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Chapter Text

They'd been walking for a while, though neither could be certain of the time anymore, but Martin felt the distinct pull of Jon's hand on his as they rounded a mangled copse of angry looking trees. He stopped and gazed down at Jon whose brow furrowed in confusion.

"Jon? Are you okay?" Martin asked. "What's wrong?"

"I remember...laughter," Jon said. "It's faint but I think you were laughing."

"Sure," Martin said, unsure of where this was going. "Why do you look so upset, then?"

"I think - I think you were laughing...at me."

Martin's heart plummeted into his stomach. Of all the things for Jon to remember, of all the fleeting moments of happiness they'd experienced for nearly two weeks in this hellscape, of course he'd find an echo of a memory that's only purpose was to hurt. He felt Jon's grip loosen, but he held on tighter. He could see him trying to pull away, shoring up to protect himself from Martin's response.

"I-I did, yes. I laughed at you, Jon," Martin said, his expression as somber as the necropolis they'd passed through to get to the blind spot. "You asked Salesa a question, fully expecting him to comply, and he just refused. You had this look. You were so confused and it's been so long since I'd seen it. I just - I couldn't help it. I laughed."

"Oh, I see," Jon said quietly. He looked away, testing if he could pull away, but Martin wouldn't let him.

"No, Jon, please don't shut me out," Martin said. "You need to talk to me. Tell me what you're feeling."

"I don't think you want to know what I'm feeling," Jon said. Martin could practically hear his teeth grinding as he answered. He took a deep breath and reached out, guiding Jon's face towards his. He didn't flinch at the watery eyes staring back, but he could feel his heart pounding in agony over the hurt he'd caused. He braced himself, waited for the anger to pour like wine. Jon seemed ready to deliver, but something changed in his expression, a realization of sort flitting across his face.

"We've already had this conversation, haven't we?" he said.

Another deep breath and Martin nodded. "Yes."

"In the oasis," Jon said.

"Yes."

"I yelled?"

"A bit."

"I sulked?"

"A lot."

"Did I - did I hurt you?"

"What? Jon, no, of course not!" Martin exclaimed incredulously. "I'd have told you."

"Then why didn't you say we'd already been through this?" Jon asked.

"Because I didn't think you'd remember it, " Martin said before correcting himself. "I didn't want you to remember it. I'm not proud of a lot of my actions and that one, that one went on the list of low points for me. Mostly because of how much it hurt you. I'm sorry, Jon."

"Technically, you've already apologized," Jon said, his voice hushed but hovering on the edge of fondness.

Martin gently ran his thumb along Jon's cheek. "You don't remember that either. Seems only fair that you should hear it again."

Finally, there was a smile as Jon leaned into the touch. "Thank you, Martin."

"I love you," Martin said.

"I love you, too," Jon responded. "Just tell me again. What happened while we were unfettered in paradise?"

They started walking again as Martin recounted the events of the last two weeks.

***

Consciousness came slowly, so slowly. The effort to open his eyes was excruciating as every attempt was muddled by the lethargy of tiredness like he'd never felt in his life. Even when he'd been besieged by Jane Prentiss and her worms at his flat he'd managed to overcome the tiredness by sheer force of will. He'd crashed after giving his statement, but even then it hadn't been the struggle to wake up afterwards.

It was his stomach grumbling that made the decision for him. As tired as he felt he was just as hungry, if not more so. Dragging his eyes open he was greeted with a sight that brought tears almost immediately.

Jon lay by his side, face turned towards him on the goose down pillow they appeared to be sharing. He could tell the bed was big enough for the two of them with room to spare, but they'd gravitated toward each other in the haze of exhaustion, curled in close for safety and warmth. In the brief moment before his memories informed him of what led to their current situation, he imagined they were still spending a lazy morning in Scotland, the safe house a comforting shield from fear gods and immortal bosses.

He placed a hand on Jon's cheek, caressing the rough skin and stubble that had sprouted seemingly overnight. Jon didn't particularly care for having a lot of facial hair, rarely going more than two days without a shave. The Apocalypse, however, had trapped them in stasis at the moment the Change occurred, which left them both clean shaven until time finally caught up. He watched Jon's hand, the one without the burn scars, slowly find it's way to Martin's extended arm, applying a quick squeeze to let him know he was awake. Or awake enough to acknowledge they were both bone dead tired but trying to force themselves into consciousness.

"Good...morning? I guess?" Martin whispered softly. Jon's back was turned to the window, but even with the ability to look outside it was still hard for Martin to tell. Jon's eyes managed to open halfway and he gave a sleepy smile when Martin finally came into focus.

"I'll have to take your word for it," Jon said, yawning through most of the response.

"How do you feel?" Martin asked. He watched Jon's expressions carefully. He loved the man, but Jonathan Sims was a terrible communicator on the best of days, though Martin could always count on his face to betray whatever he was tying to hide. He saw confusion, then relief, followed by acceptance, and finishing with anxiety.

"I can't See," he said, his eyes fully open now that genuine worry was coursing through him. "I can't...I can't Know anything either. It's like I've been disconnected."

"Hey, hey, it's alright," Martin said, maintaining an even, soothing tone to counter Jon's growing fear. "That's not necessarily a bad thing."

"It is if we're trapped here," Jon said. They sat up, though Martin ached to snuggle under the duvet for at least another hour or five. Jon probably needed another year's worth of sleep, but there was no pulling him back into the lull of comfort when his mind was running through every possible worst case scenario.

"We don't know that for sure," Martin said. He reached over, pulling Jon in close so he could lean against him in half of an embrace.

"I...suppose not," Jon acquiesced, though it was hard not to hear the reluctance in his voice. Thankfully, Jon sank into him almost immediately, head pressed against Martin's chest as he listened to the steady rhythm of his heart. It was a peaceful moment until he heard Jon take in a deep breath followed by a harsh cough.

"Oh, God, we stink!" Jon said. Martin couldn't help it. The laugh was loud and freeing, a belly jostler that had Jon chuckling by proxy.

"Okay, hierarchy of needs, yeah? What do we do first?" Martin asked.

"A shower or bath," Jon started. "Food would be next. I want to talk to Salesa as soon as possible and...maybe we just burn these clothes and the bedding we've sullied."

"Hardly the first time we've sullied bedding," Martin said, waggling his eyebrows. Jon smacked him, light-heartedly, but he couldn't hide the grin on his face as memories of Scotland came flooding back. It was only three weeks, but it'd been the best three weeks of their lives.

"Alright, Casanova, come on, " Jon said, reluctantly scooting off the bed. He swayed a bit as he stood, no doubt the exhaustion still weighing heavily on his body, but after a few minutes it subsided and he looked steady enough to continue. "We're going to need multiple showers to get rid of this gunk."

"No one ever believed me when I said you were a romantic, Jon," Martin said. He was enjoying the put-upon expressions and rolling eyes Jon gave him in response. Rarely did they actually get to be playful and tease each other so softly. The moments had been few and far between as their journey progressed and Martin was determined to make as many good memories as he could while they were given the chance.

***

After a very long soak in a bathtub laced with rose scented oils and two showers for good measure, they found themselves in clean clothes that smelled freshly laundered sitting at an ornate dining table with trays of baked goods, crispy bacon, perfectly cooked eggs, and freshly squeezed juice waiting for them to consume. There was no sign of Salesa or Annabelle Cane, but the food looked warm and inviting as if it had only appeared moments before they arrived.

"I don't know about you, but I'm not letting this go to waste," Martin said as he filled his plate with as much food as it could reasonably handle. Surprisingly, Jon found himself hungry for something that wasn't a fear-stuffed statement, but he hesitated to put anything on the plate set in front of him. The spread looked good, too good, and he couldn't help thinking of the fairy tales his grandmother would read to him that warned of eating and drinking in other realms. He let out a sigh of relief when there was no sign of a pomegranate on the table.

"Jon?" Martin said, a worrying look on his face.

"Sorry. Lost in thought, I guess," he said as he put a small amount of eggs, fruit, and several pieces of bacon on his plate. Martin happily placed a blueberry scone near the glass of orange juice he poured for him and Jon allowed himself the luxury of contented smile at their domestic scene.

Of course, Annabelle Cane had to ruin it.

She entered the room without fanfare, her silent steps bringing her closer to the table without their notice until Martin smelled the freshly brewed tea steaming in the beautifully decorated pot she carried. Jon practically jumped to his feet, his fingers closing around the nearest utensil nearby. Even a spoon could be deadly if applied correctly. Her smile was unwavering as she pulled two teacups towards her, filled them three quarters of the way full, and set the pot of the table. Then she walked away having never said a word.

Jon stared at the cup of tea like it was ready to strike. Some part of his mind knew she'd either prepared the food they were eating or she, at the very least, involved in the placement and catering, but he chose to focus on the tea and all the possible ways Annabelle was likely to poison, manipulate, or outright kill them through the innocuous liquid. Martin didn't have the same thoughts swirling in his mind, he waited for what seemed like an appropriate amount of time before taking his cup of tea and doctoring it with sugar and milk. When he raised the cup to his lips, Jon watched him with suspicious eyes rimmed with pulsing anxiety.

Martin couldn't remember the last time he'd had a good cup of tea, but this one might've gone somewhere on his Top Ten list - assuming he ever had the time to make a list of that type. He smiled at Jon encouragingly and gave him a nod that he was fine.

"Black tea," he said, as if Jon had asked him a question. "Probably an English Breakfast blend. Aren't you going to...?"

"No," Jon said firmly.

"You know it's not polite to--"

"No."

Martin sighed. Breakfast was over before it even had a chance to begin.

"Alright. Let's go see Salesa, then, Grumpy."

***

They had free run of the house and the grounds. They'd agreed to stay for a bit after their talk with Salesa and Martin found their walks in the afternoon to be his favorite time of day. He'd never seen so many peacocks up close and the birds seemed content enough to walk around without being disturbed by the presence of two humans gawking at them.

"Do you think they know what's going on outside this bubble?" Martin asked. "Aren't animals supposed to have, I don't know, a sixth sense about danger and potential hellscapes?"

Jon chuckled, though he was slow to answer. It was happening more often the longer they stayed, the longer Jon remained disconnected from the Eye.

"I'd like to think they don't," he said. "Though I can't imagine they're entirely ignorant of the events of the world. Things changed for them too."

"True," Martin said. They walked hand in hand, feet stepping sinking into the soft grass. It'd taken ages for Martin to convince Jon not to wear his shoes when they walked the grounds. They'd been traveling for months on gravel and stone, running away from horrors even as they walked into them willingly. This was the first instance of real grass that wasn't connected to a village mired in mold and disease, or part and parcel of a flesh garden. This was grass like they'd walked on outside the safe house, dew covered and smelling faintly of petrichor. The bubble surrounding Salesa's estate was caught in the aftermath of an English rain, the sun shining as a light drizzle misted the grounds. It was perfect.

"I'd quite like to be a bird," Martin said.

"Is that so?" Jon said, his voice tinged with amusement.

"Yeah. Fly around, sing a song, get all the juiciest worms. Sounds like a perfect life," he said. "What about you?"

Jon didn't answer. Martin stopped their casual stroll, getting a good look at Jon's unfocused stare.

"Jon?"

"Hm? I'm sorry, what were we talking about?" Jon asked. He looked confused, but not overly worried. Then again, he wasn't holding on to thoughts about his emotional well-being either. He couldn't focus enough to know he was afraid.

"It's-it's not important," Martin said. "Come on, let's go back inside."

Jon yawned. "Yes, that sounds good. I'm feeling very tired all of a sudden."

"Afternoon naps are the best naps," Martin said.

It was a full minute before Jon responded with a laugh of his own.

Chapter Text

Jon was making another statement just over the hill. Martin had walked away, knowing he was relatively safe even when Jon's focus was elsewhere. If the Eye or Jonah had been planning to take him out of the picture, it would've happened already. Whatever was going to happen with Jon and the Panopticon, Martin seemed to be just as entangled in the endgame. He was glad for it. He preferred it that way because at least he'd be there, for Jon, at whatever end awaited them.

The time alone wasn't always the most pleasant experience. His mind was overwhelmed with memories of their time on Salesa's estate, the good and the bad, but he was glad no other faint memories had popped up since the last one. Martin couldn't bear to go over, again, what he didn't want Jon to remember.

***

Jon was quiet for the entire walk back to their bedroom. He didn't look at Martin, but the seething fury was obvious on his face. He pushed the door open with a huff and walked over to the far side of the bed, away from Martin who stood there unsure of what to say or do.

Martin quietly closed the door, but kept his eyes on Jon, who now sat looking out the window, his back to Martin. His shoulders were hunched, tension flowing over and through him.

"Jon, I--"

"You laughed at me," he said, his voice layered with jagged edges in a pool of hurt. "You laughed, along with Salesa, to my face."

"I didn't mean to--"

"Didn't mean to what? Join in the fun of seeing the Archivist unmoored? Is my disconnection from the Eye that hilarious?!"

Jon turned abruptly, eyes red and wet with unshed tears.

"Jon...I'm sorry, I--"

"Are you actually sorry or are you just saying it because it's what you're supposed to say?" Jon asked.

"I-"

"Do you even know or care what you're apologizing for?"

Martin grimaced at the accusation.

"Well I guess you won't be able to Know that, will you?"

He regretted the words the moment they flew from his lips. Jon froze, his mouth open in shocked disbelief. He stood, but he seemed unsure of where he needed to go. Their en-suite was connected to an adjoining set of rooms and Jon's feet carried him to the wall separating the rooms. He walked through without saying a word, leaving Martin alone with only his thoughts and regrets.

It was hours later, getting closer to midnight, before Martin dared follow after Jon. He gave a gentle, yet shaky knock on the door to let him know he was entering. He wanted to give Jon the option to send him away. For all the time and patience Jon had shown him during their journey through the Apocalyse, he was owed the same courtesy. There was no dismissal, no gruff insistence that he turn around and never come back. Not even a squeak of uncertainty. Just silence.

He wasn't without a peace offering. He'd put together a plate of leftovers from dinner, a smattering of roasted vegetables, rice, and perfectly cooked salmon. Jon had to be hungry since he hadn't shown his face all day and neither Salesa nor Annabelle recalled seeing him anywhere else on the grounds after they'd spoken with Salesa earlier.

"Jon, I-I brought you some--"

His heart sank at the sight of Jon already in bed, another bed. He was curled up on his side, back facing Martin, shivering because he'd kicked off the blanket at some point. Martin sighed heavily, but went about making sure he took care of the man he loved. He set the plate of food on the nightstand. Maybe Jon would wake up at an odd hour in need of a snack. Then, he picked up the blanket and covered Jon up to his chin, smoothing out the fabric before placing a kiss on Jon's head.

"I love you," he whispered. "And I'm sorry. Truly."

He turned to go, but was stopped by a cold hand gripping his arm.

"Don't go," Jon said, his voice laced with fear and longing.

"Are-are you sure? You've still got to be mad and I know an apology doesn't always cut it but I--"

"Martin," Jon said, his tone pleading in a way that made the hairs on the back of Martin's neck stand on end. "I don't - I can't See or Know. It's been so long since I couldn't, since I wasn't connected to the Eye. It doesn't feel real. I don't - I don't feel real. I need - I need something to ground me. Someone. I need--"

"Hey - hey, Jon, look at me, love," Martin said. He easily curled around Jon, spooning him protectively as his arms held him in a tight embrace. Jon turned within the confines of his hug and looked up at Martin with eyes that still looked raw from crying throughout the day. "I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere. Just hold onto me, yeah?"

Jon did as he was told, arms wrapping around Martin's back as he pressed as close as he could into his chest. He felt the bed shaking with Jon's sobs and all he could do to help was whisper soothingly into his ear and rubbing comforting circles on his back.

"This is all real, Jon," he whispered. "You're real. I'm real. We're together and that's what matters."

He repeated the mantra into the early dawn when Jon finally fell asleep.

***

They were sitting down for breakfast, enjoying a lovely quiche, when he first noticed Jon was beginning to slip. Martin was prepping his scone for his standard slathering of clotted cream and jam when he turned to Jon and asked him to pass him a knife. Jon didn't acknowledge the request and there was no urgency in his movements to follow up or act on it. He stayed still, staring into his tea like it held all the answers in the world.

"Jon?"

"Hm? Yes?"

"The knife?"

"What about it?"

"I asked you to pass it to me."

"Did you? Oh, I'm-I'm sorry, Martin, it must've slipped my mind," Jon said, giving Martin a brief smile of apology. Still, he did nothing. He sat in his chair and took a sip of tea before looking back. "What?"

"The knife, Jon," Martin said.

"Yes, what about it?"

"Jon, are you feeling alright?"

Jon paused, thinking about the question. There was a real struggle on his face that Martin hadn't seen since before the Unknowing. He was concentrating so hard on the question, but no answer was forthcoming.

"It's, uh, it's hard to say," Jon said. "I think I-I'm going to go lay down."

When he stood, Martin noticed the sway in his body despite Jon trying to hid it and the slight tremors in his hands. He left just as Annabelle entered with the morning pot of tea, but he did nothing to acknowledge her presence, not even a cold stare of distrust.

***

Jon was out on the grounds, sitting on a stone bench, watching the peacocks. He'd wandered off after lunch and Martin had nearly lost his mind searching the house for him until he caught sight of the Archivist through the window. Rushing outside, he ran up to Jon in a flurry of put-upon scoffs and sputtering before sitting next to him in an exasperated, but ultimately relieved, fit of blustering.

"Have you any idea how long I've been looking for you?" Martin asked.

Jon didn't respond. He was concentrating hard on the peacocks, as if trying to recall something about them.

"You said something to me..."

"I think I do that most days, Jon. You'll have to be specific," Martin said, trying very hard to hide the worry in his voice.

"You said - you said...it was...you wanted something..."

"Was it important?"

"It was to me! I know that," Jon said. "'Least I think I do."

"Okay, what were we talking about? Was it yesterday? Day before that? Were we still running around the nine hells?" Martin asked, hoping some of it would job Jon's memory. If anything it seemed to be making things worse. Jon's breaths were coming in faster, shorter spurts. He was trying so hard to hold onto something that was quickly falling through his fingers.

"It's - um - I - I don't - um - I don't know. It was there and - and then - and then..."

A peacock cried out and that seemed to jolt Jon out of his spiral, but Martin felt a chill travel up his spine when he saw the blank, unfocused stare in Jon's eyes.

"Jon? You were saying?"

"Hm? What about?"

"I don't know. You were trying to remember something," Martin said.

"Oh - yes - of course," he said, though he clearly didn't recall. "Martin?"

"Yeah?"

"I don't - I don't think I can stay here much longer," Jon said. "I don't think there will be much of me left in a few days."

"Jon--"

"It's hard to concentrate on - on anything," he said. "I'm losing word, things I should know even without the-the..."

"The Eye?"

"What about it?"

"We need to leave," Martin said.

Jon looked genuinely confused. "Alright, but I thought you'd want to stay more than a week, at least."

"No," Martin said, "it wouldn't be worth it."

***

He refused to burden Jon with those memories. It wasn't worth it to give him something that would only make him dwell on his own suffering or the fact that it was because of him that they left Salesa's estate. Their departure was inevitable, but even with the fleeting, dreamlike memories that Jon carried, he understood that he'd cut their time spent in the oasis much shorter than they might have anticipated.

And he refused to let Jon know about the bevy of worries nagging at his mind, all of the endgame scenarios that have made themselves known in the last few weeks.

He could still be hurt. Daisy had proven the Archivist wasn't untouchable, but who could hurt him and how was still up in the air.

Jon had been disconnected from the Eye for nearly two weeks, but he'd begun to deteriorate slowly within that amount of time. If they managed to put the world back to rights would Jon even live long enough to see the world changed back. Would he even remember it?

They still didn't know what Annabelle Cane was planning. Of all the questions and theories and hypotheticals drifting in and out, this one scared him most of all. He had no idea what she might do, but she seemed far more confident in knowing what he might do, especially when it came to protecting Jon.

When Jon returned from his sidebar, they set out again, and Martin kept a tight hold on Jon's hand.

This was all that mattered in the end and he was determined to protect it, protect Jon, until his last breath.