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you hate my bad behavior, you cut my loosened tongue paring: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims word count: 10.4k summary: Jon can’t continue on being a pawn for the Eye. But short of tendering his resignation via eyeball destruction, what is there? TW: mild gore, self-mutilation

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Martin said no. He laughed as he said it. He said Jon was just looking for an excuse not to. Is that true? Jon doesn’t know. He’d felt pretty damn sure of himself when he’d practically stormed into Martin’s office and all but begged him to leave the Institute together. But Martin had seen through the plea—or he’d not seen Jon’s sincerity, or maybe, maybe Martin had just not wanted to do it, and he didn’t want to be responsible for Jon’s decision.

But Jon isn’t going to do it alone. And he knows that it was wrong to pin it on Martin in the first place, but the fact of the matter is that he’s not going to do it alone, and there’s absolutely no one else he would blind himself with.

What does it say about him that he finds that statement a little bit romantic now?

He can’t continue being a pawn like this. He can’t keep serving the Eye. But short of tendering his resignation via eyeball destruction, what is there? Jon sits in his office by himself, head in his hands, fingers sinking into his messy hair and tugging. The pinpricks of pain zinging down his scalp ground him, just a little.

He’s so hungry. It’s not like regular hunger, not really, it’s not like his stomach is growling or cramping around its own emptiness. But his hands shake, his vision tunnels, his muscles ache, and his head hurts. If he could just–if he could just take a live statement, just one, to get him back on his feet, maybe he could think. He could find a solution.

As though it would be any easier. As though Beholding would even allow Jon to stumble upon that information of his own volition. If he even tried, he’s sure it would be impossible to grasp, slipping just under recognition. It barely allowed him to grab that damned tape to begin with.

Jon thinks about all the people whose dreams he now haunts. He thinks about having his own horror pulled from his mouth without his permission. He thinks about being sought out in a public place and being forced to relive the worst moments of his life. He thinks about Mr. Spider. It’s funny, really, that now, Mr. Spider is so far beyond his greatest fear. He’s still afraid of spiders, of course—as he is (quite appropriately, he thinks) afraid of just about everything these days—but it’s not the same.

Jon thinks about his humanity. If it even exists anymore. It does, he’s sure, just in a much more abstract way than he’s comfortable with. He’s human because he has human experiences. (For the most part.) He’s human because he loves humanity. He’s human because he believes he is. Of course, that’s something he’s been pondering more and more recently, and every time he thinks about it, it becomes harder to convince himself, but he is. He’s human. And he won’t feed on other humans, he won’t be their new worst fear. He won’t feed the Eye with them.

He just has to find a way to make himself… useless. He can’t quit, that much is clear. And with as little interference from Peter as there is, he really doubts that anything he does short of resignation will warrant a reprimand of any kind. What would Peter even do? Send him to time out?

Actually, Jon thinks, he might do just that. A little trip to the Lonely to give him time to think about what he’s done.

But it doesn’t matter. Hopefully, by the time Peter catches on, it will be too late anyways.

Slowly, Jon extracts his fingers from his hair, and he looks wearily up at the clock on the wall across from his desk.

As he removes the elastic around his wrist and forces his hair back into something more manageable, he quietly assures himself, “There’s time. It’s not too late.”

***

After such a startling interruption, Martin is actually having some amount of trouble getting back to work. He’s doing it, of course—what could truly stop him at this point?—but there’s a certain groove he’s been able to get into more and more recently that he can’t find now. It’s sort of like succumbing to something. He settles into a semi-comfortable position, arranges his hands over the keyboard, and lets his mind drift while he types. Not really thinking of anything, just meandering aimlessly down empty roads. Occasionally a coherent thought will break through, but not for long, not anything Martin can actually cling to.

Jon has gone and pulled him out of that groove, and he’s finding it rather difficult to settle back in. He doesn’t want the rest of the work day wasted—and really, it won’t be. It hasn’t been. The fact that Martin turned down Jon’s “offer” to run away together is great strides for the Lonely. But there’s actual, real-life busywork that needs to be completed, and he can’t do that when all he can think about is Jon.

He really hadn’t looked good. Dark, dark circles under his eyes. He’d practically been shaking when he barreled into Martin’s office. It seemed like he was having a hard time finding the words he wanted to use. He was so thin. Jon’s always been a thin man, mind you, since the day Martin met him, but today he looked… almost frail.

“I think he might actually work himself to death,” Tim had joked once as all three assistants left for the day, leaving Jon behind in his office, recording another statement.

“That’s not funny,” Martin had scolded, and Tim raised his hands in surrender—but looking back, was it a joke?

Jon might actually work himself to death.

Not that that’s even possible anymore, is it? Work is what sustains him. Statements, knowledge, Knowing. It gets him by. It’s his inane proposed plan that would actually kill him. Cutting himself off from the Eye? Seriously, what the fuck had he been thinking? Nothing else is keeping him alive, Martin knows that, knows it like he knows his own name. Severing that tether would leave Jon a crumpled heap on the floor like a marionette whose strings have been cut.

And even so, it’s not like Jon was serious. He came to Martin because he wanted someone to give him a reason not to cut that tie, to emphatically beg him not to. He wanted Martin to be the heavy, and what do you know, he filled his role very nicely. It pisses him off, honestly, that Jon would carelessly dangle something like that in front of him—would use his feelings against him like that.

But that… that gives him pause. Because Jon wouldn’t do something like that. Which either means that Jon has changed in a very drastic way since the last time they’d had an interaction that lasted longer than Martin could hold his breath, or…

Or he meant it.

And if he meant it, then—then Martin denied him, and that’s fine, really, because Martin would have denied him anyway, he has to see this thing through to the end, he can’t flounce off now, but. But. Jon has a pattern of self destruction. And it shouldn’t be his problem, really, what Jon will do instead of gouging his eyes out, but it is.

Martin makes a decision, perhaps a foolish one, but a decision nevertheless. He pushes back from his desk and stretches his back, wincing at the particularly concerning sounding cracks. He takes in a deep breath, cloaks himself in Loneliness, and heads to the basement.

***

The first thing Jon does is make a list. How can he make himself useless to the Eye without completely untethering himself? He thinks maybe he could deafen himself, or wear noise canceling headphones. If he can’t hear statements, surely he won’t be of service. But he Knows then that even if he were completely deaf, Beholding would teach him how to read lips.

Then, perhaps, he could cover his mouth. Duct tape, or a gag, something. He can’t Compel without his voice. But those things are so impermanent. Duct tape won’t hold forever, and eventually he will need to drink something.

So, Jon starts researching. His Google history is a bit of a mess.

human voice box location human vocal cords vocal cord removal vocal cord removal process vocal cord removal talking

He finds out a laryngectomy might prove useful for a few months, but he could relearn how to speak. Not in the cards, then.

He scrubs a hand over his face and leans back in his desk chair, closing his eyes. He’s so tired. He’s sick of making these decisions. Don’t make it my decision, Martin had said, but why not? Why couldn’t someone else just push Jon aside, cut him off, remove culpability from his hands? He supposes that’s what had been done, while he was comatose. And it seems like things carried on… well, not “just fine,” but not any worse than if Jon had been there. Why does he have to take responsibility for every goddamn thing?

You didn’t have to take the promotion, you fucking twit. You could have said no. You could have said, “I think Sasha is more qualified for that position than I am, and you won’t be disappointed in her.”

But then, could he? Even putting aside that Jon never would have wanted to doom Sasha (or anyone else) to the fate of the Archivist, could he have ever turned down a promotion? So desperate for the approval of superiors was he that he ruined his own life for it. Pathetic, honestly. What, just because his gran didn’t give him enough kisses on the head, now he’s a funnel for fear?

Jon rubs at his tired eyes. Just sitting here thinking himself into a spiral (not that kind of Spiral, he quickly amends, and almost manages a little laugh at the thought) isn’t doing anyone any favors. He has to do something. Make a decision. Make himself useless. He won’t be a puppet. And there’s no use in waiting for Martin to change his mind. Martin won’t change his mind. It was foolish of him to expect differently. Martin’s dealing with his own slew of problems, and any temptation he would have felt to “run away” with Jon has long since sailed. Jon’s different now, after all. He made that choice.

He made that choice. He shouldn’t have, he realises now with a sickening twist of his stomach. He’s so tired now because of that choice. He wants nothing more than for the reins to be taken from him—they could have been. The reins would’ve slipped from his fingers so easily. He should have just—he should have let go, instead of clinging to life. Jon squeezes his eyes tightly shut and breathes slowly and surely, like Martin taught him to do.

“Panic attacks are right bastards.”

“I wasn’t—I wasn’t panicking, Martin, I’m fine.”

“…It’s okay if you were, Jon. You’ve been under a lot of stress recently. It’s only natural for your body to respond to that stress.”

“Y-yes, alright, thank you.”

“…D’you want me to leave?”

“No— I, um. No, if it… If it’s all the same to you, could you…?”

“Stay?”

“Yes.”

“Yeah, alright, Jon. I can do that.”

Things had been so… not easy, but easier. Things were so much easier then. It felt like there was nothing but time for the two of them. After Jon had finally let down his walls, just a little, and found himself realizing that Martin was… actually quite nice to spend time with. It was only a matter of time before Jon had another realisation—that his feelings for Martin weren’t exactly platonic in nature. And then the Unknowing.

The night before, Jon had said, “I want to talk to you about something,” wringing his hands and looking anywhere but Martin’s face. He wasn’t used to expressing his feelings , but it could be his last night alive, and by god, he was going to do it. For Martin. (For himself, too.)

But Martin had placed a hand on Jon’s arm, and he’d had no choice but to meet Martin’s eye. “Save it,” Martin insisted, his tone as gentle as Jon had ever heard it.

“But—”

“Save it. For when you come back.”

And that had been that. Martin wanted to give Jon something to come back for. He wanted to leave some things unsaid, so Jon wouldn’t feel like he had no regrets. A reason to return.

Jon realises, with a startle, that he’s been sitting here contemplating he and Martin’s relationship for almost 20 minutes, and has made no headway on what to do to make himself powerless. Is he really that out of sorts? Or is this another one of the Eye’s tricks—a distraction? He grits his teeth, in the process biting his tongue, and—oh.

Jon makes a decision.

***

Martin ghosts down the hallway. He slips past other people on his floor—his colleagues, he supposes, but he’s more of a one-man department—and quietly makes his way into the stairwell. (Taking the lift would draw too much attention. If he wants to stay invisible, all he has to do is make sure no one is looking at him—or has any reason to.) From there, it’s a quick step-over-step down four flights of stairs to the Archives. He slips in unnoticed, into the nearly-empty bullpen, where it seems just one person is stationed at their desk—Melanie—and is staring resolutely at the door to Jon’s office while she picks something out from under her nails.

A beat passes, and then Melanie, who now seems satisfied nothing is amiss, drops her gaze back to her computer.

A moment too soon, Martin supposes, because just a few seconds later, Jon’s door swings open and he steps out into the common area. Immediately Melanie’s eyes snap back to look at him, an undeniable mistrust lurking in their depths. She’s never liked Jon, Martin knows, but he hasn’t been around to witness just how… disgusted she seems with him lately.

Jon, to his credit, takes it in stride. He glances around the bullpen, eyes sliding right over Martin—just like they’re supposed to—before settling back on Melanie.

“Do you know where Daisy and Basira are?” he asks, and without skipping a beat, Melanie sighs and rolls her eyes.

“No. Is that part of the job description, now? Am I supposed to be stalking my coworkers?”

Jon practically flinches at that, but he doesn’t drop his gaze. Melanie was never a victim of Jon’s paranoia, but it doesn’t seem like she’s opposed to brandishing it like a weapon. “No,” Jon sighs, “I just—I found something out. It’s something I think you’ll all be very interested to hear, a-and it will be conducive to just, tell you all at once. I was hoping Daisy and Basira would be nearby.”

“Can’t you just Know where they are?” Melanie retorts with so much acid on her tongue, even Martin feels its sting.

“Not on an empty stomach,” Jon snaps, and then some unidentifiable emotion flits across his face—something like guilt, maybe. Martin wishes he knew what Jon was thinking.

Melanie mutters something under her breath that Martin can’t make out, and then grabs her phone, tapping at the screen a few times. The silence stretches between them, and Jon finally lowers his gaze to the ground. Melanie’s phone buzzes, and she lets out a short huff of breath.

“They’re just around the corner,” she relays. “They’ll be back any minute.”

“Alright. Thank you, Melanie. I… I’ll be in my office. Just let me know when they return.”

Melanie makes a noncommittal noise, but Jon must take that as an affirmative, because he turns and retreats to his office. Martin manages to slip inside before Jon has closed the door behind himself, and leans back against the wall, forcing himself to blend in while he watches.

Jon sits down in front of his desk and settles his head in his hands for a moment, rubbing circles into his temples. He closes his eyes. Before that can go on too long, though—any more than thirty consecutive seconds spent relaxing, and Jon might actually combust—he sits back up and faces his computer.

His computer is faced away from Martin, which is awfully inconvenient, but he knows that if he presses his luck, Jon will be able to feel his presence. He’s already sort of pushing his luck by trying to lurk in the same room as an avatar of the Eye. But this particular avatar is exhausted, and hungry—not exactly at the top of his game—so Martin has a good feeling he will go undetected as long as he doesn’t do anything truly stupid.

Jon looks at his computer screen for a moment, and then types something, and then scrolls through a page of search results. He looks a bit ashen as he does so, but the line of his mouth is determined. He rubs at his mouth and winces, and then types another search term, and reads again.

This goes on for a few minutes. Martin is intensely curious to know what Jon is searching for. What could he possibly need to research, now that he’s got the whole of Knowledge at his fingertips? Before he can figure out how to snoop further and find out, however, there are three staccato bangs on Jon’s door that nearly have Martin jumping out of his skin.

Despite his rationale being fully intact, for at least ten seconds he’s sure Jane Prentiss is back. He nearly gives up his facade just to warn Jon, to shelter him with his body—the last thing Jon needs is more scars, more trauma.

Thankfully, before he can make a wretched mistake like that, Jon calls out, “Yes, thank you! I’ll be right out,” and Martin realises it must be Melanie.

Heart pounding, blood pumping, Martin follows Jon out of his office. Mind racing, he forgets to peek at what Jon was doing on his computer. Jane Prentiss. Really? After all this time, Martin, still so afraid of the worm lady? You brought Jon the ashes yourself, what were you thinking?

Martin watches as Jon sits his assistants down and carefully, methodically tells them how they can quit. He doesn’t make eye contact with them as he does so, instead choosing to stare at his scarred and mottled hands. He sounds so matter-of-fact, so removed—so different from how he’d presented the information to Martin not too long ago. He watches as the women’s faces go from intrigue, to suspicion, to horror, to outrage, to contemplation. He watches Jon answer their questions with no hesitation.

Once Jon has said what he needs to say, he stands, sways a little, and then rights himself without any of his assistants noticing the falter. They’re too caught up in their own thoughts to notice much of anything, really. But as Jon turns to leave, Daisy stands.

“Are you going to do it?” she asks, arms crossed over her chest. In another time, Martin would have interpreted her body language as antagonising. Right now, however, he just sees it as self-protective.

“No,” Jon replies with finality. “I can’t.” He sucks in a deep breath, and then continues, “But—a-and I assume this goes without saying—I don’t want my decision to influence yours. None of you have any obligation to me, or to see this through to the end. I-I know you know that. It just… bears repeating.” He nods to himself, the furrow of his brow never relaxing. “J-just let me know what you decide. If you decide.” Martin watches as Jon’s Adam’s apple bobs with his rough swallow. “I’ll be in my office.”

And then he turns and leaves, leaving Martin with the archival assistants in the bullpen. It almost feels like old times, except none of them can see him, and he really doesn’t know these people like he knew Sasha and Tim. Or… like he thought he knew Sasha and Tim.

Seeing Jon making rational decisions settles something for Martin. Jon’s not doing well, that much is obvious, but who is, really? He’ll be okay. Relatively. And Martin, honestly, was stupid to leave his post to come check on him. What the hell was he thinking, seriously? Peter would be so righteously disappointed if he knew.

Slowly, Martin ghosts back through the Archives. He drags his fingers along the walls, like he used to do when he lived down here, finding his way through in the dark, clothed in little more than his pants. Despite the reason for the memories—once again he shudders at the thought of Jane Prentiss—the memories themselves almost make him smile. It was the first time Jon had ever given credence to anything he said, and from there, slowly began to trust him. That all but disappeared after Martin found Gertrude’s body, but the memories are still fond.

He doesn’t like thinking about the way Jon used to treat him. It’s all Peter brings up nowadays. He used to say things like, “He’s dead, Martin. I know it hurts, but if you just let Forsaken in, I promise it won’t hurt anymore.” Now he says, “Remember the way he used to treat you. He’s the same person, but worse. Not even a person. He doesn’t care about you.”

Martin desperately wishes things weren’t so goddamn complicated.

He makes it to the door to the stairwell, and then he pauses. Did he hear something? Martin takes a moment, straining to hear, but—

There’s no need. The next thing Martin hears is a scream.

***

The first pass of the blade through his tongue is a white hot pain Jon has never experienced before. He’s been hurt so many times, burned and cut and burrowed into and restrained by plastic and veritably blown up, but this is like none of those. He always thinks it can’t get worse, there’s no way the pain he’s felt could be trumped, and he is always wrong.

Jon slices his tongue out of his mouth and can barely make a noise for how overwhelming the pain is. The pain feels like a punishment—like Beholding is lashing out, cuffing him at his core. His mouth fills with blood almost immediately, dribbles over his lips and onto the floor. His tongue drops into the bin in front of him. At least he can’t taste it, he thinks, but the Eye passive-aggressively drops the Knowledge into his head, and even without taste buds, he Knows the taste of iron and salt.

As quickly as the blood began burbling out of the new wound in his mouth, it stops, sealed up, and Jon thinks that will be all. Tongueless, unable to speak, unable to Compel. Useless to the Eye, but still connected. The best he could do in such circumstances, he supposes.

And then he feels something new, something worse. Not painful, but awful all the same.

Jon feels his tongue growing back. He makes a broken noise in the back of his throat, and before he can truly comprehend the mess he’s made, he has enough new muscle in his mouth to gasp, “No, no, no.”

He takes the blade to his mouth again.

“No.” The word is a strangled noise with his twice-recovered tongue.

No— slice — no — slice — no.

Jon looks down into the waste bin below him and feels ill at what he sees. His jaw trembles from being held open so wide, and his mouth tastes acrid, metallic. His hands shake. He can’t imagine what he would look like to an outsider, but—Beholding seamlessly deposits the image into his mind. Kneeling before the bin, blood drenching the front of him, blood-slick fingers wrapped tight around the hilt of the blade he’s using. He didn’t have the forethought to take off his shirt.

He lets out a sob, the sound wet. There comes a knock at the door. Jon lets out an undignified noise, aiming to call out to the intruder that he’s busy, but his tongue hasn’t yet fully reformed.

“Jon?” It’s Daisy. Daisy can’t see him like this. What—what if she sees the blood and something in her snaps? What if the Hunt grips her again? It seems foolish of him to worry about that now, it feels like it should be the least of his worries, but he can’t help the fear that clenches at his heart now.

“Ah—” he tries, his half-formed tongue curling in his mouth, but he cuts himself off when a surprising pain lances through the muscle. His eyes widen, and for a moment he wonders if this doesn’t work, if he can’t successfully rid himself of his tongue, will there be—will it be painful to speak? When the Eye begs Compulsion of him, will it burn with every word? He didn’t think—he wasn’t thinking—

“Alright, I’m coming in,” Daisy’s muffled grunt comes through the door, and then she shoulders inside, and on instinct Jon covers his mouth with his free hand, curling in on himself as if to hide. She takes one step inside and Jon can feel the moment her eyes land on him. A silent beat passes, heavy and oppressive, and then Daisy says, “What the fuck.” And then Daisy screams, “ Jon, what the fuck?!”

Jon doesn’t look at her, just hunches closer in on himself. His hand slips against his mouth, slippery with blood, and he squeezes his eyes closed. No, no, no. This isn’t how this was supposed to go. He was supposed to finish up here quickly, clean up, and send out an email to his assistants explaining that from now on he’ll be communicating by text or email or—or white board, for all he cares—and then… and then…

What?

Jon realises with horrifying clarity that this was never going to work. He tried to cut off his finger when he went to retrieve Daisy from the coffin, and that hadn’t worked. It was different, he thought, because he wasn’t actually able to get the blade all the way through, but—this was never going to work. And if it had, then what? He eats by recording statements. Would he have withered away without any way to feed the Eye?

This is his problem, he knows. He doesn’t think. When he feels something, he just acts. He makes these horrible, rash, self-sacrificing decisions without ever thinking about the after.

And the after is this:

Daisy is frozen by the door, a look of abject horror on her face. Basira and Melanie waste no time in rushing over to see what the commotion is, and their reactions are a bit staggered. Basira gasps sharply, but says nothing else, raising her hand to her mouth as if to hold in a scream—or a retch. Her eyes are wide, flicking to each damning piece of evidence: Jon, hunched on the floor, covered in blood; the knife still gripped tightly in his hand; the waste bin, full of red and pink; the way Jon’s mouth is hidden behind his hand.

Melanie’s face has drained of all color, and she grips the doorway to keep herself upright. “Oh Christ,” she breathes, swaying a bit on her feet. A tape recorder on his desk clicks on.

Suddenly, Daisy is livid. “Jon, what have you done?” she asks, her voice dark. “What did you do?”

Jon can’t speak. His tongue rests against the roof of his mouth, grown back to its original size, but he can’t move. Stupid, stupid, stupid. He tries to remember what Martin said about breathing. How to do it when it feels impossible. He manages a brief, shuddering inhale through his nose, and when his lungs scream with relief, he realises he must have been holding his breath for quite some time.

“ Jon, ” Daisy snaps, and finally, Jon drops his hand from his mouth. He places it on the floor to steady himself, next to the new bloodstains on the carpet.

“I’m fine,” he croaks, wincing when it feels like his tongue is tearing itself to shreds just to press up to make the n in “fine.” Tears spring to his eyes, but at least he’s lucky enough that he’s not facing them—they can’t see.

“Glad to hear it,” she snarls, not sounding particularly happy about it at all. “Now tell us what the fuck you just did.”

“I…” Jon’s eyes are locked on the tongues in his waste bin. His stomach roils at the sight, but he’s not concerned about vomiting—he hasn’t actually consumed real food in…days, he thinks. “I was just…” He was right. Each word burns. He can tell he sounds different, slurring, his new tongue untrained and weak. He doesn’t want to explain this—he’s genuinely unsure if he could even if he did want to.

His one saving grace is that Martin isn’t here to witness this. Isn’t here to berate him about his theatrics, angry that once again Jon has done something reckless and stupid. (At the same time, all he wants is Martin. He knows Martin would know just how to take care of this. Just how to take care of him. He would swoop in and make things okay, and only once they were okay would he reprimand Jon half to death.)

Jon’s tongue is swollen in his mouth, throbbing. It’s all he can really focus on, the only thing keeping him in the present moment. Blood rushes in his ears, so loudly he doesn’t hear it when Martin appears behind his assistants.

He almost doesn’t even hear it when Martin makes himself known by gasping, “Oh my God.”

***

The scene laid before Martin is something out of a B-list horror film. And when his life feels much like a B-list horror film so much of the time, it’s jarring to actually step into one. He’s not sure he’s ever seen so much—so much blood before. It’s not covering everything, but it pools around Jon’s knees, it’s soaking Jon’s shirt, it’s staining his chin and neck. His first thought is, Oh, God, something’s attacked Jon.

Then he sees the knife. For another second, a split second, the glorious moment before everything snaps into place, Martin thinks, He must have had to defend himself.

How wretched that the truth of the situation is so much worse than that.

It clicks. Martin wobbles out an, “Oh my god,” and stumbles back, just a bit. The three women in front of him wrench their heads around to look at him, surprised by his presence, with clear questions in their eyes—but there’s something more concerning currently, so they each decide to can it and instead turn back to Jon.

Jon is looking up at Martin. His eyes are bloodshot, filled to the brim with guilt and mortification and—and just a little bit of fear. Why does Jon look scared to see him?

None of the others have taken a step further into his office. Whether because they’re stunned still, or don’t know how to handle the situation, or they’re too scared to—Jon is still by himself in his office, drenched in sweat and blood, clearly trying to make himself as small as possible.

Martin doesn’t really know what to do, either. He knows what he’s supposed to do. He’s supposed to turn on his heel, throw a flippant, “Not my problem,” over his shoulder, and get back to work. He’s supposed to not care. He’s supposed to shrug and leave and hope they can figure it out themselves—no, not even. He’s supposed to shrug and leave and be apathetic to the entire situation.

But he can’t. Because Martin cares so goddamn much.

He’d almost forgotten how. He’d done a very good job, he thinks, of forgetting to care when Jon suggested gouging their eyes out together. He’d cared so little that he’d forgotten to ask Jon what the alternative was. If I don’t do this with you, what will you do? He’d cared so little, it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter if Jon meant what he said, if he was genuine when he asked Martin to quit their jobs together. It didn’t matter, it didn’t concern him, it wasn’t his problem. He wants to tell himself that he didn’t really believe Jon was being sincere—that even if he had cared, it wouldn’t have mattered, because he was convinced Jon was just looking for someone to tell him not to.

But he’s not sure he believes that now. He thinks maybe he just didn’t care enough to give Jon a real answer. He’d said what he’d had to to get Jon out of his office so he could go back to work.

Martin’s stomach lurches at the idea. He feels ill. He steps closer, around Basira and Melanie. He all but physically moves Daisy out of his way, and carefully enters Jon’s office.

“Jon,” he says, and his voice is gentle. As he moves closer, he does so slowly. Jon looks like a cornered animal. Martin imagines the women behind him must be craning their necks around him to see what’s happening. Daisy is practically vibrating with a mix of rage and concern. “What happened?”

Jon just wordlessly shakes his head. His gaze is pleading—for what, Martin doesn’t know, but he knows Jon is trying desperately to communicate something to him. Then he glances down at the waste bin in front of Jon, and the man on the floor makes an aborted, choking noise that sounds a lot like “ Don’t. ”

Unfortunately for them both, he’s just a beat too late.

Though Martin is oftentimes pegged as someone with a rather weak stomach for gore, he actually prides himself on being able to handle quite a lot before he gets woozy. This, he thinks dazedly, is quite a few paces over that line.

“Ah,” he says, his voice an octave higher than usual. He slides his gaze back over to Jon, and guilt is written plainly on his face. Martin steps closer, pointedly not looking at the refuse, and slowly crouches down next to Jon. His eyes search Jon’s face for something, looking to see if he’s in need of immediate medical attention. When he comes to the conclusion that Jon is at least physically okay for now, his eyes follow a path down Jon’s arm to the knife he’s still white-knuckling.

He feels three strong gazes on his back. Without looking away from the blade in Jon’s hand, he asks, “Would you three mind giving us a few minutes?” He imagines that it’s not going to be easy to get Jon to cooperate if he feels like he’s being scrutinized.

Daisy just manages to get out, “Are you fucking kidding—?” before Basira cuts her off with a firm utterance of her name.

“We’ll be right outside,” Basira says, and once again without looking up, Martin nods.

The door closes, and Martin breathes a little sigh of relief. He reaches out his hand, palm up. “Can I have the knife, please, Jon?”

Jon’s eyes follow Martin’s to the steel grip he has on the hilt of the blade, and he hesitates. Martin’s not sure why. Jon looks pained as he does it.

“C’mon, it’s alright,” he tries to soothe, and this time he uses both hands, one to carefully pry Jon’s fingers open, and the other to gently grab the knife from his palm. Movements slow and steady, he places the blade on Jon’s desk.

The moment the blade is out of reach, Jon crumples in on himself. Like a marionette whose strings have been cut, Martin thinks for one blindingly terrifying moment, but then he sees Jon’s shoulders shaking, hears him struggling for breath, and—it shouldn’t be such a relief that the man is having a panic attack, but the alternative had been death.

“Oh, Jon,” Martin sighs, and he wants to reach out and touch, but he’s not sure that’s such a good idea right now. He doesn’t know where else—if anywhere—Jon is hurt. “Let’s—let’s get you up, yeah? Do you think you can move?”

Jon takes in a staggered breath that tapers off in a little sob, and Martin’s heart breaks. Jon shakes his head. Martin bites down on his lip, aware that he’s going to ruin the blazer Peter insists he wears, but also not finding it in himself to give a fuck what Peter thinks at the moment.

“Alright,” he murmurs, and he manoeuvers himself closer, positioning his hands under Jon’s arms—but before he lifts, he quietly asks, “Are you hurt anywhere else?”

Again, Jon shakes his head. The lack of eye contact is concerning, but the least of Martin’s worries at the moment.

“Okay.” Slowly, he rises, taking Jon with him, lifting him until he’s in a standing position, feet firmly planted on the floor. He could very easily—too easily—lift Jon into his arms and cradle him bridal style, he realises with a lurch, but doesn’t want to infantilize him, so instead he takes one of Jon’s arms and loops it over his shoulders. “We’re just going over to the chair,” he promises, and they slowly shuffle over to the armchair Jon used to have guests sit in to give live statements. Martin carefully deposits him in the chair, and immediately Jon bends over, elbows on knees, and buries his head in his shaking hands.

For a moment, Martin feels out of his depth. Jon is trembling, digging his fingers into his hair, twisting and pulling, further messing his already rather unkempt-looking bun. It makes Martin wince, and before he can think better of it, he places his hands on top of Jon’s and carefully eases them out of his hair.

“Hey,” he breathes. “It’s alright.” Martin actually isn’t so sure that it is alright, but he needs Jon to breathe. He squeezes Jon’s hands in his. “Breathe, yeah?” he encourages. “Remember the exercise I taught you?”

Jon’s shoulders hunch up, and he nods stiltedly.

“Good. Okay. Follow me, right?” Martin takes in a deep breath for a count of four, holds his breath for four seconds, and exhales for six seconds, mouthing his counts each time.

one two three four one two three four one two three four five six

He does this until he’s confident Jon is more relaxed, and then he continues until Jon closes his eyes.

“Better?” Martin asks, and the answering nod is good enough for now. Martin backs away, finally releasing Jon’s hands, and allows him some space to breathe on his own.

While Jon gathers himself, Martin goes about tidying the place. As much as he can, at least. He does his best not to look in the bin as he ties the bag off, takes the bag out, and replaces it with a new one. The carpet is going to have to be replaced—no amount of power washing is going to restore it to what it was. He sighs heavily at the state of things, then turns his attention to the things on Jon’s desk that are splattered with blood. He starts to throw away a statement that is more blood than words at this point, when Jon makes a noise. The same noise as before, the one that sounds like, “Don’t.”

Martin looks up and catches Jon’s eye. He’s looking pleadingly at Martin again, brows furrowed, lips pressed into a tight line. Martin sighs and holds up the statement for Jon to see.

“I don’t think you’re going to get much use out of this one.”

Jon’s expression turns pained, and he looks away again. Martin knows they need to clean him up somehow—he’s sure there’s something in document storage that Jon could change into, tea towels he could wet with warm water to wipe the blood from Jon’s face, but he doesn’t want to leave Jon alone right now.

So instead, he goes to the door and opens it a crack, enough to peek outside. Every single pair of eyes is trained on the door, and they perk up when they see Martin. It’s too much attention, not what he’s used to, and he nearly shrinks back for it. But he bolsters, knowing he has to get through this situation for Jon.

“Can somebody get me a tea towel and a bowl of warm water? And a change of clothes from document storage. Um. Thank you.” And then he closes the door and turns back to Jon. Martin takes a deep breath, steeling himself. “Jon.” He makes his way back around to face Jon head on, and meets his tired gaze. “What happened?”

Jon opens his mouth to speak, and Martin barely stifles a flinch at the way his teeth are stained with blood. “I t-th-thought,” he stammers, tongue slow and heavy. “Could… ah. Make mys—self use—useless to t-th-the Eye. Wit…without, uh.” He clenches his jaw, and then makes a stabbing motion at his eyes.

Martin had his suspicions about what was in the bin. It was hard to tell, of course, with all the blood and general viscera, but the picture’s clearing up now.

“You cut out your tongue,” Martin breathes, floored by it, bringing his hand up to his mouth, sympathy pain clawing at his tongue. “You—”

“It kept grow-ing back.” Jon struggles for a moment, but Martin just watches, waiting patiently. He’s horrified by the notion, and wonders just how many times Jon cut out his tongue before someone noticed anything awry. He knows the alarm must show on his face, but Jon seems unfazed by it, concentrating all his efforts on speaking. “It was s-stup-id, I kn-know.” After he says this, Jon’s face returns to that pinched, guilty expression Martin had seen on him earlier.

And, yeah, it was stupid. It was stupid, and selfish, and thoughtless, and—Martin could go on and on. But it was also a move made out of desperation, a decision made by someone pressed against a wall, anguished to the point of self-mutilation. In a fucked up, tragic way, Jon was just trying to make things better. Not for himself, but for everyone else.

“I’m glad you know that,” Martin replies quietly. Then, trying for levity, “I was worried I’d have to be the one to break that to you.”

Jon’s face relaxes, not exactly smiling, but it’s a near thing. He closes his eyes and his chin trembles a bit, his breaths uneven, and it dawns on Martin slowly that he’s trying very hard not to cry.

“I’m sorry.” The words are stunted and broken, but undeniable.

“I know.” And Martin does know. But at some point he wishes Jon would just stop doing things he needs to apologize for. He swallows hard. “I’m sorry, too.”

At this, Jon’s eyes snap open. He furrows his brow and tilts his head to the side quizzically, and if he weren’t drenched in his own blood and practically trembling where he sits, Martin might be inclined to find the expression cute. Jon doesn’t speak, but Martin can read the question on his face.

“Because I—just everything, Jon.” That’s a cop-out, Martin. He takes a deep breath and tries again. “I dismissed you out of hand. I should have—I should have just—I should have reacted differently.”

Jon shakes his head, and it looks like he’s about to say something, but there’s a gentle rap at the door, and Martin hastens to get it. It’s Basira, with the things he asked for, and he thanks her quietly before he closes the door on her and her curious, concerned expression. He knows that she has questions, and she’ll get them in due time, but there are more pressing matters at hand. Martin deposits everything onto a clean surface on Jon’s desk, and then turns to him somewhat expectantly.

“Can you take your shirt off?”

Jon raises a single eyebrow, and Martin rolls his eyes.

“I’m going to help you clean up, Jon, no ulterior motives.” Although at one point he certainly wouldn’t have said no to seeing Jon shirtless. He wouldn’t even say no to it now, but those thoughts are entirely on the back burner.

Jon just rolls his eyes back at him, and lifts his hands in an attempt to unbutton his shirt. It’s really just an attempt, because even if his hands weren’t covered in tacky blood, Jon clearly lacks the coordination right now to unbutton anything—especially the tiny buttons on his work shirt. He’s on the verge of frustration when Martin decides to step in.

He crouches in front of Jon, his hands hovering over him for just a moment, before he looks up and meets Jon’s eyes. “Do you mind if I help?” he asks, and when Jon silently shakes his head, he goes about quickly and methodically unbuttoning his shirt.

By the time Jon has been rid of it, the water has gone a little cool, but maybe that will feel better on Jon’s feverish skin. Martin tries not to stare, but Jon is just so—

“Do you want to towel yourself off?” Martin inquires then, cutting off his own train of thought and forcing himself to keep his mind as clinical as possible about the situation.

Jon shrugs. “I d-don’t mind. You can probab-ly s-see it bet-ter a-nyhow.”

Martin nods and doesn’t bother with any other pleasantries. He wets the tea towel in the bowl of water and then wrings it out, and starts with Jon’s neck. He does the best he can, he’s as gentle as he can be, but he can’t help but to notice the way Jon goes tense when he cleans around the scar on his throat.

“Almost finished with this part,” Martin soothes, the words spilling out of him without a second thought.

He works in silence, and it’s almost reminiscent of the sponge baths he used to give his mum—except Jon’s not berating him right now, and he never had to clean blood off his mother like this. It’s methodical: the gentle movements of his hand with the towel, the steadying hand on Jon’s shoulder, then turn, rinse, and wring the excess water out. Martin’s not aware of the fact that Jon is watching him so closely until he finally moves to clean off Jon’s face and he’s met with Jon’s intense brown eyes. A flush steadily climbs itself up Martin’s neck, and he clears his throat. Have Jon’s eyelashes always been so thick?

“Almost done,” he murmurs, almost just to fill the silence, and he carefully cradles Jon’s cheek in his hand to steady him as he cleans the blood from his chin. Without realizing it, he brushes his thumb under Jon’s eye as he does so, and Jon leans into the touch.

When Martin is finished, he almost wishes he wasn’t.

He removes the steadying hand from Jon’s cheek, and for a moment, Jon’s face follows after, but he quickly rights himself when he realises what he’s doing. Something in Martin aches at the sight of it, but he doesn’t replace his hand, instead turning and depositing the soiled tea towel into the now-murky water.

“All done,” he breathes, trying for a smile, but he knows it’s wobbly at best. Martin stands from where he’s knelt in front of Jon and clears his throat, grabbing the shirt from the pile of clothes on Jon’s desk and fingering the material. It’s soft, and worn, and when Martin unfolds it, he almost laughs when he sees the What the Ghost? logo. He turns it so it’s facing Jon and raises an eyebrow. “Yours?”

Jon’s answering smile is crooked, and a little sad. He shakes his head. “Mel-a-nie,” he mumbles.

Martin nods and decides if he’s going to help Jon dress, he’s at least going to try to make it as in-awkward as possible. In the end, he doesn’t have to do much. Jon doesn’t need as much coordination to slip a t-shirt over his head as he had to unbutton his work shirt. And Martin does his best to look away as he offers an arm to help Jon steady himself while he changes his trousers. Once finished, Jon sits inelegantly back in the armchair, looking a bit winded, and Martin gathers the refuse and the bowl of murky water to take out of Jon’s office.

He’s halfway to the door when he remembers and grabs the offending knife, and takes that, too, dropping it in the bin in the break room as he goes.

Maybe the Archives should get a biohazard bin.

***

Jon had been right. Martin knew exactly how to take care of him.

He is far more comfortable in the ratty t-shirt and joggers proffered from document storage, but he feels a bit unprofessional. Even now, lax as he is on things like dress-code (it’s not like he can get fired, and it’s not like the Magnus Institute is a legitimate place of business), he still tries to at least look presentable when he’s at work. And then he feels a bit like a moron thinking that—wearing pyjamas to work is far and away the least unprofessional thing he’s done all day.

Martin promises to take care of talking to Melanie, Basira, and Daisy for now. It’s just easier that way—Jon can barely speak for himself, and his hands are shaking far too much for him to write any kind of explanation down. Jon assures him that he can leave it at the CliffsNotes for now, and as soon as he regains proper use of his tongue, he will explain everything himself. And apologise for traumatizing his assistants. Again.

He needs a statement. There’s a few at his desk that remain unmarred, at least—and though they’re barely any sustenance these days, he figures (hopes) that this will serve as some kind of peace offering to Beholding, and will assuage it for now. At the very least, it should rejuvenate him enough to fully heal his tongue. He side-steps the pool of his own blood to get to his desk, and grabs the one he feels the most pulled to.

When Jon goes to start recording, and finds he already is. He wonders briefly how much of that the tape caught, then decides it’s really not important right now. He clears his throat and starts to read.

“St-ate-ment of S-Syl-vie Baker, regard-ing her mis-sing bro—ther’s ret-urn. Origi-nal st-ate-ment give-n Ju-ne 29th, 2014. Au-dio recor-ding by Jo-na—tha-n S-ims, th-e Archivis-t. St-ate-ment begi-ns.”

It’s hard to get through. It hurts to speak, it hurts to concentrate enough to read, and it hurts just to read on its own—it’s a statement about the Not!Them. But Jon gets through it, painstakingly, bit by bit, until his throat starts to hurt. Halfway through, Martin comes in with tea, and Jon looks at him for just a moment with stars in his eyes. He’d expected Martin to have gone back to his office. Jon swallows roughly and replies with one of the only signs he knows, a flat hand with fingertips to his chin, then down and away: thank you.

Martin sits in the armchair across from Jon’s desk silently and listens. It feels like solidarity—so antithetical to the Lonely that Jon can’t help the desperate fluttering of his heart.

By the time he’s finished the statement, the words he speaks are much smoother. It still hurts to say them, but at least his tongue doesn’t feel like a foreign object in his mouth. He knows how to use it.

“Statement ends,” he says with a sigh, and presses down the stop button on the tape recorder—only for the record button to be immediately depressed once again all on its own. Jon rolls his eyes and practically glares at the thing. “What else could you possibly want to hear?” he mutters, and then glances up to Martin, who’s watching him with some amount of consternation.

After the silence stretches almost too long, Martin speaks.

“What were you thinking, Jon?” His voice is soft, blameless, simply curious and concerned.

Somehow, the question takes him by surprise. “I—I wasn’t,” he admits, his throat tight. “I wasn’t.” He wets his lips, and even that movement hurts. “I’d just found out there was a solution, a-a way to… end this. And when I realized that not even that solution could work for us—for me —I…” Jon takes in a breath, filling his lungs, and then lets it go. “I felt like I had to do something. I’m so… so tired. I’m so tired of being a piece in a game I don’t understand, much less like. I’m tired of being used. I just wanted… I wanted it to stop. I wanted—I wanted my control back. But…” Jon laughs humorlessly, rubbing his hands over his tired eyes. “Maybe that’s never been something I had. Maybe I just miss being ignorant to all this.”

Martin is quiet, contemplative. He looks down at the floor, and then back up at Jon. “It’s not that the idea of running away with you doesn’t have appeal,” he says.

“Martin—you don’t have to spare my feelings. It’s okay. It’s okay you said no.”

“Can I finish?”

Jon presses his lips together and nods. “Yes. Sorry.”

Martin nods back. “I want to. I do. The idea of it—it’s…” He pauses. “I would have liked to. But what I said back there, it’s true. I have to see this thing with Peter through. And I—I can’t do that, Jon, if you keep doing things like this.”

The tightness in Jon’s throat closes in. “I know,” he replies, and his voice barely manages to sneak through.

Martin sighs. He stands from the chair and anxiously runs his fingers through his hair. “I’ve been gone too long. I have to get back before Peter notices I’m gone—if he hasn’t already.”

Shakily, Jon rises, too. He crosses over around his desk and stands in front of Martin, arms wrapped tight around himself. He’d thought Martin would leave without saying goodbye, simply fade back into the background, shrug on the cloak of Lonely like an old coat. Why had that reality been so much easier to swallow? Why is actually saying goodbye so much harder? “Don’t let it take too much of you,” he whispers, looking up into Martin’s eyes, suddenly worried that by the time this is all said and done, there won’t be enough of Martin left to recover.

“Funny, coming from you,” Martin teases, and then his expression goes soft, and a little broken. “And you.” He raises his hands, hesitates, but eventually settles them on either side of Jon’s face, cradling him there. “Please, please stop hurting yourself. I know I can’t possibly ask you not to do dangerous things, but—just this. One thing. No more cut-off fingers, or stolen ribs, or sliced-out tongues. Please, Jon.”

The expression on Martin’s face is so raw and open. It’s the most unguarded look Jon has seen on him since he awoke in that hospital bed.

“Okay,” Jon agrees in a whisper, unable to make a greater sound.

“Thank you,” Martin breathes, and drops his hands from Jon’s face. He immediately misses having them there. “I have to go. Look after yourself.” Then, quieter, gentler than he’s ever said it, “Don’t come looking for me.” He steps over to the door to Jon’s office and lets himself out, vanishing before any of the archival assistants have a chance to notice.

Jon stares at the door for a long time. The tape clicks off.

***

It takes Martin a while to sink back into the right groove this time. Days, actually. He can’t stop thinking about Jon. That’s not totally abnormal, oftentimes his thoughts drift to Jon, but he’s usually able to banish them with a quick shake of his head.

Not now. Every time he closes his eyes he sees Jon hunched over himself, covered in his own blood, white-knuckling the knife. He sees the contents of the bin. He sees the tear-laden, guilty expression on Jon’s face. He tries to shake it off, and it works for a while; he almost manages to slip back into the right groove, but then his mind begins to wander.

How is Jon recovering? he wonders. Is he keeping his promise? Does he still wince every time he has to speak?

His fingers hover over the keyboard as he thinks these things, and no busywork is completed. When the temperature in his office falls by several degrees, he doesn’t even notice.

“What have you done?” The voice is very close to his ear, and Martin’s heart leaps into his throat, practically jumping out of his seat as he swivels to look at Peter Lukas.

“Jesus Christ! ” he splutters. “P-Peter, I’ve asked you not to—”

“What. Did you. Do.” Martin’s never seen Peter so—so anything, really, before. Peter always looks placid, apathetic, just on the right side of content. Now he looks… angry. Peter looks angry, and the fog swirling around his ankles seems agitated as well, restless.

Martin takes a moment to gather himself, still reeling from the shock of being frightened, and says, “I don’t know what you’re talking about. You’ll have to elaborate.”

“Don’t play games with me,” Peter growls, and Martin clenches his jaw to keep himself from flinching. “We made a deal, Martin. What exactly have you done? I can tell you’ve taken several monumental steps back since last I saw you.”

The relief Martin feels at the realisation that Peter really doesn’t know what he’s done is quickly extinguished by the realisation that he’s going to have to come up with something to say.

“I don’t know,” he replies, and the lie slips easily off his tongue. It sounds believable. It’s easy to play dumb. It’s easy to make people underestimate him.

Peter’s eye twitches. “Then allow me to remind you,” he says, inching closer, leaning over Martin, crowding his space, “what you serve.”

Without adequate warning, the tendrils of fog at Peter’s feet launch themselves at Martin, curling around his ankles, snaking up his legs and wrapping around his torso. It’s cold. Immediately Martin begins to shiver—it’s so cold it hurts. The fog encloses around Martin’s throat and squeezes, not enough to completely cut off his air supply, but enough to make it difficult to breathe.

“P-P-Peter, I d-don’t—” he chokes out, but Peter cuts him off.

“I don’t want to hear excuses.”

“P-ple—”

“Or pleading. ”

Martin snaps his mouth shut, teeth chattering. Peter levels him with a stare, then steps back, all the way to the opposite wall. The fog pools between them, Martin’s vision narrows, and it feels like Peter is an ocean away. His breaths come quicker now. He struggles a little against the fog, trying to see if there’s any way he can move to rid himself of its vice, but it’s a fruitless endeavour.

Peter’s voice comes from far away. “Don’t fight it.”

For a while, Martin doesn’t listen. Panic is starting to set in—he can’t move, he can barely breathe—and it goes against everything in him to relax into this. His muscles are so tight and cold, he’s distantly afraid that if he struggles too hard, they might shatter. But it becomes increasingly clear as time passes—how much time? How long has he been here? How long has he been struggling?—that there’s no use in it. Moreover, he’s exhausted. Martin has never felt so tired in his life.

This is what you wanted, his mind unhelpfully supplies. Let go of it.

I can’t, Martin wants to scream. What if he needs me?

It doesn’t concern you.

But it does. It concerns him greatly. All he’s felt in the past week is fucking concern. And it’s exhausting. He’s so tired. And when he’s Lonely, he doesn’t feel tired. He doesn’t feel anything, really. It’s what he is, it’s what he’s always been—Peter is right. There’s no use in fighting it. It’s unavoidable; it’s inevitable. He wishes he had the strength to fight it, but this is exactly what he signed on for when he made that deal with Peter. He’s made his bed, now he just has to lie down.

Martin closes his eyes and takes in a shivering breath, and when he lets it out, it’s a cold puff of fog. Slowly, he feels his attachments drifting away, dropping off one by one. He can’t remember why he followed after Jon to make sure he wasn’t doing anything stupid. He can’t remember why he cared so deeply that Jon was mutilating himself. He remembers gently cleaning Jon up, helping him dress, listening to half of a stilted statement, cupping Jon’s face in his hands and urging him to be safe, but he doesn’t remember why. When he tries to recall the why of it all, his thoughts slide away as if on ice.

When he opens his eyes again, the fog is gone. He hadn’t even noticed it retreating. He’s still cold, but his teeth no longer chatter. He can’t really feel it. He notes, in a far-off way, that his fingers are turning a bit blue.

“I don’t know why you insist on making this so difficult for yourself, Martin,” Peter says, and slowly Martin blinks up at him. He’d forgotten Peter was there. “Isn’t this so much better? Now you won’t make yourself sick with worry, just to be pushed away and rejected. You don’t even care what happens to that intrepid little Archivist anymore, do you?”

No, Martin supposes. He doesn’t.

***

In the basement, Jon stops midway through a sentence. A little choked-off sound exits his mouth, instead of the next word of the statement he was reading. Warmth he hadn’t even realized was inside him suddenly withdraws, leaving something cold and heavy and dead in the middle of his chest.

You’ve been cut off, the Eye supplies him. But it was inevitable.

Jon wants to scream. He wants to Know where Martin is and run to him, shake him, force him to take him back, to feel anything, even if it’s anger.

He takes in a shaky breath and keeps reading the statement.

#jon whump

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