Chapter Text
It was still raining
The storm had started that morning. Now the sun was setting, and it was still going. Honestly. He liked the rain, but even he could admit that this was a bit much
Martin looked up from his phone, and frowned at the window. Every so often a fork of lighting would blast the room with light, and the glare on his screen would hurt to look at. Of course, the sensible thing to do would be to get out of bed, to go somewhere not directly next to a large pane of glass. But that would require moving, and… he didn't really feel like doing that. He hadn't felt like moving for days
Grief did that to a person, he supposed
He shut his eyes, leaning back against the pillows. There was an ache in his gut, angry and insistent. He wondered if it was hunger or something more. He couldn't remember if he'd eaten anything today. Nor did he really care. Funny, that was the sort of thing he used to get on Jon's case about
God, Jon… Jon…
He'd known immediately, when it happened. He'd been sitting in his office - alone, naturally - when something… shifted. It took him a while to figure out what it was. He'd gotten so used to the sensation of being watched while in the Institute, he couldn't initially register what it would be like to have those eyes close
But once he had worked it out, a strange nausea pooled in him. He didn't know what was going on, but he knew by now that shifts in the status quo were always bad. He had run out of his office, only to come face to face with Peter bloody Lukas. He'd only seen him twice since agreeing to their partnership, and both times it was to help him with his computer. And now here he was, standing in a hallway, laughing to himself as he scrolled on a phone. Like he was here all the damn time
“What's happened?” he demanded
Peter didn't look surprised to see him “Oh, so you've felt it too? I suppose that makes sense…”
“Felt what?”
Peter didn't answer. Of course he didn't. He just went back to looking at his phone “Elias seems to think I had something to do with it” he chuckled “Me! As if I had any reason to- honestly” he shook his head “That man sometimes…”
“Something to do with what?” he squared his shoulders “What's. Happened?”
Peter considered him for a moment. Then he put the phone away, and stood up to his full height
“Now, Martin. I'm afraid our little arrangement must needs come to an end”
“…What?” he blinked “No! Why?”
How was he supposed to protect the other two now?
“Hmm. I rather like you, Martin, so I suppose I'll explain. Around a month before I met you, Elias proposed a wager”
“Right…?”
“He bet that I would be unable to turn one of his Archival Assistants to Forsaken, while I bet that I could. If I won I got you, naturally, as well as some… personal favours. If he won… well, it hardly matters now”
A ringing started between his ears
“So… all that stuff you told me about a new threat; some secret plan to save the world” he said dully “That was just… a load of shit?”
“I'm afraid so” he said cheerfully “But unfortunately it seems you are no longer Elias’s, so our little game cannot-”
“Game-?!” he paused “Hang on- What do you mean I'm not his any more?”
“Oh, I'm sure you will figure it out soon enough. It's likely the other two already have” Peter waved a hand “But I have no interest in hanging around to see it happen. This will be the last time you see me”
“Right…” he should be happy about that, shouldn't he? Why did he feel so sick?
“Oh, don't look so glum, Martin” said Peter bracingly “You're out of the job you hate, and I can go back to my boat. It's a win for us both”
And then he was gone. Like he'd never even been there in the first place
Unsure of what else he could do, he'd gone down to the Archives. He'd found Basira and Melanie huddled close, talking in hushed, urgent voices. Upon spotting him Melanie had made an eager noise, rushing over. Odd, he wasn't used to anyone being excited to see him
“Martin! Yes, perfect - you're higher up than us, right? Like, job-wise? You're our superior?”
“I mean- technically?” he scratched the back of his head “Maybe?”
“Perfect. Well then:” she took a deep breath “I quit”
“Oh, right. Wait, how did you-”
“Holy shit!” she made a jubilant noise, punching her arms into the air “I quit! I'm done, I quit!”
“Oh… my god…”
The sound around him seemed to muffle, as if he'd been pushed underwater. Right in front of him Basira started celebrating, Melanie started theorising on if this meant they could finally kill Elias, but he barely heard a word. He could feel ice clawing into his gut. Because he realised what the others hadn't - or perhaps they had and simply didn't care. If they weren't employed at the Institute anymore, if they weren't Archival Assistants… that meant that there was no longer an Archivist for them to assist
Jon. He was… he was gone
It- It should be a relief, shouldn't it? The doctors had made it very clear that he wasn't going to wake up. Hell, his heart wasn't beating. If he was truly dead… at least then he might be at peace, right? Like Tim? Like Sasha?
He hadn’t felt relieved. He hadn’t felt anything at all
He couldn't remember how he’d managed to get from there to the hospital. It was just a blur. But once he was there, they only confirmed all his worst suspicions. That morning, before sunrise, Jon's body had just… vanished. And unless someone had somehow managed to drag an unconscious man through an entire hospital without getting caught on any security cameras, that meant… yeah. He was really dead. And his body had probably been absorbed into the Eye or some insane bollocks like that. Because of course he didn't get anything to bury. Of course he didn't get any closure
He’d just about managed to get back to his flat before he started to scream
And so here he was, almost six days later. And he'd barely moved at all in that time. What was the point? No job, no friends, no mum. Didn't even get the opportunity to go out doing something heroic. No, he'd been a pawn in some stupid supernatural domestic, and had been too dense to notice until it was literally spelled out for him. Great. Just great
He… may have embezzled quite a lot of money from his employer on his way out (because what was Peter going to do, sue him? That would involve talking to people), which meant that he was financially stable for quite possibly the first time in his life. But… well. It did give his mind a convenient excuse as to why he didn't need to bother interacting with people. And he had no real intention to attempt to talk to anyone unless-
BANG
-Well. Unless something like that
He stood up slowly, and listened. He couldn't hear anything over the harsh clatter of the rain, but he knew better than to ignore his instincts. That noise hadn't come from outside. He wasn't alone. There was something else in his flat
He sighed, and checked that his knife was still in his back pocket. Well, he'd managed almost a week out of the Archives before something came to get him. Honestly that was longer than he'd expected
He went up to the door and opened it just a fraction, as quietly as he could manage. He peered through the slit between it and the doorframe. One of the windows in the living room was open, creaking ominously as storm winds lashed at it. He most certainly had not left it open the last time he was in there
The room, however, looked empty. Or at least, the small sliver he could see. The sensible part of him knew he should probably stay in his bedroom, which he knew was empty, instead of venturing forward and possibly getting killed. And yet…
He opened the door and stepped inside. He had fully expected to be jumped the moment he did that, and yet here he stood, not dead. So already exceeding expectations. Nice
He had to squint to see - the room was lit only by the light peeking through the bedroom door, and the dull blue of the night sky outside. He moved slowly, waiting for his eyes to adjust. He turned round, and- his heart stopped. Oh, there you are
A figure stood in the darkest corner of the room. A silhouette in the inky black, hunched over, twitching. Made visible only by its eyes. Red, burning bright, and fixed directly on him
Martin went cold. His mind screamed at him to run, but he couldn't move his legs. He couldn't look away. The figure was short and slight, and yet everything in him felt like a prey animal, standing in the wake of some great beast
He reached toward the knife slowly - stupid, stupid, it'll see you either way - but the figure only tilted its head, considering. His fingers brushed the hilt, and at that same moment a fork of lightning sparked outside, bathing the room in an almost-blinding light. The room, and the figure. Martin's stomach dropped
“Jon?”
Jon looked awful. The coma had left his face gaunt and hollow, excess flesh fading away after months without food. He'd looked half a corpse in that hospital bed, and he didn't look any better standing upright. The angular bones of his cheeks and jaw jutted out angrily against wan, desaturated skin. He was wearing an old threadbare jacket that hung off his frame wrong. And he was drenched, hair hanging over his face in messy, matted strings. Droplets of water formed at the end of the greying strands, falling to the floor in a steady rhythm. Drip. Drip. Drip
And - he still wasn't talking. He just stared. His whole body was keeled over at an odd angle, weight resting on one foot far more than the other. His head lolled to the side, propped up on his shoulder. His arms swung limp at his sides. He twitched again
“…Jon?” he tried again
Something was wrong, that was obvious. And that was even if you ignored the eyes, which he couldn't. Red, blood red irises. Heavy bags. Somehow vacant and unnervingly focused all at once
“What's wrong?”
Jon's lips pulled back from his teeth, and a low, harsh noise started from somewhere deep in his throat. Was that a growl?
Thunder rumbled through the room. Wherever the storm was, it was getting closer. Jon didn't seem to hear it
“What's happened to you?” he asked “How did you wake up?”
If he even was awake. Were he just judging by the posture and the vacancy in his eyes, he would assume he was sleepwalking. If it weren't for the… well, the everything else
There was no response
“Can you hear me?”
He would guess that the answer was no, if not for the way Jon's eyes very briefly flicked to his mouth each time he spoke
“…Can you understand me?”
Jon's mouth fell open, lips forming the vague shapes of what might've been words. But all that came out were low growls
Martin reached toward the switch on the wall nearby, but before he could turn on the light Jon snarled, eyes narrowing. He took a shaky step towards him. Martin stepped back
“O-Okay, I won't turn it on”
He held up his hands. Jon froze. His eyes widened, fixing onto his wrist. He staggered forward again
The reasonable part of him knew that he should be skeptical right now. There were a lot of things out there that were very capable of imitating people. Hell, he'd even encountered a few. And this wasn't even a perfect copy. There was every chance that this wasn't really Jonathan Sims. There was every chance that he was in very serious danger right now. He couldn't bring himself to care
It would be nice to pretend that it was a lingering effect of his months with Peter Lukas, but deep down he knew Peter had nothing to do with it. This was just what he was. Hollow. And if there was even a small chance that this was really Jon…
“It's alright” he said, as soft as he could manage “You're safe here. I won't hurt you”
He took the knife out of his pocket and put it down blindly on a bookshelf somewhere to his right. Then he held his hands back up
Jon lurched forward once more. Martin stepped back. He felt the back of his legs hit the sofa, but he managed to stop himself from falling
“Why are you here? Do you need my help?”
Now he was in a slightly brighter part of the room, Martin could make out a few more details. The light from his bedroom cast harsh shadows over his face. He was wearing his own clothes, though each article was more worn and frayed than the last. He wondered where the hospital gown had gone, how he'd managed to find clothing in this… state. They all hung off him loosely, and the jacket especially looked soaked through
“Maybe you should take that off?” he suggested “You'll catch your death if you keep it on”
Christ, he sounded like someone's elderly grandmother. Jon didn't respond to that. But at this distance, he could see him shivering
Martin's heart hurt “Hey” he held out his hands “Come here?”
To his surprise, he did. He moved as if in a trance, and within three strides they were face to face. His eyes stayed fixed on his outstretched hand
“O-Okay. Um…”
Slowly, he reached out and grabbed the lapel of Jon's jacket. He didn't react, so he did the same with his other hand. Carefully he peeled the jacket off trembling shoulders and down his arms. He let it fall to the ground, and got back up
“Does that feel any better?
Jon twitched again. But he thought the shivering might've lessened, somewhat. Jon had to crane his neck to look up at him, and- Martin's heart stopped
Having spent months doing little other than watching over him, Martin was very familiar with the scars that covered his face and upper body. So when he spotted the mark on his neck, he knew for a fact that it was new. Two little dark circles, perfectly identical, one above the other. They were too small to be worm holes. They almost looked… Oh. Oh, god
They looked exactly like a bite mark
Jon's head tipped down, gaze now fixed on his chest. Had he heard his heartbeat picking up? His lips parted slightly, and- oh, yeah, those were definitely fangs. Jesus Christ
“I-Is it still you in there? Jon?”
Perhaps in response to that, Jon moved. One of the limp arms came to life, lashing out and snatching up one of his wrists. Martin gasped. His hand was cold and clammy, and yet the contact burned. He couldn't remember the last time someone had touched him, even casually. Before Peter, certainly. Possibly before the Unknowing. Was the last person to touch him really Elias, when he caught him burning statements? Christ, that was… he didn't want to be thinking about Elias right now
Jon drew his hand up close to his narrowing eyes. Only then did he notice his fingers - instead of nails, each one ended in a curved claw, dark and sharp. And yet, Jon was holding his hand in such a way that none of the claws pierced skin. Almost as if he'd specifically thought about it. Almost as if he cared
God, he was pathetic. He was being actively manhandled by what was - quite possibly - a monster wearing his dead boss's face, and yet still he was preoccupied by his stupid crush. Fucking hell, he needed better priorities
He took a deep breath
“What do you need, Jon?” he asked quietly “Can I help you?”
Jon growled - it had to still be Jon. It had to be. If it wasn't, he'd have to kill it. And he didn't exactly know how he was going to manage that
Out of nowhere there came a blur of movement, and then he was being shoved backwards. He tripped back onto the sofa, and he didn't have time to register what had happened before Jon was following. He climbed up with an inhuman, feline grace, straddling one of his legs with his knees. He was far too close all of a sudden. It made his mind short circuit
“Um-!?”
Jon put a hand on his chest, directly over his heart, and pushed. The motion held a strength that Jon couldn't possibly possess. His back hit the sofa, a soft oof! escaping him. But Jon kept pushing, pinning him in place, hard enough that he could feel in his ribcage
“Jon…” he wheezed, pressure squeezing his lungs “You're hurting me”
No response. Of course not. Why hadn't he tried to run?
He felt Jon's claws dig into the skin over his heart, a sharp sting of pain that made him gasp. Jon's eyes went dark, and he realised, with a cold certainty, that he wasn't getting out of this. He was about to kill him. The thought didn't scare him as much as it probably should. He'd gone through months after the Unknowing assuming most days were going to be his last. He'd grown sort of numb to the idea. And then Peter… well, at least this way he was actually going out doing something useful
The hand over the heart paused. Jon's eyes - please let it still be Jon, please god let it be him - flickered. He growled again, but something in it seemed less aggressive. More a predator pleased with his latest catch. And of course that thought made his heart jump. Christ, what was wrong with him?
Jon leaned in close, burying his face into the space between his neck and his shoulder. Martin moved to accommodate him, naturally; he was nothing if not moronically consistent. Jon breathed in deep, the sound echoing loudly by his ear. He could barely hear the rain anymore
Jon growled again, low and content, breathing slowly. It was that which made him realise that he hadn't been breathing the rest of the time he was here. He would've noticed - it was a strange, whistled rattling, as if there were holes in his trachea like a poorly carved flute. He leaned in close enough that his nose brushed the skin near his throat. What was he doing? Smelling him? Searching for the best vein?
His hand reappeared, tangling itself in Martin's hair. It yanked down, forcing his head to tip away, granting Jon better access to his neck. Meanwhile the other arm snaked up his back, pulling him closer. Jon's body seemed to leech heat from the very air around them, and from every point of contact his skin turned to ice. Martin started to shiver - though he couldn’t say for sure if that was from the cold
He wasn't sure how long they stayed in this strange, macabre embrace. His world shrunk to nothing but the sofa; nothing but the cold weight of Jon in his lap, shifting as they breathed together. His wet hair tickling his chin. The scent of him - rain and smoke and death. He pulled away, just a little, and then all he could see, all he could think was pretty red eyes
And then he opened his mouth, and bit down
Martin cried out, his muscles tensing. Pain shocked through him. He could feel twin ice-cold needles dig into his flesh. But what struck him more was the sudden flash of energy. His eyes widened. The living room around him bloomed into colour. As if someone had fiddled with the dials on the world, turned the saturation up. He gasped in quick, cold breaths. He felt like he could run a marathon
Funny, that the most awake he'd felt in months was right as he was dying
He was distantly aware of the teeth retracting, the strange euphoric high leaving with it. Jon's mouth latched onto his neck, and he began to drink. Somehow, despite the rest of him being corpse cold, his mouth was hot. Each little pull drew very embarrassing sounds out of him, moans and whimpers out of his control. He was almost glad Jon seemed in a state not to register things like that
His mind turned syrupy smooth. The air around him seemed to thicken, until it was like he was floating in a warm bath. Jon’s weight on top of him felt like a blanket. He sighed. This was nice. This was good. He shut his eyes
His body grew slow. Weak. His lips barely managed to form a slurred “Jon…” before speech became impossible, his tongue too heavy to use. Yes, perfect, let his name be the last thing out of his mouth. His poets would love that…
Jon pulled away, and the heat of his mouth was replaced by a sudden ice cold. He shivered. He couldn't lift his eyelids, he couldn't see his face. But he could hear him - and finally he spoke. His voice painfully familiar, as was the panic lacing it
“…Martin? Oh, my g- MARTIN-?!”
He was treated to a few wonderful seconds of learning just how colourfully Jon could swear, before everything went dark