Chapter Text
A few doors down sits an office. In this office, a secret is held. He is beloved by the One Who Watches, trusted to See and Know and speak his words of truth that no other can bare witness to. In this office sits Jonathan Sims.
He is meant to be dead. He knows and he Knows this. He can feel it in his heart, his skin itching where non-existent scars once lay. He can feel his chest throbbing, begging to spill his blood once more from a gaping wound that had long since disappeared. His head pounded, knowledge and Sight passing behind his eyes with ease, bringing pain and joy and resentment and satisfaction for keeping his place.
He was still the Archive, beloved by the Ceaseless Watcher, the One Who Stares, the Knowledge and Sight of All.
Before him sits a paper. It was a letter, filled with flowing sentences and words, a story he had seen, he had read before. It was something so small, yet the change it brings is catastrophic. The date, filled with little stars and hearts only someone naive would bring into the darkened Archives, stated that the day was August 2nd, 2015. This paper was from years ago, from a time before the end, a time Jon had only wished to see again. But the ink was fresh, small droplets of the material still drying on a corner of the paper. It was recent, it was today.
Taking a breath, Jon couldn’t help but flinch at the sound of a knock at his door.
“Come in.”
And there was Martin.
Martin, with a nervous smile, a small gap between his teeth, no white streaks in his hair from stress and Loneliness. There was Martin, who laughed so softly, rubbing the back of his neck as he spoke so kindly, so openly to Jon.
“I-I’m sorry. Come again?”
“Oh-uhm, I was just wondering if you’ve seen a dog…?”
“As in… Like, in general?” The words were familiar on his tongue, coming forward before Jon could think.
“No, no, in the-in the Archives.”
Jon raised a brow, a small smile reaching his lips for the first time since the falling. “Why would there be a dog in the Archives?”
Martin raised his hands, looking away with a nervous laugh. “I may have, sort of, let… let him in? I-I mean, we were just making friends, as you do with dogs, and I needed to come in, but I had things in my hands so I opened the door with my foot and…” He dropped his arms, pressing his thumb into his palm. “And he ran in…”
Jon hummed softly, this scene playing like a distant memory. He remembered being snappy, annoyed that his first ever statement hadn’t recorded properly on his laptop. He remembered taking it out on Martin, which had started his growing resentment towards the kind man.
But he was here, in the past, and he could change it. He could change it all.
“Well, you are…?”
Martin jumped, stammering lightly. “M-Martin! Martin Blackwood!”
Jon nodded, noting the distinct lack of his once long hair, now cut smoothly to his ears. “Well, Martin, I’m sure you’ll be able to solve this, ah, ‘dog problem’ rather swiftly, yes?”
“Y-Yeah! Of course! But, uh,” Martin wrung his hands again, an obvious habit he had developed and lost during his time working at the Institute. “Who might you be?”
“Jonathan Sims, but my friends call me Jon.” He smiled, standing and walking to the front of his desk.
Martin’s shoulders dropped ever so slightly, and Jon Knew that some part of his soul relaxed at the familiar yet unknown name he had never depended on before. “I can always help if need be.” Jon said, looking up into Martin's bright blue eyes.
The ginger man just blushed, eyes darting away as he stumbled over his words. “Oh, no no, I’ve got it! I can probably ask Tim to help, so, uhm, yeah…”
Jon just hummed, nodding softly before walking to the door. It was old, much older than him, yet Jon could see the youth, the hands that had once touched it, the life and growth of the tree that it was cut from, the men who had created it, who had planted it. He Saw it, and he smiled.
“That’s alright then, Martin.” he turned to the taller, smiling again at the sight of such a familiar yet distant face, so unknowing yet observant. “How about I make some tea? As a little welcome to the Archives gift?”
Martin nodded, following behind Jon as the shorter began walking to the break room he had once avoided so diligently. “I-I’d like that, uhm, J-Jon.”
He smiled.
The room was quiet. Sasha had left for lunch twenty minutes ago and Martin had gone to the library for his break. That left Jon and Tim in the Archives, alone.
Jon couldn’t help but think back to Tim, his Tim. To the Circus, to the memory he had once begged himself to forget that he now cherished as part of a past he would never see again. His Tim had been so brash at the end, his eyes so tired and old, so unforgiving and relentless in their judgment. His heart screamed pain and suffering and fear for the ones he loved and had loved. His mind had been a mess, a mix of shouts of anger and cries for help, his head screaming at him to move, to protect, to keep those around him safe.
He never acted on it, Jon knew and Knew that. Tim had stood there, his heart torn on his sleeve as he watched everything around him, his whole world fall apart.
“ I don’t forgive you, but… but thank you for this.”
Those had been the last words of Tim, his Tim, that he had received. In the midst of chaos, or bright colors and nauseating music, Tim had spoken to him one last time. “ I don’t forgive you…”
It had hurt, but Jon had deserved it. He had earned the hatred Tim had cultivated for him, he had earned the loss of love that Tim once held for him. He had deserved it, earned it, begged for it with his actions of malice. He held the words Tim had spat close to him, cradling them in his heart.
“Boss?”
It was Tim, this world’s Tim, not Jon’s. His eyes were so bright, so young and full of joy and life and light that had flickered out once in the long near future. Tim, with his grin and dimples and messy hair and stupidly patterned Hawaiian shirt, was standing before him.
Jon felt his breath leave his chest, his heart aching at the familiar yet unKnown sight before him. When was the last time his Tim had smiled at him like that? Had looked so relaxed, so young, so gentle? “I-I… Yes, Tim?”
Tim, in his love and light and great forgiveness he held for the world so tight to his chest, grinned at Jon, melting the man’s heart with such care he had almost forgotten a person was capable of. “I’m going out for drinks tonight with Martin and Sasha, just a little 'first-day-get-to-know-you' kinda thing. I was wondering if you’d wanna… join us?”
There was hope in Tim’s eyes. So obvious and shining, so bright and youthful and living. Jon took a breath, holding back tears of utter joy at seeing Tim so happy, so free from the terrors of the Known future. “O-Of course, Tim. Where will we be meeting?”
Tim grinned even wider, his cheeks brightening with a blush so vibrant Jon could feel it from here. “Just the place round the corner! Figured we’d want somewhere close to the middle of everyone, so that was the best bet.”
With a nod, Jon accepted Tim’s offer, feeling some part of his heart beating gently with the fading footsteps of his once-dead friend.
He was alive now, Jon was. His heart beat in his chest, his lungs pulled and pushed air into his body, his arms moved, his feet fell softly as he walked. Jon was alive, and he knew and Knew this. Walking back to his office, Jon couldn’t help but be excited for this new life, and mourn for the one he had lost so suddenly, so painfully.
But he was alive, sitting at his desk, just a few doors down from the heart of his dear Archives.