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.

Chapter Text

Tim, clad in a vibrantly patterned flamingo button-up, sauntered into the Archives with a musicless sway of his hips despite the various takeout containers balanced in his arms.

“Sasha! Martin!” He calls as he sets down the tower of food boxes on his own desk. Finding the silence of the place odd, he decides it best to go on a search. They’re probably in the break room.

He makes his way through the arched doorway connecting the Archival assistants’ joint office space to the hallway. Highlighted through the threshold is Jon’s office door, bearing a golden title of “Head Archivist” on the frosted glass. Something seems to be smeared along the inside in a snotty filth.

He just barely missed the tape recorder as he took his next step closer. He bends down and picks it up, recognizing it as Jon’s. It wouldn’t hurt to leave a little message. He’ll deal with Jon’s complaints later. A grin gradually rises as he performs for his lighthearted gag.

“still working? Ah, okay. Test, test. What are you doing on the floor? Huh.” He provides his best monotonous and snobby voice to impersonate his boss. Time to put his self-proclaimed free-styling abilities to the test. “Statement of Joe Spooky, regarding sinister happenings in the downtown old-”

The clambering of heavy and quick steps barrel towards him and he turns to his left. “Tim!” Jon?

“Boss–?”

Before he could even properly get a hold on what was happening, he was tackled. With surprising ease considering his sheer mass most likely being something twice his boss’. Somewhere in the flailing of limbs and mashing of worms, his eyes meet those that are now the empty holes of what were once Jane Prentiss’ eyes. Except, her eyes weren’t as empty as he’d thought.

An abhorrent stench surges through every square inch of air, burning its way up into his sinuses. He chokes on the thick odour while his head simultaneously makes contact with the ground and an alarming amount of fire extinguishers.

Jon was quick to get to work, ignoring his wounded leg as best as he could. He felt so focused, honed in like a first-person shooter game as he rose with an extinguisher held firmly in his left hand. The other is busy with heaving Tim upright. Certainly a Herculean task for someone with Jon’s figure, let alone injured and fanatic.

“Grab some CO2 and start spraying.” His voice breaks through the slimy onslaught on Tim’s ears and he finds himself nodding along. He had, at some point, equipped himself with a Co2 tank or two and is now back to back with Jon as they fend off the swarm. Seeing Jon’s confidence helps sooth Tim’s stress. Or maybe it should unsettle him.

Regardless, he has more pressing matters at hand.
Literally.
While engrossed in his millisecond of thought, worms started pooling against his legs. Jon reacts before Tim does, somehow. He’s surprisingly quick-thinking, giving Tim a sense of fraught.
“What are you doing? Pull your damn pin!” Jon does it for him, allowing access to Tim’s self defense. He snaps out of it, spraying lawlessly at the shrouding mass of festering worms.

Jon kicks the door shut against Prentiss’ intruding form, his strangled whimper alerting Tim. It’s just now that he notices the tattered and blood-ridden cloth around Jon’s shin. Rather than his first thought being out of concern for his boss, it’s out of fear for him. Is he infected with whatever that thing outside is? Is Tim really as secure as he thought?

“Help me! Tim!”

Despite his doubts, Tim helps to barricade the door, deciding on the lesser of two evils. He watches his boss’ back and, in turn, Jon does the same for him. They take uncommunicated turns holding the door and spraying.

“Do you trust me?” Jon sounds like he has a plan.

Tim hesitates.

“What do you have in mind?”

He could’ve sworn Jon found him as the monster outside by the look he gave him. He grabbed Tim’s arm and sprinted, albeit being more like a hobble, towards a giant, dark hole in the wall. He grabbed a new can of CO2 while running, inspiring Tim to grab 2 more for himself. They plunge into the darkness together, rushing through stony corridors that sound just a bit too squishy with every other step.

“Why are we running through here? Where is ‘here’?” Tim’s eyes start adjusting to the lack of light, finding a few worms where they go. Since there's only a few, he moves past them, deciding to use his extinguisher on larger masses. That is, until one leaps the height of his full stature and goes straight for the eye. Tim ducks just out of reach, shuddering involuntarily.
“OH WHY THE EYE?!”

Jon leads the way, almost as if he knows the place. Behind them is the rolling fester of worms, laughing in the voice of a woman long-gone. It must’ve broken through the door. It’s after them.
“Oh, Archivist! I know you know something you shouldn’t know!” The conjoined mess of screeching sings out the words. Almost as if they were an old friend, teasing for a trivial crush.

— — —

A jolt shocks down his spine, the pain swarming inside his leg constantly reminding him of his missing flesh with every step. How does she know? Is she even talking about that in the first place? If someone like Prentiss can tell, who else can? What if Jonah knows?

Left.

His body dodges before he can even fully think. Not that thinking was really on his side right now. A flurry of worms flush out of the wall to attack Jon, missing by a hair. Now he’s blocked both from the front and behind. Prentiss is closing in. He’s frozen. His mind is running and his body is tired. Looking down, he sees his leg has left him with a pool of blood at the soul of his shoe. He liked those shoes.

The sound of air rushing through the echoing halls swarms around them. Jon’s glasses fog up with the white plumes enveloping all sight. He panicked for less than a second.
Is this The Lonely? So soon?
Tim’s firm and adrenaline-driven grip drags him both physically and mentally. Stumbling over the unlevel stone ground beneath them, Tim takes wild twists and turns, spraying anything with a shadow.

— — —

Sasha has to hold back Martin, seeing as his initial instinct in almost any situation, no matter how much of an arse he was, was to help Jon. It doesn’t take much more than a tug on his shoulder, considering how pliant Martin is.
“Martin, no.” She pleads with her eyes, hurt to see him so panicked over someone who doesn’t deserve it. His frown quivering the same tempo as his breath.
“They’re dead in there. They’re dead, and they’re covered in worms an–”
“Hey.” She moves in front of him, gripping both shoulders now. Her steely gaze meets Martin’s, desperate for any reassurance she has to offer. She hugs him. He instantly gives, wrapping shaking, clingy arms around her. Sasha takes a deep breath, rubbing his back.
“They aren’t dead. Jon… seemed to have a plan. You know how he overthinks. He never does things on impulse.”

Martin nods, taking a deep breath of his own and sniffling before he responds. It’s about time he breaks down.
“Yeah…” He pulls away, eyes thoughtful and not meeting sasha’s.
“Who knows? Maybe they found the other CO2 extinguishers.” He nods, trying to convince himself if anything. Sasha cocks her head to the side.
“What extinguishers?”
Martin grimaces, wringing his wrists.
“Well, I took the liberty of... Hiding them.” He pauses to finally make eye contact. “From the worms, y’know?”
Sasha stares blankly for a moment before some huff between relief and pity starts off a gentle chuckle. She shrugs with a smile.
“Good call.” Martin relaxes, smiling back.

After the ephemeral moment, Sasha glances nervously out the window. Martin follows her gaze when he sees her eyebrows furrow. He reels back on his first glimpse, then leans towards the window.
“Is she…?” He glances at Sasha, who’s leaned towards the window with him to share. She stares intently as she finishes his sentence with a slow nod.
“Puking all over statements? Yeah, definitely burning those once we’re out of here.”
Martin nods grimly before looking away, hugging himself with a sigh. Sasha watches him until he sits down, then gets back to observing… Prentiss’ contamination.

“Tim’s got brawn, anyway. While Jon may be a prick, he actually is—and don’t tell him I said this, God knows he’d have an aneurysm—a scholar. Annoyingly so even. So, what I’m saying is that they’ve got the best of both worlds, y’know? Jon may not be able to handle feelings, but he is overtly logical.” Sasha finches away from the door as a glob of worms mash themselves rudely against the window, but not before she sees Prentiss barrel through Jon’s office. She clenches her jaw and fists, glaring down the putrid parasites as she steps back. She finally turns with a sigh, sliding down the wall perpendicular to the door to sit against it, resting her elbows on her knees.

“There goes our million-pound view. What a shame.” Martin tries at a laugh, but it doesn’t really fit. Sasha lowers her head.

— — —

Well, Jon is definitely very fucked. He and Tim are scrambling through the tunnels, writhing masses of worms nipping at their heels while Prentiss taunts them. Running blindly and spraying their CO2 wildly. At random intervals, a worm will whiz past them, having shot and leapt forward and missed. Jon is leading, due to his knowing, but it isn’t exactly preferable to have the man who’s bleeding out and losing feeling in his leg being the one in front. Asking for Leitner at this point would be too hard to explain to Tim, but going to document storage would put Martin in danger. And Sasha.

There’s only so much CO2 someone can inhale before they feel dizzy and nauseous, and their breaking point is close. C’mon, something’s gotta give. Jonah won’t let him die yet. Technically, Jonah got what he wanted: Jon’s marked by The Corruption. He could stop this at any time. They just need to hold out until then, right?

Jon falls, blacking out and losing control of his limbs. Tim immediately stops and turns to Jon, reaching for him before the worms catch up and engulf the both of them.

— — —

Waiting is agonizing. And the silence between Martin and Sasha has him possibly more anxious than he’d be vocalizing his rambling brain. He clutches the corkscrew like a lifeline, because, frankly, it might be.

“Martin?”

Sasha’s call gains his full attention instantly, Martin's head whipping to face her before she can even finish the word. She nods to his corkscrew.
“Why exactly do you… just have that?”
“Oh, well, it’s for the worms.” he answers simply. She stares at him blankly.
“Why a corkscrew?” she stresses, squinting behind her wire-rimmed glasses.
“Well, the worms are pretty slow when they… burrow in, right? They also go in a straight line, so using a blade that’s perfectly straight would just be messy and cause more harm than good at that point. So uh, yeah… corkscrew.” Martin offers a polite smile. Sasha frowns, unsettled by the amount of thought he put into this. He sighs, smile falling.
“You got to go home everyday, Sasha. I stayed here. Every night, I was waiting– preparing for this.” He gestures to the door, sounding just as thin-spread and paranoid as he is. Sasha looks guilty, opening her mouth to speak when something falls from the vent onto the floor with a thud. The two follow the object with their eyes, horror settling in as they see it’s a single, pale worm. Martin acts first, stamping the worm over several times.

Sasha grabs a chair to stand on and reach the vent, taking her cardigan and stuffing it up into the spaces between the metal vent blinds.
“I thought this place was secure.” Martin’s voice wobbles as the panic creeps up his throat. Sasha looks at him over her shoulder, mustering her best smile.
“No, I don’t think so.” She looks around the room, feeling worms push against her fingers through the fabric of her cardigan. A chill rushes down her spine. The silence goes tense as every few seconds another couple of worms start to resist against her makeshift barricade.
“Uh, what about… the wall?”
Martin gives her an incredulous look.
“Excuse me?”
She sighs, then hops off the chair and grabs it, raising it high above her head. Martin rushes towards the cardigan stuffed into the vent with dark spots already seeping into the previously cozy fabric.

“Sasha! The vent!” He reaches up, his fingertips just barely pushing against the cardigan despite his above average stature. He hops up, sweat dribbling down the back of his neck while he takes shallow breaths; eyes trained on the slow advance of slime being soaked into the wool brushing against his fingertips.
“Forget it, Martin!” Sasha slams the chair into the wall making the back of the room.
“This is supposed to be an exterior wall,” Her sentence is broken by a grunt of effort as she slams the chair into the wall again. “Right?”
Martin’s neck starts to hurt as he whips his head from Sasha to the vent. What is she on about? Did a worm really get her? A cardigan can only do so much, after all, and she was sitting right under the vent, so it would be possible– no, probable that a worm got her. Nothing against Sasha, of course, but he can’t take any chances.

“Martin! MARTIN! Oh, for Christ’s sake–” With one final blow, the wall caves in, revealing a dark, damp tunnel. Martin yelps and flails a worm off of his hand as the cardigan finally falls from the vent. It’s surprising it stayed on for so long with such little support anyway. Clumps consisting of three to five worms each splat onto the storage room floor, splitting apart to barrel towards Martin. If only Martin were in opera. His vocal range is wasted on terrified shrieks. Sasha slams the chair down onto them with the force of a wrathful God, turning her blazing gaze onto Martin, making him flinch.
“Run!” She raises the chair again. For a moment, Martin is sure that he’s the target this time. With a harrowing cry, she twists her full body into propelling the chair into the vent, the cheap metal rattling in an uncomfortable warble as it’s yanked down by gravity’s hand.

They run. Into the dark tunnels, Sasha leads Martin blindly through the endless and often abruptly twisting walls and corridors.
“How’d you know this was here?”
“I didn’t.”