I.
Martin has just pulled the front door shut and taken his first step towards the tiny driveway that connects Daisy’s- the cottage to the main road when the first, tiny raindrop hits his forehead. He pauses for a moment, and another one finds its mark in the form of his cheek.
Up above, the sky is a steely blue-grey, but dark clouds are gathering up and start blocking out the sun as he watches. Martin could have sworn that the sky had been clear a couple of minutes ago but now the wind is picking up around him, and in the distance, the first bouts of thunder rumble ominously.
He sighs quietly and weighs his options while two more drops go for his glasses and temple. Walking in the rain has its charm, hell, after having lived in London for most his life, it almost feels strange to go for a stroll without the sound of countless raindrops beating down on his umbrella or hat at some point- the only problem is, that currently Martin is equipped with neither hat nor umbrella and the shade of the clouds above seems to have darkened while he’s been standing there. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he half-remembers a dark-blue umbrella dangling from the clothes hanger on the landing upstairs but retrieving that would mean going up the creaky stairs and landing, which is currently also covered in several plastic-sheets and newspaper pages.
A couple of days after he and Jon had made up their mind about staying here for the time being, and had unpacked the most important things they’d brought, they had decided to repaint at least the areas of the house, where the paint had either chipped off, bleached beyond recognition from the sunlight or had gone lost under a mess of stains neither of them really wanted to know the origin of. Mainly because it gave them something to do, secondly because it made them feel a little less like intruders who had nowhere else to go.
The thing is, that all of the stuff that is currently laying about on the landing means that it’s almost impossible to go up there without being heard throughout the whole house, especially if the person doing the hearing is in the half living room, half kitchen area the landing leads into. Like Jon is right now.
Jon, who had hated being interrupted whilst reading out statements even before he had started to rely on them for… sustenance?- Anyway, disturbing him right now with the first recording he had done in weeks, is about the last thing Martin wants to do. Apart from walking into the brewing downpour without even a proper raincoat or jacket that could give him at least some sort of protection.
A bigger drop hits his right cheek and slowly runs down the side of his face until it vanishes into the collar of his jumper, leaving a glistening trail in its wake. Martin shivers as he wipes at the wet line with one hand. In the back of his head he can already hear Jon chiding him after having returned from his walk dripping wet until he’d realize, that Martin had rather gotten drenched than risk disrupting him whilst recording and he would feel bad for the rest of the day, longer if Martin caught a chill because Jon is predictable like that.
So, Martin turns around, unlocks the door as quietly as he can and closes it just as carefully once he is inside. He toes off his boots before he slowly advances the wooden stairs that lead up to the first floor, figuring that if he just does his best to tread as carefully as possible and avoids the especially creaky steps, he might manage to get the umbrella and coat without his- without Jon even noticing if he’s already engrossed in his statement.
From the sound of it, Martin is in luck as he sets his foot down on the first stair, heel first and starts climbing up; Jon’s voice is already flowing down from the living room but Martin can’t make out the words yet. He doesn’t particularly want to push his luck and just get in and out as fast and quietly as possible, but when his hand closes around the umbrella and he carefully lifts it down from its hanger, he involuntarily strains his ears to make out what exactly Jon is saying. Something feels off. Martin pauses, holding his breath to listen more closely.
Only when the words stop for a moment, and Martin half expects Jon to call out to him and ask why he’s back already, but instead hears him breath raggedly and gasp as if he’s in pain or struggling to stop talking, before he continues to read out loud, does Martin carefully place the umbrella on the lid of the paint-bucket they’d left out last night and edge closer to the living room. He barely lifts his feet off the floor as he does his best to navigate the paper and plastic sheets strewn about without making any more noise than necessary. As he draws nearer, he can make out the words and his stomach drops below his knees as his eyes land on Jon.
The archivist is sitting with his back to the landing and staircase at the little wooden table that is barely big enough to fit two sets of plates, cutlery and glasses next to each other and which is currently housing the tape recorder and Jon’s hands, balled to fists around the statement he is reading out loud. His shoulders are hunched and even from where Martin is hovering at the threshold of the door that connects the living area with the landing, he can see how badly Jon’s hands are shaking, and how stiff his neck and shoulders are, as if he’s struggling against something that holds him in place whilst still dragging the words out of him. Thunder growls outside and Martin can feel its resonance in his bones.
Martin too stays absolutely still but his mouth involuntarily opens in horror at Elias’ statement. The archivist’s voice meanwhile breaks with the words he struggles to keep in but can’t stop from pouring form his lips, and Martin curses himself as his mind races to come up with a plan, anything he can do but comes up empty. He wants to scream, to run to Jon and rip the pages out of his hands, to set them on fire – to do anything but there is nothing he can do as long as Jon keeps speaking in a voice that comes out so raw, it’s a miracle it doesn’t draw blood from his throat with every word he’s reading out, all the while tightening the noose around the world’s neck and so utterly smug and cold that Martin can feel the hairs on the back of his neck rise and stand on edge. He blanches at the mere thought of what the eye might have Jon do in order to have him hold onto the statements and keep reading, let alone what it might do if he stops…
The thought comes unbitten and Martin pushes it away with all his might, banns it from taking over because he can already feel his resolution weaken and begin to crumble; what if he hurts Jon? What if he kills him? But he can’t go there; right now, he has to focus, has to focus, has to focus because Jon would never forgive him if just stands there and does nothing but watch as he-
Trying to tear the pages out of Jon’s hands is out of the question with how tightly he is clutching the paper and as much as Martin would enjoy to add this one to the collection of Elias’ statements he has set on fire and turned into nothing but ashes, fire won’t work quick enough to destroy the paper before Jon notices and can do anything about it.
Martin’s eyes dart around the room, desperate for anything he could use to interrupt or stop Jon with but there’s nothing except what little furniture has come with the house, and the handful of belongings they had brought form London; a couple of books and pieces of clothing that lay strewn around the room, two still half unpacked cardboard boxes and the umbrella he left on the landing- and Martin cannot even bring himself to think about striking the back of Jon’s head with it in an attempt of knocking him out, if that even worked at this point.
What he needs is something quick, something silent, something that will destroy the sheets Jon is holding or at least render them unreadable in one fell swoop but there is nothing-
Except the paint. They had barely started painting yesterday evening before it had gotten too dark to continue working near the steep stairs without risking one of them slipping or tumbling down and there were at least two thirds of the thick, light green paint left.
It’s stupid, it probably won’t work, Jon might look up when he hears Martin stumble or notice the smell of fresh paint that has suddenly gotten a lot stronger- but now he is talking about combining all fourteen fears in one ritual to end the word and Martin decides that he’d much rather make an absolute fool out of himself than just stand there and watch as Elias condemns both the world and Jon to a fate worse than death.
The lid pops with the tiniest of sounds, but the words just keep coming from the living room, so Martin lifts the bucket up as carefully as he can and creeps back towards the door. Only this time, he does not stay there, but crosses the threshold, bare feet silent on the wooden floorboards. He doesn’t let himself think about what might happen if this doesn’t work, and he doesn’t let himself think about what will happen if it does, what will happen to Jon if-
This close, Martin sees Jon’s shoulders shake and he can make out the tears that soundlessly hit the bottom of the pages in clear drops. Martin’s hands shake almost as badly as Jon’s when he steps up behind the archivist, lifting the paint bucket above his head. He squeezes his eyes shut as he upends it right over the statements Jon is holding in his fists, just as another roll of thunder seems to shake the house to its foundations.
He can’t watch as he is may or may not killing the love of his life, saving the world and reality as we know it be damned because in this moment, as the paint pours out of its bucket and hits the pages, Martin wants to snatch back his hands and just let Jon go on, no matter the consequences. He knows he’s pathetic, that he’s being selfish and irresponsible as he wishes to turn back time, if not before Jon started reading, then at least before he himself picked up the paint- but right now, Martin knows, not suspects, not thinks or dreads, knows, that he would trade in the whole world for Jon’s life in a heartbeat. But he didn’t, and now it’s too late.
At first, nothing happens, and another sentence tumbles from Jon’s lips, voice strained and cold as ever. It is only when Jon’s voice breaks off a moment later, that Martin realizes that Jon’s eyes must have already gone over the next few words while he’d been reading before the weight of the paint had torn the pages from his hands and, within a couple of seconds, had completely obscured and started to soak them in the lightest shade of green, almost white.
Outside, the thunder reaches its crescendo, but inside the little house that has not known inhabitants in such a long time it has almost forgotten how it feels to be a home to someone other than flies and spiders, there is utter silence as the sea of paint overshoots the edge of the table and sloshes down onto the floor. Only then does Martin open his eyes, drop the bucket to the floor and round the table until he can see Jon’s face.
His skin is utterly pale, worse than the day, the institute had been swarmed by worms and the two of them had cowered in one of the filing rooms after Sasha had left in a desperate attempt to save Tim, Jon still bleeding from where she had used Martin’s corkscrew to remove the worms and so terrified, he had struggled to even breathe. Jon’s face is still locked in an expression of both utter terror and the excruciating satisfaction, Elias’ words had forced him to feel and he doesn’t move, doesn’t blink, doesn’t breathe. His chest and shoulders stay perfectly still, and Martin holds his own breath to listen for Jon’s but to no avail.
“Jon”, he whispers, slowly reaching out with both hands to lay them down on Jon’s shoulders and squeeze, “Jon”, he repeats, tears choking him off and pouring down his cheeks, hot and wet and burning as they leave his eyes, “Jon, don’t – don’t do this to me. I’m – I’m sorry but I couldn’t – I couldn’t let you- Jon”
Words fail him. There are no words, no sounds, nothing that can convey what is going on behind Martin’s eyes and the only thing, he can think, the only thing he can say, is Jon. His voice cracks when he keeps repeating it anyway; his lungs ache almost too much to let in any oxygen and his grip on Jon’s shoulders tightens as he starts shaking him.
“Please”, he begs, “you can’t- you can’t be dead. Not now that we were finally about to get our happy end – our happily ever after”, his voice rises higher with the stupid, empty platitude but he can’t help himself, “where you know that I love you and you don’t hate me and-“
“Martin”
The word is almost lost in the gasp that finally forces Jon’s lips further apart and Martin stills, hands still clutching onto Jon’s shirt.
Jon’s eyes are bloodshot, pupils blown so wide, they almost eclipse the green around them as he takes another shaky breath, looks up at Martin, and almost manages to force his lips into a shaky smile.
“Jon”, Martin repeats in a whisper, dimly aware of the fact, that there are other words he could, he should be saying but his lips have lost the ability to form any other sounds and he pulls Jon’s stiff body into his arms, holding him far too tightly to be anywhere near comfortable but Jon clutches back just as tightly as soon as he manages to regain control over his arms, lets Martin pull him off his chair and down onto the floor, “Jon, I thought-“
“I know”, Jon rasps back when they finally pull apart far enough to see each other’s face, “I know Martin”, he sniffs, almost managing to laugh, eyes burning as he feels new tears run down his cheeks and lifts one shaky hand up to wipe them away on instinct, “I-“
His fingers come away black. Liquid darkness rolls down his fingers and paints a thin black-blue line around his wrist as both he and Martin stare at it in confusion and horror.
Jon opens his mouth again, but no words come out. Instead, he slaps his hand over his lips, jerks his head to the side, away from Martin, and gags behind his fingers. Before Martin can say, can think anything, Jon makes a feeble grab for the empty paint bucket that has come to a rest on its side right next to them and yanks it towards himself just as he starts retching in the deathlike silence the thunder has left in its wake, fingers desperately closing around the plastic rim, nails scraping against the dried and drying paint splatters.
“It’s alright”
Martin starts speaking before he regains the ability to form a coherent thought. He gets on his knees behind Jon and slings one arm around his middle when the arm, Jon is holding himself up with, gives in and he almost collapses forward, legs weak and useless. With his free hand, Martin tries to gather up as much of Jon’s hair and hold it back as he can while Jon’s shoulders continue to heave for what seems like forever, more and more darkness spilling from his lips as he struggles to breathe.
“It’s alright, I got you, you’re going to be fine”
He doubts that a single pair of scissors has even gotten near Jon’s head since he had woken up from his coma and the tips of half the strands Marin has managed to catch are already wet from-
Jon’s cheeks are wet as well, but the wetness feels different than normal tears or water and when Martin bends around him to look at his face, liquid darkness is still running down his cheeks. Ink, Martin finally realizes, still fighting to keep Jon in an upright position as his body first slacks, then goes taut and writhes in Martin’s hold and more and more ink leaks out, almost choking him.
“You’re going to be fine”, Martin insists over the sound of Jon’s broken sobs and gasps, “I promise”
“I don’t-“, Jon manages, before his shoulders heave again and he cuts himself off.
This time though, he feels something other than liquid rise in the back his throat, and before that thought can fully register, what feels like overripe cherries drop from his lips and hit the mixture of leftover paint and ink with a sickening sound. Every cell of his body, every inch of skin comes alive with hot, sharp pain and he wants to scream but-
He loses track of time as it goes on, of who and where he is and he briefly wonders if there had ever been a time, when his body had not shaken and contorted around itself, trying to get away from the living, pulsating agony that has unfurled in every fibre of his very being. Someone has set fire to his blood and with every moment, every breath he can’t keep his body from tearing form the air as it, against all logic, is determined to keep going, invisible flames spread further and further through his body, rampage through his veins and leave nothing but broken and shrunken wrecks in their wake.
“I don’t understand”
Jon sounds so scarred, so utterly terrified and broken when he finally gets the words out that every meaningless word of comfort dies on Martin’s lips and he doesn’t dare reply- doesn’t dare to even think anything that might make it worse, although, what exactly could be worse than-
He doesn’t let himself finish the thought because lately the universe seems nothing short of determined to prove to them that of course anything can always be worse.
The sky had opened up almost as soon as Jon had started breathing again but by the time, he stops retching and the cramps that shake his whole body subside, the sun has set, and still the ink has not stopped dripping down his cheeks. The lower half of his face, his neck and chest glisten black and blue in the glow of the ceiling lights.
Head still bowed over the rim of the paint bucket, Jon’s shoulders rise and fall jerkily as he finally, finally manages to breathe in and out without something else crawling and oozing its way up his throat. He rests his forehead against the arm he has half slung over the plastic rim, for the moment only sucking in what air he can get from his position and shakily exhaling it a moment later.
After a couple of minutes, Martin carefully pulls Jon up from his slump and backwards into him, so Jon can lean his head against his shoulder instead, face turned to the side, so he can still breathe in Martin’s hold.
“Are you”, Martin eventually starts, and stops after the first two words as he tires and spectacularly fails to come up with a word, a phrase that somehow encompasses ‘okay’ and ‘not dying or changing into something’ without horribly oversimplifying, “…better?”
“I”, Jon whispers, breathing still heavy and laborious, as he forces his aching body to relax against the warm and painfully familiar shape of Martin’s body, “I think, that’s over at least”
“Good”, Martin says softly, as he carefully lays the hand that doesn’t belongs to the arm he has currently slung around Jon’s waist to hold him close, against Jon’s jowl and smooths it along his jawline until he can brush back the loose strands and tug them behind his ear.
“Yes”, Jon wants to laugh but his throat is raw, and little more than a pained cough comes out, “rather”
Martin continues petting his hair until Jon’s breathing has returned to normal. Only then, does he gently tilt Jon’s head back to look at his face, brushing away some of the black drops that are still dripping from his eyes, albeit more slowly.
“Well you look…”
“Kind of dreadful?”
“A little bit”
“I had an inkling, I might”, Jon’s lips barely move as he does speak, and he coughs again.
“Are you…?”, Martin starts again, and Jon merely looks up at him, blinking with heavy lids and he closes his mouth.
“You have to narrow that down a bit, I’m afraid”
Even before Jon has finished his sentence, both of them go still.
“You- you don’t know what I was about to ask?”
Martin does his best to keep the tremble out of his voice but right now all of this is too much; Jon has not needed anyone to fully formulate a question in months and-
“I”, Jon tries to sit up but quickly gives up his attempts and leans back against Martin’s chest when both, his limbs show no sign of wanting to comply to his wishes and Martin doesn’t loosen his hold around him, “I could make an educated guess? Or…”
His voice falters as he closes his eyes and tries to concentrate on knowing the second half of Martin’s question – is he still human? Is he going to be sick again? in pain? Scarred? Going to be okay? Was it just the beginning of another question, whose beginning would have been different the second time Martin started?
Jon’s breathing speeds up and his chest tightens as he squeezes his eyes shut harder, desperately trying and failing to find the door that is shutting off the ocean of knowledge behind its frame and handle but there is nothing there, no trace of anything Jon can’t know from within-
“Jon”, Martin carefully taps the side of his face with the fingers that, up until now, have been busy with gently brushing against Jon’s hair and ink-stained skin, “Jon stop, you’re going to hurt yourself if-“
“I can’t”, Jon whispers, eyes opening wide and voice trembling, “I can’t reach for any information from outside”
He honestly doesn’t know if he wants to laugh or cry and judging from Martin’s expression, he feels about the same and they sit in silence for a moment, the only sound their slightly too hard breathing.
“Is”, Martin finally takes a deep breath, trying to gather his thoughts, “is it possible, the eye… rejected you when you managed to stop reading?”
“When you saved the world, you mean?”, Jon blindly reaches for the hand Martin has splayed over his hip, closes his own fingers around it and squeezes Martin’s, “it would explain the ink and- o fuck”
“And what?”, this time, there is no mistaking the tremble in Martin’s voice for anything else, “What is it?”
“Did”, Jon closes his eyes again, a single drop of ink slipping out between his lids and running into his hair, “did you know that the avatars of the ceaseless watcher tend to develop… additional eyes all over their body at some point?”
“I”, Martin starts, swallows drily, then restarts, “that kind of makes sense- I mean not biologically but…”, he trails off with a vague gesture and Jon can’t help himself but snort quietly, which he immediately regrets when sharp pain flares up in the back of his throat.
“I had kind of suspected I had them when the all-knowing-thing first kept happening but now-“, he sighs, “I guess now we know I did, have them that is”
“You had? And how exactly-“
“Don’t look but I’m fairly certain, there’s more than ink and paint in there”
Jon’s hand trembles the tiniest bit as he points towards the paint bucket that still sits close enough to them to reach out and touch it.
Martin’s gaze follows the movement and his face goes pale when his eyes lands on the bucket and, from his position, he can just about make out a mass white and red shapes bobbing in the black liquid.
“Okay, that’s disgusting”
“I’m sorry-“
“Not you”, Martin cuts him off without even waiting to hear what exactly Jon thinks he should be sorry about, “obviously not you; I meant your- well, your ex-boss now, I guess?”
“I think you’re right”, Jon says slowly, and an utterly bewildered grin spreads over his lips, still shining black blue, “I don’t know for sure you’re- o god, Martin, you’re right”
He chokes out a breathless laugh, turning his head and burying it in Martin’s jumper, which is almost in as bad a state as his own shirt, still laughing despite the pain.
“I love that you’re sure I’m right because you can’t know whether I am”
“Me too”, Jon breathes, squeezing Martin’s hand so tightly in his that Martin winces, and Jon apologizes as he loosens his grip, “but not as much as I love you”
He does not have to look up to know that Martin’s face flushes at his words and the tips of his ears have gone pink by the time he nuzzles his face in Jon’s hair and hugs him tighter, mumbling, “I love you too”
“That I know”, Jon whispers against the soft wool and Martin laughs above him.