Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“I love you.”

Words lost on his lips as the world as he Knew it folds in and out and swirls into indescribable non-existence. Jon can’t remember what it was like to Not Be. How could he with no memory to process it with? No Eye to see with; no form to feel with?
Now, certainly a time he should have recognized, whenever that may be, he is running. He didn’t have time to stop himself. He didn’t process it before he swung. Before the shelf fell and everything started anew. Now he races against the squelching and slithering forms engulfing the Archives with their puss-like residue. Still though, unable to stop himself from the same mistake, he reaches back for the recorder.

When had he dropped it?

He Knew. Even in this self he Knew. Such a simple question for that to happen with. Still, as he was a time ago, he’s ripped from the wave of slimy inch-long tendrils consuming him while they quickly advance through and along his leg. Something primal within him pangs with loss as he watches through the door’s window; thousands of worms concealing what was left of his recorder.
His mind clears when he hears his voice. So concerned and utterly terrified: Martin. Not His Martin, but certainly more than anything else he had. The fog lifts from his mind, giving himself control over himself for the first time since the change. He humors the thought that Martin was the reason.
“Holy- Jon!” Wide powder blue eyes quickly take in the state of Jon from their dark cushions underneath his love’s eyes.

Not his love. He reminds himself.

Sometime between his thoughts, Martin managed to fumble out his weapon of choice: a corkscrew. Jon holds out his hand expectantly, now regaining himself. Passing the swirl of metal to Jon, Martin finds himself at a loss for words, it seems. He looks so scared. Jon makes quick work of digging into his flesh and sliding each filth-ridden burrower slickly out to the surface. Yeah, that certainly isn’t easier the second time.

Using this time of silence, he tries to understand what all of this is. Is he really here? Is this really happening again? The ember of hope he had been fruitlessly nurturing all throughout the apocalypse finally finds its spark. Maybe he could change things. Then, just as quickly as his mind provided hope, it presents its second course of doom. What if this was some sort of loop? What if he really had no control? No, then how would he Know? He had his memories from what was, technically, the future. If he still had that, then it couldn’t be a perfect loop. If it was, then things could at least slip through the cracks. Yes, there’s still hope. He can change things. He will-

“What the hell was that, Jon?”

The words of this unfamiliar-familiar woman pierce through his focus momentarily, as if bashing butter with a meat cleaver: dull, yet swift. He glances up towards her, taking in a face he wished he could almost recognize. This must be Sasha. He can’t share his attention for too long while he gouges the pests free of his calf. If her clipped tone wasn’t enough of an indication, she was fairly displeased, to say the least. Her lips have been pressed firmly into a line while fly-away curls swoop along her face awkwardly, having fallen from her beige bandana in the midst of their escape. Her dark skin flurried a deep magenta with a furious blush most likely from the panic as well as the physical exertion. Oh right. She had been the one who had just ragdolled him into the room, hadn’t she?
Ah right. She expected a response. Through pained grunts, he manages one for her. “I dropped the recorder.” The words come out more curtly than he’d intended, though that probably couldn’t be helped, considering the swirling point of metal forcing its way around his underflesh. He reasoned it was a fair enough try. Clearly, she hadn’t thought as much.

Sasha scoffs, seemingly more enraged by him rather than the hive-monster just outside. “And you expect that to be a good excuse why exactly?-” Martin interjects with a tense sigh. “Sasha, please, don’t lecture him while he’s…” With a pleading look towards her, Martin very lightly gestures towards Jon’s massacre he’s making of himself, almost like he didn’t want to offend him. As if Jon could think of that right now.

The two seem to have a silent conversation between tired and frustrated and pleading. Sasha relents after a moment with a soft huff and paranoid glance towards the door. Finally in what can be called silence, Jon can think. Even as Martin goes on a few moments later about his own tape recorder, Jon hardly hears it. He’s back in his train of thought that was previously interrupted by Sasha. Quite rude if you asked him. He’s here. Again, he’s here. Is he reliving his life before he dies? No, then it wouldn’t have started off so abruptly here. He can remember everything as well, so there’s that. He hopes those memories will stay.

Whatever the case, Jon’s no stranger to abnormalities by now. He reasons he must somehow have been brought back while he Ended. He’ll think more later, Martin’s talking.
“We could use it, if you like.” Martin hesitantly pushes the tape recorder a few inches across the table, inserting Jon into the conversation. His words are just a tad too desperate for such a simple question. Jon’s heart squeezes with the detail. He hadn’t noticed the first time-round just how hopeless Martin was for him. This Him didn’t deserve that grace, he thought. No version of him did, really.
He thinks of revealing himself, but immediately cages that thought far into the back of his mind. No, he’ll handle things himself. He has more Knowledge and resources than he used to. He can go it alone this time without ruining everything. He will.

Not yet comfortable enough to be his harsh self to Martin, he only nods, sighing for what Martin thinks is fatigue. Martin hits play, the sound sparking a sickening sense of nostalgia through Jon’s bones. He fishes out the final worm, his knuckles shifting back to their natural coffee color instead of the white they’d turned with the straining grip he’d just had around the corkscrew. He sets the bloody and pus-ridden metal swirl down on the table, making sure it was as far from Martin’s end as possible. Still, he couldn’ help Martin’s paranoia leading his gaze towards the thing.

“So, ready to explain that stunt now?” Jon turns his attention to Sasha, forcing his expression to keep from acting off. He was unsettled, to say the least. It felt incorrect to have each memory of Sasha still left untouched in his mind. Unable to keep that discipline, he turns away and masks it with a sigh.
“If I’d known Martin had one here, I wouldn’t have gone back.” He manages this time to keep his tone as detached as his past self would– had done.
“Not good enough. What were you thinking? You were halfway submerged in ghost worms! Was it really that important for you to get a rec–” This is where his past self would’ve interjected. This is where he should. He wishes he couldn’t.

As firmly as possible, he interrupts her with a biting remark. “I’m sorry, alright? Is it so unreasonable for me to want a record?” He musters his coldest look towards Sasha, which is surprisingly easy. Though, the surprise hardly lasts once he sees how reasonable it is. He is, technically, grieving.

Something akin to a cross between shock and despair flashes across Sasha’s face before it’s replaced with gritted teeth and knotted brows. Before she can retaliate, Jon corrects himself, struggling to act, as he saw it, immature as he had in the past. “No, wait. Sasha I’m… I’m sorry. You pulled me out of there, after all.”

Seeing Jon so genuine, both Sasha and Martin exchange glances. Their boss was always in a constant state of misery, but he never seemed so defeated as he is now. He continues, taking advantage of the silence. Might as well get the deep moment in again, just in case he screws it up worse than last time.

“I thought that… if I could record it, then maybe… I wouldn’t end in some sort of unsolved story like the people in so many statements. I don’t want to end up another mystery.”
Martin is the one to break the silence, his hand reached out just a hair in front of him, wanting to place a reassuring hand on Jon’s shoulder, but not feeling quite right in doing it.
“Jon, we won’t, ok? It’s not… Things won’t end here.” Martin offers a soft smile, his round cheeks dimpling around the curve of his upturned corners of mouth. Jon takes in his appearance, giving himself this at least. He lets his eyes scan appreciatively over Martin’s soft, unkempt orange waves and almost smiles at the lack of white roots His Martin had. His round, calico-patterned glasses frame his gentle eyes just so.

He doesn’t believe himself.

The Eye supplies Jon unwarranted. He swallows his frown before Martin could notice. “Thank you, Martin.”
Martin’s heart soars. Jon’s being so gentle. To him: Martin. Jon removes his overcoat, tearing it to use the fabric to create a makeshift tourniquet. Deciding it’d be best to get ready for physical excursion now, he rolls up his sleeves to the elbow and ties his hair back in a bun that’d “do”. It didn’t need to be perfect, after all. Marin didn’t have it in him not to stare. Or, at least, not to stop himself from giving Jon a terribly concealed sideways glance. Jon could’ve smirked, but didn’t.

Sasha rolls her eyes; arms tightly crossed with fists clenched into her light green cardigan to mimic a makeshift hug with the fabric. Her eyes keep darting out the slimy window anxiously. She feels like something’s missing. Something is so terribly wrong. Where… “where”? Why did she think that? Suddenly, it dawns on her.

While Martin’s recuperating from Jon treating him with basic human decency, Sasha alerts them to the ongoing crisis outside. Her gasp takes Jon’s attention. “Oh my God- Tim! He was out to get lunch. He must not’ve…” Her unsaid words still make themselves known to all three of them, casting the room in a thick blanket of dread. Even their cold boss seems afraid. He might be the most so out of the three of them.

Jon looks down at his leg, then to the door, making his decision. He can’t let Sasha go after Tim, not after he just got to meet her again. He stands, walking over to the door. Well, more like something that was trying to be walking, his leg protesting with every movement. He makes it to the door just as Tim enters the hall, gritting his teeth as his hand curls around the handle.

“Tim! Tim!” The others call, desperate to get his attention despite knowing it’s futile. They bang on the door together, the rattle of it making Jon’s head pang. Martin’s puffy blanket he often kept wrapped around him these days slides off his shoulders as he pounds balled fists against the sturdy metal. Sasha’s tone is something Jon knows too well. His mind morphs it into Martin’s, His Martin’s voice out of a memory long from now.

“It’s no use. He can’t hear you.” Jon has to fight himself to turn and look at them one last time before he makes his move. He can see Sasha plotting, her own resolve stronger than his. That’s when he does it. He’s out of document storage and slamming the door on Martin’s protests before he can be swayed. He wouldn’t be able to resist him if he tried.

“-egarding sinister happenings in the downtown old–”

“Tim!”

“Boss–?”

It all happens in the span of 4-5 seconds. Jon is sprinting down the hall, pulling the fire alarm, then tackling Tim before Jane Prentiss sends a gushing swarm of worms where he stood. He'd replayed what Sasha did the first time for years, so it wasn't like he had no idea what to do. Knowing what separating does, Jon makes sure the both of them barrel into his office. It wasn’t hard, considering Tim’s grip on Jon’s collar and his absolute unit of a body, he ended up dragging Jon’s slender self like oil through water.