so flood me like atlantic, weather me to nothing, wash away the blood on my hands

by spiders_with_ebola

Summary:

He’d make a list. Quickly, Jon ripped out a paper from a half filled notebook. One day is all he’d give himself. One day to do everything he should've done before. Not for the world, not for the Eye, but for people he wished he could’ve called friends.

OR

post unknowing and buried, jon kills himself lol
the time this takes place is weird, jon knows he can free the assistants now and does this. tim also survived the unknowing for this. and melanie has gouged her eyes out. again, the timing is weird

also title is from atlantic by sleep token

Chapter 1: Selfish

It’s remarkably easy to buy a gun in Central London. This was selfish, and Jon knew it. He didn’t Know it, but he could feel it as he held his cause of death. The others would be mad at him. It wasn’t new, but it didn’t stop him from worrying. He knows what he is, not a single one of his coworkers has shied away from it. Not only is he a monster, but the linchpin to whatever doom-filled nonsense Elias has planned.

Jon had always felt so lucky, having escaped from death once before. He could have, no, should have died when he had first picked up that cursed book. That kid he let die should’ve made it out, and Jon was meant to be dead. Yet, here he was. It almost felt like a waste, to throw his life away after that. Despite this, the current circumstances leave him few choices. To continue living is to continue hurting everyone else, and he is so completely done with that.

Has he really done all he could? All of the evidence led to this. And he’s helped out some! Tim made it out of the Unknowing, he pulled Daisy out of the Buried, Martin still wouldn’t…

There’s nothing he could do about Martin.

What else could he try, leave a note? An apology? That wouldn’t be enough, it’s too shallow. Any more apologies would ring hollow. No, he needs to set things right. He won’t win anyone over and he can’t fix the world. But Jon has to do some things he hasn’t. Some mundane things.

He sets the gun down in his drawer, staring at it longingly. He didn’t want to die, not really. This was what was best for everyone. Including… Martin.

How could he ever make things right for Martin?

There needed to be planning involved. He’d make a list. Quickly, Jon ripped out a paper from a half filled notebook. One day is all he’d give himself. One day to do everything he should've done before. Not for the world, not for the Eye, but for people he wished he could’ve called friends.

 

Today hadn’t been the worst for Basira, comparatively. She’d woken up less tired than usual, got through some actual work, and avoided bad conversations. Calm, that’s what she was. Her break was refreshing, and when she got back, something new was on her desk.

Ah, Martin must’ve left her tea. Lukas hasn’t visited in days, maybe he’s leaving his shell again. For… some reason. The tea didn’t taste like his, though, there was considerably more sugar in it than usual. She shrugged it off and continued with her job. Whatever that was, these days.

When the man himself finally came out of his office, she called out to him. “Martin.”

He always took far too long to respond nowadays. “Yes?”

“Thank you for the tea.” Basira offered a smile, but it was flat. She hoped he knew she’s grateful.

It clearly didn’t come across, because the man looked more confused than anything. “What?” He sounded far away.

“The tea,” she held it up. “I said thank you. God knows I needed it.”

“I didn’t make any.”

She pulled a face. “Sure you did.”

He just stared, far off. “No.”

This must’ve been how Melanie felt, before she left the institute. The men here are obtuse. “Are you…”

“Basira, I would’ve known if I purposefully made you tea. I am sure.” Or maybe she is, actually. Before she has the means to respond, Jon’s out of his office. He was fidgeting, looking completely out of place, until he saw who’s there.

“Martin! You’re here- well, of course you are, you’ve been here.”

“Jon.” Martin and Basira answered at the same time.

“How have you been?” He had to look up at the lonely man, it made him look all the more pathetic. More human-like, if she was honest.

There’s that pause again. “Fine,” he responded curtly.

Jon realized that’s all he’ll get today, and it looked like a painful realization to swallow. “Ah, right. Basira, do you- um, is the tea okay?”

“You made it.” It didn’t sound like a question, it’s monotone and disbelieving. Jon only nodded, waiting for her to answer him. “It’s good, a bit sweet.”

His voice shook. “Ah, sorry.” And just like that, he walked back into his office. Not without getting another glance at Martin, of course.

“I-I should, um,”

“Yep.” Basira let him leave as well. That was probably the first conversation with The Archivist that wasn’t all spooky, and she was perfectly fine on leaving her chat with Martin there too. She sips her tea and tries to remind herself what she was just reading. It wouldn’t do anything to question it. And if Jon happened to stop by and take some of the work off her shoulders, she wouldn’t question that either.

 

Tim didn’t know he slept in immediately after he woke up. He would’ve had his phone on him, but he found that he has no idea where he is. Groggily, he sat up and looked around. Dark wood counters, cracked floors, several wood planks building up the ceiling, boxes,… ah, he was in storage. The mattress he took sank in a ton. God, his head is spinning. After more of his brain comes to, he takes note of the blanket draped over him and pillows shoved over his head. If it had been a few months ago, he would believe that Martin set him up like this. But with Peter Dick-ass always hanging around, he knew that wasn’t possible.

On the table a few meters away from his “bed” was his phone. It was the afternoon already. Despite not doing any actual work anymore, he forced himself out of the room.

The bullpen was extra quiet today, but maybe it always was. His asshole boss was just standing there, taking bullshit notes in his office. Despite the headache, Tim was in the mood to fight. So off he went, pushing the door open and waltzing right in.

Instead of being startled, Jon looked right up at him. Not through him or past him, right in his eyes.

“Oh, Tim. How’d you sleep? Was the mattress decent enough? I know it's old, but…” he trailed off.

What kind of a move was this? Was he trying to guilt him, or something? Absent-mindedly, his hands cradled the scarred parts of his arms. “How did I get there.”

“You went there yourself,” he hummed, clearly not as calm as he tried to be. “I contemplated moving you, but you looked comfortable enough, so I just. Brought you blankets.”

“I went there myself?” He laughs. “Why would I-”

“I don’t know, Tim. I don’t know, and I don’t want to argue with you today.”

“Maybe not everything is about what you want. Ever think about someone else? Or does that not fit into the ceaseless watcher’s schedule?”

“Please.”

“Please what, Jon? You ruined everything, and what, what, you think a couple blankets will fix it?”

Jon didn’t respond. He just took it, like he Knew everything that could ever come out of Tim’s mouth, and he agreed with it. And that annoyed him even further.

“You just give up, don’t you? On everyone. You can’t even look at me,” he snarled. “Look at me!”

And Jon looked. Man, he looked tired. “I’m sorry.”

“Sure you are.” Tim spat, while he looked at him and other various points of the room. Suddenly, this wasn’t worth it anymore. “If you were, you’d prove it,” he glared one last time before leaving.

 

Daisy was cold again. She was starved, and her once defined features are now sullen and weakened. Her stomach sank every time she got a glimpse of her reflection. She forbade herself to go to Basira until after hours, she didn’t need her fussing again. All she wanted to be right now was human. And in the moment where she didn’t want any other reminders of her state, Jon poked his head into her space.

“Daisy?”

Previously, she would’ve been cold. Say something simple, like what, or go away. Instead, she settled for a “Hi, Jon. Do you need anything? Or did you find something?”

“I just, I just wanted to check in. On you. How are you?” He grimaced immediately after asking. The way he said it sounded like singing a song out of key, like the tune of the question was out of order.

“Ha,” she smiled, and so did he. “Bad.”

“Can I do anything?”

It was unusual for him, but Daisy knew to expect that. “Water would be nice.”

“Of course,” he said with the most sincerity he could muster.

There’s an overwhelming need to thank him, or apologize, or ask for forgiveness. But she knew she had no right. And they were comfortable right now.

 

The fact that Jon made tea for Basira shouldn’t bother Martin as much as it does. Obviously he made none for him, he’s been going full dickhead ever since Peter showed up. It’s for everyone’s good, of course, but it hurt being so distant. Martin wanted to rope them all into a group hug and keep them from the worst. Would he ever do such a thing again? Privately, he hoped so.

With the timing of the century, Jon opened his office door and barged in. ‘Barge’ is a poor word choice, he’d be better described as ‘slinking’ or ‘moping.’

Martin said nothing.

Jon looked hopeful. “Hi.”

It took everything inside of him not to respond with the same inflection. He raised his brow.

The small man tentatively stepped forward. When he was centimeters away, Martin looked down in real confusion. That only deepened when Jon’s arms were around him.

“Jon, I-” Oh, fuck that. He wants this. It’s selfish, they’re all selfish. Martin doesn’t return the hug, but if Peter wants him to move away, he’d have to show up right now and say so. The sigh was an accident.

He wanted his friends. He wanted to be happy.

Once Jon backed away, clarity came back to him and reminded Martin of the consequences.

He broke his own heart when he muttered: “Get out.”

 

Was that all Jon could do? He’s selfish, he’s an idiot, he gave himself one day and he, what? Made tea, handed out blankets and water, and gave a man an unwanted hug. Not any man, Martin. Martin deserved so much more. But the day is over, and he needs to get this over with.

There’s no point in a note. He opened his drawer and grabbed the cause of death. Holding it to his temple was cathartic, in a way. He was never a suicidal person. Death terrified him in ways other things couldn’t. But there were things far worse than his own dying, and maybe something much better would come out of it.

What was he thinking? Not here, where everyone can hear him. Suicide almost felt… embarrassing. He wasn’t even sure who’d left the institute yet; he had to clock out first. Maybe if he dragged himself to the woods, nobody would notice his death. No, they’d think he ran away. Or he’d been kidnapped. His own flat, maybe? What if Georgie came to visit, oh god…

Sooner was better than later. Nobody benefited with him alive, where he died didn’t really matter.

Jon shoved his gun in his bag and left his office with the lights on. His desk was tidied, he made sure of that already. He passed Basira on his way out, or at least he tried to, but she stopped him.

“You’re leaving early.”

“I have… things to tend to.”

“Right,” she looked like she wanted to stop him, but decidedly didn’t. “Thank you for the tea. Earlier.” It was softer than he was used to from her.

He has to admit he’s surprised. “Oh- ah, thanks. I mean yeah. It’s nothing.”

Jon flees like a parasite.

His flat would have to do. Everything on the way there is a blur. In the past, he might’ve stopped to look for stray cats, or paid attention to strangers’ faces on the tube. Not today, of course. He wouldn’t be doing that again.

There was a strange urge to cry. Jon wouldn't let himself, selfish, this isn't about him at all.

If he was going to die, he wanted to be comfortable. Sure, he could’ve picked another method if he wanted it to be more painless, but for some reason, a gun felt like a good way to take out The Archivist.

He sat himself on his bed. No, no. It’s messy. Jonathan Sims is the only person on the planet to make their own deathbed, probably. The Eye didn’t inform him if he was right or not. He placed the tape explaining everything by his bed. It was time. The fears were fighting back, however, not allowing him to raise the gun.

After moments of fighting himself, he yanked the weapon upwards and shot himself in the face.

It all hurt until it didn’t. That was really the simplest way to put it. Jon worried that the painlessness might mean the Eye wouldn’t let him pass away, but then his vision left. And his hearing, and his feelings.

Everyone would be okay, now. Jon, as selfish as he may be, died smiling, with that being the final consolation formed in his mind.

Chapter 2: Responsibility

Summary:

Tim surprised himself with his emotional reaction. “What the HELL does that mean?”

“He’s out of the picture, now, and so are the rest of you. Unless…”

“No. We quit,” Basira assures him.

Daisy’s eyes snapped up: “What happened to Jon?”

“It seems,” he clasped his hands together. “...That my Archivist has taken his own life.”

Tim woke up with a crick in his neck. For the past week, he hasn’t seen Jon clock in once. Based on previous experiences, that probably meant he had been abducted. But something had lifted. Some sets of eyes, some heaviness in the air. Whatever it was, he didn’t care to look into it.

Standing in front of the mirror was hard nowadays. His skin was red and blotchy, wounds covering half of his face. He took his finger and raised the left side of his lip, checking out his teeth. They were yellowed and considerably sharp. Going home to brush them felt like a chore.

Cool air filled the halls. Martin hurt everyone’s heart just by standing there. The supernatural finally got to him, too, and Tim wished he wasn’t alive to see it. Those blue eyes of his have greyed; the red in his cheeks has vanished. He didn't speak, but his momentary glance to Jon’s vacant office said everything he could've.

Basira didn't make her coffee immediately, almost like she was waiting for someone else to do it for her. Eventually she did get up. Huh, she was not at the coffee machine, oh. She was making tea. Tim didn't care what she had, but he noticed the change.

“Haven’t seen Jon at all recently,” she said to no one. They both turned to Martin, or at least tried to, before realizing he’d vanished again. Basira sighs. “Do you think something happened?”

He made a noncommittal noise.

“Last time this happened, well, you know.”

“I do.”

She frowned. “If you know anything-”

“-I don’t, Basira. He’s probably just dicking around with some new monster pals of his.”

Basira wasn’t convinced or comforted. “Right.”

“It’s nice not having him around.”

“Yeah.” A beat. “Yeah.”

The two remembered at around the same time how little they have in common, and they didn't speak for the rest of the day. This didn’t stop Tim from eavesdropping when Daisy came around after the workday ended.

“Seen Jon at all?”

Basira shook her head. “No, not since last week.” God, Tim was getting tired of every conversation revolving around that man.

“S’that all you care about?”

“What.?”

“Oh no, what spooky adventure has Jon gone on today? Ooh, what if he’s dead!”

“Tim,” Daisy was very good at looking people in the eye. He’d be lying if he said she wasn’t intimidating.

“What? Probably a better place to be than working here,” why were they looking at him like that?

“Of course we all want to quit, Tim, but we can’t change anything,” Basira keeps her tone level.

“You keep saying that.” He couldn’t meet her gaze again. “Things only get worse, and we all know who’s fault it is.

Daisy looked hurt on Jon’s behalf, but Basira silently agreed.

He didn’t want to stay here, he couldn’t. It pained him to see Sasha’s old desk filled with another person. Jon’s vacant office did something to his stomach. He didn’t have stakes in the matter of his boss’s life, Jon wasn’t his friend anymore. There was no reason to care. But staying here meant thinking about him. Leaving meant hurting.

He blurted: “I wish I could quit.” The women across from him agreed. Something was different when he said it. Those words were lighter on his tongue, usually even alluding to leaving would bring strange feelings. But now… “I- I do. Quit. I want to, and…”

That made Basira’s eyes widen.

“I quit!” He laughed. It wasn’t relief or joy, but he simply had no other sounds to make. “I quit, I quit.”

“I… we should…” Daisy looked almost feeble.

“Elias,” Tim turned.

Entering his office was never something anyone did on purpose. It smelled like a new plastic chair, which sounded specific, but Melanie had come up with the comparison months before. Despite this, the three opened the door without knocking.

It felt powerful. He stood there, eyeing the man of Eyes himself, and uttered two words. “I. Quit.”

“Of course you do,” Elias sighed through his nose and mouth at the same time, somehow. “Right, then, you ladies as well?” How anticlimactic.

The licks of fire in Tim’s voice vanished at the toneless remarks from his double boss. “You, you knew we could? You Knew?”

“Mm,” He looked genuinely upset. “Something like that. Your contracts are no longer binding”

He was just giving them this information readily?

“Does it have anything to do with Jon?” Basira’s voice didn’t go up at the end of her question, almost as if she either knew the answer or didn’t care.

“Suppose it does.”

Tim surprised himself with his emotional reaction. “What the HELL does that mean?”

“He’s out of the picture, now, and so are the rest of you. Unless…”

“No. We quit,” Basira assures him.

Daisy’s eyes snapped up: “What happened to Jon?”

“It seems,” he clasped his hands together. “...That my Archivist has taken his own life.”

It was obvious that Elias wouldn’t elaborate further, but the three had already figured it out. Their ability to quit was tied to Jon. And he…

Elias continued needlessly. “It’s rather unexpected, I didn’t know he could.”

“Where?” Tim’s arms sagged, hung limply over his thighs.

“His bedroom. He’s currently laid there, and he has been since he left the institute eight days ago.”

Daisy couldn’t find it in herself to cry. She couldn’t think of what to feel. Of all things, anger was the most prominent in her chest. The bastard killed himself. In the middle of all of it, he’d killed himself. How could he leave them?

Basira felt something akin to guilt. It wasn't… bad. She felt responsible, though. In some twisted way, she knew it was her fault. It felt wrong to consider what Jon had done as, well, worth it.

Faults didn't matter to Tim right now. His ears were ringing, and he stared right past Elias’s head. All of his limbs swung around when he turned, and dazedly walked out.

What did he even want to happen? The monster’s gone. He’s free. It was finally dead. The statement eating bit of Jon that survived the explosion was gone.

But so was he.

Every human word, human breath, human choice. All of the impulsiveness and mistakes he made. Jon, the man, was dead.

This didn't fix anything! He can leave, but the Archivist had died before, so Elias will try again. Daisy and Melanie have already had their lives uprooted by this damn place, it was too late to help them. God, of course Jon must've thought he was doing everyone a justice. Why didn't he think of Martin, oh, oh Martin.

What would he tell him? It wasn't Tim’s responsibility, but surely he wouldn't want to hear it from anyone else.

Who is he kidding? If Tim barged in there with this information he'd get smacked across the face. And he'd probably deserve it.

He didn't want to live through this, he was supposed to die! Tim was supposed to die in the explosion, and Jon should have too. Cowardly. Couldn't even live to see the reactions of his, what, friends?

Now all of the responsibility falls on him to talk to Martin. Dammit.

He rapped his knuckles on his office door, which was freezing cold, by the way. Martin didn't confirm he was in there, but when Tim opened the door, there he was.

“Hey.”

Martin looked up. “Yes?”

The words won't come out. How does he break this to him? He remembers being in this position before, knocking on his parents door and spilling everything that happened to his brother at the doormat. He watched their faces morph several times, before settling on disbelief. Would Martin slam the door on him as well?

“I'm sorry.”

“Is that all?”

“No,” he exhales. “Jon. He’s…” The fog can disguise Martin’s eyes, but not his realization. “He died, Martin.”

Now, he has felt this heartbreak before. Jon has died before. Every time he’s been gone, Martin grieved and moped. He tried so hard to come to terms with it, but was saved by yet another ‘miracle.’

By Tim’s face, he could tell that this was the last time he'd have to realize this.

“You can quit, leave the institute.”

“I can't–” he wants to be cold. Martin is alone, he won't go around begging for more attention. But the way his voice breaks reveals himself more than he'd like. “You know I can't.”

The way the man’s eyes shined, not due to the light, but for the oncoming of unreleased tears, did something to Tim. This wasn't right, it felt like they were on a set path, and now they've strayed away. The narrative was wrong, none of it was meant to happen. He didn't necessarily care that Jon died, but it feels like the tunnel’s been closed off. Everything that could have been done is over. Where do they even go from here?

All he could get out was: “I know.” Of course he knows. They all had no problem with knowing, especially Jon, and yet they couldn't fix anything. “I could wait for you? To- to finish,” Tim hadn't meant for it to be a question, but the way his voice went up made it such.

“No, Tim. You leave, all three of you. I, it'll be safer for you. I have my own duties here.” These words weren't Martin’s own.

How was he supposed to object to this? He didn’t know why Martin’s been holding onto Lukas’s plans for so long, he didn't know why they're important. But he knew one of Martin’s reasons had just died, and Tim couldn't do anything about that.

“I’m sorry.”

“Sorry that it took his death for you to say that,” Martin muttered. “You can go.” The care that was once present was gone.

“I mean it, Martin-”

“You are excused.”

Tim didn't look up from the ground when he shamefully walked out. Daisy and Basira were still there, either speaking to each other or Elias. He didn't care.

Except he really, really did.

Aimlessly walking down London’s streets used to feel cathartic. He’d take in every person, every animal, every building. Sonder was the word for it, even though nobody used it unless they wanted a fun fact. He didn't experience that today, no, despite the complexity of the people in London, none of them mattered. Nobody else knew who Jon was, what he did, what happened to him. Nobody could fix it. Though Elias would try again, everything felt like it was over.

He found his way to Jon’s flat. It wasn't clear if he walked there on purpose, but he couldn't care. The door was unlocked. The bedroom door was open. Jon was right there, laid comfortably on the mattress. His bed was made; his blood dried into his pillow.

Tears were building up, yet they wouldn't leave his eyes. It only gave him this burning sensation. Looking at the man hurt his gut, but not looking made him cry. He wanted to claw himself to pieces. He wanted to rip out his eyes like Melanie. He wanted someone to die for Jon.

But oh, he realized. If someone were to die for Jon, die for revenge or in place of him, it would have to be Tim. Maybe he wasn't the worst offender, maybe not everything was his fault, but nothing could bring peace to Jon’s life more than his own death.

Time didn't matter in Jon’s flat. He looked around, letting his fingers wander on his things. The room was clean, not like it had been fixed up recently, but like it wasn't lived in enough. One table included some photos. There's one of just the two of them. Close together, standing in front of the institute. Jon had just gotten the job, and he was almost sure that Sasha took the photo.

On the floor was a shuffled pile of papers, some in piles, some littered about mindlessly. He had a bookshelf. Tim wasn't sure why that in itself made him want to cry even more, plenty of people had bookshelves. Some of the hardbacks had bookmarks sticking out. Jon wasn't finished reading them, and now he never could.

A guitar hung from the wall. There was a thin layer of dust over it, but it looked worn out. The calendar hanging right next to it had half the days of July crossed out, and Tim flipped back to see the year. 2016.

It made sense that he wanted to die in this room. Cozy was a good word for it. Besides the smell, of course. Something told Tim it didn't smell like a dead man until eight days ago.

Jon must've felt at home. Everything hung on the walls, every old notebook or backpack, the blankets he chose and the rug under Tim’s feet, he left it behind to go fix things.

Who were any of them, anymore? When was the last time Tim or Martin had gone back to their own bedrooms? Their characters had been shrunken down to their reactions. Tim wasn't anything before the institute, he was his attitude. He wasn't a man with hobbies, he was remolded by the forces at play.

Jon remembered Tim as angry, he knew that. It wasn't wrong. But maybe he would've been known for more. He survived Jane Prentiss, he survived the Unknowing, and yet, Tim knew his life was over.

Chapter 3: Care

Summary:

Maybe in this other world, Martin would get to kiss the man he loved. Maybe that would be the only redeeming quality of an Earth with Jon still in it. Maybe that would be enough for it to be good. He didn't know, and he never would.

OR

i break my own heart

Notes:

and that's a wrap :D

the previous chapter was very tim centric, now let's see martin haha. only good times here. ah.

It was cold. Martin must've been, if he was there anymore. All anyone could see was fog.

Basira searched for that man, but any time she caught a glimpse, he vanished. Despite quitting her job, Elias really had no way to stop her from physically being in the institute.

Jon would know what to do. It wouldn't be smart, but she'd be damned if whatever he came up with didn't work. As much as she hated to admit it, she missed the bastard. He was funny when he wasn't being all sporadically creepy. The man was impulsive, and of course that's why he ended up like this. Something told Basira that wasn't the only reason, but she could think about that for too long.

“Martin?” She called. “We're worried.”

Not like she expected him to respond, but there was hope in her tone. Basira didn't want to lose him too.

She called again. “Mar—” Her hand landed on something invisible. Something soft, a hand. “...Martin?”

“Jon?” It was him. Of course he called for Jon, of fucking course.

“It's Basira.” She didn't feel like questioning his current state. Martin was invisible now, why not? Anything was in the realm of possibility nowadays.

“Oh.”

“You don't need to sound so disappointed,” Basira joked, but cleared her throat when it didn't come off the way she'd liked. “What happened to you?”

She could see light saturation of his skin, some proof she wasn't talking to air. He murmured: “I feel. I feel lonely.”

“Well, you aren't.” Every part of her hoped it wasn't completely a lie. “You have Tim and I. And Daisy, if you'd believe it.”

There was a sniffle. “Jon's dead.”

Basira purses her lips. “Yeah.”

He sighs.

“You're not, though.” She squeezed his hand as hard as she could. “And you're not alone.”

“I am.”

What could she do? “Listen, I, I know I'm not Jon. And I'm not Tim. I don't know if we're even friends.” His eyes weren't visible, but she could feel their blankness. “But I don't want you to stay like this.”

There's a moment of pause, building her anticipation. Martin laughed emptily. “You know, it was all for nothing.”

“What was?”

“Me. Working with Peter.” He was fading again. “He told me. The extinction wasn't even real. I was so stupid.”

“You were doing your best.”

“I thought I could protect him,” his voice broke. “I thought I was doing everything right. And he just, he goes out and does this and,”

“Martin…”

“It's all over. You don't have to keep coming here, I knew Tim longer and he, he hasn't been around at all.”

“I think he's grieving.”

Another laugh. “No, no. It's just me.” Tim couldn't possibly have cared.

“It isn't.” The firmness in her tone surprised herself. “It's never just you, we're here. I'm here. Okay? I'm not leaving you like this.”

“What can you possibly do?”

The finality in her voice is upsetting. “I don't know. It's not like I have any powers.”

“That's for the best.”

“Yeah.”

Martin sniffled. “Just leave. Please. You, you can come back tomorrow if it makes you feel better about yourself.” Ouch. “I just need to be alone now.”

Basira wasn't winning him over today, and as much as it hurt, she obliged.

He watched her leave, and finally felt something normal. His eyes were hot and his nose crinkled, and familiar wetness trailed down his face.

“Oh…” he choked out to no listeners. No one could hear him. Maybe Elias if he was still Watching. But no tape recorders clicked on, and everyone in the institute was gone.

He was finally crying. Martin was always a crier, Sasha walked in on him once back then. Though, that wasn't her, not really. She did that, but not the one in his mind. Oh, now that still hurts. He was feeling hurt, for the first time in so long.

It wasn't like he missed his cries, but this was something he needed. Jon is dead. It's not like before, it wasn't supernatural. He is completely gone. Martin would never ask him out, never hear him laugh, never tuck him in bed and gently remove his glasses. He was gone, and everything was over.

The lonely had retreated, and now every single thing was hitting him all at once.

A guttural yell escapes him accidentally, but when he remembers that he's alone, he screams even louder.

Everyone was gone. Everyone was gone or they changed irreversibly. Martin had no one, and he was so alone, but the fog had left.

Now was the moment he realized that Basira hadn't truly left. Footsteps got louder and louder as they reapproached his door, and when she walked in, Martin did not care to cover his face.

Instead, when she poked her head in, he looked at her with truth in his real eyes.

“You're back,” she said. And Martin was being hugged. If Basira was crying as well, that wasn't anyone’s business but hers. “I'm sorry.”

He knew she shouldn't really be forgiven. She could be, but Martin was unwilling to go that far. And Basira knew that. She didn't dare to ask.

 

Martin stayed at her flat that night. Daisy lived there, unsurprisingly. They weren't the most welcoming of people, but he knew them well enough. And finally, Basira cared.

He brought his own jumpers and pajamas, falling into monotonous sleep routines. They lent him their guest room, which was more than he could ask for.

Crying was something he used to avoid doing in front of others. But somehow, in some way, Daisy didn't feel like an other. She ended on a good note with Jon. They had their similarities, and like her partner, she cared.

Daisy Tonner wasn't a hugger. She leaned on Martin's side as an alternative. Her warmth was comforting, and he drifted off with his back against the wall to the sound of The Archers.

 

The world felt like it ended when Jon died. Everyone had their guilt and faults, but it turns out, in spite of this, they still needed jobs.

Martin found a library to work at. It pained him to apply for a new place to work. He cried a third time knowing that Tim and Sasha wouldn't be there to show him the ropes. But he was qualified, and it paid well.

Jon would like it there, he knew. It probably hurt him especially to know so many things without effort. His favorite part of the job had always been research, he loved the hours he spent learning purposefully. Martin recalls the birthday event. While he doesn't remember a thing about emulsifiers, the image of Jon gesturing brightly and rambling about a topic he'd been passionate about was burned into his memory forever.

He cared about what he knew, and Martin was going to keep that sorted as a trait of Jon’s, not a symptom of the Eye.

The world was quiet. Tim visited occasionally. Everything was broken, and yet, they all cared. Martin was still here and Jon wasn't. He'd like to imagine a timeline where things went differently, but it couldn't have been much better.

Maybe in this other world, Martin would get to kiss the man he loved. Maybe that would be the only redeeming quality of an Earth with Jon still in it. Maybe that would be enough for it to be good. He didn't know, and he never would.

The world hadn't ended, sure, but there was a reason the tape recorders stopped clicking on. Now, there was nothing important to listen to, because it all had ended the moment Jonathan Sims decided to shoot himself.