scowls in response as Jonah turns on his desktop computer.

"Now, I have a few things to wrap up before the end of the day," Jonah says, eyes on the screen. Jon takes this as his cue to leave, and stands from his chair. "We can meet again on Friday to discuss your work performance, and also our… external affairs."

"Right," Jon responds, instead of asking him why he had to phrase it like that. He starts towards the door.

"Do give Martin my regards," Jonah calls after him, flatly.

Jon turns around to glare at him. He still doesn't look away from his screen. Jon knows him well enough to recognise his vaguely disinterested expression as a mask, but isn't entirely sure what it's hiding.

"I will not," Jon says, petulantly, as he leaves the room. He hears Jonah hum mildly behind him before he shuts the door.

Chapter Text

Martin has been working since about noon. First cleaning for Clarisse's friend Thom, which took about four hours total, then cooking for Clarisse, which took another two. At first it had been nice to get out of the house, to be distracted from his anxiety spiral about Jon working with Jonah again, but by a certain point in the late afternoon, all he could think about was that Jon should be back at the flat by now, and Martin is stuck with this elderly woman until she finishes her dinner. Clarisse is a perfectly pleasant lady, and he certainly appreciates her company, but he wants nothing more right now than to go home to Jon.

When she finishes eating, she lets him box up her leftovers like always, and he takes the tube home. It's much more of a hassle to get to and from Clarisse's house now that they live in a different part of London.

After too long a tube ride, and too long a walk, Martin finally gets back to the flat.

"Jon?" he calls out, shutting the door behind him. "I'm back!"

"Ah." Jon is curled up under a blanket in the living room with one of the books from the bedroom. "Welcome back."

Martin kicks off his shoes, moving to sit next to Jon on the sofa. "How was it?"

"It went quite well actually," Jon says, with a smile. "Bookkeeping is essentially basic financial archiving, so it was actually fairly easy for me."

"That's good!" Martin says, trying to be extra supportive of the non-spooky aspects of everything. "What about uh…"

"Today was just a normal business day." Jon makes a vague handwave motion. "Nothing to do with the Dread Powers, just bookkeeping. Well…"

"Well?"

Jon hesitates, rubbing the back of his neck. "I did have an encounter with a budding avatar today, but I wasn't on the clock."

"What?" Martin's voice goes high pitched. "Oh my god, are you alright?"

"Yes, I'm fine, don't worry." He waves his hand dismissively, as if encountering an avatar is no big deal. "I didn't actually interact with her beyond some mutually unsettling eye contact."

"Who was it? What was she an avatar of? How did you even meet her?" Martin spits out questions rapidly, not actually pausing long enough for Jon to get a word in. "You said it was off the clock?"

"I saw her at a café that I was dragged to by my coworkers for lunch," he says, answering the last questions first. A part of Martin wonders how these coworkers even managed to get Jon to go out to lunch with them, remembering Tim's persistent and always declined invitations from back at the Institute.

"I don't know who she was, just some twenty-something with a laptop," Jon continues. "I knew right away that she'd been touched by the Fears, but I couldn't put my finger on which one until we made eye contact. It was the Extinction."

Martin's eyes widen. "What? The Extinction? You met an avatar of the Extinction?"

"'Met' and 'avatar' may both be too strong words, but yes. She just sat sort of adjacent to my group in the café, we didn't actually interact. I think she's a regular there, Jonah had apparently seen her before, though he had no idea what she was."

Martin scoffs. "Yeah, sure he didn't."

"He really didn't, I compelled him." Jon shakes his head. "I wasn't even sure myself at first. The Extinction was in its infancy in our world, neither of us have the experience necessary to clock it right away like the other powers."

Martin furrows his brows. "Hang on, if it was so underdeveloped in our world, why is it stronger here? I mean, this is the first avatar you've seen here at all, right?"

"Again, not quite an avatar yet," Jon corrects, "but yes. Neither I nor Jonah know why it's so strong here compared to our world. It could be a natural progression that was simply stunted by the Change. Or the combined result of an array of differences between our universes. There's no way to know for sure, at least at the moment."

"Oh my god…" Martin runs a hand through his hair. "Jon, is this- Do we have to worry about another fucking apocalypse?"

"No," he says, confidently enough that it comforts Martin even before he explains. "The Extinction will likely be dangerous and unpredictable as it emerges, but it won't have a massive, apocalyptic effect like Peter Lukas may have led you to believe." He puts a derisive emphasis on Peter's name.

"That's good," Martin says, quickly. "Well, I mean the danger and unpredictability aren't good… But I really don't have it in me to take on another end of the world."

"Yes. Very much agreed."

Martin pauses a moment before asking a follow-up question.

"How do you know what the emergence is going to be like?"

"Hm? Ah, well, most of it is an extrapolation based on what the Flesh was like when it emerged. Jonah was there, so he knows firsthand what it was like, which we discussed briefly. I mean, there's no reason to think the world will fully end, none of the other Fears' emergences ever caused something so cataclysmic, but there's no way to know for sure what will happen. We'll have to follow the situation as it develops. This café woman is likely to have a lot of valuable insight into its development."

"I see…" Martin mutters. "Are you… planning on getting a statement from her?"

Jon blinks at him. "Well, yes."

"Right…"

Jon furrows his brows at him, confused.

"I just-" Martin stammers. "Are you sure that's a good idea?"

"What do you mean?"

"Are you sure that chasing this woman down to try to get her statement is a good idea?"

"I'd hardly be 'chasing her down.'"

"You know what I mean, Jon."

"I'm not sure I do," Jon retorts. "I still need statements, I'm going to have to seek them out-"

"That doesn't mean you need to get them from avatars," Martin says, slightly exasperated. "Some of the most dangerous situations you've found yourself in have been from chasing avatars for statements!"

Jon hugs his burned hand to his chest, instinctively. "I know that, but…" He falters, like he's searching for a way to justify chasing after this person. "Like I just said, we know almost nothing about the Extinction, or how it's manifesting in this world. She could have crucial information-"

"Jon, you could be putting yourself in serious danger!"

Jon scoffs.

"Jon."

"This could be a big piece of this puzzle-"

"Why do you need to solve this puzzle?" Martin cuts him off. Jon blinks at him in apparent confusion. "Why do you need to know everything about the Extinction? You said yourself that it's dangerous, but not a world-ending threat. Is it not enough to take what you need when it's safe, and leave the danger alone? To not constantly be chasing more at your own peril?"

"I…" Jon tries to come up with a response, wrapping his arms around himself as his efforts draw longer. Martin puts a hand on Jon's arm, heart sinking slightly when he feels Jon's muscles tense.

"Jon, please," Martin says, softly. Jon turns to look Martin in the eyes, and Martin drops his eyes to Jon's shoulder, unable to handle his gaze head on. "You don't need to chase down every bit of information you can find, when it's to your own detriment."

Jon looks down at his lap, and Martin tentatively puts an arm around his shoulders. Jon leans into him.

"We can find other statements." He leans his head against Jon's. "We'll make do."

"You're right," Jon says, after a few moments of silence. "It's… Going after her is dangerous and unpredictable, and I don't need her statement. I'll… I'll leave it alone."

Martin pulls him closer, and Jon melts into the contact.

"Thank you, Jon."

The rest of the work week is uneventful. Jon goes to the office, works all day, and goes home. He continues to find bookkeeping easy, and has little technical trouble with it over the course of the week. Despite it being easy, though, he finds it increasingly difficult to focus on. He recognises the symptoms as statement withdrawal; he's moving more sluggishly, getting distracted more easily, more frequently finding himself staring out the window at increasingly paranoid pedestrians.

Jon's coworkers continue to drag him to the café everyday for lunch. (Jonah is the only one in the office who manages to stay behind, and Jon envies him for it.) The woman with the bleached hair does frequent the café. She's sitting at the same table every time Jon comes in, with her laptop and an iced coffee. After that first day, though, she's started leaving every time she sees Jon and his coworkers arrive. Every day she glances up from her computer right when they come in, waits for them all to sit down, then just gets up and leaves, dumping her coffee right in the bin on her way out. Jon finds himself quite bothered by the wastefulness.

He aches with how badly he wants her statement. He can feel the shape of it every time he sees her. It's a familiar story, that of a budding avatar who doesn't fully understand what she's becoming, yet at the same time it's so alien. He's never known anyone with any ties to the Extinction before. He's never even known of anyone with ties to it before.

He truly hates how badly he fails to keep his mind off this mystery woman. He constantly reminds himself of what Martin said, what he agreed on, that chasing after avatars is dangerous, and he doesn't need this statement. He hates how hard it is to stay mindful of that. Especially as the time since the last statement he took grows longer.

Jonah calls Jon into his office at the end of the day on Friday. He asks milquetoast questions on the walk there. How does Jon like the job? Is he able to access the last bookkeeper's work without issue? Did he figure out the Excel extension alright?

"What is your obsession with Excel?" Jon asks, crossly, once the door is closed. Jonah doesn't answer, simply smiling and gesturing to the chair across from his. Jon begrudgingly sits.

"Assuming you have no actual questions about your bookkeeping work…" he pauses and looks at Jon, who rolls his eyes, "...we can discuss cultivating our new archive, and securing a location for our institute."

Jon bristles when Jonah calls it their new archive. As if he has any claim over Jon's statements. He's placated slightly when Jonah refers to it as their institute.

"I've found an available space in a company-owned building that suits our interests. It's no Magnus Institute, as you knew it, but it's a good starting place." His demeanor changes almost imperceptibly as he continues. "It's not entirely unlike the first home of the Institute in Edinburgh, in the early days. We can always size up when our caseload demands it, there are even other available spaces in the same building that could suit our needs."

Jon takes note of the change. Jonah is wearing his usual mask of neutrality, but Jon picks up on the nostalgia and pride bleeding through with the recollection of the Institute's beginning. He's reminded of an old letter to Jonah that described him essentially as a workaholic constantly surrounded by "piles of ghostly accounts and lunatic documentation." When he first read it, it had made him wonder how alike he and Jonah Magnus may have been.

"Alright," Jon says, instead of voicing any of that. Jonah pauses briefly before continuing.

"With us both working officially on weekdays, I suspect weekends will be the best time to focus on finding statements, though your bookkeeping workload is admittedly small, and your hours here can be cut in the future if necessary. You said on Monday you had a lead on a forming avatar of the Extinction, have you seen this person since?"

"Well, yes, she's at the café every day, but…" Jon takes a deep breath. "I've made the decision not to pursue that lead."

Jonah's neutral expression wavers slightly, his brows furrowing. "Why is that?"

"It… It's an unnecessary risk. The Extinction is unpredictable, and facing an avatar head on in such a way is dangerous."

Jonah's brows furrow further in visible confusion. He doesn't comment at first, waiting for Jon to elaborate, but Jon doesn't. Jonah speaks slowly when he responds.

"So, you don't want to pursue the lead, because of the possible risks to your safety?"

Jon resents his careful phrasing. Trying to catch him in a lie, insist that he knows Jon wants to pursue it. Jon responds just as carefully.

"A statement that I want, but don't need, isn't a good reason to put myself in danger. So I'm not going to do it."

Jonah stays silent for a moment, seemingly calculating.

"You said yourself, Jon, that you and I are likely the only fully realised avatars in this world." His gaze intensifies as he speaks, to a degree that would've once made Jon falter. "What threat could this café woman present to you that would not be more than worth the information in her statement?"

Jon swallows, both of them knowing full well that there isn't an answer. Jon is willing to do almost anything for information. It's the most powerful driving force in his life, and the thought of letting this knowledge slip away from him is almost physically painful. Just thinking about the woman in the café makes him all the more aware of the bone deep tiredness starting to seep back into his being.

But he isn't a slave to his basal instincts. He still has the ability to choose his path, and Martin is right that throwing himself at danger isn't a good idea, no matter how badly he wants to.

"I've made my decision on this, Jonah," Jon says, firmly. "You said yourself that the emergence of the Extinction will be dangerous and unpredictable, so with that in mind, I'm not going to pursue it. You're perfectly welcome to do it yourself."

Jonah furrows his brows again, but says nothing in response. The two stare at each other for a few moments, before Jonah speaks again.

"I suppose it's lucky, then, that I have an alternative lead." Jonah opens his drawer to pull out some papers, and hands them to Jon.

The papers are all printouts of posts on a local social media group about strange experiences at a local chain store. An increase in incidents of customers getting lost in the store, and two separate disappearances of individuals both last seen near there. Jon assumes it's a manifestation of the Spiral, though he can't tell instinctively from the post printouts alone.

"I was planning to leave this until after you'd sorted out your Extinction lead, or simply look into it myself if I found the time. It shouldn't be difficult to find someone in the area with a statement, be it a staff member at the store or an unfortunate customer." Jon nods, flipping through the pages again as Jonah continues. "I still have the tape recorder we used last week, I'll let you take it home over the weekend to record your encounter. You can either transcribe it to paper after you take it, or you can pass the tape on to me on Monday, and I'll take care of it."

It strikes Jon as quite odd for Jonah to be offering to participate in the archival process. Probably an effort to strengthen his connection to the Eye. Jon wonders whether he develops a similar type of withdrawal and weakness as Jon, with the absence of his place of power to stabilize him.

"Transcription won't be necessary." Jon puts the papers in front of him on Jonah's desk. "I'll be taking the statements in written form and recording them after."

Jonah looks openly confused. "Why?" he asks, simply.

"To avoid inflicting permanent nightmares on random innocents," Jon says, sharply.

Jonah gives a frustrated sigh, leaning forward slightly against his desk. "I thought we were past this, Jon."

"Past what, basic empathy for other people?"

"Do you think it's sustainable? Living off of stale, written statements?"

"I've done it before."

"Things are different now, Jon. Written statements aren't going to be enough to sustain you long-term." Jonah speaks sternly, like a parent lecturing a rebellious teenager. "You are connected more deeply to the Eye than you were before, and you need to feed it properly."

"I'm not going to sacrifice other people for my own comfort, as an avatar of an evil god."

"Since when?" Jonah demands. Jon almost flinches at that.

"I didn't want to change the world." The venom in Jon's voice doesn't hide the tremble. "I didn't want any of it."

"That you did not," Jonah concedes, easily. "But you did change the world, and you enjoyed the results just as much as I did."

"I did not!" Jon almost shouts. He quickly adjusts his volume, remembering that his coworkers are on the other side of the office's door. "I never wanted that. I- I changed it back, I felt all the guilt and horror at what we'd done that you refused to."

"You didn't want it, you felt guilty for doing it, but none of that changes the fact that you liked it. That you enjoyed yourself, and your place in our new world." Jonah looks at him more intensely than before, locking Jon into his stare. "I could see you from the Panopticon, Archivist. Drinking in the fear of everyone on Earth, just as I was. No matter what disgust you projected, what derisions you voiced to Martin about what you saw, you can't lie to me." Jon wants to respond, but he can't find his voice under Jonah's gaze. He feels Jonah's hold on him start to wane as he continues. "And you weren't actually trying to change the world back, if you recall."

He spends another moment locked in Jonah's eyes before the man releases him. He can't help the deep breath in and out that he takes afterward. Jonah holds back the weight of his stare, but continues to watch Jon intently as he collects himself, eventually glaring at Jonah across the desk.

"It doesn't matter if I enjoy the feeling of tormenting my victims," he spits. "It doesn't change that it's wrong, and cruel, and I'm not going to lock people into my nightmare hellscape over it."

Jonah looks at him with a calculating expression, and Jon glares at him hard.

"I'm not taking live statements, Jonah." Jon stares harder as he speaks, making Jonah's expression falter. "You aren't going to change my mind."

Jonah looks away after a moment. He leans back in his chair, taking a breath, and then adjusts his tie with a slight chuckle.

"There's another area where you've shown vast improvement." He meets Jon's eyes again without force behind his gaze. Jon takes the papers from Jonah's desk and stands, done with this conversation.

"I'll get back to you about the lead," he says, coldly, as he starts towards the door. Jonah responds as Jon's hand grasps the knob.

"Will Martin be joining you in your investigations?"

Jon's hand tightens on the doorknob. "That's none of your business."

"Isn't it?"

Jon doesn't dignify that with a response, and feels Jonah's gaze burning into his back as he leaves the room.

Chapter Text

Martin can see why this specific store has become a site of Spiral manifestations. The way the isles are set up is needlessly confusing already, and seems designed to keep shoppers from leaving for as long as possible. He half seriously wonders how long it will be before he hears of an Ikea location having similar manifestations. He then wonders, for the second time, if this universe even has Ikea.

Jon is standing beside him, fidgeting with the sleeves of his shirt. He's had an anxious, distant sort of look in his eyes the entire time they've been here. Martin notices a green glow in his irises that vanishes shortly after it appears.

"Was that anything?" Martin asks.

"What?" Jon blinks at him.

"Your eyes did the glowy thing." Martin gestures vaguely around his own eyes. "Was it anything useful?"

"Oh. I- no, not anything useful." Jon sighs, rubbing his temples. "This department store chain was founded in March, 1963, by Samuel and Anne-Marie Wilkinson." He shakes his head. "I don't think I'm going to get anything useful until I encounter someone directly who's had an experience."

"Right…" Martin mutters. "The best bet would probably be employees, right? Even if they haven't had experiences, they might've heard about customer complaints or something."

"Yes… Yes, that's a good idea." Jon rubs his temples like he's trying to ward off a headache. "I could ask the workers at the customer service desk if anyone's reported anything strange to them."

"You could, but… that could bait them into a statement right? Unintentionally?"

"I… Yes, yes it could." Jon sighs. "I suppose you could ask, but they wouldn't have to answer you."

"That-" Martin crosses his arms in frustration. "That wouldn't be convenient, but it would be ethical. We shouldn't be forcing things out of people."

"I… Yes, you're right. I'm sorry, I wasn't…" he trails off, continuing his fidgeting. Martin's heart aches slightly. He knows that the statement withdrawal is starting to hit him hard. He hasn't started using the cane again, but he's been stopping to rest more often, and leaning on Martin more. As much as it hurts him to see Jon in this state, he's also very glad he's here to consider the morality of things before Jon jumps headfirst into them.

"Maybe it would be better to just survey the area until we find someone who has a statement," Jon says. "I can point them out to you, and you can get them to write it down."

"Yeah." Martin nods. "Yeah, alright, that sounds like a good idea. Just… Lurk. For a little while."

"It's what I do best," Jon mumbles. Martin frowns, but doesn't comment.

"Do we have to worry about wandering into the… Spiral-y parts of the store?" he asks, shuddering at the memory of being in Helen's- Michael's corridors for days at a time.

"No," Jon says, confidently. "Just stay near me and you'll be fine."

"Okay. Got it…"

The two of them walk around the store for a good while. Jon stalks through the aisles, eyeing those around them with purpose, and drawing attention from several creeped-out looking customers. Martin tries to draw his attention elsewhere when he notices onlookers eyeing them strangely.

Circumstances aside, Martin actually kind of enjoys browsing the store. He even picks up a jacket in his size at one point. He can actually afford it now that they have a flat.

He's about to make a comment about wanting to make their way to the shoe section, when Jon abruptly tugs on his arm. Martin turns to see him staring intensely at an employee folding tee shirts a few metres away.

"Does she have a statement?" Martin asks.

"Yes," Jon says, his grip on Martin tightening.

"Okay, okay…" Martin flattens his lips, looking between Jon and the woman. The green glow emanates from Jon's eyes as he looks at her with a palpable hunger. "Are you going to be alright if we go talk to her?"

"I…"

"Jon, are you going to be able to handle it?" The without harming her goes unspoken.

"Yes. I can handle it, I'll be fine." He takes a deep, but shaky breath. "I'm not going to compel her on purpose, and I won't ask her any questions, so I can't do it by accident."

"Okay…" Martin takes a deep breath. "Alright, let's go, then."

Jon loosens his grip on Martin's arm as they approach the woman, but doesn't fully let go. She notices them coming, and looks questioningly at them as they approach. Martin prepares his best customer service attitude.

"Hello, ma'am," Martin says with a smile. "Sorry to bother you. My name is Martin, this is Jon. We've been investigating reports of unusual happenings in this store."

"Oh." The woman raises her eyebrows. "Are you with the police? Or… health inspectors?"

"No," Jon says, "we're independent investigators."

"Oh," she says, again. "I see…" She's speaking quietly, her eyes darting around the area instead of looking at them.

"Have you had any strange experiences in the store recently?" Martin asks, injecting a calm sympathy into his voice. "Ones that seem hard to believe, or difficult to explain?"

"I- I mean, I don't know…" she stammers, distress starting to seep into her voice. "It was nothing, really, I probably imagined the whole thing anyway-"

"We've heard about the architecture of the store seeming to change around people," Jon interrupts. "To the point they can't find their way out, and the layout doesn't seem to make sense."

The woman's face pales. "How- How did you-"

"You aren't the only one who's experienced this," Jon adds. "We're collecting firsthand accounts to try to gain a better understanding of the situation."

"I… O-okay," she says. "Okay. Do you want me to… tell you, or-"

"I have a notebook in my bag," Martin pipes up, pulling his backpack off to grab it out. "Would you like to go somewhere more private to write it down?"

"I- Yes. Yes, okay…" She glances over her shoulder. "There's uh, a spot behind the store. We get deliveries there, it should be empty for the next hour at least…"

"That sounds like a good place."

"Yes. Right, okay… Let's, um… Yeah."

She leads them out behind the store, trembling slightly as they walk. Jon looks at her like a shark smelling blood while her back is turned. Martin tries to stifle the feeling of unease it gives him. They eventually come to a back door, and the woman lets out a relieved sigh as they leave the building. Jon manages to hold back his visible hunger when she turns to face them.

"Would you like us to stay nearby, or would you like some space?" Martin asks her.

"I… I think I'd like a bit of space, but… stay where I can see you, if you don't mind? Not in the least because you aren't allowed to be back here…"

"Of course, of course," Martin nods. "We won't go far." He squeezes Jon's hand and pulls him about ten metres away, where they sit down on the pavement.

She starts writing, and keeps writing for a while. Jon watches her intently as she does, with that same almost predatory look. Martin is watching him back, with his brows furrowed with concern.

"I don't like implying that we're doing any of this to try to help people," he says, eventually.

"What?" Jon's expression changes to one of confusion, but he doesn't look away from the woman.

"She thinks we're here to help," Martin says. "'You aren't the only one who's experienced this,' 'we're collecting accounts to gain a better understanding.' We're not going to put that understanding towards anything good, like she's assuming… It feels manipulative."

"What else am I supposed to do?" Jon sounds exasperated. "If I can't compel her into it, and I can't even implicitly mislead her, what other options are there? Hello, I'm an avatar of an evil voyeuristic god, would you like to write down the horrible thing that's just happened to you, so I can eat this week?"

Martin makes a conflicted noise. "I don't know, it just- It leaves a bad taste in my mouth…"

Jon says nothing in response, simply continuing to watch the woman write her statement. They sit in silence for several minutes before Jon speaks.

"Do you have the tape recorder?" he asks.

"Yes…" Martin replies, warily. "Are you planning on recording it here? You don't want to wait until we get back to the flat?"

"No." Jon's response is immediate. He still doesn't look away from the woman.

As if on cue, she stops writing and looks up at them, flinching slightly when she sees Jon. He looks down at the pavement and stands to go over to her, and Martin follows. She holds the notebook out to them as they approach and Jon takes it too eagerly.

"Thank you for sharing your experience with us," Martin says, his voice taking on a soft, sympathetic tone. "Would you like to leave us some contact information, in case we need to follow up about anything?"

"Oh, no." She swallows, shifting from one foot to the other. "No, I um… I don't really feel comfortable giving out my information for something like this. It felt… good, I think, to get that all out, but…"

"Of course," Martin nods, sympathetically. "We completely understand."

"Right." The woman glances at Jon, then quickly looks away, and Martin realises Jon has still been staring creepily at her. "Well, I need to get back to work, so…" She gestures at the door.

"Oh, we were going to stay here for a bit and go over what you've written, if that's alright," Jon says.

"Um…" She glances between Jon and Martin. "You really aren't supposed to be back here…"

"That's fine!" Martin says, putting a hand on Jon's back. "We can do it somewhere else, don't worry about it."

She opens the door for them, and Martin leads them through. Martin and the woman exchange quick goodbyes before she goes off on her own and he and Jon start walking in a random direction.

"We could have convinced her," Jon says, with bitterness in his voice.

"Jon, we were in an employees only area. She said it was where they got deliveries too, someone could've shown up."

Jon grumbles, glancing around the store.

"I need to find somewhere to record. I…" His grip on the notebook tightens. "You were enjoying shopping before, do you mind if I take the bag and go find an alley or something to do it in?"

"An alley?" Martin asks, incredulously. "Jon you seriously can't just wait until we get back?"

"Martin, I- I'm sorry, I know it's not that far, but it's…" He trails off for a moment, his voice breaking slightly. "I'm so hungry, Martin…"

"O-Okay, okay," Martin stammers, putting a hand on Jon's shoulder in an attempt at comfort. "Alright. We can leave now, and find somewhere for you to record."

"Do you want to come with me?" Jon asks, hesitantly. "You wanted to keep shopping, and I know you've never liked hearing me record, and…" He lets out a shaky sigh. "I would kind of prefer to do it alone…"

"Oh." Martin blinks. "I- Right, okay. I'll just… I'll poke around here then, for a bit longer…" He glances at the aisles around them. "Do you want to meet back here after, or?"

"Yes," Jon says. "Yes, I'll meet you near the front of the store."

"Okay. Alright, I'll meet you there." He gives Jon's shoulder a squeeze and lets go, slipping the backpack off his own shoulder. He takes some cash out of the bag before handing it to Jon. "See you in a bit."

"Right." Jon gives him a forced smile before taking the bag and scurrying off. Martin frowns as he watches him go.

He knows Jon is trying so hard. Putting as much effort as he can into being a good person, and not hurting people. But it scares Martin that that doesn't stop him from getting like this. He thought that an escape from the hellish state of their old world would mean an end to seeing Jon look at others like they aren't people. Like all he sees when he looks at them is their statements, the fear they can provide for him. Like getting the next statement is the only thing in the world that matters to him. Martin knows Jon is trying, but he worries more and more that it's not going to be enough.

Especially with the involvement of certain outside influences.

Chapter Text

Jon finds an empty alleyway a few minutes after leaving the store. He feels lucky to have found one so soon and frantically slips the backpack off, leaning against the wall of the alley and sliding down it until he's sitting with the bag in his lap. He pulls out the tape recorder and places it on the ground next to him, clicking it on as he flips the notebook open.

"Statement of Amara Davies, regarding an endless grocery aisle originating in her place of work. Original statement given September 28th, 2019. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, the Archivist. Statement begins.

"I'm not really sure where to start. I've been working at this store for two years, since I was nineteen. It's not the best job in the world, but it's alright. I put off going to uni after grade school because I was in a really bad place, and having something to get me out of the house and talking to people has actually been really good for me. I'm still not really ready for more school yet, still in therapy, trying different meds, but the job is good for me. It gives me stability.

"I'm sorry, I'm getting so off track. The point is that I like my job, and I'm very used to it. It doesn't take a high skill level, but I'm good at it. I know what I'm doing, and I would never get lost in the store. Especially not so lost that… Well…

"A few days ago, I came in like I would any other day. I work the till sometimes, but my job is mostly stocking and making sure everything is in order around the store, like cleaning and putting things away that customers leave lying around. So I was just kind of wandering the store, making everything look nice, banging around on my phone a bit. Then when the grocery delivery got here, I started stocking shelves. It all was normal.

"I ended up getting distracted, and not really paying full attention to what I was doing. I was stacking cans of soup and vegetables, and just zoned out, like I do basically every day. When the crate I was working on was empty, I turned around to where the other crates should've been stacked, and they weren't there. When I started looking for them, I noticed that the aisle around me was… different.

"I know how this is going to sound, I know, but it just… the aisle just kept going. I had been two metres from the end of it, but when I turned to look, it just continued on and on as far as I could see. When I turned around, the other end of the aisle wasn't visible either, it just kept going and going on both sides.

"I just stood there for a minute. I don't know, I was confused and shocked, and didn't know what else to do. After a minute I tried to open up my phone to take a photo, just… I guess for proof that it was real? I honestly can't really explain the impulse, but when I tried to open up my phone, it started glitching out like crazy. The touch screen wasn't working, every time I tried to click on something it would swipe, or the display would shake… It was like trying to use a phone in a dream, but I wasn't dreaming. I couldn't have been.

"I eventually gave up on the phone, and decided to try to leave the aisle. I just started walking to my right, because that was the direction where the exit was closer before. I kept walking and walking, and it just kept going…

"The shelves were full of cans the whole way. No boxes or bottles of anything, only cans. There was soup, vegetables, fruit, the normal stuff, but it started getting weird. First I was noticing cans with… unusual combinations of contents. Like, peas, carrots, peaches, and pineapple in one can. Nothing you would ever expect to see in a store. Weird soups made with ingredients that wouldn't stay preserved in a can, like avocado or cottage cheese.

"Then it started to get weirder, with foods I'd never even heard of before covering the shelves. I'm not even sure how to explain that. They looked, sort of like real food, I think. I felt like I should've recognised them, been seeing them all my life, but I didn't even know what I was looking at. I'd easily been walking for five minutes by this point, and I felt like I was losing my mind. There was still no end in sight, and everything was just getting more confusing and less recognisable.

"Eventually it got… personal. There were cans, entire sections of cans, that were labelled as canned versions of specific meals, and they were all meals that I remember eating at specific moments in my life. Spaghetti with garlic sauce that I ate the night of my last breakup. Fried eggplant that my parents yelled at me for refusing to eat as a child. The horrible, stale salads I was served at the psych ward years ago.

"I was obviously distressed from the beginning of all this, but by the time I reached this stuff I had started to fully panic. Even after spending so long walking this one direction, seeing the canned salads was too much, and I tried to turn back. I didn't even know if the other way would lead out, I just had to get away from the memories.

"But when I turned around, there was a wall. Just a few metres away, where I had just come from, the aisle just stopped, and there was a wall. I still went back, I tested it, pushed up against it. It was solid, like an actual, proper wall, and it had just appeared there. I panicked hard, kicking it, screaming for help, just hyperventilating pressed against it.

"I eventually started in the same direction again, because what else could I have done? When I turned around again a few minutes later, the wall had followed me, and was again only metres behind. There was still no end in sight.

"I tried to climb the shelves, next. I tried to climb them like a ladder, knocked over some cans on the way. I got halfway up before looking down, but when I did the floor was right beneath my feet. I hadn't slipped or fallen, the floor just, came up to meet me, and when I looked back up it was like I'd made no progress at all. I kept trying, determined not to look down again, but every time I got close to the top, I'd lose my grip, or my foot would slip, and I'd just be back at the bottom. It didn't make any sense.

"I kept trying. Walking, climbing, kicking that damn wall for so long, but nothing worked. My phone glitched worse and worse every time I opened it, and it eventually just stopped turning on altogether. My feet got tired, and I spent a lot of time just crying. The cans on the shelves stayed horrible and unsettling, but they didn't get any worse.

"I ended up getting really hungry and thirsty. I tried to ignore it, for hours I did, but I was so exhausted that eventually I broke open one of the cans. It was all food that held such awful memories, but I needed to eat. I ended up going with the spaghetti, but I don't think it would've mattered much. The noodles felt like worms in my mouth, the smell of the garlic made me feel sick. I didn't feel hungry anymore, but I felt more disorientated… In a way I hadn't felt since they put me on those first meds at the psych ward…

"I kept walking for a very, very long time. Every time I got too hungry to go on, I'd eat something from one of the cans and everything would get worse, hazier, less real. It felt like days I was there. I thought it was never going to end. I thought I was going to be stuck there for the rest of my life, and I didn't even know how long that would be.

"Eventually I saw an empty spot on the lowest shelf, to my left. I was barely focused enough to notice it, but thank fucking god I did. I got down on my hands and knees to look at it, and saw that there was a hole in the shelving unit. It looked frankly disgusting, covered in dust and cobwebs, but it looked like it led out of the aisle entirely. My heart was racing, and I started trying to crawl through it, frantically. I was afraid I wouldn't fit at first. I had to angle my shoulders weird, and squeeze my thighs through, but I made it. I made it through, and I was back in the store. The normal store, in the aisle with the soups I had been stocking when everything started. I scrambled out of the aisle into the main part of the store, and cried with relief that it was over.

"I left the store right away, and called my mum in tears. Apparently no time had actually passed while I was in that place. It felt like I'd been gone for days, but for her I had only left for work hours before. She picked me up from work, and seemed to think I was having another episode like the ones I used to have in school. I was too much of a mess to explain what had happened, but it's not like she'd have believed me anyway. I have a history of… delusions. I'm not even sure how I can know that this wasn't one of them. None of them have ever felt like that, but it's not like I'm the most reliable person to judge that…

"I called out of work the next day, but my parents made me go in the day after. I didn't argue with them, because this job has always been good for me in the past. It's always helped…

"This is my second day back at work, and I've avoided the grocery section entirely. I've been trying to stay more focused on my surroundings, using grounding exercises I learned in therapy to avoid zoning out. It hasn't really been working. I want to get a new job, but my stability and routine have hinged on this place for so long, I don't know what I'd do without it. I've just been trying to forget it happened, but every time I catch myself losing focus, I'm terrified I'll be back in that place. I can only hope it was just another delusion.

"Statement ends."

Jon takes a deep breath.

"Very clear cut manifestation of the Spiral. The details about walking through the aisle have a lot of similarities to Helen Richardson's account of the Distortion's corridors. The manifestation also seems to have targeted Ms. Davies's specific experiences related to her pre-existing mental illness… It is interesting to have an example of the Spiral affecting the mentally ill in such a way that it's clear cut when its involvement starts. In the past it's been difficult to say for sure what was genuine mental illness, and what had always been the torments of It Is Not What It is. I suspect I'll be seeing cases like this more often, where the Spiral is concerned.

"Additionally, I find it quite concerning that the only reason Ms. Davies made it out of that aisle at all, was the apparent interference of the Web. Specifically because its manipulations once again seem to have been openly targeted towards leading her to me. There…" He lets out a dark laugh. "God, there are cobwebs in this damned alley, even. I… I don't know what it wants from me… Christ, I need a cigarette."

He clicks off the recorder and sighs, rubbing his temples again. Frustration aside, his headache is gone after reading the statement. He stands up, and assesses his energy levels. He definitely feels better than before. He doesn't have to lean on anything, he can think straight again, but he's still… hungry, for lack of a better word. He isn't desperate anymore, he doesn't feel like he needs a statement, but… It's the difference between a light lunch and a hearty dinner. He'll manage, surely. He'll get by. But he still wants more.

He shakes away the thought, and packs the notebook and tape recorder back in the bag. He also fishes out the rest of the cash that Martin didn't take for shopping, and finds that there might be enough for a cheap pack of cigarettes. He feels guilty using their limited funds on something like that when he hasn't got his first paycheck yet, but lord does he need it.

He leaves the alley, and pops into the nearest corner store on his way back towards the chain store. He ends up picking up a small wood-tipped cigar and a bic lighter, and settling outside the building to smoke on the pavement. He finds immediate relief in the first drag, savoring the brief respite from his bottomless anxieties.

His respite is interrupted very shortly thereafter. He doesn't think much of the figure he sees leave the corner store in his peripheral vision, even as they begin walking in his direction. He falters when they stop and lean on the wall right next to him. He turns his head in surprise to see a familiar face.

"Can I have a light?" she asks, holding up a cigar similar to Jon's own. Jon flicks his lighter and holds it out, and she lights her cigar. She looks him in the eyes as she inhales, before blowing a puff of smoke directly in his face. He coughs, scowling at her.

"You're from the café?" he asks, despite knowing the answer. His voice is raspy from the smoke. She narrows her eyes at him, and the Eye informs him that her name is Renée Dupont.

"Yeah," Renée responds, curtly. Jon takes another drag as she just stares at him, and decides it's probably fair game to stare back.

She's dressed in the same style she usually is when Jon sees her. All black clothing with excessive buckles and spikes, definitely associated with some alternative subculture, though Jon isn't nearly familiar enough with any of them to know exactly which one. Her hair is bleached completely down to the roots, and visibly quite damaged because of it. She seems about Jon's height standing next to him, but is wearing thick-soled combat boots that are definitely adding a couple inches. She isn't wearing much makeup apart from smudged black around her eyes, and black lipstick. Her cigar is plastic-tipped, rather than wood, and her lipstick leaves marks on it as she smokes.

"You're fucking creepy with the staring."

Jon is slightly startled. "You were staring first."

She glares at him. "What were you talking about in that alley?"

Jon pales slightly at the realisation she was listening. "How long were you listening?"

"You were talking about trying to climb up a grocery shelf when I walked by, and I stayed to listen after that," she answers. Her eyes widen slightly when she finishes speaking.

"Why were you listening?" Jon asks.

"I started listening because I recognised you from the café, and thought it was weird that you were sat down in an alley reading some horror story. But after I started listening I felt like I couldn't stop. Like I couldn't walk away, and had to listen to everything you were saying. That feeling stopped after you finished the story, but I stuck around to listen to your little blurb after, because you talked like what you'd just been reading was real, like you understood it. I wondered if you would know what's happening to me." She stumbles back from Jon when she finishes talking, bumping into the rubbish bin behind her. "What did you just do to me?"

Jon honestly hadn't meant to compel her at all. It just came out that way automatically with his curiosity about the situation. He holds back the urge to keep going, and tries to avoid asking more questions.

"I likely have more insight into your situation than anyone else would," he says, avoiding her question. Jonah may actually have more insight than him, but he can keep that to himself. Not like he'd be much help anyway.

"Why did I just answer your questions?" she asks again.

Jon takes another drag. He isn't under any obligation to tell this woman anything. She hasn't exactly been polite to him. He could just walk away, refuse to engage and leave her to find her own way in the world. Leave her to fend for herself among the horrors he's inflicted on this universe, becoming an avatar of something she can't hope to understand.

"I imagine you've gathered by now that there are things in this world that exist outside of what is typically believed to be real," he says, speaking slowly. "Paranormal, supernatural phenomena. I am connected to a… major source of such phenomena, and as a result, have the ability to channel it to make people answer my questions."

"What…" She trails off, unable to decide which question to ask first. She takes another quick drag from her own cigar, gears visibly turning in her head. "What do you mean, 'a major source?'"

Lord, Jon is unprepared for this conversation. "The sources of these phenomena are… entities, in a sense. Ones that exist beyond the scale of human comprehension, and not entirely within this universe. To put it a bit over-simplistically, they feed on the fear of living things, and influence the world in ways which cultivate certain types of fear."

Renée says nothing, waiting for Jon to continue.

"I'm connected to an entity referred to as the Eye, or the Ceaseless Watcher. It feeds on the fear of being watched, and of having your secrets known. It's why I tend to be 'creepy with the staring,' and can make people answer my questions." Renée is listening intently, and takes another drag as he speaks. "The woman who wrote the statement I was recording encountered an entity known as the Spiral. The fear of madness and not being able to trust your own mind."

Renée is silent for a few moments after he stops, thinking before speaking again. "You were talking about cobwebs in the alley." Jon can't hold back a scowl at the mention. "Is there one about spiders?"

"The Web," he answers. "The fear of being controlled, that your will is not your own. Also known as the Mother of Puppets. The entity with the most direct influence on the world, in my experience."

She hums like she's considering the implications of that. Jon narrows his eyes.

"Why do you ask?"

"The only reason I came by this way was to get something to smoke for cheap, because the pack of cigarettes I had at home was covered in cobwebs and dust this morning." She instantly glowers at him when the compulsion ends. "Stop doing that!"

"I apologise," Jon says, mildly, focus elsewhere. The Web led them both here, orchestrated this meeting between them… Why?

"Do you… not like the Web?" she asks, hesitantly. "Are the different- entities against each other?"

Jon sighs. "Certain entities oppose others, some are known to ally with each other in other cases… Though, which ones are allied and opposed is often more about the actions of their human representatives than the Entities themselves…" He trails off, scowling again. "My distaste for the Web is more… personal, than anything else."

She takes a moment to consider this, before asking another question. "Have you always been… 'connected' like this?"

Jon sighs, and takes a long drag.

"I was not always connected to the Eye. I chose to serve it, but the choice was not active, or informed. I didn't understand what I was getting into until it was far too late to go back."

"Too late?"

Jon twists the cigar in his hand. "The Eye has changed me beyond what can be undone. I could have severed myself from it years ago, but I couldn't live without it now. It's a part of me in a very deep seated way."

Jon isn't looking at Renée, but knows that fear and dread are washing over her.

"It would be easier for you to get out than it would have for me," he says. He sees her eyes widen in his peripheral vision. "I know you're already connected to one of the Powers. You've been feeding it, and it's been feeding you. You could still stop, if you wanted."

"What…" Renée's voice is quiet. "Which…"

"It's called the Extinction," Jon says, slowly. "The fear of the end of all life. Or of the end of humanity, and its replacement."

Renée says nothing in response. He turns to see the conflict in her face as she starts to put the pieces together about what she's been experiencing. The Eye gives him no insight into her thoughts, baiting him to ask her himself. He can make out so starkly the shape of a statement swirling through her mind, but he just can't see it…

"What you heard me reading in the alley was the statement of someone describing her experience with one of the entities," he says, eventually. "The main way I feed the Eye is by observing and documenting the experiences of others. Their fear at the hands of other entities, or their experiences inspiring that fear in other people." Renée looks at him as he continues, eyes widening as they meet his, but not straying. "I know you have a story. I won't ask you for it, but if you give me your statement, I'll be able to help you understand what's happening to you." The next sentence almost pains him. "…I have a notebook for you to write it down in, if you'd like."

Renée keeps looking at him. She searches his expression warily as he feels the statement thrumming through her like a siren's call, trying not to let it show on his face how hungry he is for it. He thinks he fails.

"No," she says, eventually, taking a short step back from him. "I don't think I will."

He hums in acknowledgement, but says nothing. She hasn't broken eye contact, and neither has he. He swallows down the static in his throat as she takes another step back, and it sets in that she's going to leave without telling him anything. She holds eye contact for a long time as she walks backwards away from him, like she's afraid of what he'll do if she turns her back. He wishes he could blame her. She eventually turns and sprints a short distance before turning a corner out of sight.

He plays over the interaction in his head. He answered her questions. Explained to her what was going on. Gave her the information she needed to get out if she wanted, to deny the call. He did it in exchange for nothing.

It's a good thing. He's done a good thing. God, he wishes that someone had done that for him in the beginning, that he hadn't had to sacrifice so much, risking life and limb just to understand what was already happening to him. He's given this woman something that so few potential avatars ever get, insight and context she deserves  to have, and he still can't stop himself from resenting her for giving him nothing in return. The hunger he still feels after recording Amara Davies's statement is so much more pronounced after speaking to someone who's having such a novel, unprecedented experience. A possible Extinction avatar, the first of either universe, and she just got away, no statement acquired.

He takes a drag the length of the rest of his cigar. Putting it out, he realises that Renée dropped her own cigar on the ground before taking off, and just left it there. As on brand as careless littering is for someone with an affinity for the Extinction, it ticks Jon off quite acutely, and he puts it out with his shoe before throwing it in the rubbish bin along with his own.

He needs to go back to Martin. He's still waiting at the store, and Jon's already been gone too long. He heads back in the direction he came, ignoring his gnawing hunger and trying to push Renée from his mind.

Martin sees Jon come through the store's entrance about thirty minutes after he left. He doesn't look around for Martin, exactly, when he enters the store, just kind of pauses for a moment before turning his head exactly in Martin's direction. Martin tries to find it more endearing than unsettling.

"Hey!" he calls out, half jogging to meet Jon halfway to the entrance. "I got a coat and trainers." He gestures to the plastic bag in his hand and the shoebox under his arm, to which Jon nods affirmatively but doesn't comment. Martin notices quickly that he looks a lot better than earlier, but the dark circles under his eyes remain. "How was the statement?" Jon responds with a sigh.

"Not… entirely filling," he admits, looking at the floor. "But informative, I suppose. The Web continues to involve itself in my acquisition of statements." Martin frowns at that.

"Was her statement spider-y?" he asks. "I thought you said it was the Spiral."

"It was, but the only reason she got out alive was Web involvement." Martin furrows his brows in concern, and Jon sighs again, wrapping his arms loosely around himself. "I don't know what it still wants from me."

Martin hates how often it is that he finds himself at a loss trying to comfort Jon. Platitudes about how 'it'll be alright' ring hollow when Web involvement is basically a guaranteed sign that it is not going to be alright… He settles on pulling Jon into a loose, one armed hug.

"Are you ready to go home?"

"Yes," Jon says, exhaustion evident in his tone.

Martin shifts out of the hug so that his arm is still around Jon as they walk. He decides not to ask about the smoke smell.

Chapter Text

Most of this week passes the same as the last. Jon and Martin continue to tiptoe around all the topics they've been avoiding. Martin keeps applying for jobs, but hasn't heard back from anywhere yet. Jon goes to work and comes home every day, with next to no notable changes.

The one notable change is that instead of just leaving when Jon and his coworkers arrive, Renée has stopped showing up at the café entirely. Despite himself, Jon feels a pang of disappointment and resentment every time he enters the café to find her absent. Like it's a personal affront that she's not just depriving him of her statement, but even the ability to observe her and collect basic information about her behaviour and whereabouts. It makes his bone deep tiredness all the more pronounced as he socialises with his coworkers and pretends to eat.

The tired weakness is worse this week than the last. Amara Davies's statement wasn't enough, and he knows this deep down, but tries to make it last. He starts showing up for work on time instead of early, to spend more time in Camille's nightmares every morning before needing to wake. He spends more and more time watching people through the window at his desk, savouring the confused and paranoid head turns he causes them. He doesn't need more than that. He can make it until Saturday.

He continues to tell himself this until he goes to sleep Thursday night.

He blinks his eyes open Friday morning groggier and more tired than he's been since he read the first statement Jonah delivered him at the hotel. It takes him a few moments to realise what's wrong, as he blinks away the lingering remnants of his dreamless sleep.

Camille wasn't in his dream last night. He tries to find her immediately upon realising this, and is struck by the knowledge that she succumbed to the Web's torments yesterday morning. He barely has time to consider the implications of that before realising that Camille's alarm didn't wake him up this morning, and that he is very nearly running late for work. He rushes to get dressed, and scrambles out of the room to put on his coat and shoes near the door.

"Jon?" Martin watches from the open kitchen as he darts past towards the door. "Are you alright?"

"Woke up late," he says, tersely, fingers fumbling over the laces of his oxfords. "I have to… I'm trying to hurry." He stumbles through his words, not fully sure what he's even trying to say until it's already out of his mouth.

"Are you sure you're alright?" Martin asks. "You don't-"

"Yes, I'm fine." He throws on his coat, not bothering with the buttons before opening the door. "I have to go now. Goodbye." He sways slightly on the way out the door, but shuts it before Martin can comment. He frantically buttons up his coat, then undoes the buttons when he realises he's done them unevenly. He just holds the coat shut as he leaves the building, and speedwalks unsteadily towards the office to the best of his ability, trying to ignore his pounding headache.

He realises about halfway there that he left his phone in the flat. He shrugs it off. He barely uses the thing, anyway.

Despite his best efforts, he ends up being late for work. He avoids eye contact with any of his coworkers and slinks straight off to his desk, hoping to go unnoticed. He pretends not to see Rob approaching him as he cuts across the room, starting to dig through his desk drawers when he reaches them to try to seem too busy for Rob to bother him. It seems to work well enough.

Jon continues to manage looking busy enough not to be bothered, while he quietly panics about Camille's death. Her nightmares were the only thing sustaining him between statements, and he's not taking in person statements anymore. This loss could be detrimental to his health, he doesn't know how he's going to sustain himself without her, and he can't replace her.

Worse yet, he's so tired he can barely think to try to come up with a solution. He doesn't know how he's going to get any bookkeeping done today. He has to focus hard to stop his train of thought from slipping out of his grasp, and finds his mind constantly wandering to think about where he could find a statement fast.

He spends about thirty minutes trying and failing to actually work, until Jonah comes out of his office. He performatively walks around the room, checking on others and making small talk, before making his way to Jon's desk.

"Jon…" Jonah furrows his brows in a look of innocent concern. "Are you feeling alright?"

"I'm perfectly fine, E- Mr. Bouchard." He curses himself for the slip up, resisting the urge to rub his temples.

"You look sick." He flattens his mouth into a line, feigning ignorance of Jon's condition convincingly. "We do offer paid sick days, you know. Just because we don't have a union-"

"I'm really fine, Mr. Bouchard," Jon says, more forcefully. "Honestly. Perfectly capable of continuing with my work."

"Hmm." Jonah's eyes burn into Jon as he looks down at him. Jon tries to make his own burn back, but his attempt is weakened by his current state. It's still enough to make Jonah back off, at least. "Well, don't hesitate to let me know if you need to go home early. Whatever you have looks rough."

Jon realises that Jonah is altering his language and mannerisms slightly to fit the late Elias's personality, and his stomach churns a bit at how good of a job he's doing.

"I'm feeling fine," he insists. "But I'll let you know if that changes, I suppose."

"Hm. Alright."

Jonah thankfully moves on to talk to someone else, and leaves Jon alone to continue failing to complete his work.

He makes scant progress, and spends even more time than usual staring out the window. He doesn't even notice Rob approaching his desk until he hears him knocking on it.

"Lunch time, Jon!" he says, far too loud and chipper for Jon to deal with right now.

"Rob, I don't think I'll be joining you today, I'm not, uh… I've got a lot to work on here."

"You've got to take a lunch break, Jon," he scolds, "we've been over this."

"I'll take one later, just not right now. I'm in the middle of something, I don't want to lose my place in it."

Rob hums, as if debating whether to accept the answer. "Alright, alright," he says, eventually. "Just don't work yourself too hard, alright?"

"Of course." He can't even keep the sarcasm out of his voice, but luckily Rob still leaves him alone.

Everyone leaves for the café shortly, and Jon is left alone in the office space. He tries to take the opportunity to stop playing at bookkeeping, and take a few moments to just rest and breathe. Naturally, Jonah takes that as his cue to exit his office.

"Jon," he says, sternly, all pretence of professionalism gone. "You look ghastly." Jon scowls at him as he strides across the room.

"Shut up." He doesn't have the energy for this.

"Jon, I'm serious." Jonah stops right in front of his desk, and Jon looks up to meet his severe expression. "I've been watching you deteriorate all week. This has gone too far, and it is not acceptable."

"Not acceptable ?"

"I've already told you that written statements are not enough for you. You need to feed directly."

"Why do you care?" He's aware of the compulsion as he speaks it, but doesn't have the energy to hold it back. Jonah takes in a sharp breath as it hits him.

"Because you are my Archivist, and I am invested in your continued wellbeing." His expression hardens further. "You are above this, Jon. Surviving off of scraps when there's a whole world out there ripe for the taking. I should never have allowed your wallowing to get this far."

Jon scowls at that. "What exactly do you think you ought to have done?"

Jonah scowls back. "I should have never allowed Martin's involvement in your collection of statements."

"You're blaming Martin?" Jon exclaims. "Is it so unbelievable to imagine that I don't want to hurt people?"

"Frankly, Jon, yes. It is."

Jon breaks eye contact, not dignifying that with a response. Jonah takes a deep breath in and out before leaning down to put a hand on Jon's desk. Jon doesn't turn to face him, starting to work on another spreadsheet like he isn't there.

"You are the Archivist, Jon," Jonah says, his voice carrying an uncharacteristic softness. "You are the greatest Archivist there has ever been, and you don't need to be held down by these arbitrary rules and limits. You would not impose moral judgement on a wolf for killing a rabbit. You would not think it noble for the wolf to starve itself in protest of its body's own needs." Jonah puts a hand over Jon's, gently pulling it back from his computer mouse, leaning almost imperceptibly closer as he does. "You are a wolf, Jon. Don't starve yourself over the feelings of rabbits."

Jon feels Jonah's eyes on him, burning into him, imploring him to meet Jonah's gaze as Jon's hand twitches under his. He takes a deep breath and swallows hard before pulling his hand free, and bringing it back to his mouse.

"I have work to do," he mutters. They both know how much of an excuse it is. How non-urgent Jon's current workload actually is. Jon resumes working anyway, continuing to ignore Jonah's heavy stare for what feels like too long, before the other man finally leans back away.

"You don't have to keep pushing yourself to work, Jon," Jonah says, taking a step back from Jon's desk. "If you aren't going to feed, at least stop wasting your energy on something as pointless as this. My offer for the rest of the day off still stands."

Jon pauses his work at the offer. For once, his instinct to work through anything and everything is being legitimately challenged by his current state of unfocused fatigue. Unstoppable force meets immovable object. He hears Jonah sigh.

"I'd insist on sending you home, but I worry it would only make you more determined to stay." His voice is tinged with benign irritation. He hums sternly before striding back into his office, leaving Jon confused for a moment before he returns, counting a thin stack of cash. He places it firmly on Jon's desk.

"This should be more than enough for a cab, as I imagine walking home would be difficult in this state. You are free to stay if you want to, but I strongly advise you not continue working." He starts walking back towards his office. "Don't worry about informing me of your decision. I'll know if you leave."

Jon watches him shut his office door, and stares at it for a moment before looking down at the money on the desk in front of him. His coworkers will be back in about fourteen minutes, and there's still almost five hours until the end of the workday. He glances back at his computer screen at the Excel sheet he's been failing to fill out. He does doubt he'll be able to make any significant progress on his workload in this state. His coworkers already saw Jonah tell him he should take a sick day, so it's not like it'll seem unprofessional.

After a few minutes of consideration, he shuts down his computer and unsteadily gets up from his chair, pocketing the cab money. He leaves without letting Jonah know, and takes the elevator to the ground floor instead of the stairs. His steps are tired and heavy as he makes his way out of the building and onto the pavement outside.

He doesn't know what he's going to do when he gets home. Martin will be there. He thinks about sending Martin to get him another statement, but how would he even know who has one? Jon could go with him to find someone, but he doesn't even have any leads, and it would be so much harder to convince someone to give a statement without compulsion if he didn't know anything about the context of their situation. He doesn't know how he would handle finding someone who refused to give him a statement, but he doubts Martin would be happy with him regardless.

He waves down a cab when he sees one, and it pulls over in front of him. He opens the door, and shakily slips in.

He thinks about Renée. About how she left him outside the corner store, taking the most valuable information he's come across in this new world with her.

"Where to?" the driver asks.

The Extinction. So many variables, so many unknowns. He wonders if her propensity for littering is a result of her link to it or part of what pulled it to her, what kind of personality she had to have had to have been drawn to this path, and be targeted by this Power. He wonders if it's already changed her with its influence.

"Sir?"

"Ah- Sorry." Jon gives the driver the address, and stares out the window as the car pulls back into traffic. He zones back out quickly as he gazes out the window.

If his hunger was of the more classic variety he's sure he'd be getting stomach pains by now. With that thought, the Eye gives him a detailed awareness of the process of systematic deterioration that the human body goes through when starving, and Jon considers his own body's deterioration. He wonders if he could starve to death, given long enough. How long he'd have to deny the Eye for it to loosen its hold on him and let him die.

He thinks of the creature that Walter Heller saw in Alexandria. A ruined archivist, living on after the destruction of its archive, off of any scraps of fear it could find. He remembers all the past archivists under the Panopticon in London after the Change. He knows that the Eye would never let him go, never let him rest. It's far too late for that now.

He watches the scenery fly by through the car window. It's not raining, but it's cloudy and sombre, despite being midday. Many pedestrians are carrying umbrellas, just in case.

Every time the car stops in traffic, the people Jon looks at through the tinted cab windows look around suspiciously, anxiously. They have nothing to fear. Jon can tell they have no statements to give him. But they fear him anyway. Unable to see him, unknowing of who or what he is, they feel him watching. They feel that he knows far more about them than what should be possible, and they fear him for it.

It feels nice.

Eventually, the car slows to a stop. Jon pays the cabbie and gets out of the car, stepping unsteadily into a part of London he's never seen before. He doesn't recognise most of the buildings around him, except the one directly in front of him. He had meant to give the driver his and Martin's address. He hadn't even realised that he didn't. But he's here now, and he knows exactly why.

He enters the building, walking with a slow determination past the broken lift, towards the stairwell. He treks up to the first floor with a death grip on the handrail, and walks down the hall to the last door on the end. He knocks three times on the door, and waits. After a few moments of silence, he knocks again. He's glad the door doesn't have a peephole.

Renée opens the door to her flat after Jon's third set of knocks, with a look of anger that turns into a fearful shock, before the anger bleeds back in. She opens her mouth to accost him for the invasion of privacy, the bulldozing of boundaries, to ask how he even found her. He cuts her off before she can start, pushing past her into her flat, and shutting the door. He lets the static spill out of him without holding back.

"Why do you want the world to end?"

He doesn't know why he asks that, specifically. "Tell me your story," would work fine for what he needs. But he feels the surge of fear in her when the words leave him, the feeling that he knows ricocheting through her mind as everything is pulled to the surface, and he's glad he asked. The fear shows in her eyes as her statement begins.

"I was always really empathetic. I know when people say that they're usually full of shit, but I really was. It defined my life for as long as I can remember.

"I used to cry a lot about endangered animals, when I was really young. It made me so upset that there were animals out there suffering and dying because of cruel and careless people. I used to beg my parents to donate to wildlife charities every time I would see adverts for them on the telly. I was too young to understand that we really couldn't afford it. When I started learning about human problems, I felt horrible all the time… Not only were animals suffering and dying out there, but other people were sick, and poor, and starving all around the world. I had no way to help anyone, no way to make anything better. I knew that there was all this pain and death in the world, and just had to go about my life like everything was fine.

"It only got worse as time went on, and I got older. I learned about parts of the world torn apart by war, underdeveloped countries with little to no healthcare, regions where women weren't equals under the law… I was horrified that these things were happening in the modern age, that people were just allowing them to go on. Even in our own country, there's injustice and inequality everywhere. Xenophobia, racism, classism and poverty… The knowledge of it all was overwhelming. Suffocating. I tried to raise awareness, do what I could to try to change things. Posting online, talking to friends and teachers… I joined activist clubs in school, trying to get involved, help out. It felt good for a time, but it hardly felt like we were making a dent in anything.

"Fully realising just how bad climate change had got was the final nail in the coffin of any hope I had that the world could get better. A man-made environmental disaster of epic proportions, just waiting on the horizon, to decimate animal and human life alike. Untold amounts of suffering, easily predictable and completely resolvable if we would just act to right the wrongs that we've brought upon the world . But we won't. We can, and we simply won't. No amount of shouting and protests and doomsday clocks will change that, and realising it just broke me.

"I started hating people. Politicians, CEOs, people with open disregard for the environment. People who kept using disposable plastics because it was 'more convenient,' people who voted against environmental protection measures for 'the economy,' people who told me to 'stop being so dramatic' about the climate because it would just 'probably be fine.' Selfish and complacent people like them were the reason that others were suffering, the reason that the rest of us had to live on a planet with a goddamn expiration date.

"Eventually, the idea that there even was a 'rest of us' began to crack. I watched people in my activist circles discard their principles in favor of tailoring their lives to their preferences. As soon as they had something else going for them, a well-paying job, a partner with money, any kind of leg up in the world, their resolve crumbled every damn time. They became the center of their own little world, and what was happening around them paled in importance. Watching people I had protested with start working useless white collar jobs that contributed nothing good to the world, just to buy a house in the suburbs and a new gas car shifted my worldview. It made me start to realise that it wasn't some inherent righteousness about us in particular that made us want to change things. It was pure happenstance. As soon as people have the means to save their own skin, achieve their own personal, individual happiness, they don't care about anyone else. They don't care who they're hurting as long as they get what they want.

"It was enticing to blame humanity for that. Like there's something uniquely evil about us, that we're a poisonous, destructive force in an otherwise pure natural world. But I could never bring myself to believe that. Not really. All of our worst traits come from the most base instincts and urges that all animals have. The territorialism, the brutality, the willingness to fuck others over for our own gain. The rot goes to the core, and no creature on Earth could exist without an ancestral legacy of selfish opportunism. Humans are simply the only ones so far to have been intelligent enough to harness it in such a detrimental way.

"Humans and animals alike are born in droves to continue this cycle of life and death, in service of what? Suffering through hardship just for the sake of continuing to live to suffer more? Experiencing ever-fleeting joys, at the cost of the suffering of some other? It's pointless. It's all pointless, and the world is worse off for any of us being here at all. There can't be life without suffering, and there wouldn't be suffering without life.

"I've felt like this for a while. Years. I kept up with the sustainability at first, the attempts to raise awareness. No use in increasing the world's hardships further, since we're all already here. Even if I didn't really think it was possible, I felt like I had to try to make things better. But I stagnated, eventually. What good was I doing? One person among billions, trying to help the life on our doomed world keep going, when it had done so much more harm than good in the first place. It was hard to keep the motivation, and god knows it takes a lot of that to live sustainably. I was depressed, floating through life with shitty jobs, no purpose, no hope. For years. I intellectualised about the concept of ending my life, the right to die and the fact I resented having been born, but I never had the drive or the guts to go do anything about it. I just marched on, angrily, pointlessly, resenting the world around me as I moved through it.

"Things changed a few weeks ago. I… I'm not sure what changed, exactly. I ended up having a conversation with a coworker at the petrol station I work at about plastic. She was complaining about some bloke throwing out a bottle instead of recycling it, and I told her most recycled plastic just ends up in landfills anyway. She tried to argue with me, I argued back. She knew I was right, and was really upset about the idea. It felt good to make her upset. It felt good in a way I hadn't experienced before. It was almost refreshing to inflict on her the dread I lived with for so long. I attributed it to feeling vindicated. I was right, she was wrong, and she knew it. I told myself that was all there was to it.

"I started to notice that feeling more and more. It amped up whenever I posted online about the climate or endangered animals. I hadn't been heavily into online awareness activism since my teens, but suddenly I found myself wanting to post more and more. The more I spread the word about horrors in the world, drew attention to the signs of impending disaster, the more vitalised I would feel. I found myself starting more conversations in person about the environment, too. Climate change, pollution, even things like the effects that a nuclear fallout could have on the world. The more scared and hopeless people got, the better it felt. The further I wanted to push them.

"I started using a lot more plastic, too. I can't really explain why, other than that it felt right… I frequent specific places where I know there are people who get anxious about it. That's why I was always at that café. I… I think they've got worse with the plastic in the last few weeks. They always used a lot, but it's like the more time I spend there the more useless, unnecessary cling wrap I see. There's a younger employee who gets so anxious about how much plastic they use, the wastefulness of it all, but they don't want to make a fuss. They just go along with it and let the guilt and anxiety eat them alive. I don't know how I know what they're feeling. It just… emanates from them. The anxiety, the dread… I feel it from customers too. From passersby, when I throw rubbish on the ground, or throw out a half full cup of coffee. I've felt it from you.

"The day before I saw you last week, my coworker broke down after one of our conversations. She told me she'd been having nightmares about the end of the world. She was ranting and raving about how it was coming, soon, and how it's going to be worse than we could ever imagine, and there was nothing she could do to stop it. She talked about floods, and storms, and manmade ruins and garbage that will last far longer than any of us. I'd never seen fear like I saw in her eyes, and it felt so, so good… Her panic, her breakdown, her needing to leave work early. It was gratifying, on a primal level I don't even know how to put into words. I wanted to make it worse, make her feel worse…

"It scared me, what you said the other day. About how I'm already connected to one of these things, that I've been feeding it and being fed by it. It made sense in a way that terrified me. I've… I've been offline. I haven't started anything with my coworker in the past week. I haven't gone back to the café, partially to avoid you, but also because I'm scared of what this all means, and I… I'm not sure I want any part of it. I… 

"You aren't human, are you? You look human, and you act like a person, but your eyes… You look at me like you know everything about me, and none of it matters to you. Like you're trying and failing to pretend that you see me as a person. Like you're starving, and I'm food. I can't look away from your eyes, and I'm so scared. I'm scared of you, and I'm scared of the idea that I could become like you… but…

"You said you were connected to the fear of being watched and having your secrets known, and that that gave you the power to force people to answer questions. You talked about a woman afraid of going crazy being actually trapped in an impossible shopping aisle. You told me that the fear of being controlled can manifest to actually control things. If I keep feeding the fear of extinction, of the end of the world, what will it give me? I've spent my whole life failing over and over and over again to accomplish anything to better this hellscape of a world. The fear of being known actually knows you, the fear of being controlled actually controls you… Maybe with this thing behind me, I can actually end some of the suffering in this world. Maybe I can end all of it.

"It calls to me. I don't know how I hear it, but it calls to me and promises a better world. A world without evil, without suffering, without pain. What's my own humanity compared to that?"

Renée stares wide eyed at Jon, opening her mouth to speak, before closing it again, lip trembling. Jon lets out a deep, contented sigh.

"Thank you, Renée," he says, sincerely. She looks at him like he's insane, and he becomes aware of the tape recorder on the couch to her left. He takes a step towards it, and she flinches back in the other direction. He picks up the tape recorder. "Is this yours?"

"No."

He hums and clicks it off, then hears her let out a high pitched grunt.

"Stop doing that!" she yells, taking another step back from him, bracing herself against the wall. "What is wrong with you? How did you know where I live? Why-"

"That's another uh, Eye, thing. The Ceaseless Watcher."

"Wh- what the hell?" She's shouting now. "You broke into my house and- and forced me to-"

"I apologise for that," Jon says, hastily, putting his hands up to try to de-escalate. "You were the only lead I had on a statement, I'd gone too long without." He hesitates before adding, "And I'd hardly say I 'broke in-'"

The wild panic in her eyes sharpens into a blind rage, and it's the last thing Jon sees before he feels the floorboards shift beneath his feet, and the world start to warp around him.

Chapter Text

It takes a moment for Jon to get his bearings as the world around him stabilises. He's almost impressed by how quickly he recovers, given his state before he took Renée's statement. He feels energetic, stable on his feet despite the floor giving slightly under him. Was it so water damaged before?

He looks around at the flat he finds himself in. He's alone, Renée nowhere to be found. He tries to know where she went, but his head aches with the effort. The flat around him is in shambles. Parts of the wall are entirely absent, opening up to the surrounding flats and the city outside.

Jon's stomach drops when he sees the cityscape. He realises the tape recorder from earlier is still in his hand as his grip on it tightens instinctively. He clicks it on without a second thought.

"I- I am no longer in Renée's flat," he stammers out. "Rather, I am, but it's been… changed. I can't- When I try to know anything about it, my head just aches, it doesn't…

"The flat I'm in looks just like hers, but it's damaged. Incredibly damaged. The floorboards look like they could collapse any second, many of them already broken and rotting. The furniture is ripped and damaged, with pieces missing. There's black mould covering parts of the couch cushions and the walls. The walls and ceiling are damaged as well, all but rotting away in large sections. I can see through them into other flats, and they all look to be in similar condition. I… I can also see outside…

"It's the same street view I saw when I came in, but it's- All the buildings in sight look as dilapidated as this one. The street is flooded, and empty. The water is cloudy and polluted, there's garbage floating all throughout it.  There are power lines in the road, reaching down into the water, though I don't see any sparks. There are dirty street signs, so faded that I can't even… I can't make them out, and I can't know what they used to say. The sky… I can't even see it. It's cloudy and gloomy, and it looks dim… almost orange behind the clouds. I… I don't know what's in the air, but it hurts to breathe.

"I…" Jon turns to look behind him, frowning. "I want to try to leave, but the door is… It's broken off, splintered everywhere, and the frame is collapsed in on itself. Even past it, the hall looks… very unstable… I don't think I should go that way. I'm going to try to climb down the building's outer wall."

He steps closer to the edge of the floor, and looks down at the crumbling beneath his feet. He puts the tape recorder in the inside pocket of his blazer.

"I'm only one storey up. It probably seems much higher than it actually is… This isn't the Vast…"

He grips the bottom of an exposed support beam, and starts to climb down the jagged bricks to the street below, praying they won't collapse under him like a jenga tower. It isn't long before one slips out under his foot, and he gasps sharply, almost falling.

"It- It's fine," he pants. "This is fine. I'll just-"

He takes another step down, onto a sturdier brick, ensuring that it's secure before moving his hand from the beam down to another brick further down the wall.

"It's probably good that this wall is so dilapidated," he mutters to himself, moving one foot to a lower brick. "Makes it easier to find a foothold…" He steps down with the other foot, then moves his right hand down, preparing to lower himself. The brick he grips, however, slips out of place when he tries to move his other hand. He yelps, trying unsuccessfully to grab at the wall as he feels himself falling.

He lands hard on the pavement below, splashing into the water. Deep enough to be a proper nuisance, but not nearly enough to break his fall in any meaningful way.

"Fuck-" he coughs out, trembling as he pulls himself back to standing. He landed on his left side, a dull pain pulsing through his arm and leg from the force of the landing.

"I… I'm on the ground, now," he updates, for the recorder. "I'm… I think I may have hurt my left arm and leg. I landed in some very unsanitary looking water, so hopefully it didn't break skin. Though, who even knows if I need to worry about infections anymore, with everything…" He takes a deep breath, polluted air burning his throat as he leans against the wall beside him, on his right side. "I'm not even sure this is water… It… It's probably watered down, but it smells like… petrol… Christ, my clothes are soaked…" He takes another deep breath.

"I haven't… hah… I haven't encountered any active danger so far. It's been a pattern in possible Extinction statements to be trapped in some sort of dystopian landscape, with non-human entities that mean you harm, but I don't see any sign of life here at all. That may be a reflection of Renée's personal beliefs about Extinction, and her reasons for wanting to bring it about. More life would mean more suffering, after all…"

He looks around at the cityscape again, paying closer attention to the buildings around him now that he's at ground level.

"Most of the suspected manifestations of the Extinction involve escape through some sort of doorway or threshold. The door to Garland Hillier's apartment in case 0060122, the funhouse mirror in case 0090401, the path back through the jungle in case 0131305… I'm not quite sure how that would apply here, given that I didn't actually cross a threshold to get here, I was just… Maybe I should've tried to get back through the door inside the flat, but it was destroyed, I don't know how I could've…" He takes a deep breath, trying to quell the panic seeping into his voice. "It's fine. I've survived a real apocalypse once already, this… I can get through this. I'll figure it out."

He clicks off the tape recorder, and starts trudging down the flooded pavement, the water coming up a bit past his ankles. He heads west, because that's where he came from, but he doesn't know what he expects to find on his path. He keeps a lookout for intact doorways, strange looking openings, and any kind of cobwebs. As much as he detests the Web, he knows they've at least been meddling in his circumstances as of late, and have pulled at least one statement giver from a hellscape in the last few weeks. He doesn't like the idea of accepting its help, but if it's his only option…

He doesn't find any clusters of cobwebs. Nor any strange doors or openings. He eventually reaches back in his pocket, and takes out the tape recorder, clicking it on again.

"I've been walking for… It feels like an hour, now, but I'm not sure. I can't… I can still feel the Eye, but I can't… connect to it right now. The landscape is like it was on the cab ride here, only it… it looks like it's been years and years since anyone's been here. The entire city is basically in ruins.

"The sky is getting darker. I think a storm is coming, but I don't know." He coughs. "The air is still harsh and acrid, as evidenced. Smells of sulfur and petrol. It's worse down here than it was in the flat. I don't know if it's actually getting worse, or if this place is just preventing me from getting used to it."

He pauses, continuing to walk, but not turning off the recorder. Thinking. He winces as he speaks again.

"Renée was trying to reject the Extinction. Fighting its hold on her, resisting the call. Something I've never really managed to do. It's impossible to know what would've happened had I not… interfered, but… she might've succeeded. Hell, had I not interfered, she'd never have had anything to resist."

He keeps walking, silent for a few moments, but still not turning the recorder off.

"It was kind of ironic, her talking about ending the world," he says, eventually. "Talking to me about killing all living things to end the world's suffering. Christ, if she only knew… It was different, when I was going to do it. I was doing it to save people, to prevent this from happening anywhere else. It wasn't just to put my world out of its misery. It-" He lets out a ragged sigh. "It wasn't like I had better options! I…" He says nothing for a long few moments, the sloshing of his footsteps the only thing breaking the silence of the cityscape. "There's no point in dwelling on this. It's done. They're… We're here." He shuts off the recorder, shoving it back in his pocket, and trekking on.

He walks a while before turning it on again.

"I've walked about another half hour now, I think, and it's all the same. Wrecked buildings, flooded streets, litter everywhere… A lot more litter now than before. I know what part of London I'm in. I'm a few blocks away from the café, a bit further from the office. The buildings here are a lot nicer than the ones where Renée lives, in reality, but you certainly couldn't tell from here… I'm going to the café. It's a significant point, so maybe I'll find some answers there. I hope I do.

"The sky has got darker. It definitely looks like rain is coming. I- Oh!" He feels a drop fall on his face as he speaks. "Right. Definitely starting to rain. There's- There's nowhere to take shelter really. The doorways to the buildings are all essentially caved in, with the rubble. Agh-" He feels more raindrops, on his face, hair, and shoulders. "It's picking up fast. It- It doesn't feel like water, it's more… more slick, more acidic." He laughs, mirthlessly. "Because oily acid rain is exactly what I need. Hopefully I can get to the café before it gets too bad. Hopefully I'll be able to get in…" He coughs on the thick, stinging air as he turns off the recorder.

The rain gets worse rapidly, escalating to a full on storm. His hair and clothes are drenched in dirty water, and he can feel the acidity of it on the skin of his face. The wind moves against Jon, pushing back against his attempts to move forward, and the water levels at his feet start to rise, reaching past his mid-calf by the time he reaches the block that the café is on. He turns on the recorder, shielding it with his rain-soaked jacket.

"The storm has got a lot worse. I'm close to the café, I can see it from here. It-" A loud gust of wind interrupts him, and he braces himself against the wall of the building beside him. He speaks loudly even as the wind slows down. "It looks different than the other buildings around it! It's still broken down, disheveled, but it looks… shinier?" Another strong gust of wind hits, almost knocking Jon off his feet. "I just need to get a little further! I can see it, I just-"

He pushes forward, through the harsh blow of the storm, rain pelting down on him as he goes.

"I've reached the café!" he announces to the recorder. "The chairs and tables outside are bent and broken, the umbrellas are… the cloth on them is gone, but it's like someone's replaced it with layers of cling wrap. Actually, there's… The building is in bad shape, like all the others, but all the openings are covered with cling wrap! Just like the stuff they used in such excess here…" He grips the side of the building as another gust of wind threatens to knock him over. The cling wrap sticks slightly to his fingers when he tries to remove them. "I'm going to go inside! The door is still intact, but the glass is dirty enough that it's hard to see inside. Hopefully it isn't locked." He grunts, jiggling with the rusted door handle as the winds continue. Eventually, the latch gives, and the door swings forcefully forward, Jon losing his footing and falling forward with it, into a pile of plastic rubbish on the other side. He scrambles behind the door, pushing it shut, shielding himself from the elements. He slumps against the back of the door once it's closed

"I'm in!" he pants, taking the recorder out of his wet blazer. "It's… It doesn't look great in here. I didn't expect it to, but it… All the furniture is intact, but wrapped in plastic. I think there's food still in the displays, but wrapped in much, much more plastic than normal, to the point I can't even really see what any of it is. Even the walls are covered in plastic, and what looks like some kind of oil… There's plastic all over the ground too, but not cling wrap. It's rubbish, litter. Plastic cups, bottles, soda rings… It's piled quite high. I'm sitting against the door, and it's almost up to my shoulders, practically burying me. Actually-" He pushes himself up, the rubbish shifting and clattering as he does. "Probably shouldn't jinx that one." He brushes off his clothes, regretting it when he feels how wet they are. "I'm going to try to have a look around, find some sort of exit, maybe…"

He hears thunder outside, and turns to see the rain pounding against the cling wrapped holes in the walls. He makes a small worried noise, and starts wading through the rubbish on the floor.

"Hopefully the cling wrap shielding me from the weather is stronger than it looks," he mutters, bottles and cups rattling as he steps through them. He feels the soda rings brush against his ankles as he walks, almost gravitating towards him, like they have a mind of their own. It makes him worry about treading further into the shop, but what other option does he have? He makes his way around the counter.

"I'm heading in the back. I've just got behind the counter and the till is open. Full of cash, but it's soaked and mouldy. Though I can hardly tell, because the entire till and drawer are both thickly cling wrapped, like everything else. I- Fuck." He had leaned his hand on the counter, and his attempt to remove it had pulled some of the plastic off at one end.

"It's- It's wrapping around my hand, I'm- Shit, it won't-" He manages to pull his hand out, stumbling back and hitting the wall. "It's off! Came off." He sighs, taking a moment to rest against the wall. "The plastic seems to be gravitating towards me. The soda rings on the ground did the same, like they were trying to wrap around my ankles like a net. The wall is… Fuck." He realises his jacket is caught on the wall behind him as he tries to move away from it. He pulls on it for a few moments before giving up and slipping out of the jacket altogether. "My jacket is stuck to the wall, and I'm leaving it behind." He sighs, gripping the tape recorder tighter as he moves on, carefully avoiding touching the rest of the walls and counters.

"The door to the kitchen looks to be broken. Well, it's held together with… weirdly strong cling wrap, but it's half off the hinges, and I won't have to touch it to get in. I think-"

He's interrupted by a loud tearing sound, and feels a gust of wind coming from the front of the café.

"Shit!" The wind is as strong as it was outside, almost knocking him into the plastic-covered wall beside him. "The cling wrap tore! At the front of the shop!" He coughs on the harsh, acidic air as he staggers towards the kitchen door, barely managing not to touch the walls. He hears sloshing when he takes a step, and looks down at his shoes. "Fuck, the water is getting in…" He scrambles through the door, desperately hoping to find something useful inside.

"Fuck… It- The room, the kitchen, it's… Th- There are tapes, cassette tapes, all over. Some of them are cling wrapped, others are spilling out their tape onto the floor, and- and… The tape is extending to the floor, tangled with the plastic rubbish, weaving in and out of it all. They… They used to be important, I can feel that they were, but they're- It's all damaged, useless, just more plastic in the heaps of discarded-"

Another gust of wind blows through, finally making Jon lose his balance. He manages to catch himself on his hands and knees, feeling the sting of the contaminated water on his bare hands. He tries to push himself up, but finds his leg caught on some piece of plastic, keeping him down.

"Ah, I- I'm stuck, my leg, I can't-"

He tries again to pull himself up, but whatever has his leg doesn't budge. He writhes on the ground trying to free himself, and his left hand slips on the wet ground, sending him down into the sea of plastic and polluted water below.

The water stings even more on his face, and he tries to hold his eyes closed, despite it being antithetical to every instinct he has. He tries to get back up, but the hand that slipped is caught now, in a cluster of soda rings interwoven with tape. He tries to untangle it with his other hand, holding the tape recorder under his arm, but feels the plastic tightening around his fingers as he fails to unweave the knots.

"Fuck-" he grunts, trying to shift back to the kitchen door, like maybe he could pull hard enough to break it. His free leg slips on the slick, wet ground, leaving him only further tangling himself. "Shit, I- I can't- No! "

The tape recorder slips from his hold, plunging into the shallow water. He sees the tape stop spinning as it submerges, bubbling slightly under the water as it goes still. He tries to grab it, to salvage it, but he can't move his arms with the plastic binding them tighter each second.

"Fuck!" He feels the water getting higher, and tries to pull himself up, crying out as he feels his other leg get caught in the plastic tangle. He struggles against it, but it just gets tighter and tighter. He feels it break skin as it digs deeper into his limbs. 

He doesn't know how he's going to get out of this one. He looks around frantically, searching for anything that might give some clue as to what he could do to not die in this barren plastic wasteland, surrounded by destroyed, decaying tapes. He can't stop thinking about the tapes, the loss of them. Unusable knowledge with no one left to salvage it… He's aware of the mind games that these manifestations can play with those caught in them, but the sense of horror and loss overwhelms him as he struggles to keep his head above water. The sense that he's going to become like them, and no one will be left to know or care.

He repeats over and over in his mind that this isn't real, that there are still other people in the world, that he can still get back to them. He lets out a pained sob as the plastic tightens around his arms, pulling him further into the pool. He reaches desperately for the Eye, honing in on the sliver of connection to it he can still feel, trying to know his way out, trying to find something, anything he can do.

Just as the plastic tightens again, he feels his connection to the Eye finally break through. He lets out a hysterical laugh at the sheer relief of the sensation. He suddenly knows with a piercing clarity that the tapes around him were never valuable, that the litter surrounding him isn't the accumulation of real people's trash, and that there were never other people in this place to have been wiped out at all. The loss and horror subside as the Eye shows him the truth of this place.

He feels his heart rate decrease as he drinks in the Watcher's gaze, grounding himself. He relaxes as much as he can with his limbs still tangled, and feels the plastic loosen slightly. He shifts towards the dropped tape recorder as soon as he's able, grabbing at it a few times before he manages to get hold of it. It does nothing when he tries to click it back on, but he knows that the tape inside is salvageable. He grips the recorder tight as the water rises.

The last thing he remembers is the taste of that acrid water as he's submerged in it, but he isn't afraid when it happens. He doesn't close his eyes.

Chapter Text

Jon comes to in a dark, empty alley, clutching a tape recorder in both hands. The first thing he does is let out a heavy sigh of relief into the bone dry pavement beneath him. His wrists and ankles are still loosely wrapped with magnetic tape, but he's able to shake it off with ease.

He stands up on shaky legs, taking note of his surroundings. The world looks normal again. Buildings intact, sky clear and starry, litter covering the streets not exceeding the expected amount. He isn't sure exactly where he is, until the Eye informs him he's behind the café near the office. He breathes another sigh of relief at the reminder that he can feel the Eye again.

Once aware of his surroundings, his attention is drawn to his own state. His clothes are still soaked and smell of petrol and sulfur, and his hair is damp and greasy with the same smell. His limbs sting and burn in the places the plastic dug into him, and his left side still aches from falling off the side of Renée's building. He's bled through his white dress shirt in lines up his forearms, and he knows that his calves and ankles haven't fared any better, even if it's not visible under his dark blue trousers. His blazer is nowhere to be found, evidently left behind in the hellscape he's just escaped from. All he's left thinking about is how desperately he needs a shower.

He instinctively thinks to grab his phone to call someone (Martin? Jonah? A cab?), but remembers that he left it at home this morning. Probably for the best, considering the suspicious liquid he's been entirely soaked in would probably have damaged the thing anyway, but this does leave him without a way to get anywhere besides walking. Even if he did have a functioning phone, his wallet is definitely still in his jacket. A cab ride is simply not in the cards.

He lets out a long, low groan as he leaves the alley, starting his trek.

He came here because it was closer. It was a shorter walk, and he's so tired. That's why he's here.

He repeats this to himself over and over on the doorstep, as he tries to gather the courage to knock on the door in front of him. He stands there for a few minutes, cyclically hovering his hand over the wood and drawing it back. He's hovering it when the door opens.

Jonah is in his night clothes. His, Jon knows, not Elias's. A white silk button up shirt and trousers that he recently purchased, plus slippers that Elias wouldn't have cared to own.

"Good lord, Jon," he says, looking him up and down with a look of surprise bordering on concern. Jon is too tired to think to glare at him, and comes up short of any kind of response. Jonah looks at him for a long moment before sighing quietly and stepping aside, hovering a hand behind Jon's shoulder to usher him in, not actually touching the wet fabric of his shirt. "Let's get you cleaned up."

Jon slips off his shoes by the door, and lets himself be led to the upstairs bathroom, knowing distantly that the downstairs bathroom doesn't have a shower. Jonah opens the door for him, and doesn't follow him in.

"May I ask what happened?" Jonah asks, before Jon can close the door. Jon blinks and wordlessly hands him the tape recorder. He looks down at it for a moment before looking back to Jon. "Take as long as you need." He gently shuts the door.

Jon lets out a deep sigh once he's alone, leaning on the bathroom counter. He felt so much better after taking Renée's statement, but this entire ordeal has drained him again. He glances above the sink, and spends a moment staring at his reflection.

The layer of oily residue on his skin makes his face shine unnaturally. His still-too-long hair is damp, and the parts of it that have dried are knotted and have the same unnatural shine. His shirt is still wet, the white tinted slightly yellow in places, and the red streaks wrapping his sleeves standing out much more starkly than he thought. He understands why Jonah was looking at him like that.

He leaves the mirror, and turns on the shower. His clothes are still wet, and stick unpleasantly to his skin as he peels them off. He throws them into a pile on the floor, and steps into the shower, savouring the purity and warmth of the water.

He spends a good few minutes just soaking under the showerhead, feeling the oily residue slowly flowing off his body. The cuts on his limbs sting as the hot water flows over them, but the relief is too great for him to care. He decides to start with his hair, when he works up the resolve to actually start cleaning himself.

There are a variety of products in the shower. Shampoo, conditioner, body wash, face wash, and one conspicuous bottle of three-in-one shampoo, conditioner, and body wash, seeming antithetical to the rest. A leftover from Elias, Jon realises. Jonah does a thorough job of imitating Elias's style and preferences to the public, but apparently doesn't deny himself his preferred soaps and hair products.

Jon squirts shampoo into his hand, and begins work on his hair, scrubbing gently at the tangled, oily mess on his head. The process is comparable to his experience washing the dirt from his hair after escaping the Buried. The grime sticks more than any natural dirt or mess would.

His skin is easier to clean, for the most part. He takes a folded washcloth from a shelf on the wall, and uses a generous amount of Jonah's body wash. The oily residue comes off his skin much more readily, flowing down the drain without much fuss. He has trouble, though, cleaning his forearms and calves. The cuts wrapped around them sting even worse when the soap touches them, and he hesitates to even use the washcloth on them. He ends up putting the cloth aside, washing the wounds gently with soapy hands.

He uses his hands to clean his face as well rather than getting a clean washcloth, though he does decide to use Jonah's fancy face wash. It feels rejuvenating to scrub the slick filth off of his face, and the foamy cleanser makes it all the better.

He decides to top it off by using Jonah's expensive hair conditioner. With how silky and untangled it leaves his usually moppy hair, he genuinely considers buying a bottle of his own to replace his cheap store brand one.

It's been over a half hour by the time Jon is finished. As he's using one of Jonah's towels to dry off, he comes to the sobering realisation that with his clothes still soiled on the floor, he has nothing to change into. After a solid few minutes of mild alarm and internal negotiations, he wraps the towel around his waist, and cracks open the bathroom door.

"Jonah?" he calls, peeking his head out. There's no response. The Eye informs Jon that Jonah is in the bedroom down the hall. Jon tries desperately to stifle the flush he feels forming on his face and chest, and exits the bathroom, making his way down the hall.

The bedroom door is cracked open, and Jon can hear a tape player going, his own distorted voice coming out. He opens the door further to see Jonah sitting on the edge of the bed, tape player in hand. It's a different device than the broken, soaked one he got from Jon. He doesn't seem to notice Jon at the door, attention fully devoted to the tape. He's staring unfocused at the floor in front of him as he listens to Jon frantically describe the café's kitchen on the recording. Jon doesn't interrupt, watching Jonah listen until the tape reaches its end, with Jon getting caught in the plastic and dropping the recorder.

Jonah looks to the doorway almost immediately when the tape ends, looking Jon up and down appraisingly. Jon's flush returns.

"How did you get out?" Jonah asks, simply. Jon rubs at the lacerations on his wrists.

"The plastic kept wrapping tighter, pulling me lower as the water rose. I couldn't reach the Eye at first, but it came through in the end, and I just… Wasn't scared anymore. The plastic stopped getting tighter, I managed to grab the recorder, and I just… woke up in an alley outside the real café. There was still tape around my wrists and ankles, from the cassettes, but it was loose, and I just shrugged it off."

Jonah hums, thoughtfully, but says nothing. Jon feels a spike of irritation.

"What?"

Jonah laughs softly, and makes eye contact with Jon. "With the appearance and apparent significance of the tapes, I'm wondering if your escape had to do with Web influence."

Jon scowls, breaking the eye contact. Of course it was the Web… He feels like a fool for not considering it himself. Jonah tilts his head slightly.

"It's not your fault, Jon. The point of the Web is that you don't notice yourself getting caught in it."

"Get out of my head," Jon snaps. Jonah simply hums, before standing, putting the tape player on his bedside table.

"I have fresh clothes in your size in my closet," he says, turning to face Jon, "but it's a three piece suit, and it will be easier to tend to your injuries before you get dressed." Jon opens his mouth to protest, but Jonah doesn't give him a chance. "I've got a first aid kit downstairs. I'll be back in a moment." Jonah pushes past him through the door, and leaves Jon standing slightly dumbfounded in his bedroom.

He looks down at the gashes on his arms. They probably could do with a proper cleaning. He doesn't fully trust that he wouldn't bleed on whatever (probably white) shirt Jonah has for him. The Eye takes that thought as its opportunity to inform Jon not only that the suit is dark green with an off white dress shirt, but also of its exact location in Jonah's closet, so Jon must now live with the fact that he is actively choosing to sit down on the bed without getting dressed, as he waits for Jonah to return with the kit.

Jonah returns with the first aid kit and smiles almost imperceptibly when he sees Jon sitting on the bed. Jon scowls again, avoiding eye contact and hoping the lamplight isn't bright enough to show the heat on his face. If it is, Jonah doesn't mention it as he walks towards Jon.

Jon almost jumps when Jonah kneels down in front of him, propping the kit open on the floor at his side. He takes a round cotton pad and squeezes some antibiotic ointment onto it. He hovers his hand around Jon's ankle without making contact, and looks up at Jon, who's looking back at him wide-eyed. They keep eye contact for a long moment before Jon realises he's waiting for permission to touch him. He nods jerkily, and Jonah gets to work.

He takes hold of Jon's ankle, lifting his leg to get better access to the circumference of his injury. His touch is firm, but gentle, as he applies the ointment. It doesn't sting as badly as the soap, but it isn't comfortable, and Jon finds himself focusing on Jonah's solid touch to distract from the pain.

When he's finished applying the ointment, Jonah carefully wraps Jon's ankle and lower leg in a soft white bandage, before moving on to the other. The cuts on this leg are worse than the previous, and the ointment stings more when applied. Jon finds himself twitching his leg involuntarily as it's applied, but Jonah holds him in place with a firm grip. Jon silently curses the heat in his face intensifying at the casual display of strength. What is wrong with him right now?

Jonah sets his leg down gently when he finishes bandaging it, and reaches towards Jon's left hand with his own, offering, but not taking. Jon hesitantly places his hand in Jonah's, and Jonah holds it with that same gentle but firm touch, pulling his arm out to get to work treating his wounds.

With Jonah holding his hand and touching his wrist and arm, Jon becomes more acutely aware of how short the distance is between them, and how nearly naked he is. The towel around his waist is the only thing shielding him from Jonah's eyes, his scarred chest and arms entirely bare. He hardly resists the urge to shrink in on himself as Jonah works his way up the cuts on his arm.

"You have nothing to be embarrassed about, Jon," Jonah says, quietly, interrupting Jon's thoughts. He glances up at him with a small smile. "It's nothing I haven't seen before."

Jon stares blankly at Jonah as he breaks eye contact to refocus on Jon's wound. Jonah would have seen him naked before, wouldn't he? He could see almost anything, at any time in their old world, and Jon already knew that he watched him all the time.

Jon doesn't have the reaction to this realisation that he knows he should. He should be disgusted by the violation, mortified at the invasion of privacy. Instead, he feels almost reassured. It feels good to be known, to have nothing left he needs to hide. Something is definitely wrong with him.

He watches in silence as Jonah begins to wrap bandages around his arm, letting go of his hand to twist them around. When he finishes, much to Jon's confusion, he stands and goes to open a drawer in his nightstand. He pulls out a tape recorder, and takes a seat on Jon's right side, placing it beside him on the bed, and turning it on. Jon shoots him a questioning look.

"You were in bad shape this morning, and hardly looked better when you showed up here," Jonah explains. "I'm sure you got a lot from the statement earlier, but I suspect your experiences since have drained you significantly." Jonah takes Jon's right hand in his, readying to treat his wounds. "I'd like to offer a recharge, so to speak."

"You… You want to give a statement?" Jon blinks at him. Jonah smiles.

"I know you've been wondering about the early days of the Flesh." His smile widens at Jon's visible interest. "All you have to do is ask, Archivist."

Jon doesn't waste time.

"Tell me."

Jonah takes a deep breath in and out, and starts to treat the wounds on Jon's arm as he begins his statement.

"Robert Smirke first told me about his theory of the Thirteen Fears in 1815. I started collecting stories shortly after, three years before the official founding of the institute. Most of the stories were nonsense, much like in your tenure, but I started to get a sense for which had merit fairly quickly. They sorted very neatly into Robert's categories for the first few years.

"Discussions of the possibility of a fourteenth Fear started in the early 1820s, after several reports of strange happenings related to meat and butchery that didn't seem to fit the existing categories of the Hunt, the Slaughter, or the Stranger. Robert was largely against adding a new category, because of his attachment to his ideas about balance, but several in our circle felt differently, especially as time went on.

"I received a statement in June of 1822, which was an account of a widow, describing the mysterious circumstances her husband had died under. It was a rather vague tale, told by a woman who had an outsider's view of her late husband's business, but there were markers in her late husband's behaviour before he died that struck her as strange and unnatural, and raised my suspicions that this could be a manifestation of our theorised fourteenth Power. Her husband had started acting strangely outside of work. Muttering and rambling about flesh and blood and meat, acting generally not like himself. Eventually, he didn't come home from the shop one night, and was declared missing soon after. A puddle of fresh blood was found on the floor of his shop, but as it was a butcher shop, there was no way to prove foul play, let alone preternatural involvement. The case went cold, and he was presumed dead.

"I discussed the matter with Dr. Jonathan Fanshawe and an associate of ours, Wolfgang Struve, about two weeks after initially receiving the statement, and they agreed with my assessment of it seeming strange. Wolfgang suggested a more direct investigation of the site, the now closed down butcher shop. Young as I was, I was no fool, and had significant reservations about putting myself so close to the line of fire, so to speak. But Jonathan managed to convince me to at least accompany them to the building, and I was deeply curious about what a manifestation of this possible new Power could entail.

"I contacted the widow in an attempt to get her blessing on our investigation, but she was staunchly and loudly opposed to the idea, arguing that it was too perilous, and that she would sooner burn the place down than allow someone to put themselves in such danger. Upon receiving this news, my companions and I decided to investigate in secret, under cover of night, so as to not lose out on the research opportunity.

"All three of us went to investigate a few days after establishing our plans to do so. We had oil lamps on hand, though we planned not to light them until we got inside, to avoid drawing attention to ourselves.

"The particular night we had chosen to execute our plan was also one of the hottest of the entire summer. That may seem somewhat trivial to you, but clothing back then was thicker, and required more layers, making the sweltering July heat almost a hazard. I scolded Jonathan a good deal for convincing me to go out with them in the first place before we even neared the building.

"Of the three of us, Jonathan was the only one who could pick locks. Wolfgang had had a more wealthy upbringing than either of us, I was an academic through and through, but Jonathan had a certain worldly experience prior to his medical studies that had left him with such expertise.

"When he got the backdoor open, he held it for us, motioning for us to enter. Wolfgang did so without question, lighting his lamp and stepping cautiously through the door. I lit my own and followed. I didn't go far, hovering near the door with the intention of observing from there as Wolfgang brought his lantern around the room. I noticed after a moment that Jonathan hadn't entered behind me, and turned around to see that the door had been shut. It was a rather heavy door, and I should have been able to hear it close, under normal circumstances. I tried the knob to find it locked again, as if we'd never entered.

"'Jonathan!' I called out, continuing to jiggle the doorknob. 'Jonathan, open the door!' He didn't answer.

"Wolfgang had gone further into the shop than I had before the door shut, and he kept going as I was trying to reach Jonathan through the door. I only turned around to see that when I heard a deep, wet groan from across the room.

"That was the first time I got a proper look at the room we were in. The shop had been closed for months after the butcher's death, but the walls were lined with dead animals hung from above. Pigs, cows, sheep, and poultry hanging from meat hooks. Some skinned, some not. Some cut in half, some not. Some headless, some not. Interspersed among them were human men and women, hanging surrounded by other flesh, not even standing out amongst the collection. There was more meat than it looked like the walls could fit, but they all hung there, packed closely together. Some were still, some were swaying ever so slightly, some were twitching and writhing as if they were still alive. I could barely tell whether some of them were human or not, skinned and chopped up as they were, and even still, they writhed.

"The groan was coming from behind a bloodstained counter near the centre of the room. It was like a dissonant chorus of half a dozen humans and animals intoning in unison. I had my back fully against the door, gripping my lantern tight, as Wolfgang stood trembling, much closer to the counter than I.

"I will admit, I had not worked to ensure that dear Wolfgang was quite so informed about the nature of the Powers as myself and Dr. Fanshawe were. It wasn't a matter of it slipping my mind, so much as it was a conscious choice in service of self-preservation and improved opportunities for observation. A layman without the knowledge of how to avoid the metaphysical trappings of the Powers can be a very useful tool, both as a guinea pig to throw into the fray, and as a human shield in situations of great danger. Wolfgang at that moment, was effectively serving as both.

"I suspect even he would never have gone so far into that room if he'd noticed the human remains among the meat, but it was difficult to make out details in the lamplight. Neither of us made the connection until we were already locked in with whatever was on the other side of that counter, and he had got close enough to the walls for his lantern to cast its warm orange light over the dangling flesh packed close along the walls. His face was still reddened from the summer heat, but his expression showed a horror that I knew would have made him pale another day.

"The groan behind the counter wasn't loud, and it seemed to have escaped Wolfgang's notice. He was simply staring in abject horror at a chunk of human-shaped meat as it spasmed impotently against the wall. The second groan was louder, more of a growl than the first, and that did catch his attention. He staggered back from the counter with heavy steps, drawing the attention of the thing further as it rose into view.

"The thing wasn't anything I could recognize as human. It stood bipedally as we did, but its feet sounded like hooves on the shop floor. It had no hair or fur anywhere that I could see, skin glistening with sweat and stained with blood that was surely not its own. Its face jutted out like a snout, with a nose somewhere between that of man and bovine, and its arms were large and looked about to burst with muscle. Wolfgang was a taller man than I, and the thing towered over him, even hunched as it was. The only thing it wore was a bloodstained apron, that I can say with little certainty was likely once white.

"Wolfgang froze up in the face of this terror. I'm inclined to say he should've moved faster to try to escape the thing, I certainly thought it at the time, but it wouldn't have helped. It grabbed onto him by the nape of his neck with a huge hand, and dragged him across the room, kicking and screaming for me to help him. I cursed him, silently, for risking drawing the thing's attention to me, but it didn't acknowledge his words.

"It reached up behind a cluster of in-use hooks, and grabbed two empty ones. As neutral an observer as I tried to be, my stomach dropped at the realisation of what was about to happen. The thing grabbed onto one of Wolfgang's legs like he was picking up a chicken, and Wolfgang didn't seem to even understand what was going on until the thing took one of the hooks and pierced it through his ankle.

"I had never heard a blood curdling shriek like that before. A cry of agony and terror of such magnitude. Through all my fear and shock, I made the distinct, and perhaps meaningless observation that his screams didn't get worse when it pierced his other ankle with the second meat hook, like he'd already hit the upper limit of the pain and fear he could express outwardly.

"I tried to stay quiet. To shrink myself smaller so as to not draw the thing's attention, thinking I could just wait it out. Watch the torture and death of my colleague, and walk away with the experience, for better or for worse.

"It didn't waste time after it hung Wolfgang from the ceiling beside its other meat. It turned around and was halfway towards me before I could even register it was coming. I suddenly knew with a piercing clarity that I had never escaped its notice. I knew what I was in its eyes. For all my intelligence, my strategies, my deeply complex thought, I was nothing but a cowering lamb, cornered in a room with a butcher. It left me alone because it knew I wouldn't try to interfere, wouldn't be troublesome while it subdued my louder, more disruptive counterpart. I was never safe, not really.

"I started trying to reason with it. 'I'm deeply sorry, we didn't mean to break in, I-' I dodged its arm as it attempted to grab at my shoulder. 'We don't mean you any harm! We were only-' It gripped me hard by the back of the neck, pulling me towards the wall perpendicular to where Wolfgang hung. 'We're researchers, I swear we never meant any-' It grabbed my leg and pulled me up by it, flipping the world around me. 'Please, please I swear I won't cause you any trouble, just-' And my words cut off with a guttural scream as it pushed a blunt meat hook through my ankle.

"I don't know if my own screams escalated after the second puncture. For all I noticed it in Wolfgang, the intensity of my vocalisations was completely lost in the white hot agony of having my flesh and muscle broken through, and being left to hang there by my wounds, pressed between bloody, twitching meat on both sides.

"It did leave me there, apparently satisfied with its work restraining me, and went back to poor Wolfgang. I was already starting to feel dizzy from being upside down, so I imagine he was having a much worse time. The thing stopped at the place it had been lying down and picked up several different blades, spreading them on the counter before selecting one. It walked leisurely to where Wolfgang hung, babbling pleas and demands that it stop, and it got to work.

"It started by cutting off his layers of clothes, revealing the tender, sweating flesh underneath. I watched it grab at Wolfgang's thighs and gut, watched it stick its knife in to measure how deep the fat went. The Eye let me know that's what it was doing. It wasn't long before it properly began its process. It was skinning him. Alive.

"The process wasn't drawn out, gratifyingly slow to heighten the cruelty. It was procedural. A butcher simply butchering. Trying to guarantee that the meat ended up to its liking, whatever that may have been. Wolfgang's babbling became more screams, his screams became wheezing cries, and his cries subsided into the wet, throaty noises of a pained animal.

"I watched the whole time, craning my head to the right to witness this monster dismembering my friend. I called to my patron to help me, to give me anything that I could use to escape, but all I could do was watch, and wait for it to be my turn. My head was spinning as I tried to keep reality in focus, the sharp, excruciating pain in my ankles travelling up my legs as blood dripped down them. My heart raced, my eyes ached, it got hard to breathe. My vision faded in and out as I hung there. The butcher left to get another knife at one point, and came back to slice Wolfgang's gut open. It began to cut out his organs as the screaming began anew. I was convinced that I was going to die in that room, and I had never been so afraid.

"I passed out, in the end. A person can only hang upside down for so long without doing so, and luckily the preternatural aspect of the ordeal didn't interfere with that. I hung on for as long as I could, channelling the Eye to keep me watching, keep me aware, but consciousness eventually slipped from my grasp. I believe that's what left the opening for Jonathan to find me.

"I mentioned earlier that I neglected to fully prepare Wolfgang for the endeavor, but the same wasn't true for Jonathan. I regularly enlisted his help in following up cases that were less volatile, collecting statements and stories for the Institute, and had even persuaded him to assist me in recording statements on paper from subjects directly several times. It was always rather easy to enlist his help, considering how much he cared for me at the time, and how concerned he always was about my state of overwork. He wasn't knowingly devoted to the Eye the way I was, he didn't understand what he was doing, getting closer to it, but he had served it more than enough for it to reward him for his efforts. Enough that, with the butcher's hold on my fear already waning with my unconsciousness, he could see me.

"I came to lying on the floor of the empty shop. The walls were bare, and the butcher and Wolfgang were both nowhere to be seen. I was lying near the same wall I'd been hung up on, with agony shooting out from my ankles and Jonathan absolutely panicking above me. I let him know I was awake by letting out a pained groan, and he immediately began to badger me with frantic questions and profuse apologies. Insisting that he hadn't shut the door on us, that it had moved on its own. Asking what had happened on our side of the door, where was Wolfgang, what happened to my ankles.

"'We need to get out of here,' I said.

"He asked again, 'Where is Wolfgang?'

"'It's far too late for him, we need to get out, now. I need you to help me.'

"His expression was conflicted, not wanting to leave without our friend, but he did half carry, half drag me back out of the open door to the shop, propping me up to sit against the outside wall. He looked back inside the shop for a long moment before shutting the door.

"Even after being pulled out of the nightmare, I was still utterly terrified. My breathing was fast and heavy, from both terror and pain, and my recently acquired inability to run heightened the panic. The thick, stifling clothes I wore in that dreadful heat made matters all the worse. Out of it as I was, I noticed sharply when Jonathan came into view, kneeling down beside me, and untying the cravat around his neck.

"'I should have brought supplies, I can't believe I neglected to even think-' he accosted himself, as he began rolling up my trouser leg. My stomach lurched, but I didn't look away as he revealed the bloody holes the hook had torn through my ankle. He was very gentle in removing my shoe and sock, but I grimaced in pain nonetheless. He pulled the cravat off quickly, and wrapped it tightly around my ankle. I began untying my own before he'd even finished, anticipating a repeat of the process for my other leg.

"When he'd finished with his makeshift bandaging, he stood, and told me firmly that he was taking me to his practice to properly fix me up, immediately. When I asked how I was meant to get there, he simply crouched down close to me and pulled my arm around his shoulders, before scooping me up into his arms like a swooning maiden. I was a smaller man in my youth, in my original body, but the ease with which he lifted me still surprised me.

"I was very lucky that Jonathan's practice was as close as it was to that dreaded shop, but the walk there was still nightmarish. It stretched easily to twenty minutes, with the circumstances as they were. As hellish as the journey was, the medicinal opium at the end soothed the pain wonderfully.

"I documented everything that had happened as soon as I was in a state to hold a pen. I wish I could say my letter to him was what pushed Robert over the edge into accepting the Flesh as real, but even such a direct account from a close colleague wasn't enough to break his bullheaded attachment to his theories. He insisted that it was merely a subsection of the Hunt. It took him many years to listen to reason on that front, I'm afraid.

"Jonathan stayed very close to me for a while after reading the account, fawning over me during my recovery. He felt a deep guilt over my injuries, and Wolfgang's loss. I found myself caring for him emotionally almost as much as he cared for me physically. He thought I was mad when I told him I thought the knowledge was worth the injuries. To know exactly, firsthand, the fear that these encounters preyed on, to better be able to research it.

"He didn't think I'd ever walk again. He did what we could, but told me he feared the damage was too great for it. He called my recovery a miracle, when it eventually came to fruition. Maybe it could be considered so, depending on what one considers a god.

"But the scars did not fully fade. Pale, indented marks on each side of both ankles, marking where the hooks dug into my flesh. Nightmares, memories, panic attacks, as they now call them. I felt a surge of panic every time I walked past a butcher shop for years after that. The residual horror faded as the decades passed, but it wasn't until I shed that body that I was truly free from its burdens. This is the first time I've fully recalled this story in nearly two centuries. Here and now, for you, Archivist. I do hope that it refuels you to your satisfaction."

Jonah ends his statement with a shaky breath, as Jon lets out a sated sigh. Jon notices Jonah slowly rolling his ankles as he readjusts to reality.

"I… Thank you," Jon says, quietly. 

"Of course, Jon." Jonah smiles, meeting his eyes. Jon realises Jonah is still holding his now fully bandaged hand, and slowly retracts it, breaking eye contact. Jonah lets him.

"I… It already feels better," Jon mutters, running a hand over the bandages on his arm. The ointment and the bandages surely helped as well, but he knows the statement is what jump-started his unnatural healing.

And he really does feel so much better after Jonah's statement. His brain fog has dissipated, and his hunger is sated. He still feels tired, but it's not the wrung out exhaustion he felt after escaping the Extinction. It's the sort of sleepy contentedness you feel after a hearty meal.

He draws his attention back to Jonah, who's watching him intently, eyes trailing up Jon's arm and upper chest.

"What?"

Jonah sighs, pleasantly. The question is hardly a compulsion, not even focused enough to draw out any specific answer. But the static in Jon's voice dictates that Jonah must respond.

"Just… looking," he says, speaking slowly, like he's holding back. Jon doesn't let him.

"Why?"

This question is stronger, more specific, not allowing for vague answers. Jonah takes a deep breath before answering, drawing out the static buzzing between them.

"To admire our progress," he answers, voice low, eyes continuing to rake over Jon's skin. "In this world without the panopticon, I hardly get the chance anymore."

Jon's stomach turns at the response, and Jonah's eyes flick down to his abdomen, watching his muscles contract.

"Our progress?" Jon demands. There's no compulsion in it, but Jonah sighs anyway, sounding disappointed.

"Yes, Jon." He looks him in the eye, now, with a sad smile. "I thought you would understand by now."

He brings a hand up to Jon's shoulder, and Jon flinches back slightly, breaking eye contact to stare at it. Jonah hovers his hand, but doesn't retract it. Jon doesn't move away, and Jonah eventually brings his hand down to rest it on Jon's shoulder. Jon looks him in the eye again, but he doesn't look back, staring at Jon's shoulder as his fingers trace constellations between Jon's worm scars. He has a fond look in his eyes that Jon can only describe as nostalgic. Jon feels sick.

"What are you thinking?" he asks, despite himself, because he needs to know.

Jonah's hand tightens on Jon's shoulder as he takes another shaky breath.

"I'm thinking about the day that Jane Prentiss attacked the Archives. About the worms burrowing into your skin, and the fear that gripped you down to your bones. Even from afar, watching it was intoxicating…" His grip softens again, as he resumes stroking Jon's shoulder and looks him in the eye again. "It was all so new to you back then… "

Jon's face twists into a grimace, and he swats Jonah's hand off of his shoulder. Jonah gives him that same disappointed look, and Jon glares back.

"You're disgusting," Jon snaps. Jonah simply tilts his head.

"Then why are you here, Jon?"

Jon intensifies his glare, and Jonah waits for an answer they both know Jon won't give. That he couldn't help feeling drawn here, just as he'd felt drawn to the Institute in times of distress. That he couldn't have beared to face Martin's questions and concern and admonishment in the state he was in when he arrived. That he needed someone who would understand without judgement.

"I shouldn't be," Jon says, eventually, a sharp edge to his words.

He stands, holding the towel in place around his waist, and starts towards the closet. Jonah says nothing, and Jon feels his eyes follow him across the room. Jon opens the closet and grabs the hanging suit from the rack without searching for it, and huffs in annoyance as he grabs the briefs and socks Jonah has in his size off of the shelf. He turns back to Jonah, resisting both the urge to shrink under his gaze, and the urge to glare with as much force as he can.

"I'm going to get dressed," he says, flatly.

"Of course," Jonah replies, as Jon stalks past him. Jon hears him click off the tape recorder as he leaves the room.

He gets dressed in the same bathroom he showered in, leaving his soiled clothes from before on the floor for Jonah to deal with. He doesn't see Jonah again on his way out of the house, but feels his eyes on him through the window as he leaves to walk home.

Chapter Text

Martin gets home from Clarisse's a quarter after six, and is confused and slightly alarmed to find the flat empty. Jon gets off work at five, he should've been back an hour ago. He tries calling him first thing, but hears the phone ringing in the bedroom where Jon presumably forgot to take it off the nightstand this morning.

Martin tries to reassure himself that everything's fine. It's not unlike Jon to forget his phone, especially with the rush he was in this morning. He's probably just working late, god knows he has a history of it.

Martin then realises that under current circumstances, working late likely means being alone with Jonah Magnus for an extended period of time. And, god, as much as Martin wishes he could, he does not trust Jon to not play into his plans and manipulations. Unwittingly, or otherwise…

After about ten minutes of waiting and anxious consideration, Martin opens his phone again, and types out a text to the number in his contacts labelled "Elias Bouchard." He keeps it simple and non-accusatory.

'Is Jon working late?'

He prepares for at least a few minutes of waiting by the phone, but the typing bubble appears after only thirty seconds. Martin stares at the screen until the text comes in.

'Hello, Martin. Jon left early today, shortly after noon.'

Martin immediately presses call. Jonah lets it ring once before picking up.

"Hello?" he answers, casually.

"What do you mean he left early?" Martin demands. "Why?"

"He wasn't feeling well, and I told him to go home to rest," Jonah says, evenly.

A pit forms in Martin's stomach at the words. If Jon wasn't feeling well, it's because he was getting close to needing a statement. Jonah knew exactly what he was doing sending him out alone like that, and he's still not home.

"Do you have any idea where he might be?"

"Hm… No, I can't say I do."

Martin scoffs. "Really? You're seriously telling me you have no clue where he might've gone?"

"I am, yes," Jonah replies, sounding unconcerned. "As far as I knew, he'd gone right home."

He's so full of shit, Martin wants to hit him. He grunts in frustration and hangs up the phone.

Jon is out there doing who knows what, has been unaccounted for since noon, and doesn't even have his phone. Martin's head spins trying to think of something he can do to find him, to help, but he comes up with nothing.

He makes the decision to wait. It isn't an easy decision, and it tears him up inside to just sit uselessly in their living room for hours, but there's nothing he can do without any leads on where Jon may have gone, besides ensure that he'll be home when Jon does return. If he isn't back by morning, then Martin will start panicking.

He ends up waiting a little over three hours. He's nauseous from anxiety and worried out of his mind when he finally hears the door unlock, and sees Jon step in.

"Jon!" he exclaims, turning to the door. Relief that Jon is okay is the only emotion he initially feels, before the rest of it hits him like a ton of bricks a moment later. "Where have you been? It's past nine! It's past nine thirty!"

"I- I'm sorry, I…" Jon stammers out a nothing-apology, looking like he's trying to figure out how to explain something that he knows Martin will be upset about.

As Jon stumbles over his words, Martin registers that not only has he very visibly taken a statement, but his hair is damp, and he's wearing a different suit than he left the house in this morning.

"Jon, what are you wearing?" Martin asks, watching Jon's eyes widen slightly like he's been called on something. "Where were you?"

Jon looks at the floor, biting his lip and fidgeting with the sleeves of his jacket. "I… Camille died yesterday."

"What?" Martin blurts, utterly confused. "Who?"

"The woman from the library who's statement I took," Jon clarifies. "She's dead. The Web killed her yesterday."

"What… Did you go to investigate? Or…"

"No, I-" Jon clenches his fists in front of him before going back to worrying his sleeves. "She wasn't in my dreams last night, so when I slept, I didn't… get anything. I woke up late, more tired than I've been since we first got here. I… I needed a statement."

"Where did you go to get a statement that took so long?" Martin sees Jon open his mouth, but cuts him off to continue. "I called Jonah when I came home to an empty flat, he told me you left work around noon! Noon, Jon! Nine hours ago!"

"I didn't stay out late on purpose! I…" He takes a deep breath as if bracing himself, and Martin is tempted to do the same. "I left work at 12:18 and caught a cab, and I really meant to come right home, but I didn't even realise I'd given him the wrong address until…"

"Until what?" Frustration bleeds more and more into Martin's voice.

"Until the car stopped in front of Renée's flat."

Martin looks at him with exasperation. "Who is Renée?"

Jon winces. "The Extinction avatar."

"Jon!"

"I know, I'm sorry, it wasn't- I wasn't thinking," he stammers. "It just happened, and then I was there, and I needed a statement-"

"You told the cab driver her address by accident? You seriously couldn't even wait long enough to tell me you were going to meet someone who was potentially very dangerous?"

"I- I didn't have my phone and it-" He grips his sleeves tighter. "It didn't feel like I could've waited! I was… I was so weak, and…"

Martin takes a deep breath as Jon trails off, before interjecting.

"What happened? I'm assuming you got her statement. Are… Are you hurt?"

"I…" Jon looks down again. "I got her statement. She… didn't want to give it to me, and uh… retaliated."

"Retaliated how?" Martin's voice raises in both volume and pitch.

"She- She sent me to a… destroyed world, essentially. Like the one Bernadette Delcour found herself in, in statement 0060122, but without the… Inheritors."

"Jon, oh my god!" Martin looks him up and down. "Are you alright? How did you get out?"

"I- The Eye helped me out. I couldn't reach it for most of the time, but… when things got bad I felt it again, and I just… I knew where I was, and that none of it was… real. At least not in the way it wanted me to believe." He sighs, frown deepening. "The Web may have been involved as well," he mutters.

"What- What do you mean about things getting bad?" Martin presses. "What happened? Are you okay?"

"I…" Jon's hand movements shift to look less like fiddling with his sleeve, and more like rubbing his wrist. Martin notices a stark white poking out from under his sleeve.

"Jon, are those bandages?"

"I…" He pulls down his sleeves like a reflex, and stares straight at the floor. "Yes, they are, I… received some minor injuries."

"Injuries?" Martin's voice goes even higher.

"I, uh… Cuts. From plastic. Mostly on my wrists and ankles." Martin's eyes are drawn downward, where he sees the same white poking up out of Jon's very dirty looking shoes.

How is Martin even meant to process any of this? Jon shows up after nine hours of being essentially missing, barely acknowledges his injuries even when pressed, still hasn't explained why he's wearing different clothes.

"Why… Where did…" Martin tries to find the words. "Your clothes?"

"Oh…" Jon hugs his hands close to his chest, shifting from one foot to another. "I…"

"Jon?"

He stays silent for a long moment, with a guilty expression and eyes looking anywhere but at Martin.

"I ended up in an alley by the café when I got out…" he says, eventually. "I was a mess, and I was exhausted, and…" His voice gets quieter. "Jonah's house was closer…"

"Jonah's house?" Martin repeats, in disbelief. "You got back from this Extinction hellscape hours and hours after you're meant to be home, and the first thing you did was go to him? Not- Not even a phone call?"

"I didn't have my phone!" Jon defends himself.

"He has a phone!" Martin snaps. Jon just looks guiltier. "Jonah only lives a few blocks away, and you could have called me! But you didn't!"

"I'm sorry…"

"You- Jon, oh my god!" He puts his face in his hands for a moment, before looking back at Jon. "So, today, you went to confront the Extinction avatar behind my back, even after we talked about how dangerous it could've been-"

"I wasn't trying to-"

"It actually was as dangerous as we thought," Martin continues, through the interruption, "as dangerous as I warned you it could be, and upon getting hurt, the first thing you do isn't coming home to me, it's going to him."

"It wasn't- I…"

As little as it would help to have Jon make excuses and try to justify it, it hurts that he can't even do that.

"I… I was weak, and he gave me a statement," he eventually says.

"Wha- Oh alright, another statement." Martin scoffs. "After you'd just had one."

"Well, escaping a domain of the Extinction takes it out of you!" Jon snaps, finally looking at Martin instead of the floor.

"Where did he even get another statement?" Martin snaps back, looking at Jon still, but avoiding his eyes. "He just had one lying around in case you paid him a home visit?"

"It wasn't-" Jon looks back at the floor again. "It wasn't someone else's, it was his."

"His?" Martin repeats.

"From the early days of the Institute. An encounter with an early manifestation of the Flesh. He- I'd been wondering about it…"

"Oh, you'd been wondering about it," Martin repeats, sardonically.

"I had!" Jon defends himself. "I'm not sure if you've noticed, but we're witnessing the rise of a new Power, and a firsthand account from the last time that happened is useful information to have!"

"Don't do that, Jon."

"Do what?"

"Did you go there for the statement?" Martin asks. "Did you go there, injured and exhausted, to get information about the emergence of the Flesh?" Jon says nothing. "Did you even go there expecting him to give you a statement?"

"I…" Jon starts wringing his hands, bandages sticking out under his sleeves. 

"He ended the world, Jon! He forced you to- God, how are we even- Why are you still trusting him?"

"I'm not- It's-" Jon has a look of frustration on his face like he's searching for a justification that he can't find. Martin lets out a strangled sigh, and pushes past Jon into the foyer. Jon watches him, confused.

"I'm going out."

"What? Where?"

"I don't know, just out. I need to clear my head." It takes a moment before Martin registers what just happened. "Jon!"

Jon gets a deer-in-the-headlights look. "I'm sorry-"

"So you won't tell me where you are, but you'll make me tell you where I'm going!"

"I didn't mean to-"

"But you did!"

Jon has a look of hurt and guilt on his face, and says nothing as Martin puts on his boots. He slips on his jacket, and Jon puts a hand on his arm as he turns to the door.

"Martin… Please…" He looks at Martin with piercing, pleading eyes, that Martin can't help but look away from. Jon lets go of his arm when he does, and Martin leaves.

It feels good to shut the door. To walk away. To make his way to the building's exit, and step out into the cold October air. He feels Jon's eyes on him, from the window, faintly. It fades as he walks further down the street.

He seethes with anger, and he hates that it's directed at Jon. For going behind his back, for getting himself hurt, for going to Jonah first. Not coming home to his boyfriend, his partner that he walked through Hell with to kill the man who caused it all. Going to that man instead, trusting him to be what he needed in that moment, more than he trusted Martin.

Jonah is manipulating him. Feeding him statements and promises of an archive only he can provide. As if they even need him anymore! They have papers. Identification, resumés, life stories. Jon is already under contract with the Bouchard company, he doesn't even need Jonah for that anymore. They don't need him.

Martin doesn't end up at his destination accidentally. Changing directions towards it is a conscious choice that he makes with purpose. He can see his breath in the cold air as he stands on Jonah's doorstep, ringing the doorbell incessantly until Jonah opens the door.

He has his usual neutral expression, coloured mildly with annoyance. He's in silk pyjamas not dissimilar to the ones he left Jon in the flat, but his hair is still neat like he hasn't actually been to bed.

"Martin," he says, plainly, with undisguised passive-aggressiveness. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Stay away from Jon." Martin's voice is firm, demanding. Jonah keeps looking at him with the same mild annoyance, like Martin is wasting his time.

"Jon came to me," he responds, tersely.

"I'm not just talking about tonight!" Martin yells. "Pulling him in with statements and archiving, using it as an excuse to keep him close to you, close to the Eye! Pushing him to hurt people, to put himself in danger!"

"Taking statements and building an archive is exactly the nature and purpose of the Archivist," Jonah says, bluntly. "'Hurting people' is a necessary part of that process. Additionally, Jon throws himself at danger, no 'pushing' required. It's part of why I chose him to be the Archivist in the first place."

Martin's fists curl at his sides at Jonah talking so casually about his decision to ruin Jon's life. To steal his humanity out from under him. Jonah furrows his brows.

"You can hardly steal something given up willingly."

"Get out of my head!" Martin shouts. "You're pushing him towards evil every step of the way! Trying to pull him further down the rabbit hole, closer to the Eye. All you've ever done is screw him over for your own gain, and I'm telling you to stop!"

"Jon has more agency than you give him credit for, Martin," Jonah replies, anger seeping in his voice. "Even if he didn't want this in the beginning, he chose it of his own free will, and continues to, every time he gets the chance." Martin opens his mouth to retort, but Jonah doesn't let him get a word in. "Jon isn't human anymore. Undoing what we did to our world didn't change that. The last thing he needs is you stifling him with your insistence that he act in accordance with a morality that is antithetical to his nature. Not to mention weighing him down with guilt at how he'll never be human enough for you again."

"Excuse me?" Martin is taken aback. "I haven't been guilting him!"

"Do remember that I know when you're lying to me, Martin." Martin fumes at Jonah's condescension. "You claim I'm trying to influence him in a certain direction, but what have you been doing?"

"That is not the same! I'm trying to prevent him from hurting people!"

"And in doing so, you're hurting him. Rejecting what he is, and trying to mould him into something more acceptable." Jonah sharpens his glare into something piercing. "He could barely walk when I sent him out of work today. He hadn't taken a live statement in weeks, and had no supply to fall back on. If you think sending him out to feed is manipulating him, then I question whether you have his best interests in mind at all."

"As if you're looking out for his interests!" Martin retorts. "All you've ever done is manipulate him for your own ends!"

Jonah scoffs. "Jon benefitted from our grand ritual much more than he cares to admit."

"You don't get to decide that for him!" Martin snaps.

"He never would've reverted the world if you hadn't forced his hand. He would have ruled over the ruined Earth until its end, with me there to watch."

Martin laughs out loud. "With you there? You were on the floor with a stab wound by the time I even got there!"

"Yet here I am," Jonah says, simply.

Martin blinks for a moment, at that. "Are you implying that Jon let you live on purpose?"

"In the same way he began serving Beholding 'on purpose,'" Jonah says, instead of giving a straight answer. 

"What does that mean?" Martin demands.

"Honestly, Martin, I wouldn't expect you to understand."

Martin grunts in frustration. "Y'know what? It doesn't matter. I came here to tell you to leave Jon alone. Stop trying to pull him in towards the Eye, stop trying to involve yourself in our lives!"

"I'll remind you once again that Jon came to me, tonight," Jonah counters. "I am not to blame for every decision he makes that you don't approve of."

"You sent him out knowing he'd go looking for a statement! You knew about the avatar he went after, knew that he could be in danger!"

"He is the Archivist, Martin, that is what he is always going to do. Your aversion to his nature is what drove him to me."

"Shut up!"

"He knew that I would understand, that I wouldn't chastise him for doing what's natural to him."

"Shut! Up!" Martin has a warning tone, but Jonah presses on.

"He was hurt, and he knew that I could be what he needed, where you couldn't."

"Shut up!" Martin yells, putting as much force into the command as he can muster. He's met with a blessed silence in return.

He's looking at the ground, staring at the doormat he stands on, catching his breath. Jonah's stupid slippers aren't in view anymore. Martin cherishes the silence, the quiet calm that surrounds him like fog. After a few moments, he reaches forward, and pulls Jonah's door shut.

They don't need him. Jon doesn't need him.

This is for the best.

Chapter Text

It takes about an hour for Jon to go to sleep. He spends an hour worrying, racked with guilt and frustration at himself, replaying the day's events in his mind, but sleep calls to him like a siren, and he can't deny it for long. He doesn't even change clothes before collapsing into the mattress.

He falls into the new, but familiar landscape of his nightmare quickly. Renée is standing in the same ruined city he roamed that day. The storm rages, and there are people surrounding her, created by the nightmare. They're screaming, coughing, and scrambling in the storm, and Renée watches them. They're feeding her, she's enjoying their pain, and she's horrified by what that means about her.

It only takes a moment for her to notice Jon. She looks at him with an open vulnerability she'd never dare to show in waking life, but this place has broken her down, stripping her of her armour and leaving her defenseless to Jon's flaying eyes. She knows that he knows what she is. What she's becoming. What she's done to these people, and how much they've suffered because of her. She's afraid of herself, she's afraid of him, and he stares at her with a hundred eyes and drinks it all in.

He's soon pulled from the ruined cityscape, and deposited into an old butcher shop. Meat hangs from the ceiling, living and dead along every wall, and Wolfgang Struve hangs among them. The butcher works methodically as he screams and cries, making noises far more animal than human. Jon can't feel it, but he's acutely aware of the suffocating heat that permeates the room.

There is no one real in this place, besides Jon. He can't choose when he stays and goes from each dream, but he knows there is nothing for him here. He blankly watches Wolfgang's simulated suffering, as the thick fog coating the floor curls around his ankles, until he is pulled back to the London ruins again.

Jon wakes up at 9:06 the next morning, because Renée doesn't have an alarm. The first thing he does upon waking is wonder why Jonah was absent from his dreamscape. The second thing he does is wonder whether Martin is home.

He knows he is.

Jon scrambles out of bed and into the living room.

"Martin!" he blurts, instantly upon seeing him sitting on the couch, facing away from the bedroom door.

"Jon," Martin responds. Jon stops short when he turns to face him.

"Martin…" he repeats, slower and quieter.

Martin looks paler than he did last night. The rosiness in his cheeks is gone, and even his hair looks a shade lighter.

"What?" Martin has a look of confusion. The air in the room feels colder as Jon steps closer.

"You just look…" Jon trails off, mind swirling with memories of Peter Lukas's tenure. "Where did you go last night?" Martin looks guilty for a moment, but shakes it off as he stands.

"I just walked around." Martin waves his hand. "It's fine, don't worry about it."

"Martin, if you had an encounter with the Lonely I need to know-"

"Oh, you need to know? What, are you gonna compel me again?"

Jon winces. "I'm sorry, that was an accident-"

"It's-" Martin sighs. "I'm sorry. I- I don't want to talk about what happened last night, I just- Let's do something today! You just had a statement, so we have the whole weekend free. We could go to a park, or a museum, or-"

Martin continues listing activities as Jon's stomach sinks at the reminder of Jonah's statement, and the empty, foggy landscape of his dream. He reaches out, tries to see Jonah now, and he can't find him, can't know anything about where he is.

"Martin, what did you do to Jonah?"

Martin looks at him with surprise, that turns into agitation.

"Why does that matter, Jon? Why do you care so much?"

"Why do I- Martin, what did you do?"

"I showed up at his house to tell him to stay away from you. He was arguing with me, and kept pushing, and I yelled at him to shut up, and then he was gone. I assume that I sent him to the Lonely." Martin's agitation turns to anger. "Jon!"

"Why did you do that?" Jon holds back the compulsion from his voice.

"Because he's manipulative, and selfish, and evil, and you- we don't need him!"

"What do you mean we don't need him? That doesn't mean you can just throw him into the Lonely!"

"Why not?" Martin throws up his hands. "He's done so much worse than that, to so many people!"

"That's not the point!"

"Then what is the point, Jon?" Martin exclaims. "The man is a monster!" He takes a breath. "We've got papers now. And a flat, and you've got a job! The Bouchard company isn't going to fire you just because he's gone, we have security!"

"That isn't-"

"He's been living off of stolen time, and the suffering of others for hundreds of years, Jon! We don't need him, he's bad for you- bad for us, and he should've died a long time ago."

"Are- are you jealous that I went to him last night instead of you? Is that what this is?"

"No that's not what this is!"

"Isn't it?"

"No! Yes! Kind of, I don't-" Martin gesticulates, frustratedly. "Of course I was jealous that you went to him! I was jealous, and worried about you, and I didn't trust you, and I still don't!" Martin gasps for air when he finishes, like he was trying to resist the compulsion. "Jon, stop fucking doing that!"

"I'm sorry-"

"You keep saying that and then you keep doing it!"

"I-" Jon doesn't try to defend himself. He isn't going to lie about regretting the compulsion. "You don't trust me, so you sent him into the Lonely."

"I- Yes, I guess!" Martin stammers. "It wasn't just that, he's evil, and destructive, and being around him makes you worse!"

"Worse how?" Jon demands, barely holding back the static on the tip of his tongue.

"Hurting people, putting yourself in danger, valuing your archive above all else!" Martin's fists are clenched at his sides. "He encourages it, pushes you further towards the Power that ruined both our lives! Everyone's lives!"

"You think that's all him?" Jon asks. "You think he told me to take Camille's statement in the library? You think he makes me chase down these statements, like I wouldn't have otherwise? He never even brought up Renée again after I said I wasn't going to pursue the lead, that was all me!" He looks Martin in the eyes, and Martin looks away. "I would still have done those things without him! I'll still keep doing it, regardless!"

"You act like you're just okay with that!" Martin exclaims. "Like you don't even want to try to be better!"

"What do you want me to do?" Jon's tone is exasperated. "I can't last a week on a written statement without practically losing the ability to walk! I don't even have an archive to fall back on anymore, so I would need upwards of two new written statements per week for this to be sustainable! Even then, it- it's like surviving off of bags of crisps instead of meals!"

"What, so you just don't try?" Martin demands. "Just give up, and go back to tormenting people?"

"The Eye isn't ever going to let me go Martin!" Jon shouts. "I'm going to be tormenting people for the rest of my life! The only choice I have is whether to keep tormenting myself over it!"

Martin says nothing in response. He won't look Jon in the eyes. It's been so long since he has. Jon stares at him, silently begging him to just look, but he knows there's no point. Eventually he just turns and starts towards the door.

"Jon!" Martin immediately calls, following him. "Jon, where are you going?"

"I'm going to get him out." He puts on his boots from their other world. They clash badly with his sleep-creased suit.

"Are you serious, Jon?" Martin's fists curl at his sides again. "After everything he's done? After everything he's put you through, everything he put our world through-"

"Yes," Jon cuts him off. He stands, and throws on the first jacket he can reach. It's from the old world too.

"Jon, please don't do this, you don't have to- You don't-" He stammers, trying to find anything to make Jon reconsider. He looks at Jon with pleading eyes. "Jon, please…"

Jon turns to look back. Martin barely holds his gaze for a second before his eyes flick away. Jon looks away in turn, grabbing the handle of the door.

"Jon!" Martin calls again, just before the door shuts.

Jon feels almost sick as he leaves the flat, as the gravity of what he's doing weighs heavy. Martin has been with him through everything. Been his anchor, his reason… "Where you go, I go…" And now Jon has broken that promise, for the second time. It almost makes it worse that he can't even convince himself that he regrets it. He doesn't look back as he leaves the building.

It doesn't take long to get to Jonah's house. It really isn't far. As soon as he's on the doorstep, he feels the lingering cool of the Lonely.

He opens Jonah's door, and is startled to see Elias's maid on the other side, cleaning the floor in the foyer.

"Ah, Eleanor," he greets her. She looks more startled than him as he enters the house.

"What are you doing?" she demands. "Mr. Bouchard isn't home!"

"Yes, I know, I have some business to attend to here. It'd probably be best if you left."

"Like hell am I going to leave! Who do you think you are, just coming in here-"

Jon doesn't have the patience for this.

"What do you never want Elias Bouchard to find out?"

"I've stolen things from around the house multiple times. A watch I never saw him wear. An old ashtray I knew would be worth money. Last year he left weed spread all over on his coffee table the morning after having friends over, and I pocketed almost half of it before letting him know he'd left any out." Her eyes go wide. "I- That wasn't-"

"I think it's best you find other employment opportunities, Eleanor. Unless you want Elias to know all about your theft."

Eleanor sputters for a moment, before giving him a pointedly frightened look, and scrambling to grab all her cleaning supplies. Jon watches her as she gets them together, even though he can tell it's making her uneasy. He stops her on her way out.

"Give me your key, please."

Eleanor opens her mouth to protest, but Jon intensifies his stare, making her feel the weight of Beholding as he holds out his hand. She gives him the key, and hurries out the door.

It's ironic, given the circumstances, how relieved Jon is to be alone. Perhaps that should worry him. He can feel the Lonely calling to him without even listening for it. At least that should mean Jonah is still trackable.

He tries to reach out, see him, but he's still getting nothing. He knows that he should be here, logically, but the barrier between them is too thick for the Eye to breach.

He decides that the best course of action is to search for some kind of trail to follow, but it's hard to find any trace of Jonah in that house. The living room is styled very differently from what Jonah prefers. Echoes of the life that Elias Bouchard had stolen from him. The home office looks the same as the first time Jon was there. Modern, sleek, corporate… Devoid of any soul. Jon doesn't think Jonah spends much time there. The kitchen is spotlessly clean, with Eleanor probably having taken care of it before she left. No signs of recent use at all.

The upstairs is mostly the same as Jon left it last night. He sees through the open bathroom door that his clothes are still in a wet pile on the floor where he left them. He also sees that the light in Jonah's bedroom is still on at the end of the hall.

The bedroom is almost the way Jon left it as well, even the closet is still open, but there are papers strewn about on the bed that weren't there before. The tape player from last night sits among them. When Jon goes to investigate, he recognises the handwriting on the pages as Jonah's, and realises he had been transcribing both Renée's statement and Jon's recording from the ruined city, though the latter cuts off at a certain point, presumably due to Martin's interruption.

Jon picks up a page and examines it. It's almost surreal to read his own panicked words from the day prior in Jonah's elegant, swirling cursive. He knows that Jonah started writing these as soon as Jon was out of sight from his window. He knows that he didn't even go to Elias's office to work at his desk, just grabbed paper, a pen, and a large book to use as a flat surface to write on, getting to work right on the bed. He knows that he expected to come right back to it after leaving to answer the door.

Jon can see Jonah, now. He's caught just a glimpse, but it's enough to grasp onto. He takes a deep, grounding breath, before plunging into the fog.

This version of the Lonely is different from Peter Lukas's. The same fog rolls at his feet and out into the distance, but it isn't a quiet beach, with cold, salty water lapping at nearby shores. It's a building, laid out like the Institute was in the old universe, before the Change. The floors are the same dark hardwood, the walls plastered with the same outdated wallpaper. Though, upon closer inspection, the wallpaper isn't exactly the same. Jon had noticed that the wallpaper in the Institute had tiny hidden eye designs throughout the pattern. The eyes are absent, in this version.

Jon notices as he walks through the halls that there's a lot else absent. The walls are empty of their plaques and portraits. All the furniture from the Institute is present, but every desk is clear, and every shelf is empty. Jon looks through the drawers of some of the cabinets and finds them empty as well. The library is devoid of books and computers, Artefact Storage is simply a dark, empty room. It hurts to see the archives so desolate, even as he knows it's not really the Institute, not really his archives.

Eventually, he realises how sidetracked he's become trying to catalogue details about this place. He didn't come here for bittersweet reminiscence. He came for Jonah.

He follows his gut to the Head of the Institute's office. He looks down at the fog swirling around his ankles as he rests his hand on the doorknob. He takes another grounding breath before opening the door.

This room is as empty as the others. The desk in the center of the room is bare, as are the shelves behind it. The chairs across from the desk are empty in a way that invokes a deep sense of loneliness in Jon just looking at them. The chair behind the desk has been pushed to the side. Jon slowly walks around the desk, to see Jonah huddled underneath it, cradling his head in his hands.

"Jonah," Jon says, calmly.

Jonah doesn't respond, doesn't move. He shows no signs he heard Jon at all. He's shivering slightly, as the fog curls around him.

Jon kneels beside him, trying again. "Jonah."

Still nothing. No movement. No acknowledgement. Jon stares at him harder, pulling the weight of the Eye into his gaze.

"Jonah."

Jonah shifts, lifting his head out of his hands, and looking Jon in the eyes like it's his lifeline.

"J- Jon?" His voice sounds so small, so unsure. "You… You're here. Did you…"

"I came for you, Jonah." He watches Jonah's pupils dilate as he says it, his lips parting slightly as if in disbelief.

"You… came for me…" His voice is softer than Jon has ever heard it. He takes a deep, shaky breath, like he's almost laughing. "I've never needed rescuing from the Lonely before, Jon…" He lingers on Jon's name like a reassurance that he's really there. "I've always had a… a lighthouse, so to speak… The panopticon…"

Neither of them have broken eye contact. Jon can see in Jonah's eyes that even now, he isn't sure if Jon is going to take him out of this place. Jon reaches out to offer his hand.

"Let's go home, Jonah."

Jonah stares at him for another moment, before taking it.

Chapter Text

Jon leads them through the fog back to Jonah's bedroom. It isn't as difficult as he was expecting it to be. He supposes he's a lot stronger now than he was when he last did this.

His heart aches thinking about rescuing Martin from Peter Lukas. He had still thought back then that maybe it could be okay. That even if the world fell apart around them, they could still have each other. But he was wrong. He doesn't even know who's more to blame for it.

Jonah is standing at Jon's side, staring at him as his thoughts swirl. Jon knows it should bother him, but it doesn't. It feels good to be watched. Maybe it feels good to be watched by Jonah in particular. A comforting familiarity that Jon tries not to think too hard about.

Jon finds his own eyes drawn to the papers on the bed.

"You should finish transcribing that tape," Jon says, without looking at Jonah. The other man glances at the spread of papers, then back at Jon. "It should help ground you… Strengthen your connection to the Eye."

"Right," Jonah replies, evenly. "Of course." He steps over to the bed, managing to look almost as smooth and confident as he normally does. Jon instinctively turns to leave, give him some privacy to work, but doesn't take more than a step towards the door.

"Do you want me to stay?" Jon asks, softly. He doesn't hold back the compulsion, because he knows Jonah won't mind. Jon hears Jonah take a deep breath, and feels heavy eyes on his back.

"Yes."

The answer is simple, succinct, but Jon knows the depth of its sincerity. He turns around and toes off his boots, slipping off his jacket before settling on the other end of the bed from Jonah. Distanced, but clearly within view. He listens to his own voice in the recording, sentence by sentence, and watches Jonah pause the tape and write in between each one. Jon lets himself get lost in the movements of Jonah's pen, following the loops and swirls of ink as he goes. He tells himself it's just the Eye that gives the situation a feeling of rightness. The Archivist watching the archiving process, rather than just Jon watching Jonah. He isn't sure he fully believes it.

It doesn't take long for Jonah to finish the transcript. He collects the papers into two small piles, and sets the piles and his pen on the bed beside him. Jon is still staring at him, and undistracted, Jonah simply stares back. He masks it well, but Jon can see the shivers he's suppressing. The minute trembling of his hands and lips that he fails to fully quell.

"How are you holding up?" Jon asks, quietly, holding the static back on his tongue.

"I'm fine, Jon," Jonah responds.

"Are you sure?" he presses.

"Hmm… Mostly." Jonah takes a deep breath. "I've become quite familiar with the Lonely over the centuries, Archivist. Outside of the domain itself, this is nothing I can't handle."

Jon takes a moment to consider that. The closest thing to a friend Jon can remember Jonah having is Peter Lukas. An opposing avatar who was openly plotting to kill him. It must have been rather lonely. Immense power under Beholding, able to know anyone, with no one to let truly know you, for two hundred years. 

Jon says nothing as he stands up. Jonah watches, eyes slightly wide with surprise as Jon circles the bed and climbs back on, next to him. He sits with his back to the headboard beside Jonah, their sides not touching, but only just. Jon feels Jonah's gaze wander down his form.

"Did you sleep in that?" he asks, eventually. Jon glances down at his wrinkled shirt and trousers.

"Yes," Jon answers, simply. The fight with Martin plays, renewed in his mind. The crushing guilt over what he'd done. The inability to justify it even to himself. The exhausting and nauseating sorrow of Martin leaving. He'd just gone to bed.

"You haven't done anything wrong, Jon," Jonah says, quietly. "Feeding when you grow weak, like any other creature, is not a sinful thing." Jon says nothing, but turns to look Jonah in the eye. "You're following the instincts our patron has granted you, like anyone would in your place, and you're doing it beautifully."

"Our patron…" Jon repeats, softly. He watches Jonah's pupils dilate slightly as he says it. It's the first time he's ever uttered the words without lacing them with derision or contempt.

He feels Jonah's hand slowly capture his, at his side. It's a smooth movement, practised and self-assured, but he can see the fear in Jonah's eyes. The fear of rejection. Even now, as Jon sits next to him in the bed of a man he's killed, after leaving his partner just to save him. He watches Jonah's eyes dilate further as the thoughts surface, and feels Jonah's thumb start to gently stroke his hand, brushing the edge of the bandages that begin at his wrist.

He feels like he should be brimming with rage and contempt towards the man sitting beside him. The man who made him into this monster that he's become, who ruined any chance he had at a normal life. It shouldn't be so hard to summon that hatred. It was what drove him for so long. Killing Jonah was his only purpose, the thought of it the only thing that kept him going…

"You never meant to kill me, Jon," Jonah says, softly. "We both know it."

"I did…" Jon's voice is quiet. "I walked through hell just to kill you…"

"And then you stabbed me, and I didn't die." Jonah gently squeezes Jon's hand. "You killed so many avatars, Jon. I watched you smite them under the gaze of our patron half a dozen times. You knew what it took to kill someone in that place, and still, I lived."

"It wasn't on purpose, I didn't…" He trails off. He can't really say he didn't know, can he? He knew everything after the Change…

"You knew I would understand. Wouldn't scorn you or think you monstrous for what you'd done, what you'd become."

He goes back to stroking Jon's hand, and Jon doesn't notice himself leaning closer at the gentleness of his touch.

"You wanted the catharsis of violence, the symbolic victory of ascending to the throne with my blood on your hands. But even then, beneath it all, you wanted me there." His gaze bores into Jon with a gentle, burning pressure. "You wanted me to see you."

Jon stares back into Jonah's stormy grey eyes for a long moment. He listens to the rhythm of his breathing as his chest rises and falls in his periphery. He feels the pulse in Jonah's fingertips where they hold his own hand. He sees Jonah's lips, slightly parted, and wonders how long they've been that way. Jon's voice is quiet when he speaks.

"What do you want from me, Jonah?" he asks, even though he knows the answer. He savours the way Jonah's face flushes as he lets out a pleasured sigh.

"I want you to kiss me, Jon," Jonah answers.

The fear of rejection is there in his eyes again. The fear that this is too far, that Jon won't be receptive. That this will shatter the strange and delicate dance they've been performing around each other these past weeks, and ruin whatever they've begun to have.

Jon doesn't let him stew in it for long.

He lunges into Jonah's lips, kissing more deeply and passionately than the other man seems to have been expecting. Jon is wholly delighted to have caught him off guard, and grasps at Jonah's silk shirt with his free hand. Jonah catches up quickly, bringing his own free hand up to cup Jon's face as he kisses him back.

Jon revels in the feeling of Jonah's skin against his. The hand over his, Jonah's tight hold not faltering with the distraction. The hand on his face, thumb stroking small circles around the scars on Jon's cheek as his fingertips massage Jon's scalp. Jonah's lips on his, the smooth, practised movements of his tongue contrasting Jon's eager impulsivity.

Jonah breaks the kiss after a few moments, pulling back to look at Jon. Jon stares back, noting the red of his lips, his panting breaths, the hungry desire in his eyes…

Jonah moves the hand on Jon's cheek behind his head, threading his fingers through Jon's hair. Jon makes a short, high pitched noise as Jonah pulls on his hair to tilt his head back, and Jonah responds with a low growl as his lips latch onto Jon's neck. Jon lets out a wanton moan as Jonah begins to suck, and tries to pull him closer by his hold on the man's shirt.

Jonah suddenly releases his hold on both Jon's hair and hand, bringing his hands around Jon's waist. Jon barely has a moment to process the change before Jonah lifts him up, and pulls him onto his lap. Jon lets out a yelp as he does it, eliciting a chuckle from the other man. Jon allows himself to be repositioned until he's straddling Jonah's lap with his hands on Jonah's shoulders.

Jonah continues kissing his neck as his hands trail up Jon's sides, stopping to linger at the site of his missing ribs. Jon moves his own hands, and nudges Jonah's off of the spot. Jonah makes a quiet noise of displeasure, but settles his hands elsewhere, one in the small of Jon's back, and the other gripping the front of his shirt. Jon tries to get a handhold in Jonah's hair, but grunts in frustration when it isn't long enough. He feels Jonah smile against his neck.

"Elias kept his hair too short," Jon mutters, his breathlessness taking away from the annoyance in his tone. Jonah kisses up his neck and onto his jaw, eliciting a placated sigh.

"That he did," Jonah concedes, pressing a kiss to Jon's cheek. "I'll have to start growing it out."

Jon takes hold of the back of Jonah's neck and pulls his head back to face Jon directly. He looks him over appraisingly, stroking his cheek lightly with his other hand.

"The beard, too," he says, decisively, rubbing his thumb over the light stubble. Jonah smiles, wide, leaning in.

"Anything for you, Archivist."

Jonah kisses him on the mouth again, and Jon kisses back with enthusiasm, feeling Jonah's residual smirk against his lips. He shifts his hips, leaning in further towards Jonah as he deepens the kiss, and finds himself pressing against Jonah's hard length. He feels Jonah's breath hitch as he shifts against it, and he shudders slightly. Jon tests his reactions, grinding against him and relishing the low moan the motion elicits out of him.

"Jon…" Jon hears the composure starting to slip from Jonah's voice, and grinds on him again to break it further. Jonah complies, moaning in a higher pitch and pulling Jon closer. Jon savours the closeness, delighting in Jonah's reactions, but is startled out of the moment when he feels Jonah start to unbutton his shirt.

"Wait- Wait, Jonah, I-" he takes Jonah's hand in his, pulling it from his buttons. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have- I don't usually-"

"Jon," Jonah cuts him off. "It's alright. I know." He rubs circles into Jon's back with his other hand. Jon looks at his face to see a gentle smile. "I'm sorry if that was presumptuous. I only want what you're willing to give me."

Jon swallows and nods, rubbing Jonah's hand with his thumbs as he considers what he is willing to give.

Jon is deeply surprised by the reaction any of this is drawing out of him. He isn't hard himself, doesn't know if what he's feeling quite qualifies as sexual attraction, but there is a magnetism drawing him closer to Jonah, making his heart race as the other man unravels before him. He wants to be close to him, to touch him, to push all of his buttons and see him undone.

He hesitantly lets go of Jonah's hand, and unbuttons his shirt the rest of the way himself, slipping it off and throwing it aside off the bed. Jonah's eyes rake across his bare chest just like they had the night before, and down to the stark white of the bandages still on his forearms. Jon reaches forward to start unbuttoning Jonah's silk pyjama shirt, and Jonah watches him as he does it, with a fondness that Jon feels himself blushing at, even with the circumstances.

When he finishes unbuttoning Jonah's shirt, Jonah slips out of it, and tosses it aside with Jon's. He leans in towards Jon, but Jon puts a hand on his chest, pushing him gently back against the headboard. Jonah watches with a half-lidded gaze, as Jon lets his own eyes wander over the other man's form. Jonah may have seen Jon's body before, but Jon has never seen Jonah's.

He knew Jonah was fitter than he seemed, but it's clear with him laid bare like this. His muscles aren't bulky, but they're well defined. His arms are bigger than they appear from within his suits, much more clearly capable of lifting Jon as effortlessly as he can. His chest and core are visibly strong as well, and so much wider than Jon's… Jon can still see the remnants of bruises obtained the night they arrived here. His eyes stop near the centre of Jonah's abdomen, at the site of the stab wound Jon gave him in the Panopticon.

He trails his hand down Jonah's chest, brushing it against the scar. Jonah shudders when he does, despite the softness of his touch. He stares at it, caressing it with the lightest graze of his fingertips. He's only distantly aware that Jonah is smiling at him.

"Do you understand now, Archivist?" he asks, softly.

Jon keeps staring at the scar, tracing over and around it. It's fully healed over, and practically thrums with the essence of Beholding. A chronicle of their history, an echo of a moment past embedded into Jonah's skin. Into his very being.

"Yes," Jon answers, his voice almost a whisper.

Jonah reaches forward, running a hand through Jon's hair as he continues to stare. He cups the hand around Jon's head, and gently pulls him forwards. Jon obliges, allowing himself to be pulled into another kiss. He keeps his palm over Jonah's scar as he brings his other hand over his pectoral. He feels both of Jonah's hands gravitate back to the gaps in his ribcage, and it only makes him want to deepen the kiss.

He feels Jonah hard against him again, and shifts his hips just to make the other gasp against his lips. Jon lets out a pleased moan, and could swear he feels Jonah's cock throb against him when he does. Jon breaks their kiss.

"Do you like when I make noises for you?" he asks, his voice low and sultry.

Jonah responds with a moan of his own, bucking his hips as much as he's able with Jon's weight atop him.

"Yes," he responds, breathily. He moves to kiss Jon again, but Jon dodges it, nuzzling his face into the crook of Jonah's neck.

"Why?"

Jonah moans again, panting, and pulls Jon in closer by his hold on his torso.

"I like knowing how much I'm affecting you. How much control I can have over you, and the state you're in." He sucks in a breath through his teeth as Jon shifts his hips again. "I love knowing that I can be undoing to you like you are to me."

Jon rewards the answer with another soft moan, and begins trailing his hand down from Jonah's abdomen towards the waistband of his trousers. Jonah gasps softly as Jon slips his fingers underneath. He isn't wearing pants, so Jon finds himself palming directly against Jonah's cock.

Jonah's hands slide down, settling at Jon's waist, trying to pull him closer as he grinds against Jon's palm. Jon wraps his hand around Jonah's cock, stroking up its length, and Jonah lets out a shuddering sigh.

Jon uses the hand he still has on Jonah's chest to push himself up off of him, putting just enough distance between them for him to see Jonah's expression as he pumps his cock again, pulling it out of his trousers. Jonah looks him in the eyes as he does it. His pupils are shot, and his face is flushed, the redness spreading down onto his upper chest. His lips are red and slightly parted. His chest rises and falls quickly, and his breaths are audibly shaky.

"What do you want me to do?" Jon asks, stroking along his length as he does.

Jonah's back arches, pushing against Jon's hand that holds them apart. He doesn't break eye contact.

"I want you to keep asking questions…"

Jon tilts his head, stroking again to feel Jonah buck against his weight.

"When was the first time you thought about this? About me doing this to you?"

Jonah whines at the question, his cock throbbing in Jon's hand. Jon gives it a squeeze, before slipping his hand below to massage Jonah's balls as he answers.

"The first time you compelled me…" He shudders, trying to end his answer there, but unable to. "Seeing you there disheveled and freshly marked, feeling the pull of your compulsions… I was almost hard beneath my desk even then. Speaking to you alone, after everyone had left, your resentment and fear of me so open, yet overpowered by your thirst for the knowledge you knew I possessed. I… I imagined you getting stronger, overpowering me…"

"How many times did you imagine it?" Jon gives him no reprieve, watching him writhe beneath him as he strokes him again.

"Too many to count. I spent so many nights in prison watching you, picturing what you could do to me with your new strength… I couldn't let you get close to me, but I got off imagining it every time I watched you take a victim. Pulling their secrets out of them like I imagined you pulling mine out of me."

Jon squeezes at the base of Jonah's cock, watching the tip leak. He knows Jonah is getting close. He looks back in his eyes, with the weight of Beholding behind his stare. Jonah sucks in a sharp breath.

"Did you imagine doing that to me?"

Jonah bucks his hips again, tilting his head back slightly, but not enough to break eye contact.

"I didn't have to, Jon. I don't need to pull anything out of you when I can already see every thought that crosses your mind…" His gaze intensifies, and Jon can practically feel him brushing against the inside of his mind. Jon doesn't stifle the pleasured sigh that leaves him at the feeling.

"What am I thinking, Jonah?" He strokes his hand up and down Jonah's cock as the other man shudders, and Jon shudders in turn at the feeling of his mind being so palpably sifted through. He stares down into Jonah's steely eyes.

"You're thinking that you're glad you came for me. You don't regret it, even though you feel like you should." His breath shakes between sentences, but the compulsion pulls his words out smoothly. "You're thinking that seeing me like this feels right, that you're drawn to me like this is where we're both meant to be…" His cock throbs in Jon's hand, and he speeds up his movements. "You're thinking about the flush on my face, and the speed of my breathing… You're thinking that you know I'm getting close, and that you want to watch me come-"

His final sentence is punctuated by a sob as he climaxes. Jonah reaches forward and grabs Jon by the nape of his neck, pulling him into a deep, desperate kiss as his cum spurts up onto Jon's stomach. Jon lets himself be pulled in, keeping one hand on Jonah's chest to feel his rapid heartbeat, and the other around his cock to feel it throb, and slowly go soft.

The kiss gets slower and gentler as Jonah's climax fades. His heartbeat slows, and he grows soft in Jon's hand. Jon releases his cock, and snakes his arm behind Jonah's back, rubbing small circles between his shoulder blades. Jonah gives a small moan in response, and Jon responds with his own.

Jonah breaks the kiss, trailing smaller kisses along Jon's cheek and up to his forehead, before pulling him down to lay his head on his chest. Jon shifts off of his lap and lies down half on top of him. Jon thinks briefly about the mess on his hand and stomach that he's spreading onto Jonah, but decides he doesn't really care. Jonah doesn't seem to either, simply running a hand through Jon's hair, with his other arm wrapped around him. Jon glances up to find him staring, with an almost awestruck look in his eyes. Jon feels himself blush, despite everything. Jonah smiles down at him.

Jon studies Jonah once again, taking note of the relaxed expression and released tension in his body language. It's a far cry from his shaken state, freshly out of the Lonely. He wonders what he looks like at that moment, in Jonah's arms.

"You're welcome to ask, Archivist."

Jon blushes again, leaning into Jonah's hand as he scratches lightly against his scalp.

"What do I look like to you, right now?"

Jonah sighs, taking a moment to resist before complying.

"You look beautifully debauched. Your lips are dark, and your face is flushed. Your hair is a mess, though I'm doing what I can on that front." He runs his hand through Jon's hair again, for emphasis. "The bandages around your wrists and forearms stand out starkly against your skin. I doubt they're even needed anymore, with how fast you heal… The dark green of your trousers compliments your skin colour just as beautifully as I knew it would when I picked them out. Scars cover your chest and back like stars in the night sky, and it's intoxicating to behold. My own little marks cover your neck, above and below the scar from our dear Hunter. It's a shame they won't last…"

Jon draws his hand to his throat, feeling sensitive spots scattered over it.

"How dark are these?" he demands. Jonah chuckles.

"They're very likely to be visible for the next few days, at least."

"Fuck…" Jon buries his head in Jonah's chest, as the other man goes back to scratching at his scalp. He has to go into the office like this! None of his work shirts even cover his throat scar, let alone-

He realises abruptly that all of his clothes are still at the flat with Martin. How is he supposed to face him like this? How awful would it be of him after abandoning Martin for Jonah, to show back up covered in hickeys to get his things?

"I prefer the term 'love bites,' personally," Jonah chimes in.

"Shut up!" Jon scolds, turning sharply to look at him. He has an unbearably smug smile on his face. "You're not helping!"

Jonah hums, and starts scratching Jon's head again. Jon is unwillingly comforted by it.

"It's not like it's his flat in the first place. Only your name is on the lease." He lets out a breathy laugh. "I hadn't been so optimistic as to predict this exact outcome, but I suspected you two wouldn't last long without the apocalypse holding you together."

Jon frowns, heart aching slightly. He supposes the signs were there from the beginning…

"He doesn't have anywhere else to go… I don't want him to be homeless just because I…" He trails off, not finishing that thought. "I can just stay here while he sorts out his situation. I'll just have to try to avoid him when I go over to get my things." It takes Jonah chuckling again for him to realise he's just invited himself to move in. "I mean- Only if you'll have me, of course, I didn't mean to-"

"Of course you're welcome here, Jon." He runs a hand through the length of Jon's hair. "If nothing else, it'll give me an excuse to redecorate without Elias's maid questioning the sudden aesthetic change," he jokes.

"Oh," Jon says, face flushing slightly again. "I, um. I actually fired your maid."

"What?" Jonah's hand stills in his hair, genuine confusion in his tone. "Why?"

"I showed up to find you, and she was already here and tried not to let me in," Jon rambles. "I didn't want to deal with it, so I just made her tell me some secrets, and told her to give me her key and not come back. You're better off for it, she was stealing from you. From Elias, I suppose."

Jon glances up to see Jonah smiling at him with something that looks like pride. He blushes again, dropping his head back onto Jonah's chest with a mumbled complaint. Jonah goes back to gently running his fingers through Jon's hair, and Jon lets out a quiet, contented sigh.

He can't believe he's here. Lying down like this with this man who ruined his life. Ruined countless lives. Yet even so great as they are, the guilt and shame don't hold a candle to the rightness Jon feels in Jonah's arms. The connection they share under the Eye. He distantly wishes that he felt worse about it. That he could bring himself to reject this on some moral ground, to go crawling back to Martin and reject everything the Eye is. But listening to Jonah's heartbeat, running his fingers over his scar, feeling his eyes on him observing so fully his body and mind… He can't make himself regret coming here. Lying here with Jonah watching him, even the guilt isn't enough.

Chapter Text

He doesn't see Martin, in the end, when he goes to pick up his things that night.

He walks to the flat, getting odd looks from people on the pavement as he drags the suitcase Jonah gave him down the street. Jonah offered to drive him there, but Jon didn't want him near Martin again for all of their sakes.

When he gets to the flat, the floor is covered with a thin layer of fog, and Martin is nowhere to be seen. Jon can't tell whether that means he's actually not there, but doesn't look too hard. If he is there, he clearly doesn't want to be seen, and Jon isn't going to push it.

He collects his clothes first, packing the suitcase mostly full with them. He considers leaving some of it behind, like the charity shop clothes or Emery Smith's hoodie, but he doesn't want Martin to be burdened with the extra things.

He takes the books Jonah left for him, that he owned in the other world. He considers leaving the library books he still has out in the flat, but ends up taking them too. It'll feel wrong to go return them himself, even with Camille gone, but he doesn't want to saddle Martin with that responsibility. He takes his phone next, which he realises is still sitting in the same place on the bedside table that he left it the morning before.

He's almost frustrated with himself as he packs the eye themed decor Jonah left in the flat into his suitcase. It just feels better to have it around. He knows Jonah will be incorporating eyes while redecorating Elias's house anyway, so there's no point in letting these go to waste.

There isn't much else to consider taking. The two of them didn't really do any decorating of their own after moving in. Even now, it feels like Jon is walking through a foggy housing catalogue, rather than a home he's leaving behind. The generic impersonality makes it feel all the more lonely, and Jon's heart aches at the thought of leaving Martin in this place. Of abandoning him to the Power from which he once rescued him. He doesn't want to leave him like this, but he doesn't know what else he can do. He can't keep living like this, and Martin has made it clear he wants nothing to do with the new archives.

He considers leaving a note. A goodbye, an explanation, an apology. He doesn't know if Martin would want that. He isn't sure if it would just make things worse. He just leaves with his things.

The fog follows him as he leaves the building. There are no other pedestrians around him anymore, and the cold feeling of loss lingers as the white wisps on the pavement curl around his ankles. There's a cold ache in his chest, telling him that he's chosen wrong. That he's squandered the only good thing left in his life. That he's lost everything that made him human, and whatever he has left will be an empty facsimile of what could have been.

The feelings ebb as he gets closer to Elias's house. Closer to Jonah. Jon can feel the other man watching him from a window as he approaches. Looking up to see his dark silhouette against the dim orange backlight is like a weight lifted from his soul.

He opens the door without knocking, locking it behind him. He slips off his shoes and coat, and goes to drag the suitcase upstairs. Jonah waits for him near the top of the steps.

"Don't bother helping," Jon snarks, pulling the large suitcase awkwardly up the steps.

Jonah just hums, continuing to watch him lug it up the rest of the way.

"Prick," Jon grumbles, at the top of the stairs, slightly out of breath.

Jonah just smiles, like Jon's annoyance is endearing. Jon resents the small spike of affection the gesture evokes from him.

"Let me show you to the spare bedroom, so you can unpack your things," Jonah says, walking a short distance down the corridor. Jon follows with his suitcase as Jonah opens a door, and enters the room in front of him.

The room is fairly blank. It has a bed with solid-coloured blankets and pillows, and a nightstand beside it. There's a small closet, a dresser, and a soft chair in the corner, plus some "modern art" on the walls that Jon can't see the appeal of. He also knows without checking that there are edible gummies and cigarette papers in the drawer of the nightstand.

He only takes a few moments to look around, before putting his suitcase on the ground and unzipping it. He opens a drawer of the dresser, and begins loading his clothes into it, as Jonah sits in the chair across the room to simply observe. Jon finds he doesn't mind. He would rather do the organising himself anyway, even if he'd know where everything was regardless.

He puts his pyjamas and casual clothes in the dresser, and his suits in the closet. He sorts his otherworldly clothes, his charity shop clothes, and Emery Smith's hoodie into their own drawer, separate from everything else. He stacks a small pile of books on the shelf at the bottom of the nightstand, shuffling their order around a few times before he's satisfied with it.

Jonah's eyes are fixed on him the whole time, but Jon feels his gaze intensify when he takes the eye decorations out of the suitcase. He hangs one of the nazars on the closet doorknob, and another on a knob of one of the dresser drawers. He hangs the kitschy dreamcatcher from the corner of the bed frame, nearly rolling his eyes at the irony of the thing. He doesn't have tape or tacks to hang up the poster, but it's rather small, so he takes down one of the art pieces on the wall, and just switches it out, hanging the poster in its frame. He steps back to the door after, to assess his work.

The room doesn't necessarily look better than it did when he entered it. It looks a bit worse aesthetically, if he's being honest. But it feels better. Safer.

"I'll make sure to procure higher quality icons early on in the redecorating process," Jonah voices, standing from his chair, and brushing wrinkles out of his clothes. "Shaped mirrors, relevant paintings… Perhaps a patterned wallpaper."

Jon snorts. "Is micromanaging my wardrobe not enough for you?"

Jonah smiles. "I only want the best for my Archivist."

Jon rolls his eyes, but doesn't try to stifle his own smile. He looks at the pale grey walls, consideringly.

"We'll see about the wallpaper," he says.

Jonah says nothing in response, and Jon looks back to see him still smiling, looking at Jon with pride. Jon feels himself start to blush, but doesn't look away. Jonah takes a few steps closer, and reaches forward to cup Jon's face in his hand. Jon lets himself be pulled into a kiss. It's not like the deep, hungry kisses they shared earlier. It's gentle and reserved. Domestic.

Jonah pulls away after a few moments, taking a moment to look into Jon's eyes. He strokes Jon's cheek with his thumb, and Jon half-subconsciously leans into his hand. He feels Jonah's gaze intensify as he does, and basks in it like sunlight. Eventually, Jonah releases him and takes a step back.

"It's getting late, Jon," he smiles. "I'm going to cook myself dinner, as some of us do still need to eat. I showered while you were out, so feel free to take your time if you plan on doing so as well."

A shower sounds heavenly right now. Jon had cleaned himself up earlier, but hadn't wanted to shower without having fresh clothes. Jonah steps past Jon towards the door. The back of his hand brushes against Jon's as he passes.

"I'll leave you to it, then." He looks back at Jon for a moment, before heading off downstairs, leaving the door slightly ajar as he goes.

Jon doesn't linger in the room by himself for long, returning to the bathroom for another shower. He notes that Jonah moved his dirty clothes while he was out. The Eye lets him know they're in a plastic bag in the laundry room downstairs, waiting to be dealt with.

He takes his time stripping and unwrapping his bandages as he waits for the water to get warm. He starts with the bandages on his left arm, unraveling the white strips to find his wounds already scarred over. His heart sinks at the sight of it, the lines stark and thick enough to be visible at a distance. He can feel the essence of the Extinction embedded in them, and looking for too long takes his mind back to that ruined city. He unwraps his other limbs quickly, trying to shift his focus elsewhere. It always takes him a while to get used to new scars.

The feeling of the hot water against his skin is sublime, especially without the stinging discomfort on his arms and legs from yesterday. It rinses away the residual chill of his encounters with the Lonely. The steam blooms around him in sharp contrast to the fog that circled his ankles so shortly ago.

He doesn't bother with Jonah's fancy shower products today, simply washing like normal and getting out. He finger-combs his hair in the mirror, pulling at the knots and thinking again how badly he needs to get it cut. He's at least pleased to see the marks on his throat already having lightened since that morning. He supposes he has his unnatural healing to thank for that.

He leaves the bathroom in a towel again to go get dressed in his room. He throws on one of the silk pyjama sets Jonah bought for him, choosing the dark green one at random.

Jon wonders what Jonah is doing, and subsequently knows that he's still downstairs eating a vegetable rice dish he made. Jon finds himself inclined to go downstairs and just watch him eat, but settles into his new bed instead, picking up one of the books from the nightstand.

It's a non-fiction book about London architecture that he originally purchased early in his tenure as head archivist. He'd read the chapter on Robert Smirke several times over, and now finds himself intensely curious about the development of Smirke's career in a world without the influence of the Fears.

He was apparently still quite a successful architect, designing many of the same notable buildings, and pioneering the same Greek Revival style of architecture. The book in the other universe had a blurb about his controversies, and accusations of occult involvement, but this Smirke didn't seem to have any sort of unusual beliefs that could parallel his interest in the Fears in their world. He appears to simply have been a very good architect.

He spends a while going through the book, comparing and contrasting information, before he gets a flicker of knowledge on what Jonah is up to. He's finishing up washing his dishes. Jon strains to listen, and can hear the faucet running downstairs. It turns off after a moment, and Jon knows Jonah is coming upstairs. He doesn't think about what he's doing when he puts his book back on the bedside table, and gets up as Jonah enters the hallway.

Jonah is just at the top of the stairs when Jon opens his door, and Jonah looks at him with a mild surprise as he steps into the doorway, and stops there. He simply stands there idly, leaning against the doorframe, looking at Jonah as the other man looks back. Jonah smiles at him.

"Hello, Jon." His voice carries a fondness in it that Jon doesn't know what to do with. He feels an impulse to look away, to flee back into the comfortable state of avoidance and denial from which he so recently emerged. He holds eye contact, despite feeling his face start to heat up, and Jonah's smile widens slightly. "You really are perfect…"

Jon scoffs, feeling his face heat further. "What, are you trying to make me look away?"

Jonah lets out a pleasant sigh. "Certainly not. Simply an observation."

Jon grumbles slightly in response, and Jonah tilts his head playfully. Jon takes a moment to just study him.

His stubble is more defined now, later into the day; a full five o'clock shadow. His pyjama set is almost identical to the one he was wearing earlier, with only minor differences in its cut and stitching. He looks relaxed, in a way he usually doesn't. Satisfied in a way that feels less smug, and more…

"Content?" Jonah offers.

Jon scowls instinctively, with a retort sitting on his tongue telling Jonah to get out of his head. The complaint doesn't make it out. The more he thinks about it, the more he doesn't feel like he minds. He's okay with Jonah knowing him in that way. He wants Jonah to know him in that way, and he wants to know Jonah in turn. Jonah takes a step towards him.

"Can I sleep with you tonight?" Jon blurts. Jonah stops in his tracks, looking slightly caught off guard by the question. "In your room?"

"Of course, Jon," he smiles.

"Just for tonight," Jon adds.

"Of course." Jonah takes another step towards Jon, offering his hand. 

"Hang on," Jon mutters, ducking back into his room. He grabs the two nazars he hasn't hung up yet and shoves them into his trouser pocket, before running back to the open door. Jonah is grinning as Jon takes his hand.

"I'll get more suitable decorations as soon as possible," he says, leading Jon back to his room. Jon nods, letting himself be led.

He doesn't let go of Jonah's hand as he walks past him, pulling him along as he hangs the nazars on the bedposts on either side of Jonah's headboard. Jonah squeezes his hand when he finishes, and pulls him into an embrace, slowly enough that he can pull back if he wants to. He buries his face in the crook of Jonah's neck.

Jonah sits back on the bed, pulling Jon down with him, stroking a hand through his overlong hair, still damp from his shower. It takes so much longer to dry at its current length compared to-

"Keep it long," Jonah murmurs into the top of his hair, before the thought that he needs to cut it can even fully form. Jon makes a discontented noise into Jonah's neck, as the other man strokes his hair again. "I'm growing mine out for you, aren't I?"

"You already wanted to grow yours back out," Jon retorts. "And yours wasn't nearly so high maintenance, it didn't even reach your chin."

Jonah just hums, continuing to comb his fingers through. Jon closes his eyes, and focuses on the sensation. He lets out a quiet moan when Jonah starts scratching at his scalp.

After a few minutes, Jonah shifts, pulling him gently further onto the bed. Jon extricates himself from Jonah's arms and crawls under his comforter, lying down facing the edge of the bed, and feels the mattress shift as Jonah settles in behind him. He wraps his arms around Jon's waist, pulling him in close, and burying his face in Jon's hair. Jon puts his hands over Jonah's in front of him, and entwines a leg with his under the blanket. Jonah sighs contentedly into his hair.

"What are you thinking about?" Jon asks, softly, static buzzing through the air between them. Jonah lets out a low moan before answering.

"I never thought I could have you like this," he says, quietly. "It was something I regretted, in the end stages of my plan. That I couldn't be with you as we reshaped the world in our patron's image. That you still hated me so much, in the end."

Jon remembers the hatred. The rage and resentment and sadness that once consumed him. It all feels distant now.

Jon pulls Jonah's arms off of his waist, and turns around to face him. He feels Jonah's eyes on him, but doesn't meet them, instead bringing his arms between them, and rolling his sleeves up to his elbows. He does look up at Jonah then, to see the other man's eyes fixed on his freshly healed marks.

Jonah interlaces his fingers with Jon's with one hand, gently caressing the winding scars on his forearm with the other. He brings Jon's hand to his lips, brushing kisses along his knuckles as he trails his fingertips from Jon's wrist to his elbow.

"I want to memorise every line and mark on your body, Archivist," he murmurs, kissing Jon's knuckles again between sentences. "With sight and with touch. You're beautiful."

Jon hums softly in response. Jonah calls him 'Archivist' like a term of endearment. He looks at the ugliest parts of him, and kisses him, calls him beautiful. He holds Jon with such care, like he's something precious.

Jonah pulls Jon's hand to his chest, looking up to meet his eyes. His silver grey eyes are hypnotic to behold, and Jon gets lost in them. He doesn't know how long he looks into them, feeling Jonah gently caress his forearms as he slowly slips out of consciousness.

He doesn't close his eyes as he falls asleep in Jonah's arms. Those eyes are the last thing he sees before he enters his realm of nightmares.

Renée's dream is the same as it was last night. She stands in her ruined city, watching her victims struggle and cry out. She looks at Jon with eyes that would cry if the dream let her, fear and horror overwhelming her as she stands on the flooded street, surrounded by ruins and garbage and screams. Jon simply stares, focused solely on her.

It takes a while before the world around him shifts, as Jonah finally joins him in sleep. Jon is pulled back into that old butcher shop, meat lining the walls with Wolfgang among them. The butcher is not cutting into him, however, as it's occupied elsewhere.

Across the shop, Jonah Magnus hangs upside down from the thick hooks pierced through his ankles. He doesn't look like Elias Bouchard. He's shorter, closer to Jon's size. His hair is tied back and he has a neatly trimmed beard, with his mustache curved slightly up the same way he still styled it at the Institute. He's sweating profusely in the hot, thick air, and his lip is trembling as the butcher approaches him, the way it never did in waking life.

Jon watches, unmoving, as the butcher begins its work. It does it the same way it did with Wolfgang, methodically. It cuts away Jonah's clothes and sticks its knife in his thigh to measure the fat. Jonah shouts at the pain, and it doesn't react.

Jonah looks into Jon's eyes as the butcher starts to cut into him. Jon has a lot of eyes right now, and Jonah glances between them all. The face Jon doesn't recognise contorts with pain and fear, but his familiar grey eyes soften at the sight of Jon, like just seeing him is a comfort in this nightmare. Jon doesn't react as Jonah writhes and cries out, until he feels himself being pulled back to Renée.

Jon comes back to consciousness at the same time Jonah blinks awake beside him. Jon watches intently as Jonah rubs his eyes. He's sweating, and his breathing is carefully level. He's rolling his ankles again, under the comforter.

"Good morning," Jon blurts, too loud for the moment. Jonah's eyes find his quickly, and his expression morphs into a tired, but gentle smile.

"Good morning, Jon." His eyes have dark circles under them, from a night of restless sleep. Jon thinks of him in that place, hanging from those hooks, being cut open. How young he looked, how vulnerable. Jonah shudders as the thoughts surface.

"I'm… I'm sorry," Jon murmurs.

"Don't do that," Jonah urges him, softly. "Please. Don't apologise for your nature, never to me." He takes Jon's hand in his. "I was well aware of this possibility when I gave you my statement, Jon. I can handle it just fine." The weary, earnest smile returns, and Jon is reminded of Jonah telling him that he could handle the effects of the Lonely himself. Jon doesn't doubt that he could, but he shouldn't have to.

Jon pulls his hand free from Jonah's, and brings it behind Jonah's head, gently pulling him into an embrace. Jonah allows it, resting his head on Jon's chest, listening to his heartbeat as Jon runs his fingers through his shortened hair. Jonah's level breathing starts to get heavier, shakier, and he brings his arms around Jon, holding him tight. Jon rests his cheek against the top of Jonah's head, rubbing his back with his other hand.

They stay like that for a while.

After eating breakfast, Jonah suggests that they use their day off of work to tour the office space he's been considering for their proto-institute.

It's a bit of a commute, but the space is perfect. It's a ground floor office space with an attached basement, perfect for dividing active research from the archives. There are unpainted wooden shelves and desks left behind by whoever rented the space last, a breath of fresh air after having been so surrounded by whites and greys.

Jon is already planning the layout of the archives in his head. It'll be so much easier to design a new organisational system without having to constantly be correcting Gertrude's purposeful disorganisation. He'll be able to separate statements by Entity, with tags for different types of manifestations, and whether the statement is given by a victim or an avatar… They'll have to get a few more shelving units.

"That can certainly be arranged," Jonah says, smiling at him from partway across the room.

Jon nods in response. They should probably work on getting eye things as well… Icons. He thinks about the Magnus Institute, with all its blatant and hidden eyes. He shivers at the memory of the Lonely's hollow imitation. A shell of the Institute, stripped of its power. Its feeling of safety.

Jonah takes a few steps towards him, putting a warm hand on his shoulder. Jon leans into the grounding touch.

"We'll only be renting the space at first, but I'm going to work on acquiring ownership of the property, so we'll be able to put up wallpaper eventually. Until then we can make do with relevant art and mirrors and such."

Jon nods again. "What are we going to do about artefacts? There's no way we could safely store them here, and we don't have other staff to assign to their handling…"

Jonah hums, rubbing Jon's shoulder with his thumb seemingly absentmindedly. "Back in Edinburgh, I kept artefacts I procured in their own room in the townhouse that was the original Institute. I attained very few during those early years, most coming from Albrecht Von Closen's book collection, but when I obtained something new, I would just recruit some unfortunate acquaintance to handle it, and take notes on what happened to them. Some survived, but several didn't. That may be more difficult to get away with in this day and age, without the reputation with the police that the Institute had."

"And this office space only has the two rooms…" Jon adds, thoughtfully. It certainly wouldn't be safe to keep artefacts directly in their workspace, so they may have to invest in a secondary location when they begin acquiring them. It may be a slower process, without any contacts like Mikaele Salesa to get them from, but they also have an advantage in being the only ones who know what to look for.

Jonah hums more deeply, moving his hand to rub Jon's back between his shoulder blades. Jon looks at him questioningly.

"What?" He smiles as he asks, watching the weak compulsion wash over Jonah. Jonah resists it for a moment, simply looking into Jon's eyes as the static crackles between them.

"It feels good to be ahead of the game, so to speak. The most knowledgeable in the world about the Dread Powers…" His stare intensifies, locking Jon in, and Jon returns the gesture, studying the deep grey of his eyes, not for the first time.

Jonah eventually breaks eye contact, gaze drifting to Jon's lips, invitingly. Jon puts a hand on Jonah's hip and stands on his toes to meet him in a kiss. Jonah smiles into Jon's lips, sliding his hand down Jon's back to pull him closer.

Jon lowers back down after a few moments, breaking the kiss. Jonah's face is slightly flushed. He smiles as they look into each other's eyes.

"My Archivist…" His voice is silky. Deeply affectionate, and unapologetically possessive. His pupils are dilated, and his fingertips are tracing the ridges of Jon's spine through his shirt and waistcoat. Jon feels his own face flush as he takes it all in.

"Um!"

Jon jolts back at the sound of another voice at the door, looking instinctively over his shoulder to see the real estate agent who let them in, before turning sharply back around to avoid her eyes.

"Mis- Mister Bouchard-" she stammers, obviously embarrassed to have walked in on them the way she did. "Um- I'm sorry, I do have an appointment on the books to show the space, and they should be here any minute-"

"No need, Miss Hayes," Jonah says, his tone entirely professional. "My associate and I will be renting out this space for the foreseeable future."

"Oh! Um, alright," she responds. "I'll… I'll just make a call to cancel the showing, and get that paperwork ready for you right now…"

She ducks out of the room hastily, and Jon feels Jonah's eyes on him as soon as she's gone.

"Were you aware that she was about to walk in?" He doesn't turn to face him, but hears him sigh in response.

"Yes, I was," he replies, with an audible smirk. "You're adorable when you're flustered, you know."

"I am not adorable!" Jon snaps, turning around to glare at him. His smirk is even more infuriating when Jon can see it.

Jon takes a deep breath in and out, bringing a hand to his temples.

"This woman works for your company! People are going to talk!"

"Let them," Jonah dismisses. "It's going to come out eventually, no harm in propagating rumours."

"I…" Jon groans, feeling the heat in his face. "People are going to think I'm sleeping with my boss!"

"I rather think you are."

"That's not the point! It's unprofessional!"

"Such assumptions never bothered you in the past."

"That's not-" Jon cuts himself off, stopping in his tracks. "Did people think we were sleeping together at the Magnus Institute?"

Jonah laughs, damn him.

"I'm afraid so, Archivist." He cocks his head as Jon puts his head in his hands. "You weren't exactly the most qualified candidate for the head archivist position on paper-"

"Oh my god."

"-and it's not like I've ever been very secretive about my favouritism towards you."

The muffled whispers and side-eyed glances in his direction from certain staff when he would go to Jonah's office suddenly make so much more sense…

"I admit that I found your lack of awareness of it quite amusing as time went on," Jonah continues, apparently determined to rub as much salt in the wound as possible.

"Shut up."

Jonah does, briefly, smiling silently at him like a cat that's just knocked something off a counter. Jon glowers at him.

"I'll never be sick of that scowl, Archivist," Jonah says, voice significantly too sultry for the circumstances. Jon twists his face further.

"Keep it in your pants, Magnus," he scolds. Jonah hums with satisfaction at the use of his last name. Jon rolls his eyes, before pointedly changing the subject.

"What are we going to call it?" he asks. "The new institute," he adds, at Jonah's look of slight confusion.

Jonah looks slightly dismayed as he considers this. "I suppose we can't very well call it the Magnus Institute, can we?"

"No." Jon rolls his eyes again. "Even besides the lack of a Jonah Magnus connection here, we aren't going to just call it the same thing again."

"What do you propose then? The Sims Institute?"

Jon scowls. "Absolutely not."

"Well, the Bouchard name has too many other associations… And it's not like he had much to do with it, anyway."

"Right, aside from funding nearly the entire thing," Jon deadpans. Jonah hums, dismissively.

"If not one of our names, we'll need to come up with something new."

Jon takes a long moment to think, as Jonah does the same. 

"We could do something with 'Argus,'" Jon says, eventually.

"As in Panoptes?" Jonah asks. "The hundred-eyed giant?"

"You can never really go wrong with Greek mythology." Jon leans on the desk next to him. "And it'll give us an excuse to cover everything with eyes."

"That it will…" Jonah muses, looking at the walls around them.

"We don't even need to be subtle," Jon continues. "No one here knows anything about the Powers, let alone the Eye specifically… Well, no one but Renée knows about the Powers and the Eye."

Jonah chuckles at the mention of her. "And she's already feeding it quite well."

Jon feels an instinctive wave of guilt, but the depth of it isn't enough to make it stick. She is feeding him quite well, in their shared dreams.

Jonah takes a few steps closer to Jon. "Serves her right, if you ask me." His eyes flick down to Jon's wrists, covered by his sleeves, before looking him in the eyes and bringing a hand up to run through his hair. Jon only leans into it for a moment before smacking the hand away and jerking his gaze towards the door.

"Alright," the real estate agent says as she comes back into the room. "I've cancelled my next appointment, and have all the paperwork required for rental right here."

Jon glares hard at Jonah while she flips through the papers. The man is visibly amused, and utterly unrepentant. Jon takes a moment to mull over in his head that this is the kind of behaviour he's signed up for for the foreseeable future. He sighs with resignation when he can't bring himself to regret it even slightly.

Chapter Text

Jonah furrows his brows as Jon groans beside him, rubbing the sides of his arms as he looks around the alley.

"I can feel the Filth, but I don't know if the avatar is even here," he says. "If there even is one…"

The manifestation seems to be concentrated around the pizza place in front of them. No one inside was visibly marked, and no one has come out the back entrance in the few minutes they've been waiting in the alley. People have passed through since they arrived, but none of them have emanated the stench of Corruption.

"We can always keep an eye on the area in the future, if we don't find anyone today," Jonah offers, wrinkling his nose as he stomps on another cockroach.

Jon whines slightly under his breath, growing visibly more anxious. The Corruption is one of his deeper marks; attained when he was so ignorant and inexperienced, unable to defend himself in any way. Being around such a potent manifestation of it seems to be reawakening his relevant anxieties, but he's determined not to leave without a statement. Jonah puts a hand on his shoulder.

"They can't hurt you," he says, as Jon turns to face him. "Not like Jane Prentiss could." He gives the Archivist a caress through his shirt sleeve, where he knows there's a concentration of small circular scars underneath. "You're stronger than them, now."

He feels an instinctual twinge of disappointment when Jon's eyes leave his, but watches the other man glare down at a cockroach scuttling towards them. The thing stops in its path, hastily reversing course and crawling back under the backdoor of the restaurant. Jon watches it go with a slightly shocked relief, and Jonah watches him with a deep pride. He remembers using the same trick to ward off the worms that attacked the archives, on his way to the gas release.

Their thoughts are interrupted by the door opening in front of them. A thickly bearded man comes out of the building, soiled apron on and trash bag in hand. He shuts the door behind him, and starts when he turns to see Jon and Jonah staring at him.

"What are you doing back here?" he asks. "What…"

A peek into his mind shows that he's faltering on how to ask what's wrong with their eyes. Jonah smiles as Jon steps forwards, turning on the tape recorder in his hand.

"Tell me your story," Jon intones, as the man's eyes go wide with fear, as the compulsion pulls at him. Even secondhand, it makes Jonah's head spin to hear Jon channel the Eye like that. He moves his hand down to rub Jon's back as the man regales them with his history of loneliness, his divorce, how his kids don't talk to him anymore. How desperate he was for love when the bugs started singing to him. The roaches start vibrating around them as he tells that part.

Jonah listens raptly to the statement, as their patron all but demands. The man before them speaks coherently, almost calmly, but in his mind there is a terror like he's never known. Having his deepest fears, his deepest shames, ripped out of him and laid bare before two strangers with piercing, knowing eyes.

Jonah can't help observing Jon as well. The Archivist is expressionless, emotionless, staring into the man's soul as he recounts the horrors he's living through. His eyes have a stronger glow than Jonah's seen since giving his own statement. Even in sleep they don't shine so brightly.

Eventually, the man's statement wraps up. He begins crying almost immediately once released from Jon's compulsion, and the tears are stained, black and filthy. Jon clicks off the tape recorder. He reaches forward to put a hand on the man's shoulder, an attempt at comfort, but draws it back, thinking better of making physical contact with a budding avatar of Corruption.

"Thank you, Oscar," Jon says, softly. It's the strangest thing. He's genuinely trying to be reassuring, to comfort the man after what he's just experienced, but has entirely the opposite effect. The man never even told Jon his name.

Oscar doesn't try to lash out at them, luckily. Not that they couldn't have handled it, but him simply scurrying back into the restaurant makes their lives that much simpler. Jonah ushers Jon out of the alley, and onto the pavement of a nearby street, well away from the swath of cockroaches. Once they're in the clear, Jonah pulls Jon into a one-armed embrace.

"You did wonderfully, Jon," he praises, pressing a soft kiss to his temple. The Archivist blushes hard, but leans into the contact. Despite his appreciation for physical contact, Jon is deliciously embarrassed about public displays of affection. They always give him a spike of anxiety about what onlookers might think. It makes the experience all the more enjoyable for Jonah.

"I… Thank you," Jon replies, flustered by the contact and the praise. "That was… That's good for now. I shouldn't need another for a while."

"It will be alright if you do," Jonah says, stroking his hand down Jon's arm. "I'll never fault you for feeding, Jon. Even in excess."

Jon looks away, at that, gaze falling on the pavement below them. His mind is still so full of guilt and shame over what he is. Jonah gives his arm a squeeze and presses another kiss on the crown of his head, basking in the wave of affection he feels wash over Jon's mind, even through the guilt.

"I'll transcribe Oscar's statement when we get back to the office, so you can file it away as soon as possible." Jon nods, his thoughts quickly switching gears to think about his archive, mulling over how this statement will fit into his new organisational system. Jonah adores him.

"Did you notice that this one progressed very quickly too?" Jon asks.

"I did, yes."

"Years and years of lonely desperation, and suddenly all at once his pizza place is a rotten, roach nest… It didn't even start right when we arrived, and still… Once the Filth got its hooks in him, it was lightning fast."

"I will say I'm curious how the health department is going to deal with that one," Jonah adds. "They don't exactly have sectioned workers here."

Jon hums. "We'll have to keep an eye on it…" He's already thinking about how to get a statement from whatever unfortunate inspector gets assigned here. Jonah smiles.

"Indeed." He retracts his arm back to his side, and offers it to Jon. "Now, let's head back, shall we?"

Jon nods, blush returning as he hooks arms with Jonah, and they start towards the office.

Jon enters the room with a huff, shoving his mask in his pocket before pulling his jacket off to hang on the coat rack.

"Another Extinction statement."

Jonah looks up from the papers he's working on. "Again?"

Jon throws his hands up. "They just keep coming!"

Jonah frowns as Jon places the tape on his desk, then steps back to the coat rack to pull another tape from his jacket pocket. Jonah raises an eyebrow and Jon marches back to place the second tape beside the first.

"The Spiral…"

"I see…"

"…plus the Extinction!"

Jonah looks at him, confused. "An overlapping manifestation? For those two?"

"Nope!" He throws his hands up again. "Two separate statements from two separate people. On the same tape because I didn't have another one, until one just appeared when I found the other person with the Extinction statement." He gestures to the other tape. Jonah furrows his brows as Jon steps away from his desk and starts pacing the floor. "Most people aren't even leaving their houses right now, and still every time I go out I find a new statement easily. Sometimes three in one outing, apparently, and so many of them are Extinction!"

Jonah hums, consideringly, as Jon keeps pacing.

"It's just getting worse, Jonah. It just keeps getting worse and worse, and I don't know how far it's going to go. It feels like we're getting a new manifestation of it every day, it outnumbers half of the other Powers combined in the Archives!" He starts fiddling with the sleeves of his shirt as he picks up speed. "Not to mention they're all still so fast, and I have no idea why. I was hoping that the Fears would have stabilised by now, but they've got worse. There's no telling how much worse it could get still, what that could mean for the world, why it's even-"

He's so caught up in his rambling that he doesn't notice Jonah's outstretched hand until he walks into it. He cuts himself off when he does, blinking at Jonah, who keeps his hand out, offering. Jon takes the hand in his, letting Jonah pull him onto his lap in his big leather desk chair.

"It's to be expected for an emerging power to have a surge as it starts to be fully born," Jonah says, calmly. "I saw a sharp increase in Flesh statements in the mid-nineteenth century, and that was without a relevant world-wide crisis." He rubs Jon's back with his free hand. "I also saw a massive influx of statements during both world wars, mostly Slaughter, and Corruption during the rise of the Spanish Flu. It makes sense that the Extinction would be spiking right now, especially as the Corruption, the Spiral, and the Lonely are spiking too. It just seems worse than the others because the pandemic is compounding with its initial emergence. The increased frequency isn't an inherent concern."

"But the intensity and fast progression is a concern," Jon argues. "It's been a concern, and seems to be getting worse along with everything else."

"What exactly are your concerns about it?" Jonah asks, steadily. "What are you afraid is going to happen?"

"I- I'm…" Jon falters at the question. He's afraid for the world. That the Fears aren't properly contained like they were in the other universe, leaking out to cause more suffering than he ever anticipated when releasing them. They're unpredictable, getting worse and worse with no sign of stopping, and it's his fault they're even-

"I see," Jonah says, quietly. He lifts the hand from Jon's back to stroke his hair, and Jon slowly leans into him, burying his face in the crook of Jonah's neck.

It's all his fault. Every statement giver he encounters is not only further traumatised by him feeding on their terror, but was only ever exposed to the Fears in the first place because of him. He doesn't usually dwell on it, tries to just embrace what he is, but the guilt can be so suffocating.

"I want you to breathe with me, Jon," Jonah says, softly, running his fingers through Jon's hair. Jon swallows, nodding into Jonah's neck and repositioning slightly to make it easier to breathe deeply. Jonah takes a slow, deep breath in, and holds it for a few seconds before a similarly slow and deep exhale. Jon mirrors him, breathing in, holding, breathing out.

Jon puts a hand on Jonah's chest, feeling his heartbeat through his shirt as his chest rises and falls. He's been dressing more like himself lately. White shirt with a dark grey waistcoat, and a patterned tie with hidden eye designs. With the COVID lockdowns, they've both been spending most of their time at the ARGUS office, doing all types of work there while the company office is closed. Though Jonah has clearly been enjoying inflicting Beholding on his colleagues and subordinates during Zoom meetings (while emphatically insisting that everyone must keep their camera on), on days without meetings, he's been able to be more openly Jonah Magnus than he's been since they arrived here. Jon will never admit how much he likes it.

Jonah presses a kiss to the top of Jon's head. "You don't have to, darling."

Jon lets out a petulant groan, sitting up slightly to glare at him. Jonah leans in for a kiss, but Jon turns his head, and Jonah's lips land on his cheek. Jonah tuts at him, but kisses him again, smiling against his cheek. Jon feels the heat rushing to his face, and sits up, pulling away from Jonah's eager lips.

"What are you thinking, then?" he asks, determined not to be the only one of them excluded from the other's mind.

Jonah characteristically sighs, stroking a hand over Jon's thigh as he feels the pull of the question.

"I wish you could see yourself the way I see you." He drinks in Jon's gaze as the words spill from him. "You're the most magnificent thing I've ever seen, Jon, the best avatar of the Eye there's ever been. I wish I could show you yourself through my eyes, and free you from this guilt you feel over what you are. I wish I had done so when I had the power to."

He leans in for a kiss again, and Jon meets him this time. He lifts a hand to the back of Jonah's head, grabbing hold of his hair in the back. Jonah lets out a low moan, and Jon realises he's still riding out the compulsion.

"I don't think it would be so bad," he murmurs into Jon's lips, "if this world became more like the one we left." He kisses Jon again. "I miss it, Jon. I know you do too."

Jon freezes up, leaning back slightly and holding Jonah's head back by his hair when he tries to follow for another kiss.

"Don't…" he mutters. Jonah shifts back slightly, giving him space.

"Jon…"

"I do not miss it," Jon says firmly. Jonah frowns.

Jon enjoyed it when he was there. He cannot reasonably deny that. He'll never say it out loud, but thinking it is admission enough, with Jonah. He can't truthfully deny that he enjoyed the aftermath of what Jonah made him do to their world, but that doesn't make it okay. It certainly doesn't mean he wants this world to descend into the same hell.

Jonah lets out a sigh, reaching up to scratch Jon's scalp. Jon hesitantly leans into Jonah's hand, slowly melting back into him.

"You aren't likely to have to worry about that, anyway." Jonah wraps his other arm around him, stroking his back. "It's true I wouldn't mind things going in that direction, but I sincerely doubt this will actually escalate that far."

"Really?" The compulsion is light, barely there, but Jonah's hand still tightens in Jon's hair ever so slightly.

"Yes, Jon," he says, with a sigh. "Really. I believe this fits in uniformly enough with my experiences with various significant events in the old world, and that it will die down in intensity when this whole coronavirus business does." He presses a soft kiss into Jon's hair. "And even if it doesn't, we'll be alright."

Jon nods into Jonah's shoulder, putting a hand on his chest to feel his heartbeat again. Jonah breathes a quiet sigh. 

"I can't say I blame you for being a bit high strung, after three consecutive statements." Jon groans in his arms, as Jonah resumes stroking his hair. "Your head is probably spinning."

"It was… a lot, yes."

"Would you rather I stay here to transcribe these while you go down to the archives to rest, or would you like me to take a break and go with you?"

Jon going to the archives is a given. With the buildup of statements and the placing of icons, it's easily become the place he feels the most comfortable. The most safe.

"I want you to be there," Jon says. "You can bring your other work… I'll probably just take a nap."

Jonah hums, continuing to stroke Jon's hair for a few moments before half-nudging, half-lifting him off his lap. He grabs his laptop off the desk in front of him, and stays close to Jon as they make their way downstairs to the archives.

Jonah was in charge of decorating the main office space, and as a result, it reflects his nineteenth century sensibilities. Wallpaper with hidden eyes, antique-style furniture, et cetera. It ended up looking very put together by the end of the decoration process, like a room right out of the Magnus Institute.

Jon, on the other hand, was in charge of decorating the archives. Apart from some additional bookcases and a cot, all of the furniture was just the desks, chairs, and shelves that came with the office space. Jon had picked up whatever eye-themed decorations he found while shopping with Jonah, based much more on feeling than aesthetic taste, so the walls were covered with decorations that clashed horribly with each other (a mirror shaped like an eye, a couple of bargain bin Halloween decorations, a band poster with an eye on it, several hanging nazars of various sizes, and a painting of an eye in the sky above a landscape that Jon knew to look for in a charity shop). It doesn't look put together in the slightest, but it helps the archives feel like they belong to Jon, and he has consistently declined Jonah's gentle but persistent offers to help redecorate.

Jon gravitates to the cot immediately, and Jonah to the desk that sits near it. It's more or less routine at this point. Jon lies down on his side, facing the desk, and Jonah sits well within view. He gives Jon a fond, sincere smile, before opening his laptop and beginning his work.

Jon lies awake for a few minutes, simply watching Jonah type. It's a relaxing thing, and he starts drifting off shortly, entering into his dreamscape.

Renée is there. She started working nights shortly after Jon took her statement, avoiding him in her dreams a good deal of the time. She still ends up in her nightmare every day, but she decided she preferred to avoid him personally as much as she could in the process. There are also others who've come to the same conclusion. A victim of the Hunt Jon cornered at the tube station, with nightmares about being chased by a man who barely seems human, as Jon watches without helping him. A victim of the Lonely Jon found in a park, with nightmares about being invisible to everyone around him, except Jon, who watches silently, apathetic to his distress. They manage to avoid him most of the time with their altered sleep schedules, but he still sees them when he dozes off during the day.

While the others look at him with the same fear and despair they always have, Renée is different. She's still scared, not being scared isn't an option for her here, but there's disdain in her eyes. A hardened resentment and impotent defiance as Jon watches her suffer. She's always hated him, but it's never been so sharp before, in her dreams. He wonders about it, but as always, doesn't react. He just keeps watching.

"No, it is not a joke, Marie," Jonah says, sternly into the phone. "Something has changed recently, I've talked to so many people who have had serious-"

He's cut off by more ranting that Jon can't make out on the other end of the line. Jon can't remember ever seeing Jonah quite this frustrated.

"It's not 'conspiracy bullshit,' " Jonah snaps, "if you'd heard even one of the stories I have-"

Jon gently shuts the cracked door he's been eavesdropping through. He sighs deeply, massaging his temples.

Jonah and Jon had decided a couple months into the lockdowns that the large spike in Fear related activity would be a good opportunity to go public with their statement collection efforts. They began advertising the ARGUS Institute as an organisation dedicated to "Advancing Research into the Ghastly, Uncanny, and Supernatural." Jonah learned how to design a website, and created a way for potential statement givers to submit their contact information and make appointments to give their statements in person. He also wrote up a blurb about the reason for their founding, including vague details about the still-unexplained disappearance of Mr. and Mrs. Yang, and how it's meant to have emotionally impacted him (their good friend, Elias Bouchard).

Unfortunately for them, despite the surge in supernatural encounters since the pandemic began, the study of such things is still perceived very negatively by the population at large. It's viewed as a crazy new-age conspiracy belief induced by months of isolation and internet rabbit holes, akin to an insistence that COVID-19 was caused by 5G internet. It's become quite a scandal that Elias Bouchard has publicly attached himself to such an organisation.

Jonah took the lockdowns as an opportunity to drift cleanly away from most of Elias's friends, but the ARGUS Institute going public made just about every one of them reach out again to express concern over his wellbeing and sanity. He gets several angry calls from members of the Bouchard family who are furious that he's besmirched their family name and reputation with such nonsense.

Jonah is confident they can weather the hit on Elias's reputation, drawing on his own experience starting the Magnus Institute in the nineteenth century. Jon has decided to trust him on that, but doesn't know how long it'll take for the concerned and angry phone calls to subside.

He ignores Jonah's muffled, irate voice in the other room, and goes back to sorting the statements he has laid out on the coffee table. He tried to keep all their work at the ARGUS office, at first, but it was hardly possible with the influx of statements they'd gotten in the last few months.

Aside from the issue of Elias's reputation, the Institute has been more successful than they'd hoped for. There's a growing population of Fear-touched people who, until now, had nowhere to turn to for answers or solace. They took multiple voluntary statements the week they first opened, and it's stayed consistent enough that Jon has been able to stop hunting entirely. Plus, Jonah has started stockpiling written statements to be recorded at a later date, both to strengthen his own connection to the Eye, and to provide Jon with a supply of available statements in case he ever needs them.

He's developed quite a robust organizational system as well, much less confusing than Gertrude's design. Statements are categorised numerically by the date they were given (day/month/year), with a secondary four digit code, the first two digits being somewhere between 01 and 15 to document which Fear they seem most connected to, the next digit being either 0, 1, or 2 to document whether the statement giver was an avatar, a victim, or an uninvolved witness, and the last digit being somewhere from 1 to 5 to rank the potential danger the manifestation may pose to anyone who may feel inclined to investigate it. There's also a colour coding system to note whether or not anyone at ARGUS (currently just the two of them, but Jonah has been pestering him about hiring assistants as their workload increases) was directly or indirectly involved in the events described in the statement.

Jon flips through the stacks of paper in front of him, frowning at the abundance of Entity 15 categorizations. The Extinction has only continued to grow in prominence since the beginning of the lockdowns, and statements about it make up over a third of their total collection.

Many of its manifestations have been rather clear cut. They have a statement from a man who found a website with an unlabelled countdown that he knew in his bones was counting down to the end of the world. Another is from a paleontology student who found herself millennia in the future, witnessing the fossilised ruins of modern life before being pulled back to the present after days away. Most interesting to Jon was the statement of a dystopian fiction writer, who described being haunted by his own manuscript as he edited it, finding that it was not what he remembered writing, as it started to have strange effects on him. Jon had raved to Jonah for half an hour after the man left about the implications this could have about the formation and development of cursed tomes, and how enlightening it was to be able to study such things as they develop.

They've also now received multiple statements describing similar experiences to Jon's own of being transported into a post-apocalyptic version of London. Everyone who's given such a statement described the experience as beginning shortly after picking up takeaway from the café where Jon first saw Renée, and all of them seemingly narrowly escaped via the very same café. Given how difficult and perilous escape from that place was (for him, and for the other victims, based on their accounts) the number of statements he's got about it highly concerns him. There's no way that even a quarter of Renée's victims are escaping her domain once sent there, so how many is she taking that three of them so far (besides Jon) have managed it? And that's only the ones who found ARGUS after the fact.

Another thing that strikes Jon as odd about the statements, is that two of the three describe very different ruins than he encountered in his foray into the Extinction. One statement giver describes experiencing essentially exactly what Jon did, even describing tatters of fabric present in the interior of the café that Jon suspects are what remains of the jacket he abandoned there. Another, however, describes a sweltering, almost scorched landscape, the plastic litter surrounding her practically melting. The third describes an empty cityscape that looks like a plague has ravaged it, with mysterious stains and mould everywhere, and dirty medical equipment and garbs being mixed in with the litter. With the way the latter two describe their experiences, they don't seem to have encountered pure manifestations of the Extinction. They still channelled the fears the Extinction embodies, but they leaned quite far in the directoin of other Fears as well. Jon wonders if Renée found some way to channel other Powers on purpose, based on the specific anxieties of her victims, or if there's something else at play that he isn't seeing.

He's rereading the statement that's closer to his own experience when Jonah opens the door, crossing the room with heavier footsteps than normal to settle next to Jon on the couch. Jon looks up from the statement to see a look of exasperation on Jonah's face.

"How did that go?" he asks, letting his compulsion slip into the question. Jonah sighs, leaning further back into the couch cushions.

"I just had to listen to a woman who doesn't believe in the efficacy of vaccines, rant about me being a conspiracy theorist." Jonah's voice is laced with disdain, and his expression morphs to one of genuine anger between sentences. "Then, I learned in vivid, firsthand detail, why Elias never came out to his family as bisexual."

"Oh god." Jon cringes. "People are talking, then?"

"Indeed, they are." Jonah rubs his temples. "I expect you've been adequately covering our tracks in the financial department?"

"Of course." Jon was rather proud of how well he'd been able to abet Jonah's embezzlement. 

"Well, if it holds up-"

"Which it will."

"-then all we'll have to worry about will be some awkward and unpleasant meetings with HR."

Jon groans, setting the statement back on the table in front of him and running a hand through his hair.

"I told you we should've been more subtle with everything," Jon sighs. He leans back on the couch, allowing Jonah to snake an arm around his shoulders and pull him closer. "We're not going to be able to deny it."

"Why should we?" Jonah asks, rubbing Jon's shoulder. Jon gives him a look.

"Because of the incoming HR nightmare?" he says, flatly. "Because of the Bouchards' general attitude towards gay people?"

Jonah hums, taking Jon's hand in his, and caressing the scars around his wrist. "Fuck them." Jon almost barks a laugh at the crass language, a rarity for Jonah. "If any of those narrow minded fools attempt to make a fuss about it, I have plenty of blackmail on hand to shut them up. A skill I've already exercised on dear cousin Marie."

Jon can't hold back a smile at the audible smirk in Jonah's voice, and leans his head against the other man's shoulder.

"This would still all be a lot easier if I could just do archiving full time."

"Yes, it would," Jonah sighs, "but unfortunately, this Elias lived long enough to have too messy a divorce and too expensive a midlife crisis to fund an endeavor like this entirely out of his own pocket."

Jon hums, watching Jonah's fingers trace over his scars. He thinks about this universe's Elias for a moment. An innocent in all this, killed in cold blood without an inkling as to what was even going on. Still, Jon finds himself sharing in Jonah's annoyance at the man, simply for managing to live his own life long enough to inconvenience them. The thoughts slowly fade into the background as Jonah lifts Jon's hand, brushing his lips against Jon's knuckles.

"We should do something tonight," Jonah murmurs into Jon's hand.

"Like what?" Jon feels himself smiling again. "I was planning on working on organising the archives."

"You work too much." Jonah kisses Jon's hand again as Jon rolls his eyes. "We should go out to eat."

"I can't eat, and restaurants are closed."

Jonah turns to face him, with a playful glint in his eyes. "That's not the kind of eating I meant, Archivist."

Jon smiles. "Do you mean watching me take a statement, or making a future statement giver yourself?"

"If we leave soon, there'll be plenty of time for both."

Jon chuckles, straightening in his seat. "We'd best be off then."

Jonah hums in agreement, sitting up and leaning in for a quick kiss. Jon meets him halfway, still smiling.

Chapter Text

Jonah looks up from his laptop at the clock on the wall of their living room. Almost nine and Jon still isn't home. He frowns, shutting the lid of the computer.

Jon has been out hunting since early afternoon. His hunts have been taking longer, as of late. Statements were overabundant to the point where he hadn't even needed to hunt for a while, with how well the Institute was doing, but their success has dwindled since July. Hunting had become a necessity again over the last few months. It isn't unusual for him to be out for a while, but it always sets Jonah on edge after a certain point.

He tries to focus on knowing where Jon is. His sight was never something that came easily to him in the old world, it had taken a lot of time and discipline to master it, and always took effort to exercise the skill. Now, without the Millbank panopticon, the muscles he'd become so used to flexing to see aren't even there anymore. He has a connection to Jon again through ARGUS, and can feel that he's out there somewhere, alive and unhidden from the Eye, but nothing else comes to him. No information on his whereabouts, no images, no updates on his physical or mental wellbeing. He lets out a frustrated sigh.

It bothers him immensely to be unable to see Jon anymore, when the Archivist isn't in his physical sight. It's got better since creating ARGUS officially, starting to rebuild the deeper connection that the Magnus Institute gave them, but when they first arrived in this world, Jonah couldn't know anything at all about Jon without strong concentration. Even then, whether it was anything useful was out of his control. If his Archivist was harmed in some way, Jonah could have been completely unaware until he found out organically. The sure knowledge he has now that Jon is alive and in the Eye's view is a comfort, but Jonah still hates not knowing exactly where he is.

He opens his computer back up, trying to distract himself. There's no point in dwelling on his lost power. Jon is perfectly capable of handling himself, and will be back soon enough. Jonah will just have to talk to him about installing one of those location tracking apps on his phone, and making sure that he actually remembers to grab the thing before he leaves the house.

He returns to his work. Online reporting and speculation hasn't exactly been enlightening, as the Fears' inability to be discussed over digital media seems to have transferred interdimensionally, but it's still wise to be thoroughly aware of what the general populace thinks when they witness something like what happened on July 10th.

The reporting on the disaster has been extensive: lists of casualties, descriptions of the environmental and property damage left behind, plus an array of theories and speculation about what terrorist activity or never-before-seen natural disaster could have caused it all, but meaningful speculation about the supernatural is nowhere to be found, even in comment sections or on dedicated conspiracy forums. 

Jonah is sure it was a ritual attempt. One of the more devastating ones he's witnessed in his lifetime. An entire city block decimated, with no survivors or direct witnesses that he and Jon (nor any reporters or government agents, as far as he can tell) have been able to find in the months since, plus a subsequent decrease in Fear related activity following the event. Unusually, however, the decrease wasn't limited to one Fear, as it usually would be after a ritual attempt. The Stranger became weak after the failure of the Unknowing, the Dark after the failure of the Extinguished Sun, the Eye after his own attempt at the Watcher's Crown, but after July 10th, the activity of a third of the Fears (the Corruption, the Desolation, the Stranger, the End, and the Extinction) have dropped off significantly, effective almost immediately after the disaster. Additionally, the manifestations they have seen of the weakened five in recent months have been progressing relatively slowly, while the other Fears have mostly maintained their heightened speed.

Jonah is pulled from his thoughts by the sound of the front door opening, and is immediately aware that it's Jon. He looks up from his computer, and sees Jon walk into the room with a huff without even stopping in the foyer to take off his shoes. Jonah winces watching Jon track dirt over the living room carpet. (He just vacuumed…)

"Jon," he greets him. Jon shrugs off his jacket and throws it on a chair before planting himself on the couch beside Jonah. He's clutching a tape recorder. "You're back late…"

Jon grunts in acknowledgement, rubbing his fingers against the side of the recorder as he kicks his shoes off onto the floor. Jonah lets his concern show on his face when Jon lets out a deep sigh.

"I got the statement," he says, his voice tired. "About July 10th."

Jonah raises his eyebrows in surprise. "I see. Was it a ritual then?" He quickly adds, "And more importantly, are you alright?"

Jon sighs again, curling in on himself slightly. He places the tape recorder on the table in front of them and presses play. Jonah takes Jon's hand as he listens raptly.

"Shut up!" a woman shouts on the tape. Jonah recognises the voice as Renée Dupont's. "I'm not doing this again, don't make me do it again-"

"What happened on July 10th?"

There's a strangled cry.

"We were trying to end the world," Renée chokes out. "I- I thought we could do it if we just-"

"You and who else? Tell me how you did it."

She makes another pained noise as the answers are pulled out of her.

"I- A-after you broke into my house and forced everything out of me, I stopped ever feeling like I was safe. I sent you away, but I knew that you'd survived it… That you were out there, still watching me every time I slept, every time I closed my eyes. You could see me in that place, in the ruins of that city, and you watched as the screams of those people terrorised me every night. I knew that that's what I would do to people, if I went down this path. I knew that everything I was seeing was my fault, that I was hurting these people, and that you knew it as you stared me down. I never wanted it to be real. I didn't want to hurt people, to make them suffer. It was everything I was afraid of, and you knew that.

"I tried to ignore it for a long time. I tried to just go back to my life and pretend none of it had happened. I avoided the café, avoided my coworker, tried to avoid sleeping, or even thinking about any of it.

"I deteriorated. I never slept, and felt sick all the time. I started working nights when I realised you wouldn't be in my dreams during the day, but the nightmare lingered, so I still put off sleeping as long as I could. Even aside from the lack of sleep, I started feeling weak and sick, like I had a cold that never went away. I still heard the call, still felt it in my bones every day, but I denied it and denied it. I was floating through life even more absently than I had before. I barely registered the few months before the pandemic.

"Everything changed when the lockdowns happened. Society shut down, everyone was scared and paranoid, and the call got a lot harder to ignore. I was an essential worker, so I was still around people all the time, and their fear and anxiety pulled me in like… like smelling a fresh cooked meal when I hadn't eaten in days.

"It was my coworker that did it, in the end. Sarah Fisher. I don't remember if I told you her name, last time. I hadn't seen her in months, since I'd started working nights and she only worked day shifts. Well, one day that changed. Maybe she switched to nights, or maybe she was covering someone's shift. I'm not even sure. But she was there one night, on shift with me, and the lockdowns had not been kind to her. She had dark eye bags, a tremble in her hands, and a terror in her heart that was far too great for me to resist.

"It's hard to put into words how I know what happens to people I send away. I've never seen the place I know they end up in, except in my nightmares. But I know that's where they are. I know that I'm sending them there every time I do it, and I know that almost all of them have died there. I feel bad about it in a… distant sort of way, but the feeling of it, the satisfaction… There's nothing that can compare.

"I felt so much better after doing it. All my sickness and lethargy receded almost immediately, and I felt alive again. I felt motivated, I wanted more.

"I started posting online again, but it wasn't really doing much anymore. It felt like everyone was already catastrophising about the end times without my input. My posts just got lost in the sea of others, not really affecting people in any tangible way. I ended up going on walks after work. It was early in the morning, before sunrise even, so there weren't many people out, and those I found were easy to isolate. I ended up mostly targeting men who were creepy towards me, but that wasn't really by design. Just worked out that way.

"Even though I wasn't depending on online stuff, I still kept up with my accounts, and started to notice similar behaviour to my own from certain others. Fear mongering, catastrophising, in a seemingly deliberate effort to make people scared. Looking back, maybe I was just seeing what I wanted to see, but I thought they were like me. Experiencing the same anger at the world, and the same deep satisfaction in spreading fear.

"I ended up contacting several of the accounts I saw, just to see what would happen. I made the messages vague, but got the point across. I think my exact phrasing was, 'I know you can see that the world is beyond saving. Wouldn't it be better if we could just end it?' I contacted quite a few accounts, and many didn't respond, which I more or less expected, but some people did respond. Engaging, either to argue, or to agree. Most of them seemed more like the people I… feed on, than like me, but I clocked a few of them as sharing my passion. Having the potential to share my ambitions.

"I spent a while talking with them, building a sense of comradery based on our mutual understanding of the world, planting seeds about my powers, my goals. Eventually I organised a meetup. I was cryptic about it, told everyone they were just meeting me, because I didn't want to scare them off. We met at night, at that damn café. I can't explain why, it just felt right. Plus they have shit security, and I can pick locks, so…

"The light was on inside, but it was empty apart from us. Everyone was confused when they showed up, uncomfortable that I'd lied, and demanding explanations.  I managed to get them to sit down and listen to what I had to say.

"I told them everything you told me. Everything I've learned myself, since. About these Entities, and their effects on the world, and how they can be used, harnessed by individuals. I explained my own story, what I'd been doing and feeling. I told them about you, what you'd done to me and what I'd done to you. That I'd done it to others.

"They called me a liar, said that I was crazy, and wasting their time. A couple of them got up to leave. I was scrambling trying to get them to stay, I… I was considering sending one of them away as a demonstration, but was interrupted by the girl to my left, May, piping up to say she knew that I was telling the truth. That she'd been feeling an unnatural calling too, feeding on the fear of those around her. She told us about how she'd started to be able to sense when those around her were near death. How she'd started dropping hints about it to them, making them paranoid, and how good it felt. She said the feeling was just like I'd described it.

"The others were still… apprehensive, but more ready to hear me out. I told them more, emphasised the power that these things give you over the world. I told them that I knew they all wanted the world to end, thought it would be better off that way, and I told them I believed we could do it. I believed that we had the power to rid the world of suffering, forever.

"I had read about pagan rituals online, in preparation for this meeting. About how to seal people together… Blood magic. I brought a basic, scented candle, one that I knew had been recalled recently. I lit it, and told everyone that I'd brought a knife, and they needed to drip a drop of blood into the melted wax as it burned if they were serious about this. That it would give them some of my power. I wasn't even entirely sure it would work going in, but I went first, and when my blood hit the wax, the candle got smoky, and made it hard to breathe. They were scared, I could tell they were, but all of them followed suit, and the smoke only got more intense. I felt my power surge every time one of them bled into the wax. I wasn't just giving them my power, I was getting back. I don't know if it was from them, or if it was some kind of… reward, from this entity, but it didn't matter. None of us quite understood how it worked, but we knew we were connected after that. Tied to each other by something beyond ourselves. The others felt it too, the power they'd gained, but I don't think any of them felt it quite like I did…

"I showed them all how to take victims. They took to it rather intuitively, but none of them did it in quite the same way as me. May was already doing her own thing before all this, making people aware of their impending deaths. I think she targeted people who were especially afraid of death. Jackie targeted fears about COVID, focusing in on the idea of the world being wiped out by an unstoppable plague. Amber prioritised feelings of pain and loss on a smaller, more personal scale, in the bigger context of a mass catastrophe, the idea that all of your loved ones died in pain just like you know you will. Dani used the fear of the unfamiliar, the idea of a world changed beyond human recognition, and hostile to human existence.

"Even with our differences, there was real strength in numbers. Every time one of us fed on someone, the rest of us would feel it too. Our collective power grew so much faster than mine did alone.

"We didn't waste time in organising our world ending ritual. We didn't have any details about what ending the world would entail, what it would require, but we just… We were drawn towards a certain course of action. We all had an idea about what we needed to do, an instinct in common, it was just a matter of working out the details. We all agreed it would've been best to do it at the site of a man-made disaster, like Chernobyl, or Nagasaki, but we couldn't have afforded a trip like that probably for years, and we needed to capitalise on the heightened fear during the pandemic. Dani thought we should do it at a nuclear power plant, Jackie suggested a crowded hospital. I was the one who suggested the café. It was where we originally bound ourselves to each other, our powers had already deeply affected the place… It just felt right.

"We didn't do it without buildup. The café itself was obviously closed because of the pandemic, but we fed on people from around the area. We especially targeted people who ordered curbside pickup from the café. We didn't even need to interact with them directly, we just… messed with the food, I guess. They'd pick it up and be on their way, then at home, or in some deserted car park, they'd open it up, and the meal would be decayed beyond recognition, covered in mould or oil, or burnt to a crisp, and then the world would twist and warp around them. I believe you know better than me what happens after that point.

"Different ones of us would get more out of each person, depending on their specific fears, but we all felt it every time we took a victim. Me especially, I think. We called them our sacrifices. We did what we did to them on the altar of this thing greater than ourselves, in hopes for its favour when the time came to attempt our ritual.

"Eventually we decided it was time. The state of the world and the energy around the café was strong enough.

"We wanted to have other people gathered in the café, but the lockdowns were still going strong, and the kinds of people willing to flagrantly violate them weren't the kind we would've needed anyway. We all knew that each individual sacrifice would continue to feed us for as long as they lasted in the wastelands we sent them to, and that we felt stronger and more powerful while they were there. So we stockpiled. Sacrifices usually lasted one to three days on average, so we spent three days leading up to our plan essentially gorging ourselves. We spread out around London, taking whoever we could find. I didn't sleep at all in that time. I didn't even feel like I needed to.

"We met back at the café at dusk on July 10th. I don't know how many sacrifices each of them managed, but they all looked radiant. They had an unnatural, ghostly glow. I imagine I was the same.

"The café wasn't open to the public, but they hadn't locked the front door. That particularly anxious employee was inside, and started stuttering and accosting us that we weren't allowed in. I finally, properly got to send them away. It felt good to get a proper meal out of them, after all this time.

"May went in the back to take care of the employees in the kitchen, and the rest of us got to work setting up.

"We all put a lot of work into developing the symbols we painted on the tables and walls. We combined symbols of danger, disaster, and toxicity from around the world with sigils and magic symbols we found in books and online, that represented change and death. We didn't have any solid proof it would work, beforehand, but the room started to feel different as we painted it with with red, yellow, and black acrylic. It already felt like a place of power, somewhere that made it easier to channel this thing we served. With the symbols, we just intensified more and more.

"While the rest of us were painting, Jackie was setting up the candles on the tables and the floor. I don't know what she did to the damn things, but they emitted a noxious, choking smoke. It filled the room as she lit them all, and made it feel like our lungs and throats were being coated with a layer of hot plastic. It hurt, but we didn't stop. I didn't cough because of it, but some of the others did.

"The last thing we did was paint the floor in the centre of the room. A circular design, with symbols inside it, and places outlined where each of us would stand. We stood in our places once we'd finished, and joined hands. We had written a chant, essentially a summoning spell, calling upon our Entity. Inviting it, imploring it to wreak havoc on the Earth; to end the life on its surface, permanently. We started to chant in unison, getting louder as we progressed through the call."

The wind audibly picks up on the recording as she begins to recite the chant.

"'The end is nigh, and we invite it. We call upon your fire, your plague, your great tempest of change and death. We call you forth, we pull you in! Bring the end of days, the end of all, the end of life in this world! The end is nigh, and the time is now! Come to us!'"

The wind dies down again when she stops, taking a shaky breath before continuing her statement.

"It's hard to explain what happened. The power I was getting from our sacrifices surged like I'd never known before, and judging by the others' faces, they felt the same. Our victims' fear got sharper, louder, intensifying more and more. The ground shook beneath our feet, and the air started to swirl around us like a storm. I could feel it getting closer, and closer. We all could.

"I wanted the world to end, I had for a long time by then, and I still do, but when it- when the Extinction made its presence known in that room, I felt the same terror in my bones that I know I've inflicted on so many others. I knew how close the end was, how finite everything I've ever known and loved truly is. I knew, in that moment, that it was about to end, and that it would all be my fault. It was horrible, and euphoric, and completely overwhelming.

"Everyone else felt it too. Our chant ended, but the storm around us only continued to grow. We could hardly breathe with how long Jackie's candles had been burning, and the currents of smoky air sent the tables and chairs around us crashing to the ground. We kept our hands joined, kept our focus, and felt like it was working. It felt like we were far past the point of no return, like the tempest in that shop would spread across the whole world. I don't actually know what went wrong.

"It stopped suddenly. I honestly don't fully remember it, but I know that the ceiling caved in, and I blacked out. I came to on the ground, the café reduced to rubble around me. By some miracle, or curse, I wasn't crushed by the rubble. None of us were crushed… Our hands stayed linked, our circle going unbroken until the end.

"I didn't know the finer details of it all yet, but it was immediately obvious it hadn't worked. Not just because I was alive, but also because the… The overwhelming feeling of collision, of the Extinction joining us in the world, was gone.

"It took me a minute after coming to to actually try to get off the ground and look around at the rubble. With how hard it was for me to even sit up, I didn't panic right away, that everyone else wasn't moving. I was glad they weren't crushed, that the building had broken down around us rather than atop us. But May and Amber's hands held tight around mine, even in their unconsciousness, and I eventually started to realise that they… weren't as warm as they should have been…

"I turned to look at Amber, really look at her. Her eyes were wide, her mouth hung open, and her expression was frozen in what looked like a scream. Her hand in mine was stiff and cold, and it dawned on me that I didn't even know how long I'd been out, that she could have been lying there unmoving for hours…

"I wrenched my hand from hers, and turned towards May on my other side. Her lips were parted only slightly, but her eyes were as wide as Amber's, her face tearstained, showing that same fear.

"The rest of them were the same. I… I don't know why I lived, and they didn't. I was the one who started it, sure, but we worked together, we did everything together. We were all connected, and they were just as important to the process as I was! I don't understand why I'm the only one that's still here…

"They died for nothing in the end. That's the worst part. None of us went into this expecting to make it out, but we were doing it for a reason, for a greater cause. Now they're dead, I'm not, and nothing's even changed. If anything, we've just made the world worse. So many casualties, panic in the news, and all those sacrifices all for nothing…

"I'm still taking sacrifices… I can't stop now, it's not like it used to be. The Extinction feels weaker, more distant after being ripped away from our world, but I'm more connected to it than I ever was before. I'm so hungry all the time, it never stops, and I feel worse and worse so much more quickly when I haven't fed. I get so tired, so soulless, and sending people away, making them scared is the best feeling in the world. It feels good and it feels right, and I can't stop the guilt that's eating away at me because of it.

"I never wanted to hurt people. I wanted to end the world's suffering, and all I've done is add to it… The others are dead, when they'd never even have been involved if it wasn't for me. They sacrificed everything for my lofty aspirations, and I failed them. I let them down, and now they're gone, while I'm still here.

"I've wondered if I'm being punished for our failure. If I was foolish and reckless in my plans, and the thing that I've bound myself to is making me suffer for it. I don't even know if that's possible… I don't know anything about this stuff, I- I was only ever going off of my feelings, my instincts…

"I've been looking around, in my spare time. Reading the news, crawling conspiracy forums, listening in on every conversation about this stuff I hear… No theory or explanation has even come close to the truth. I hacked into a bloody government database and even they have no insight into what's going on. They have photos of the ritual site, descriptions of what they think they're looking at, and no idea what any of it could actually mean. Not even an inkling of anything like what you told me…

"How did you get any of this information? Where can I go to learn? I want to know what's happening, what 'the Extinction' even is, what kind of hellish contract I've locked myself into!

"I know there's no way out anymore. You told me outside that corner store that it wasn't too late for me then. It is now.

"I… I like to think I could've been stronger in my abstinence if it wasn't for you attacking me in my own home. Don't look at me like that, you absolute bastard, it was an attack. This is an attack! You know what this shit does to people, I see you in my fucking nightmares!"

She lets out a strained noise, half dry laugh, half sob.

"I wish it had just worked. I wish that the world had just ended like it was supposed to, that it wasn't all for nothing. I didn't improve anything. I gave up my humanity, I killed the closest friends I've ever had, I caused so much suffering, don't know if I can ever stop causing suffering, and it was all for nothing. It was all for nothing…"

She takes a laboured breath as Jon sighs on the tape.

"Fuck you!" she shouts at him, sounding near tears. "You creepy fucking prick-!"

A rumbling is heard on the tape before being overtaken by the sound of static. Renée cries out in anguish.

"Stop looking at me like that!"

"That's not going to work this time, Renée."

"I never told you my fucking name!" Her voice breaks. The static gets quieter, but doesn't go away. "There's something wrong with you! You- You like terrorising people, you revel in making them scared." Her words are laced with venom, but her voice shakes more and more as she keeps speaking.

Jon is silent for a few moments, before the static fades.

"I suppose that makes two of us."

 Renée lets out a quiet sob.

"Your world wouldn't have been better," Jon states, coldly.

"Shut up!" Renée's voice breaks again, her breathing unsteady. Her next words are quiet. "You would never understand…" Jon scoffs.

"I understand a lot more than you."

The tape clicks as the recording ends.

Jonah squeezes Jon's hand as he takes a moment to process what he just listened to. 

Not only has a ritual already been attempted, but it was a ritual which incorporated multiple Fears. Cobbled together by a group of university aged women who didn't even know what they were trying to do, and still it got closer to bringing the Fears into the world than any ritual he's ever heard of, save his own. Not only that, but Renée found a way to build a place of power for the Extinction, to tie others to it and to herself, within months. It had taken him decades after his first ritual attempt to learn to bind his employees to himself and the Institute, and she figured it out in months. He still hasn't even managed to convince Jon to let him hire assistants here…

"What are you thinking?" Jon asks.

Jonah takes a deep breath, squeezing Jon's hand harder as he focuses on his answer.

"This is the first ritual that's been attempted in this universe at all, and it already incorporated multiple Fears. Renée and her cultists didn't even know what they were trying to do, and they still got so much closer than most in our world ever did…" He pauses, feeling the compulsion weaken slightly, and redirects his train of thought. "I don't doubt that the Web was involved, especially given its involvement with Renée in the past, but as usual, I can't fathom its motives."

Jon squeezes his hand back at the mention of the Web, and Jonah bites the inside of his cheek, feeling the tingling of the compulsion die down as Jon's attention is redirected. He's getting better at that.

"The reason I found Renée in the first place tonight was because we were both trying to buy cigarettes at the same petrol station… " Jon mutters, gravely. He brings his free hand to his temples.

Jonah's frown deepens. Jon's thoughts are going a million miles an hour, saturated with shame at having fallen victim to the Web's trappings once again, and guilt about the deaths caused by Renée's ritual attempt. Jonah tries to divert his attention by circling back to technicalities.

"The ritual's incorporation of multiple Powers explains the recent recession we've witnessed," he offers. "I believe the five Fears we've noticed dropping off were represented quite aptly by the five ritual participants."

"That…" Jon pauses, thinking. "That's true…" He sounds hesitant and unsure, and his mind races with thoughts about different Fears and their recent manifestation speeds. It's too jumbled for Jonah to fully make sense of it.

"Is there something you feel it doesn't explain?" Jonah presses, rubbing Jon's hand with his thumb. Jon sighs.

"I… I don't know." He runs a hand through his hair absentmindedly. "Those five Fears aren't the only ones that have changed in presentation since July. The others haven't been nearly as dramatic, but… I've noticed the Lonely has been slower too. Not even just that there's been fewer statements about it, but also that the manifestations are progressing more slowly than they've been since we first got here… Same with the Dark, the Slaughter, and the Vast… It's subtle, but it's been consistent the past few months."

"I see…" Jonah's brows are furrowed. Combined with the other five, that's more than half of the Fears. He mulls it over in his head for a few moments before Jon interjects.

"Why do you think it's affecting Fears that weren't directly involved?" he asks, pulling Jonah's theories into the open.

"My guess would be that it's about the Fears' proximity to each other. The fear of extinction can stray very close to the Lonely or the Vast, and the other Fears involved, namely the Desolation and the Stranger, can overlap messily with the Slaughter and the Dark, respectively." Jonah sighs when the compulsion's grip on him releases. "Though, I honestly can't begin to speculate why this ritual's influence would reach that far."

"Right…" Jon agrees. "No way to tell whether it's due solely to multiple Powers being involved, or if the 'new universe' aspect of it all is playing into things in a way we still don't understand…" He pauses before speaking again. "Had you ever heard of a multi-Power ritual attempt in our old world before your own?"

"Mm… Our own…" Jonah corrects, before answering. Jon gives an annoyed grunt, but doesn't argue.

"I'd never heard of such a thing being attempted, but my experiences with the Fears were largely defined by Smirke's system of categorisation and prior understandings about each Fear as a different entity. It was the same for other avatars at the time. I never witnessed a world where there wasn't pre-existing knowledge of the Fears' categories for new avatars to build their attempts off of." He lets out another breath before continuing. "Additionally, the Extinction being so new and underdeveloped could have played a role in the attempt's abnormal effects."

Jon groans. "So, a never before seen phenomenon, a plethora of possible influences, and no way to determine their relation."

Jonah lets out a short sigh. "Precisely."

Jon flops back into the couch cushions, dragging a hand down his face.

"God…" he mutters, under his breath. His thoughts swirl with overlapping emotions. Frustration at not being able to understand the ritual's effects, anger at himself that he didn't know to try to prevent the attempt, guilt that he made the attempt possible in the first place by bringing the Powers here at all, and fear at the prospect of another ritual doing to this world what they did to theirs. Jonah finds himself sharing the last sentiment quite strongly. He lets go of Jon's hand and leans back with him, putting his arm around Jon's shoulders. Jon doesn't lean into him or return his gaze.

"It took me two hundred years to figure out the formula for a successful ritual," Jonah says hesitantly. Jon stiffens slightly, still not looking him in the eyes. "Others had been trying at it for millennia, and got nowhere."

"But they succeeded, eventually," Jon insists. "Y-You…" He trails off, hands gripping his trouser legs.

Jonah lets out a quiet sigh, retracting his arm, and setting his hands on his lap. He stares at his own interlocked fingers, instead of at Jon.

"It's difficult to offer comfort when I share your fears," he admits, quietly. Jon looks at him, then, but Jonah doesn't look back, a joyless smile ghosting his face. "I expected our leg up on the competition here to be longer lasting."

Jon spends a long time staring at him, tracing his expression and body language with his eyes. Jonah lets his Archivist watch him uninterrupted, keeping his own gaze on the abandoned laptop on the table in front of them as his own thoughts and anxieties swirl.

He lived for centuries with the same goal, the same fears, and just when he finally thought himself free of them, he was thrust back in, with possibly a greater risk than ever of someone beating him at his own game. Not to mention how weak he is here, without the panopticon, how much less awareness he has of the scheming of potential enemies and competition…

Eventually, Jon looks away, and leans wordlessly against Jonah's side. The contact is a comfort to them both. Jonah looks into his mind again, and his heart aches to find him thinking about their post-Change world. The terrible and beautiful suffering of everyone in it. How horrible it would be if it came to fruition again, and how he wishes he was back there, regardless. So much guilt over how it will be his fault once again, if this world is changed too, that guilt only confounded by the near certainty that he wouldn't be among the people suffering. That he'd enjoy it all over again.

Jonah slowly places a hand on Jon's thigh, leaning against him, in return. Jon melts into him, resting his head against Jonah's shoulder, and Jonah turns slightly to press a kiss onto the top of Jon's head.

"We'll figure it out, darling," he murmurs. Jon wraps his arm around Jonah's, clinging to him like an anchor in a stormy sea. Jonah brings his other hand to run through Jon's hair. "Worst comes to worst, we both have experience sabotaging rituals."

Jon lets out a deep, weary sigh, but nods into Jonah's shoulder. Jonah kisses him again.

He wishes he could free Jon from his guilt. The endless well of resentment and self-blame he harbours within himself. He almost regrets being as hands-off as he was in Jon's later developmental period, after his coma. He could have helped him adjust to his nature, to understand that he is deserving of what he craves. Instead, the ones closest to him just drove him deeper and deeper into self-hatred… Jonah's been unable to pull up the foundations of that thinking, even now.

He runs a hand through Jon's hair again, feeling the Archivist sigh into his shoulder as he scratches at his scalp. His mind is quieting now, slowly, as he allows himself to relax in Jonah's embrace.

Jonah supposes that comforting him in times like this is the best he can do, for now.