Hmmm, how about no @captain-aussie - Tumblr Blog

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My second fic for the @tmabigbang! I couldn't have done it without the support of my wonderful and SO talented artists @catfishofoldin99colours and @call-of-the-ocean! Seriously! The art for this is amazing <3

AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/35087080/chapters/87400843

There was a ghost in the archives.

In his aimless drifting he heard staff whispering about it and while spooky happenings were not uncommon, the upstairs staff rarely encountered more than second hand rumor.

Jon supposed this one couldn’t be blamed on rampant imagination as he was the one perpetuating it.

He didn’t have a flat to go home to. He wandered about the building at all hours dressed in old and oversized clothes Georgie let him borrow, trailing fingertips along volumes and boxes and shelves and painting trails in the dust. Mostly, he hid from people. Scurried away when he heard them. Slipped between hallways and through doors. Really, it was no wonder and maybe Jon allowed himself to get the slightest kick over it. He certainly wasn’t going to correct anyone.

Today though. Or tonight? He’d lost track at some point. Couldn’t even be certain about which day of the week it was. Owlishly, he blinked up at the ceiling, flat on his back on the tiny office couch Tim insisted so long ago he needed and was so grateful to have. If he thought hard enough, imagined strong enough, he could still detect faint whispers of the cologne his friend--coworker favored. Lord, he was lonely. Hungry. Possibly in equal measure. And cold.

The Eye, for its part, was funneling statistics into his head about isolation sickness and all the many negative effects it had on the human body. But he wasn’t human anymore. Surely it didn’t matter. It wasn't like he could do anything about it anyway.

Martin had turned him away again and while Jon was no stranger to being left behind, he'd never built up a tolerance for the pain of abandonment. And even though Martin had told him off in no uncertain terms and perhaps despite it, Jon wanted nothing more than to climb the stairs again just to hear his voice and let it soothe him because he didn’t feel well. Hadn’t in a long time. Worse now after the herculean effort of bringing Daisy back from the coffin and he wasn’t sure he’d make it back up all those flights. He was dizzy. Unsteady. Tried it anyway. The chance of even a modicum of comfort was too large a draw.

But he never expected a topple down a flight of stairs. Or that hitting one’s head could steal sight away as surely as night swallows up the day.

From his crumpled position on the floor, Jon struggled to remember what happened. How he’d missed when reaching out to steady himself with a quaking hand. How it sent him tumbling, arse over teakettle.

How everything went black and then stayed that way.

How blurry it all was when he forced heavy lashes apart, barely making out the shape of a person looming over him. Jon startled, limbs uncoordinated, thrashing and ineffectual against their strength as they held him down, made him be still.

“Alright, alright. You’re alright, Jon.” Panicking, fuzzy and disconnected and fighting against the splitting agony bouncing around his skull, the sound torn from his throat was more wail than word. “Cut it out.”

“B’zira…?” Roughly, her fingers probed the back of his head and she wouldn’t let him shift away until whatever examination she saw fit to conduct was complete.

“Already healed up.”

“Why’sit…?” She wasn’t listening. Not to him. Jon thought there might be others there but he couldn’t make them out through the inky dark threatening at the edges of his already dwindling vision.

“Help me get him up.” Hands on him. Firm and unyielding under his arms and when he swooned they held his weight still for a moment, let him steady. “Better not be sick on me, Jon. I promise, it won’t go well for you.”

Did anything?

The cot was rough below him, sheets scratchy above. Skin sensitive, crawling. What light remained burned his eyes and he welcomed the black when it came for him.

It was dark when Jon next opened his eyes and it didn’t occur to him why that was wrong until several disorientating moments had passed. There was always light here coming in from under the door from the emergency fluorescents. He should know because on his worst days even that small amount triggered his migraines. Power outage?

No, the Eye supplied, its faint amusement a slippery, oily sensation across his mind even as it sipped on his panic like a fine wine. Jon shook, rubbing his eyes with uncoordinated hands, blinking hard, shaking his head hard enough that he was nearly sick and only succeeding in clinging to the sheets for several minutes in complete stillness to settle his roiling stomach.

Calm. Calm. Be. Calm.

Tears slipped down his face and he scrubbed them away, angry and scared and hurting. This couldn’t be happening. What would he do? He needed help. He needed, he needed someone, anyone.

He wanted Martin. With his calm voice and gentle hands and-

No. He. The only thing he’d get from Martin was another telling off and he didn’t need to fall down the stairs a second time in as many days.

Bitter, Jon shoved himself to his unsteady feet. Martin wouldn’t care anyway. Too busy with whatever project Lukas had him wrapped up in. Jon didn’t need anyone anyway and there was no one in the room to call him out on the lie.

One step.

Two.

Two until he lost his balance and slammed into the filing cabinets. Pain sparked through his side like lightning, the blinding fulmination igniting every nerve like dry tinder and sending him to his knees. Dazed, Jon fumbled for support, a handhold, and found none, the crack of his jaw colliding with the floor resonating into his bones like a thunder clap. He wanted to call out, ask for help even knowing that there would be no answer.

“M-ah’Martin.” Choked and quiet, bitten in half by a sob borne of wanting. “T. Ti-h--mm.” Jon hadn’t allowed himself to cry this way in a long time; hard and desperate, enough that his head began to pound and his chest began to ache with each hard won, scalding breath. Exhaustion flooded through veins full to bursting and there was no room for anything; for air in his lungs, blood in his body, thoughts in his brain.

There was no change when he woke, the dark was still dark. The loneliness and fear a yawning, empty cavern where his heart should be.

Up. Get up. Get up. You worthless, good for nothing, for nobody--get up!

Jon struggled, smacking his hands on the sharp edges of cabinets, the cot, before finding a piece of furniture that would support even his slight weight when he hauled himself upright with a groan of nausea. When was the last time he'd been allowed a statement? Certainly not for a few days at least. He isn't even sure of how long he spent languishing in this room. Hours? Days?

Clutter tripped him up and he nearly lost his balance stepping on an empty water bottle, the crunch of plastic under his toes next to deafening in this sea of nothing. He knew the room's dimensions and yet it seemed like he was navigating the whole archives rather than one tiny hideaway. It was hard to find his way around and hot tears of frustration, of hunger, of helplessness slipped down his face. Jon was bruised all over, knees, hips, arms, and in this maze of his own making only managed to find the cot again. Whatever time he'd spend fumbling for the door, whatever strength, wasted. Laying in the darkness gave his mind time to spiral, conjuring sounds that transformed into monsters that dug into his soft parts with gnarled fingers and took, took, took.

The cycle continued. Rest. Hope. Disappointment. Until, blessedly, Jon found his hand upon the knob. With a wet bark of laughter he waited, shivering, and realized he didn't even know what it was he wanted. Simple freedom? Escape from his cage?

God, if the door was locked.

The screech of the hinges made him wince, the fear of being announced against his will, of being seen like this, a vice around his throat. Stock still, Jon stood, grip so tight his fingers spasmed and seized.

"He'hello?" He listened, head tilted like an investigating sparrow, face turned toward the feeling of space in front of him. There was no response, just a shivering up his spine and the sensation of being watched. Jon kept to the wall, picking his pitifully slow way along and knocking old papers and push-pins off the rough, dimpled surface. Thirst. That was the first problem to solve and the staff kitchen should be the first open space he'd come across, if his muddled memory would serve. Jon winced when the first glass crashed to pieces against the floor but couldn’t be bothered to do anything about it, too busy filling the cup he had managed to grab with stale lukewarm water and gulping it down so fast he was nearly ill. The second he took slower, sipping absentmindedly while he tried to listen. Nothing. Wherever the rest of them were hiding away, it wasn’t close enough to hear the racket he was making.

Lord, he was starving. The feverish heat of his supernatural hunger a sweltering prickle beneath his skin.

If he couldn’t read statements what would happen?

Carefully, Jon made his way to the archives, tumbling over file boxes, knees colliding painfully with the hard tile and taking more than one breathless break to rest. He was surrounded by possibilities, a veritable buffet, and he couldn’t see a single one. Despite it, Jon clawed his way into the nearest bin, scattering folders and envelopes and pages left and right until he found something real. He could feel it in its proximity and he willed his eyes to work to no avail, holding the fragile papers so hard they tore between his trembling fingers.

He cried.

Tucking his face into folded arms, Jon fought to control himself, curling up tighter and tighter and tighter, willing himself to disappear. He was so hungry. So, so hungry he ached with it.

Footsteps jerked him awake and when Jon sat up the paper crumpled up around him like a nest rustled.

“You’re a mess.” Derision clear, Basria said nothing more, just hauled him back to his feet by the scruff of his shirt.

“W’wait! I--!” She paused but kept her hands on him and he was grateful because if not for that he’d surely be back on the ground. “I.”

“What?”

“I can’t." He swallowed hard and wondered if admitting this weakness would help him or hurt before blurting out, "I can’t see.”

“What?” For a moment Jon thought she just hadn’t heard him since he was speaking barely above a whisper, but he felt the air move in front of his face and assumed it was Basira’s hand. “Blind? How long?”

“Since I, since.”

“The fall.” They were moving now, Basira dragging him along even when he lost his balance or stumbled over the unseen obstacles in his way. “Shit, you really can’t see.”

“Do you think I’d lie about this?!” Voice raised, Jon ended in an indignant squeak. There was a beat of silence. “If you’re shrugging I can’t see it.”

“Maybe so.”

“I’d like to, to sit down. I don’t. I don’t feel very well.” The anger at her disbelief was draining out of him, leaving shivery weakness behind. “Please.”

“Oh, uh.” The sound of a chair scraping against the floor declared her intent before Basira shoved him into the seat. “So?”

“So, what?” Jon cradled his throbbing head in his hands.

“So. Will you heal from this?”

“How am I supposed to know that?” He didn’t mean to bite, honestly. But he hadn’t so far if that wasn’t clear enough for his interrogator. Then again, the Eye didn’t seem overly concerned, keeping up its smartass commentary, its prodding reminders that he needed to ea-read a statement soon. Awkward, the silence grew thick. Suffocating. Now, Jon just wanted to lay back down. Defeated by his trek across the office.

“Don’t think a hospital can help with this.”

“No, I suppose not.”

“D’you…” The sound of cloth shifting, as though Basira was shifting from foot to foot. “Need anything?”

“A statement?”

“Thought you couldn’t see.”

“A bedtime story, then?”

“Jon.” A warning.

“Right. Uh. I’ll just. Try and sleep.”

“Better.” He must have taken too long thinking about how he was going to get from wherever he was now to document storage. He wasn’t able to keep track of where he’d been dragged. “Here, let me.” Hands again, a bit more gentle this time as Basira led him to the cot.

Whoever said time cures all ills was a liar because time only seemed to make everything worse. Jon could barely move; he ached so badly, down into the very center of his being where the hunger grew and the nausea threatened and the only thing he could do was endure. Weather this storm like he’d weathered all else.

Let it happen.

Like he’d let everything happen.

The lack of control over his own life was infuriating.

Trapped here by Elias. Terrorized by this place and the horrors locked within it. Losing people while still in arm’s reach and watching them suffer, unable to do a damn thing about any of it. Kidnapped and tortured and manipulated and burned and cut and watched, watched, watched by the myriad things that lurked in liminal spaces and fed on agony and hopelessness.

Jon contorted in the sheets, drenched with sweat and sickness, panting from pressure and panic, head throbbing in time with the traitorous beating of his heart. Chest tight and close and horrifying. Breathe. Somehow. But it’s quick and shallow, little more than harsh, desperate sips between his own nonsensical chattering. Nothing makes it past the churning melancholy that sits between his ears and he cries, oh, he cries, silent and terrible, painful in its desolation and loneliness until exhaustion drags him down with cruel fingers tipped with claws. Jon wrapped himself up, arms tightly wound in a grim parody of an embrace. He imagined for a moment that someone else is holding him, steadying him, it’s alright, it’s okay, I’m here and I have you and I will not leave you here alone.

Like always, it’s a lie. There is no one.

Shaking. Hollow and used up, Jon collapsed into the springs, rubbing a damp cheek against the scratchy fabric, grounding himself in the feel of it on his face and inhaling the memory of a scent that used to be there back when things were just beginning to fall apart around them.

This was too hard.

The devouring pit would only grow bigger. Deeper. Until it absorbed the pieces of him he’s held on to this long. It wanted them. It wanted him. In all his wholeness and wouldn’t be content until everything that made Jon human had been consumed and buried deep where the light no longer reached. A prisoner to its whims and desires. Even now, in this never ending dark, its urgings, its promises, wormed their way around into making a sick sort of sense and Jon had never been particularly strong or brave. Giving in to its incessant demands was only a matter of time.

He shouldn’t be here.

A little voice reminds him he doesn’t belong anywhere but he definitely shouldn’t be here and the thrill of sick excitement that trips down his spine isn’t his. And he stands still.

The very apparition of hunger at the door of the Institute choking on ravenous lullabies whispered insistently into his ears; the dull roar of an empty, aching sea.

Jon ran his fingers over the wood, nails, skin catching on imperfections in the grain, raw mistakes that feel amplified without eyes to see. He finds the cool brass of the door handle. Grips it.

Trembles.

He shouldn’t be here.

Where he can sense what his god craves just beyond what might as well have been the walls of a wet paper bag. Twist. A push.

A meal.

One he could eat and eat and eat until there was nothing left but to do but sharpen his teeth on their bones. Run his tongue over lips filmed in spilled and remnant fear, rich and indulgent.

Instead of this emptiness, these mouthfuls of stale grief heaved into his lungs by time and loneliness, he could be full. Sated.

Just one.

Just one. To stop the hurting, howling, hammering need.

“Please.” Hoarse and soft. Shuddering out of a throat tight with pain.

And he doesn’t know what he’s asking for. Absolution? Mercy? A thrice damned break from the agony, the punishment of being trapped in this damaged and dilapidated physical body.

“What are you doing?”

His heart was going to burst. Explode in his chest and shatter his ribs like desert-dry earth as he fought for the air to respond.

“Is this what you want?”

No. No. Of course not.

Yes.

More than anything.

“You want to hunt innocent people, Jon?”

No.

Just one.

“Step away from the door.”

He can imagine her expression. The derision. He deserved it. He craved it. Let him be less than. It would make the inhuman need easier to bear.

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

A lie. That’s all any of them wanted. Why else would they be so content to watch him suffer like this? Starve like this? Struggle like this?

“But I will, Jon. I will protect them if you make me.”

As though it was ever his choice. His hand forcing the inevitable forward.

“I need--” He whimpered. Desperate.

“You don’t.”

“Help.” Fabric shifts, he can hear it. The Eye informs him she’d been reaching for her pistol. A part of him yearns to stop existing and is drowned out by the roar of thoughts belonging to something else.

“Okay.”

Her hold on him is firm and the contact burns even through the sleeve of his shirt as she pulls him through what he assumes is the Archive. It smells like it. Moldering paper and decay. Leftover terrors abandoned to rot in the dark with no one to read them. He stumbles. She doesn’t seem to care, just yanks him forward, forward, forward. Unyielding and everything feels far too fast.

“The chair, just here.” Basira isn’t unkind. More clinical. Touch just enough. Just to assess. Just how much of a threat? “I’ve the key.” Jon groped for the set in his pocket, panic rising up when there was nothing there. Trapped. The Eye yowled. His head throbbed. “Hey. Hey, we’ll check up on you.” Wet dripped onto his skin. Cold against the heat of him. The fever building in his blood. When he touched his face his fingertips came away damp. “You did the right thing.”

Had he? It didn’t feel right.

“This is a chance to kick this habit.”

He didn’t feel right.

“I’ll be back with some water and tablets.”

The latch clicked loud as a gunshot.

The Eye clawed at its flesh and bone walls.

Jon drifted, awash in second hand sensation, diaphanous and tethered by a thin thread of unbreakable awareness that forced him to feel. Punishment for allowing himself to be caught, no doubt. No one was coming. There hadn’t been anyone in a long, long time and Jon couldn’t help the sounds escaping from behind teeth clenched so hard he heard them creak. He groaned, twisted up on the cot, tangled up in sweat-soaked sheets like clinging spider’s silk and buried his tear stained face in the pillow to stifle a sob.

Breathe.

There wasn’t enough room in his body; everything knotted in razor wire and drawn taut.

In. Out.

There was no escaping how he hurt.

In.

Hold.

Until it burst free, loud in his numb ears. A gasp like drowning. A plea only the Eye could hear. Laughter just for him.

I'm scared, He wanted to say. But no one would believe him. Not even Martin. Not now.

Jon gasped around a caustic pang in remembering.

It hadn’t been like falling over a cliff.

No, nothing as terrible as that, knowing eventually that swift impact would steal it all away.

No.

More like a prolonged sink into the sea that never, ever seemed to end. Warm. Soft. Slow. Drowning endlessly in that deep ocean. Giving him the gift of a world he’d never expected to know.

It was exhilarating.

It was terrifying.

It was wrong.

Jon remembers at first being enthralled by Martin’s kindness. How even when Jon was at his worst, Martin insisted he was worth it. Patient and kind, comforting and supportive, even when he rejected his overtures of friendship out of fear. Tea. Biscuits. Sometimes Jon would look up from his paperwork to find they’d appeared as if by magic. After Prentiss. After the Circus. After traveling all over god’s creation and finding nothing. Martin had offered him the quiet space to just be.

It got worse. Jon couldn’t stop thinking about him. How he moved. How he spoke. How he loved him despite the hurt. Jon was kept awake at night by memories of his careful touch, never too much, never enough, and he longed for more. Was breathless with want. To feel him, hold him. Press his lips to his.

So greedy he could almost feel it.

Jon would physically shake himself to dispel those treacherous thoughts.

He was a monster.

Martin was a kind man. That’s all. What he did for Jon, he’d do for anyone in a situation such as theirs. He’d caused him enough trouble. He didn’t deserve more.

Now, without his sight or the distraction of statements, and suffocating in endless hunger and agony, Martin became all Jon could think about. Day. Night. All the horrible, waking hours in between. His love for him bloomed out of control like a choking weed until he was consumed by it, not sure where the pain of it ended and the aching famine in his center began. When he clawed his way up and out of his nightmares the first thing he turned to was the memory of Martin’s reassurances, his hands cupping his shoulder, his cheek, his head, the back of his neck as he pressed him close in an embrace and it dispelled the bitter fear quicker than anything else but left him aching for him. It was the tiniest price to pay for the remembrance of his company.

It was enough.

It had to be.

Would Martin be angry if he knew that Jon had spent their time together selfishly gathering those small moments close to him? Hiding them away in the deepest parts of himself so he could take them away with him into the dark? Would he be disgusted? That he turned to the brush of a fingertip, a grin, a laugh, the way Martin’s eyes crinkled at the edges when Tim (god, Tim), made him laugh?

Or would he smile; cover his blushing face in his palms to hide that pretty pink, if ever Jon worked up the courage to tell him that he’d never seen anything more beautiful, more genuine, in his life? How tragic that Martin didn’t even know the power his voice contained; leaving Jon undone with even the shortest of phrases.

Alone as Jon was, the feeling grew. Bigger than he could contain, and at least no one could hear him when it escaped its sand and straw confines, heart hammering behind the shrinking clutch of his ribs. There wasn’t enough air. Never enough. He swallowed. Hard. Barely able to draw breath between his desperately hidden cries and the crushing fist of guilt clasped tight around both lungs. Please. Just. Let him linger a moment longer surrounded by the arms of his memory. Safe. Suspended weightless in the sweet spot between consciousness and the finespun illusion of death known colloquially as sleep. Let him have this one thing. This one bright thing untouched by ostensible fog before he foundered.

Please.

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