Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

[CLICK.]

Right. Timothy Stoker, recording August 4th, 2017.

So. This is it, then.

Jon wants us all to make statements before we leave, just...just in case.

A few months ago I would have laughed at that. At the idea of last words. Leaving something behind for the...the official record, or whatever. 

I used to be so angry. After what happened with Prentiss, and Sasha...I was so angry. All the time. And I still am, I guess. At this place, for everything it’s done to us. At Elias, for just sitting up there and watching while evil gods replaced our friends and bored us full of holes and kidnapped us to try to—

[Tim stops. Takes a deep breath.]

I still hate everything about this place. I hate that we can’t leave. If I could burn this building to the ground without killing all of us in the process I would do it in a heartbeat. 

But that’s the difference, I guess. I care now about whether we would make it out. 

I’m not sure when that changed.

[Tim laughs.]

I’m going to be honest. I can’t wait to have a go at the Circus. After what they did to Danny, I would have jumped at the chance to do anything to hurt them—and now, after—after Nikola—well.

I hope we obliterate them.

And what’s more, I hope it hurts. I want to grind them into dust and listen to them scream as every bit of them is torn apart.

It’s not even about saving the world, really. I mean, obviously, I want to stop the Unknowing. A world ruled by the Circus would be...bad. But really, I just can’t wait to watch them all burn.

I can’t wait to watch Nikola burn.

[A pause.]

Jon doesn’t want me to come. I think he’s afraid I’ll do something rash, even after—after everything. I have double the reason now, after all. But Jon, if you’re listening to this—don’t worry about me. I know what to do, and I know what’s at stake. I’ll be the distraction if I need to, do everything to keep the circus folk and mannequins and whatever else Nikola has up her sleeve away from Daisy and the rest. And I’ll do my best to be careful.

I hope you do the same.

Statement ends, I suppose.

[CLICK.]

Jon hovers uncertainly outside the door of the office where Tim is recording. 

They have been on good terms again for several months now, but he still hesitates to interrupt. Old habits die hard, and all that.

It's been...good. To have Tim back. As a—as a person, to work with and talk to. As a friend. He's not the same as he was, of course—who among them is?—but he's not a walking ball of anger anymore. He smiles now, and jokes. When certain things still set Jon shaking—the smell of vanilla, someone doing a sing-song voice on the radio—Tim is there, grounding him, keeping him in the present moment. He's even persuaded Jon to come over a couple more times for movies and popcorn, always films that Jon has never seen and Tim seems to have memorized. 

It's...good.

But still, Jon worries about him.

Tim has been researching the Unknowing and the ritual site with a single-minded focus since they returned to the Institute. There was a period when they were still trying to pinpoint the site where he would disappear for days at a time. One time he was gone for nearly two weeks. He had the grace to look ashamed when Jon confronted him about it, but it didn’t stop him leaving. He just tried to be better about telling someone where he was going when he did.

“We’re going to find them, Jon,” he said. “And we’re going to stop it.”

The only time he'd taken a break from researching the Circus was when he insisted on accompanying Jon on his travels. He had come with him to China and to America, and though Jon had protested that he didn't need a chaperone, in truth he had been grateful for the company—especially during his encounter with the Hunters. He had felt more secure, with Tim next to him in that car, even though Tim had nearly bitten Trevor and Julia's heads off before Jon could get any information out of them at all. 

He and Gerard had gotten on famously, of course.

When they found the stash of explosives in Gertrude's locker, Tim was almost as excited as Daisy—and it frightened Jon a little, that feral joy in his eyes.

Tim is better than he was, but there is still an anger and a hatred in him that surfaces sometimes, and as their plan has fallen into place and the day gets closer, Jon worries about where it will lead.

He wishes there were some way to keep Tim out of it—but he knows there's no real chance. 

He tried, once, to suggest that Tim stay and help Martin instead. It led to their first real row since they got back: Tim asking in a low, dangerous tone why, exactly, Jon thought he shouldn’t go, and Jon replying acidly that he wasn't about to lose someone else because of an overblown sense of revenge. It ended with slammed doors and a day of sullen silence before they both decided, without discussion, to pretend that it had never happened.

They haven't talked about it since.

Jon finally makes a decision and knocks once, quietly, and then pokes his head round the door.

"Tim?"

Tim looks up from the desk. "Hey, boss. Just finishing up."

"Right. Do you mind if I sit?"

Tim waves a hand, and Jon drops into the chair on the other side of the desk, watches as Tim ejects the tape, labels it, and adds it to the small stack next to the recorder. Then Tim leans back in his chair.

"So. Tomorrow."

"Yes."

"Saving the world." Tim waggles his eyebrows in a clear attempt to make Jon laugh. And Jon does crack a smile; he can't help it, with how ridiculous Tim looks. But it fades quickly as the weight of what they are going to try to do tomorrow settles over him again.

"Hopefully," he says, and it comes out as a sigh. He hesitates, then: "Tim, I—"

"Don't, Jon. Please."

Jon huffs. "You don't even know what I was going to say."

"But I can guess." Tim sighs and rubs a hand over his face. "I don't want to fight, Jon. Not tonight."

He looks so tired as he says it. None of them have been sleeping well, lately. 

"You know I have to ask," Jon says.

"I know. But my answer hasn't changed. I'm going with you."

And even though Jon knew what Tim's answer would be before he said it, he can't suppress the wrench in his gut at the words, the persistent, gnawing worry.

"I just want you to be safe," he says quietly. "Can't I try to protect you, for a change?"

"I don't really think staying to take on Elias is much safer than what we're going to do," Tim says. He pauses. "Look, I know what you're trying to do, but some things...some things you just can't be protected from."

Tim looks at Jon—and it's the same sort of look he's given him before, when they've had this conversation. A plea for understanding. "I need this, Jon. I need to be able to do this."

Jon nods slowly.

The thing is, he does understand that need—the need for closure, the need to feel in control. So much of what has happened in the past year has been out of their hands, just one horrible thing after another happening to them, and nothing to do except try their best to make it through. This plan, this mission tomorrow—for once they're actually doing something, instead of waiting for something to happen.

He just wishes he could be sure that this time, things will end well.

He doesn't want to lose anyone else.

"Just please try...try not to—"

"Do anything stupid?" Tim smiles a little. "I'll do my best. I promise." Then just as Jon's had, his smile fades. "But Jon, if I have a chance to take out the Circus, even if it means..." Tim stops, and for once he can't seem to quite meet Jon's eyes. "If I have that chance, I'm going to take it."

Jon tenses. "If everything goes right, it won't come to that."

Tim huffs a quiet laugh. "Yeah."

They are silent, then, a silence so thick with things unsaid that Jon can almost feel them crowding around them. He and Tim have had this argument before, and he knows there is no swaying him. 

The silence stretches, and just when Jon thinks he can't bear it any longer, Tim sits up straight and claps his hands. 

"So. Drinks?"

Jon blinks at the sudden change in tone. "What?"

"Come on. We can't go off to battle tomorrow without having some sort of last hurrah. So, what do you think? Red Lion?"

Jon makes a face. "I don't think food poisoning is a good thing to risk before an apocalypse."

"It was one time!"

"And I was sick for two days. No thank you."

"Fair point, I suppose. Gryphon then?"

"You're going to be insufferable until I agree, aren't you?" Jon gives Tim what he hopes is a weary, long-suffering look. 

Tim grins sunnily back at him. "Yep."

Jon sighs. Actually, drinks don't sound too bad. Better than going back to his flat, to lie in bed and stare at the ceiling and imagine all the ways tomorrow could go wrong—or worse, to fall asleep, and dream.

"All right."

Tim bounces up with more energy than anyone running on as little sleep as they all are has any right to have.

"Great. I'll tell the others."

Jon watches him leave, and tries to convince himself that the gnawing pit in his stomach is only anxiety, a perfectly reasonable fear, and not a portent.

The place where Nikola kept Jon and Tim had looked so much smaller from the outside, when Tim finally found it.

He isn't sure what he had expected, when he was searching for it—some warehouse out in the middle of nowhere, maybe, surrounded but scrub and empty fields. But it certainly wasn't this: a perfectly ordinary, square brick building with a bright blue gateway at the entrance, set on a pedestrian thoroughfare.

He had watched the building for nearly two weeks before he caught sight of one of Nikola's minions, confirming that this was the place. As he watched and waited, crowds of people had breezed past him, chatting and laughing, eating ice cream and chips. And Tim realized that the whole time he and Jon had been trapped there, these same crowds had been walking by, oblivious to what was going on just beyond those walls. It made him slightly sick to think of it.

Now, they're making their way through the dusty, cobwebby interior of the building, pausing occasionally for Daisy to set her charges. It's dark and disorienting, but then they pass through a doorway, and suddenly Tim knows exactly where they are.

He thought he would feel something, when they finally got to the room where he and Jon had been kept. And it is horribly familiar: the same waxworks he stared at for thirty-seven uncountable days, the same hard cement floor. The pike that he and Jon had been tied to is still driven into the floor.

But Tim looks at it all with a curious...lack of feeling. He supposes there are other, bigger things on his mind at this point.

Or maybe he's just visited this place enough his nightmares that being here again for real doesn't make much difference.

Tim looks down at Jon, but his face is inscrutable. No way to tell what he might be thinking. Tim can see a slight shiver go through him as he looks around the room, and he instinctively steps closer to put an arm around his shoulders. Jon starts a little before relaxing against Tim's arm—he still always seems surprised whenever Tim touches him.

"You all right, boss?" 

Jon snorts. "Fantastic."

"Yeah," Tim says. "I know what you mean."

It's funny, he thinks. Jon spent so much of the time leading up to this trip worried about what Tim might do, even trying to persuade him to stay home. He was so set on trying to keep Tim safe that he never noticed that Tim was exactly as worried about him.

Tim's kept an eye on Jon as well as he can, since they got back. Even the times when he was away looking for the ritual site, he had roped Martin into checking in on him, making sure he was okay. He's not sure Jon noticed. 

And Jon's been better, on the whole. Some things still set him off, and Tim tries to be there to help him through those attacks when they come. He's tried, as much as he can, to keep him from feeling alone. And it's been all right.

But he catches Jon drifting, sometimes—staring off into space, a sort of empty distance in his eyes that reminds Tim far too much of the way he looked after a morning with Nikola. Especially after they came back from America, Tim would sometimes find him sitting in his office in the dark, staring at nothing.

When Tim asked him about it, he insisted it was "nothing to worry about," in a tone so dry and firm that Tim knew it was no use trying to press him.

But Tim does worry.

He worries about what it means, that Jon doesn't always seem...present in himself anymore.

He worries about why Elias insisted Jon come on this trip, what he expects or hopes will happen.

He worries about what Jon might do, to keep his fears about Tim from coming true.

Jon is clearly afraid that Tim might not come back from this, but meanwhile, there are far too many scenarios in Tim's mind where Jon is the one who doesn't make it out.

He's determined not to let that happen. He spent every day for over a month forced to watch what Nikola did to Jon, unable to stop her, unable to help. He's not going to let that happen again.

Tim is here to take down the Circus. But he'll be damned if he lets them take Jon down with them.

He keeps his arm around Jon's shoulders as they follow Daisy and Basira through the depths of the building. Everything is quiet, and Tim starts to wonder what exactly is waiting for them when they reach the heart of it.

When they finally find the door to the auditorium, and see what Nikola has prepared, Tim finds it suddenly difficult to keep his promise to Jon to not do anything rash.

There are people in there—or things that were once people. It's hard to tell because they're all shoved and squished together into the space that Nikola has turned into her auditorium, her holy sanctum for the ritual. But they don't look like the skin-suits full of sawdust that Nikola used when they were here before. These people are still flesh and blood under their skins—those that still have them. They are standing looking up at the top of the room where Nikola stands on some kind of dais, their faces blank.

The others are talking behind him but Tim can't hear what they're saying over the whine building in his head.

He can't help thinking of Danny—is this what he looked like, before—?

"Tim."

He looks down to find Jon looking hard at him, a mixture of fear and determination in his eyes.

"Jon, they—we have to do something. I'm supposed to help cause a distraction, right, maybe if I go in you can—"

"No, absolutely not."

"But if we can save them—"

"You can't, Tim. They're already dead."

"You don't know that!" Tim feels a bit of the old anger rising in him. How can Jon just look at all those people, people just like Danny, and just accept that they are lost? "Jon, we can't—"

"Done," Daisy says behind them.

Jon breaks eye contact with Tim to look back at her, and accepts the black box she hands him—such a small thing, Tim thinks, to hold so much destructive power. Enough to blow the Circus straight to hell—and everyone else in that auditorium with them.

"Right." Jon looks down at the detonator and another shiver goes through him. "Let's go."

Tim hovers by the doorway, desperate. He knows that Jon is right, that they need to leave before they are noticed. But Nikola is right there, and all these people—

"This isn't right."

"At least it'll be quick," Basira says, and Tim spares her a glare before looking back at Jon, who has taken his arm, his grip tight on his forearm.

"We have to go, Tim. Please. You promised."

Tim opens his mouth to protest—but then suddenly Nikola is speaking, and a horrible sound rises from the throats of all the members of the Stranger's awful choir—

And it's too late.

Jon thought it would be obvious when the Unknowing started.

Not something you'd easily miss, you’d think, the start of the apocalypse.

But even after listening to the tapes, he hadn't really considered what "Unknowing" actually might feel like.

One minute they are all standing at the entrance to the auditorium, Jon trying desperately to convince Tim that all the people in the Stranger's choir are beyond saving, to keep him from charging in after Nikola, and then—

and then 

and then there is a swell of organ music so loud it vibrates in his chest and rattles his teeth and suddenly nothing is obvious, he couldn’t say what was happening even if he wanted to because suddenly he

doesn’t

know

anything.

He is here to stop something, something terrible—but where is here? who is he? 

He’s holding something in his hand that feels important but he doesn’t know what it is or why he is holding it so tightly.

Every time he tries to grasp at a thought or a name or something he was certain he knew just a moment ago, the knowledge slips away before he can get hold of it, dissolving like a dream upon waking.

He can't seem to hold onto anything long enough to understand it, and that feeling, that absence of knowledge, is so painful that it feels like it might tear him apart.

He shouts into the void that is not a void but a swirling, changing mass of unknown things, trying to make himself heard over the deafening pipe organ.

Hoping that if he just keeps trying, just keeps asking, someone will give him an answer.

Tim is—he doesn't know where, he doesn't know who, he—

He—

No.

What?

Tim does not know where he is or who he is or why he is. There is someone in front of him trying to talk to him and all he can do is shout at them to stay back, to stay away, because the only thing he does know is that there are things here that want to hurt him, that he has a hatred in him that threatens to take him over and all he wants to do is destroy something but he doesn't know what or who it is he wants to hurt.

The person—thing—whatever in front of him is reaching out to him and he hits out to keep them away, get away, and something connects and he feels them go down and he runs but he doesn't know where.

And there is something else in him besides the hatred—there is someone he was supposed to find, someone he's supposed to protect, to keep safe, but he doesn't know who or where they might be or what danger they are in.

They're all in danger right now, he supposes—but who is they?

Tim stumbles and keeps searching for something or someone he can't name: someone to hurt, someone to help.

He doesn't know how he will know when he's found it, but he keeps searching.

"He—Hello? Anybody? Is there anybody here?"

"I'm somebody."

"Oh—you—stay back. Stay away from me."

"It's all right, Jon. It's me, Tim."

"Jon. Jon?"

"Yes. That's you. You're Jon, and I'm Tim. Your good friend, Tim. We've been through so much together, Jon."

"Yes—I—Tim—what's happening? Where are we?"

"You know, I'm not entirely sure. But I'm sure we can figure it out together."

"Yes—yes, of course. But—wait, no—Tim, there's something—we have to—we've got to stop it."

"Stop what?"

"I—I don't—"

"And how were you going to stop it?"

"There...I have...there's this here, but I don't—"

"Let me see it. I'm sure I can help."

"Yes, thank you. I just need a second, I—"

"Oh...oh look at this. This would have brought us all to a very nasty end, wouldn't it?"

"What?"

"I'd better keep hold of this."

"Wait—no—Tim, I wasn't supposed to—you shouldn't have that, Tim, I don't—"

"It's all right, Archivist. I'll keep it safe. I promise."

"No, I—"

"Everything will be fine."

"I—I don't understand."

"And you never will again."

Tim sees more figures ahead of him. He starts to turn to go the other way, some other way—what way did he come from, again?

He thinks he might be going in circles.

There's something about those figures that catches him, draws his attention. He doesn't know who they are any more than he knows who he is, but he feels he should know them, feels that one of them—all of them—are important somehow.

Tim moves closer.

Something's changed. One minute, Jon was having trouble forming thoughts, making anything make sense—but now, suddenly, he can see.

There are figures in front of him, and one of them is wearing a skin that once belonged to Gertrude Robinson, and another is wearing what was once Jurgen Leitner. 

And one of them is Nikola, formerly Grimaldi, the spirit of a sad, pathetic clown shoved and warped into an inhuman form.

"I see you," he says.

Nikola's head tilts curiously.

"Do you?"

Jon opens his mouth to answer, but before he can there is a yell from behind him, and someone crashes into him and knocks him to the ground. 

“Get away from him!”

They both go down, and then Tim lands on top of him and Jon twists onto his back, still halfway under Tim's weight. He expects Tim to get up again, but instead he looks up just in time to see Tim reaching for him with murder in his eyes, and he only just manages to grab Tim's wrists to keep his hands away from his face.

“Tim, it’s me! It’s—I’m—” the Archivist—no, that’s not right, that’s not his name, what is his name? 

Somewhere above them, one of the creatures says something Jon doesn't catch, and Nikola laughs.

“No, let them fight, it’s hilarious."

Tim is on top of him, wild-eyed, his face contorted with anger and hate, and for a moment, Jon is paralyzed with fear at that expression, at the fear that Tim is just...gone.

But Jon can see now, really see—and if he can See, then maybe he can also Ask.

It takes twice as much effort as it usually does, but Jon gets the words out, coated in static and power.

"Tim, what do you see?”

"I see my idiotic boss." Tim says—and then he blinks, and suddenly he is present in himself again, his eyes no longer full of blank rage. "Wait—Jon. Jon."

A wave of relief washes over Jon. "Yes. Yes, that's right. And who are you?" The static fizzes on his tongue.

"I'm—I'm Tim. I'm Tim, and you're Jon. And we're here to—to stop something. To stop—them."

Nikola clicks her tongue, and Jon looks up to see her standing over them, her arms crossed.

"Oh, Archivist. You're no fun."

Tim looks up at her and snarls. “You.”

He launches himself at Nikola, catching her around the waist and actually managing to knock her off balance. They tumble down in a mess of limbs, and a loud crack sounds as they land that Jon hopes desperately was from some part of Nikola and not from Tim's skull.

Nikola doesn't stay down long; she shoves Tim aside as though he weighs nothing at all. But as she rights herself, Jon can see a fine, hairline crack down her face where her head hit the cement.

"Well," she says, dusting herself off. "That was extremely rude. I—"

She stops suddenly, looking in the direction she sent Tim flying. Jon follows her gaze.

When Tim tackled her, she had been holding something that clattered away across the floor, the sound echoing and twisting back on itself as it went. And when she shoved Tim aside, he landed right next to where it lay. Now, Tim picks it up, and Jon's heart goes cold.

“Tim, what—" Jon lets the static fill his tongue again. "What’s in your hand?”

"I—it's—I don't—" Tim looks down at his hands so slowly, as though the movement requires herculean effort. "The detonator."

Jon scrambles to his feet, moving towards Tim to take it from him, but before he can, Nikola is there.

"That is quite enough,” she says. “Archivist, haven’t you learned what happens when you ask questions?”

And she backhands him hard enough that he sees stars, and is sent sprawling once again onto the ground. For a moment, all Jon can do is lay there, his head spinning and his vision fading in and out.

Nikola turns to Tim.

"And now you. "

But Tim holds up the detonator, his thumb resting on the button. His face is set and when he speaks his tone is dangerous in a way Jon hasn’t heard in weeks.

"Go on. I'll race you. See if you can do it again before I can squeeze."

No.

This isn't how it was supposed to go, this isn't what was supposed to happen. But Jon is on the ground and Tim holds the detonator tight in both hands and Jon wants to take it from him but there isn't time, there isn't time with Nikola standing right there ready to strike.

Jon can see where this is going, and he wants to shout, to scream, to tackle Tim to the ground before he can do something stupid. But he can’t seem to make himself move. He can’t reach out, and he can’t run away. 

He can only watch.

"It's too late. The world is ours," Nikola says. "That toy won't help you now."

"So come and take it," Tim says. Nikola arms twitch at her sides, but she doesn't make a move toward him. "That's what I thought." 

Tim smiles, a feral smile that reminds Jon of the hard person he'd been a few months ago, when Jon first got back. That hardness is all still there, he realizes. It's just not directed at him anymore.

Nikola tilts her head. 

"You think you can save him, little Assistant? You keep trying to protect him, just like you did before, just like you tried to protect your brother—but you've never been very successful, have you? It's not going to be any different now. Just like before, you won't be able to do a thing to help him."

"Wanna bet?"

Nikola takes a step forward, not towards Tim, but towards Jon. Tim steps between them in an instant, holding the detonator out in front of him with both hands.

"Back! Stay the fuck back."

Nikola stops—and it's hard to tell, with her featureless face, but for the first time, she seems unsure.

Tim keeps his eyes on Nikola as he speaks.

“Jon, I don’t know if you can hear me. But if you can...you get out of here, and you fucking keep going, all right? I know you’re going to blame yourself for this, but it’s not your fault. No matter what you think, it’s not your fault."

Tim glances down at Jon, and just for a second, their eyes meet.

"Give me this, Jon. Let me do this, and go.”

 And even though everything in him screams against it, Jon pulls himself to his feet, and he does as Tim says.

Jon turns and runs.

Tim still doesn’t know where he is. He barely knows who he is. He doesn’t know if Jon managed to get out, although he hopes he did. The organ music still swells around him and threatens to scatter his thoughts. He is keeping all his attention on the detonator in his hands, on remembering what the button does, and on the creature standing in front of him—holding onto the hatred that burns inside him and helps him remember who and what she is.

Nikola.

Grimaldi.

The Circus.

He thinks of Danny’s laugh and the way Jon rolls his eyes to hide his amusement at a stupid joke, and he thinks of a buried theatre and a tin bathtub and a month spent shivering on a cold cement floor. He thinks of everything the Circus stole from them—from him— and he lets the hatred build in him and center him and keep him in this moment while the maelstrom swirls around him.

“What do you think?” he says to the thing in front of him. “Do you feel lucky?”

“You idiot!” she says. “Do you really think the world will fare any better under the Watcher? You think you’re saving anyone?”

“I’m giving them a good run for it,” Tim says. “We’re stopping you; we can stop Elias, too.”

“You’re a fool.”

“Maybe. But you’re the one who’s talking to the man with the bomb instead of running.”

Run, Jon, he thinks. God, if you’re still here, if you can hear this, please take the hint and run.

“It will not end like this!”

Tim laughs.

And then he thinks, of all things, of drinks in the pub the night before. It had been...somber, to say the least, none of them particularly in the mood for chat, but none of them wanting to go home. And then Basira had said something—some stupid pun that made Melanie groan and Jon roll his eyes—and Martin had done a spectacular spit-take across the table, all over Tim’s face. Melanie had cackled, Basira hid her laughter behind her hand, and Jon asked with concern if Martin was all right, and even Daisy had cracked a smile as Tim mopped lager off his face and Martin stammered red-faced apologies.

 And just for a moment, it had felt—normal. No monsters, no fear gods. Just a night out at the pub.

He hadn’t thought normal was possible for any of them, ever again. And maybe it’s not. Not really. But for moments like that—spit-takes and laughter in a sticky pub booth—it’s got to be worth trying.

“You’re right.” he says. “It won't end like this. Not for everyone. Only for you.”

Then Tim presses the button, and a roar of sound fills the room so completely that it finally, finally drowns out the organ music. Nikola screams, and Tim laughs, and then everything goes white.

[CLICK.]

[The sound of the tape running, and a clock ticking quietly in the background. The occasional quiet breath. Nothing else for several seconds, only this empty, pent silence. There is a small sound, like a low, mirthless laugh. Then the tape clicks off.]

[CLICK.]

[The same silence as before, tape running, clock ticking. The Archivist clears his throat. When he speaks he sounds hoarse and tired.]

Statement of...Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London. Regarding....the Unknowing. Recording taken direct from subject, 16th of August, 2017.

[A long pause.]

Well, the world didn’t end.

Not for lack of trying, but...we did it. We stopped it.

Tim stopped it.

[The Archivist takes a deep, shaky breath.]

It’s—it’s difficult to remember, what happened while we were inside the Unknowing. Or...maybe that’s not it.

Maybe it’s just that I don’t want to remember it.

Everything was...muddled, in there. Like in a dream, where all the rules you thought you knew about the world suddenly don't apply. I didn't know which way was up, at first. Who I was, where I was. Everything I ever thought I knew was gone.

And then I—at some point, something changed and I could—I could see. I looked at Nikola and I knew who she was—not just who she was then, but everything she had ever been. I looked at Tim and I knew who he was. It was hard, it took effort, but I could do it.

It wasn't enough to stop what happened. But...

It's interesting.

I don't know if I should be afraid of it or not.

Anyway, it...

It was easy to tell when the Unknowing failed, because suddenly I was able to...well, to know things again. It wasn't a struggle to remember who I was. I knew where we were, and what we were doing. I knew that the person next to me was Basira—though I didn't know how she had managed to get out. I barely knew how I had managed to get out.

I knew that the pile of rubble in front of us had once been the House of Wax. 

And I knew that—

I knew that Tim had saved us.

And that he was...that he'd…

[The Archivist's voice wobbles, and there is a pause, followed by several sharp quick breaths as he tries to get himself under control. When he speaks again, his voice is carefully even.]

Tim is gone. The rescue crews finally managed to dig through the wreckage and they found his...they found him.

I...I guess, until then, I had some wild hope that somehow he'd made it out.

But he didn't.

Daisy's gone, too, although they haven't—they haven't found any sign of her yet. I don't know if we'll ever know what happened.

[The Archivist laughs once, a sharp, choked sound.]

All I can think is that it's not fair. It's such a childish thing to think, but there it is.

It's not fair. Any of it.

I don't—

Tim is the only reason that I got out of there alive. If he hadn't told me to run, I would have been in that building when it fell. And then...who knows, really? Does the Eye protect against collapsed buildings?

[A slight pause, as the Archivist contemplates that prospect.]

Hm.

Speaking of the Eye—Martin's plan worked, too, as it turns out. Better than I think even he hoped. Elias is…

Elias is not gone. But he's...neutralized. For now. He's out of the Institute, and that, I hope, will give us a little bit of breathing space. Of course, we have to contend with his replacement, but…for now, I hope we can all just steer clear of Peter Lukas.

[The Archivist sighs, and there's a rasping sound, like he's rubbing his hands over his face.]

I don't know what comes next. I suppose I should start looking into what other rituals might be in the offing, what other powers might try to end the world next. And there's the matter of finding out what Elias is really up to. Tim always said that after stopping the Circus, Elias was next on his hit list.

[A small laugh.]

Maybe the first thing to do is try to figure out a way to get us all out of this contract so then we can just... deal with him—

[The sound of a door opening, then Martin's voice, slightly distant.]

Martin: Jon? Basira and Melanie were just finishing up and then we were—we were going to grab a drink? If you want? Just to—to not be here for a bit.

The Archivist: I—yes. Sure. I was just recording a statement, but I—

Martin: Oh. Sorry.

The Archivist: No—no, it's all right. I—I'll be right there.

[The door closes.]

Is it weird, that with one apocalypse averted and maybe more on the way, we're just going out for drinks?

Maybe not.

[A silence. The clock ticks in the background.]

One of the last things Tim said to me...he told me to keep going.

I'll be honest, in some ways it's the last thing I want to do.

But it's all we can do, really, isn't it?

Just keep going. One step at a time.

And I suppose the first step today is to...to go get drinks. And hope that the world doesn't end while we do. 

And then we'll figure out the next step.

[The Archivist sighs.]

Yes. Well, then.

Statement ends.

[CLICK.]

Chapter Text

Jon stands in the back room of the Archives, staring blankly at the cot tucked into the corner.

It's been a little over a week since the Unknowing. Ten days since four of them left for Great Yarmouth—and only two of them came back. Ten days since Tim—

Jon closes his eyes.

If Martin had his way, Jon wouldn't have come back to work for at least two more weeks. But as much as Jon hates this place, he knows that if he had sat alone in his flat any longer he would have gone mad. He'd tried to walk a bit, to get out—but public places and crowds left him so jumpy he could hardly catch his breath, and even just walking from his flat to the Tube station, he found himself checking the street constantly, watching the cars, pausing at corners to make sure no one was about to come round them.

At least in the Institute, he knows where the monsters are. More or less.

He's one of them, after all.

He'd managed to make it downstairs and through the main room of the Archives without meeting anyone, for which he is grateful. He wouldn't have known what to say.

What is there to say?

When he got to his office, he had stood and stared at the desk for several minutes before sitting down. It was still scattered with papers and maps and notes, all exactly where he'd left them. A tape recorder sat contentedly in one corner, and next to it was a small stack of tapes: all their statements from before they left. Jon could barely stand to look at them.

He should work, he thought. Do something other than stare at two-week old detritus. He had pulled out the recorder and tried to begin a statement, to describe what had happened. But after he pressed record he just stared at the gently turning pins for several seconds, unable to think of any words. Eventually he just turned it off.

Finally, for lack of anything else to do, he had gotten up and made his way to the back room. He’d had a vague thought of making some tea or getting a drink—some sort of concrete, tangible, but ultimately insignificant action. 

But now he's standing here staring at the cot that he and Tim slept on when they first got back from being taken by the Circus, voices and memories echoing through his head with awful clarity.

“Bad dreams?”

“Would you believe I’d thought they’d gone away?”

“D’you want to talk about them?”

Jon balls his fists tight at his sides, his fingernails digging deep indents into his palms.

“I had no idea that human vertebrae could make that much noise.”

“Wait until you hear me crack my knuckles.”

His throat is on fire and his whole chest is shaking with the effort of holding everything he’s feeling inside, but he can’t, he doesn’t want to—

"Some things...some things you just can't be protected from."

"I'm here, I've got you, we're safe now."

“You all right, boss?” 

All he wants, all he needs, is Tim's grounding presence, warm and comforting and solid. He hadn't realized till now how much he has come to rely on it, how he had taken it for granted, almost, that Tim would be there in moments like this.

And now he's not, and Jon doesn't know how to hold himself together without him.

"Give me this, Jon. Let me do this."

He is briefly, incandescently angry at Tim for leaving, for doing exactly what Jon had desperately tried to keep him from doing—leaving Jon to stand here alone on the other side, wondering why it hadn't been him. 

“I know you’re going to blame yourself for this, but it’s not your fault. Whatever you think, it’s not your fault.”

Whose is it, then, if not his? He's the one who was supposed to keep it together during the Unknowing, but he hadn't; he'd been lost, and he'd given the detonator to Nikola, and because of that—

“Jon?” 

Martin’s voice comes from the doorway and Jon sucks in a sharp, shuddering breath, and looks at the ceiling, blinking fast. He’s glad he has his back to the door so he has a moment to compose himself. He doesn’t turn when he speaks, addressing the ceiling instead.

“Martin. I didn't hear you come in.”

“Sorry. Are you…” Martin trails off. “Nevermind. Stupid question.”

Jon takes another breath before turning, arranging his face into what he hopes is a neutral expression.

“I'm fine, Martin, I just…”

He waves vaguely towards the tea station, as though maybe the earl grey and darjeeling can give a more reasonable end to his sentence than he can.

Martin looks at him with such worry and compassion that Jon's chest hurts all the more and he almost breaks right there.

He will not cry in front of Martin. He won’t.

Jon finds a spot on the floor and stares at it very hard. It’s a dark, irregular circle, rather like chewing gum on the sidewalk after it’s been walked on by weeks’ worth of people, and did someone spit chewing gum onto the floor of the Archives? Jon will have it out for whoever did it—Melanie maybe, it seems the sort of spiteful thing she’d do—

“Jon,” Martin says. “Do you...do you want a hug?” 

Something inside Jon gives a sharp tug, sudden and painful.

“I—it's fine if you don't, obviously, I don't want to—but if you want, if it would help, I—oh.”

Before Martin even finishes speaking Jon steps forward and blindly reaches out to him. Martin staggers a little as Jon collides with him and his arms hover for a moment, unsure, before he lowers them gently over Jon’s shoulders.

Martin's hugs are different from Tim's. He's softer, less angular, and he's not as tall, so his chin doesn't rest on top of Jon's head the way Tim's does.

Did.

But he wraps his arms tight around Jon, encompassing him completely, and it's the most safe and secure Jon has felt in days. He presses his face into Martin's chest and finally lets everything that he has been pushing down for the last ten days come out.

Martin makes a sound of deep concern and holds him tighter, his own face pressed into Jon’s shoulder.

And they just stay like that, for a long time.

When Jon finally steps back, he's mortified to see the large damp patch that he’s left on Martin’s shirt. Martin doesn’t seem to notice.

“I'm sorry,” Jon says. “I didn’t mean to...that was very unprofessional. Having your boss cry all over you.”

Martin gives him a strange look.

“Jon, you know you're not just—you know you're more than my boss at this point, right? No-not, I don’t mean—” Martin makes a face as he tries to get his words in order. “What I mean is...this isn't exactly a normal workplace. We're closer than that, now. Friends, I hope. Maybe even family."

Jon starts a bit at that—not because it’s bad, or even that he disagrees, but just—he’d never have thought to say it out loud. 

But Martin seems to think he’s said something wrong, and he stammers, “Not that—I just—” A sharp sigh. “ I just mean—If you ever need...support, or someone to talk to. I'm here.”

Jon looks at Martin then, really looks at him. He has such a kind face, although now his brows are furrowed a little in apprehension, afraid that he’s said the wrong thing, gone too far. The way Jon’s talked to him in the past, he’s not really surprised. So now he looks him dead in the eye, so when he says this, Martin knows he means it.

“Thank you, Martin.”

Martin turns red at the sincerity in Jon’s voice, and Jon quickly looks away, pulling out a handkerchief to scrub at his face.

“Tim would hate this. Crying over him like this. Blubbering, he'd call it." 

Martin smiles a little.“Yeah, he'd be really embarrassed, wouldn't he? Probably make some stupid joke about high water bills from leaving the hosepipe running or something.”

Jon chokes out a laugh. Then his gaze drifts back to the cot, and he thinks of the feeling of waking up warm for the first time in a month, Tim’s shoulder pressed against his. He thinks of long hot afternoons arguing over the rules of the road in America, Tim reciting the lines along with his favorite films during movie nights, the look of mock horror on his face when Martin had spit lager all over him at the pub.

“I miss him,” he says. The words don’t feel adequate.

“I know,” Martin says. “Me too.”

They are silent for a moment, contemplating their ghosts. Somehow, with Martin, it doesn't feel uncomfortable at all, this silence. 

Finally, Jon takes a breath. As much as he would not mind staying here, sharing this comfortable, comforting silence with Martin, he really shouldn’t. Even—or especially—after averting the apocalypse, there is always work to do.

“I should get back,” he says.

“Okay," Martin says softly.

He steps aside so Jon can move past him to the door, but just as Jon reaches the threshold he speaks again.

“I meant what I said, Jon. I’m here, whatever you need.”

Jon turns. Martin is looking at him with that same compassion as before, mixed with a touch of nervousness and not a little determination. 

Jon wonders how he never noticed, before, just how wonderful Martin is.

He really hasn’t been paying attention.

“I…” What can he say, other than another thank you? “Same to you, Martin.”

Martin smiles, and nods, and turns towards the kettle to start making some tea.

And Jon goes back to his office, to record his statement.