Chapter Text
For a span of time that was somewhere between mere moments and eternity, the… thing had no idea who it was, where it was, or what existing even meant. The sensation felt… uncomfortably familiar in a way that filled its mind with calliope music and pain.
It remembered what it felt like to be unmade.
But to be unmade, one had to be something in the first place. Right? You couldn't destroy something that never existed. Right. This thing, it was something originally, wasn't it? Before it was ripped apart into infinite pieces, before it was only one of those pieces, before it forgot what it was like to be whole and not a fragmented disjointed existence of forgotten memories and regret.
It needed to hold onto that, just like when that thing with too many arms danced him (yes, him, he was a him) across that stage. He needed to see. He needed to See. He had to remember what, no, who he was. He was a man at some point, and maybe he still was. He had to hold onto that and remember, he had to know, he had to-
A hand.
Not his hand, not his fingers, wrapped around what he believes to be his shoulder. It was flesh and bone next to his fragmented mind, so it would make sense if it was his shoulder. Besides, shoulders are places people grab you, right? Yes, that made sense. A hand was grabbing his shoulder.
It began to move, and it moved the man along with it. Gently but firmly, it shook his body into existence. He felt every inch of his body shift in fractions as the thing, or person shook him, he began to remember what it felt like to have a body. His arms and legs were in all the right places, he thinks, and his body was hunched forward, half sitting on what was likely a chair and half laying on what was likely a table. That made sense, people hunched forward on tables and chairs, and the man was certain he was a person.
Everything was dark all around him as he began to realize his eyes, which he had two of and no more, because that's how many eyes people had, were closed, and his head was lying down in his arms. He must have been sleeping, but he didn't feel rested at all. He felt… Well, he was feeling a whole lot right now, and he couldn't decide how he felt about it aside from wanting to stop feeling quite so much.
He heard a noise and felt it as it vibrated in his throat, a groan, he was groaning. That felt appropriate, really. He deserved to groan a bit.
His ears perked slightly as something else sounded, cutting through the lack of noise (or did the man just not hear the noise until he remembered what hearing was?) It was a voice, a man's voice calm and gentle and… somewhat amused?
This didn't feel amusing, this felt agonizing, and it set the man's nerves that someone was delighting in even more of his suffering. The words, because the other man was certainly speaking words, began to unjumble and rearrange themselves as language began to restructure itself in his mind into something coherent. He listened to the words even though he didn't want to. He didn't want to hear how his pain delighted yet another one of the horrific abominations he was cursed to be counted among.
"Come on, buddy," the man teased as he continued to gently shake him, "wakey wakey."
The man tried to open his mouth to tell the thing to fuck right off and leave him to his misery, but all that came out was a disgruntled moan as his teeth and tongue clashed against each other in his mouth uncomfortably. He wasn't used to having a mouth yet.
Much to the man's dismay, the thing just chuckled, "Must have been a rough night, huh, Jon?"
Jon. Right, yes, that was the man's name. Jon. Short for… What was his name again? Jonathan. Sims. Jonathan Sims. That was the man's name. It felt good to have a name, an identity, to know something about himself.
The world was still dark. Right. He forgot to open his eyes.
Jon groaned again as he expended great effort to shift his head and open his eyes, the nothing being quickly replaced by much too much. He hissed, and his eyes fluttered shut again as red overtook his universe, light still shining in past his eyelids.
"Oh wow, you're really out of it today," the shaking stopped as the thing spoke, "Don't worry, best bud, I'll get you some coffee, just wait here." the thing told him as he retreated from his desk. Silence once again reigned, and Jon decided once more to try and open his poor abused eyes.
Things made more sense this time since he was a bit more prepared for it. He was sprawled across a desk, his desk, which was completely covered in papers, folders, stationery, and books. They were important to his research, which was his job. He was a researcher at the Magnus Institute.
And with that singular thought, everything came rushing back. The past four years of grief, terror, loss, and desperation flooded into his mind like a tidal wave as his purpose and what had become of him threatened to drown him. He gasped and threw himself backward, fully into his chair, and dug his fingers into his skull in a desperate attempt to just make it stop. But it didn't stop, not until every drop of suffering was shoved into his brain like an overfilled water balloon, not until he was on the very cusp of bursting, never allowed the relief of finally letting go.
He remembered the panopticon, of Jonah, and Martin. Oh god, Martin. Where was he? Was he waking up just like Jon was? Gasping and in pain? He had to find him, he had to know if he was ok.
He didn't want to Know. He had promised Martin he wouldn't Know about him unless it was an emergency. But wasn't this an emergency? It's fine, he decided. He'd just apologize when they were together. He'd apologize once Martin was in his arms once again.
He'd…
Martin wasn't here.
Jon felt himself go cold, frigid, rock still as the certainty hit him that Martin, his Martin, wasn't here. There was a Martin, of course, a perfect, sweet, innocent Martin that never had to face any of those awful things his Martin had to face on his own. But his Martin was gone. He felt his powers begin to fade as he realized he was alone. This body wasn't ready for these powers and would hopefully never be.
He felt tears begin to roll down his cheeks before he even knew he was crying. He bit his lip, desperate to keep the sobs in, as he realized Martin was gone, he was dead and gone, and Jon was alone, and it was all his fault.
It was all his fault. Everything was his fault. Why had he had to be born? If he hadn't been born, none of this would have happened. Everyone would have been happier and alive and-
Jon felt a horrible sob rip its way through his chest. Why had this happened? Why was he here? What was going on? Why had he been cursed to outlive every person he loved?
And then, he Knew.
When Martin had stabbed him in the heart, releasing all of the fears into the multiverse, he had been tied much too intrinsically with them to be parted at that point. As the fears multiplied and spread, so did his mind, shredded into thousands of pieces as his consciousness was dragged into every universe the fears infected. His consciousness, still so very alive, reached out to the only thing that could contain it that he could exist inside of. Himself.
He Knew in the depths of his being that his consciousness had successfully infiltrated and taken over every version of himself in every universe there was.
He shuddered.
But there was one last thing, one last realization that slipped through the cracks before the door in his mind shut and faded away, one parting gift. Martin was alive. His Martin was alive and with him, the original him. They were somewhere else, somewhere far away, where Jon hoped they could live happily.
He just also wished it had been him, even though it technically was.
No. This… This is fine. This is good even.
Sure, he had essentially killed every single version of himself in the multiverse and taken over their minds like a parasite. And yes, he would certainly never see his original Martin again, only able to take solace in the fact that he's happy. But this was… this was important.
It was an opportunity.
Because now, every single version of himself could find every single version of Martin and make him happy. Keep him safe. Keep everyone safe.
This was an opportunity to fix everything, an opportunity to atone for all the sins he committed.
He could save this universe, and he'd be damned if he didn't.
The door to Jon and Tim's shared office area opened, and the sounds of conversation flooded into the room, causing Jon to jump. He'd need to get used to not Knowing who was at the door, and he'd need to pay more attention to his surroundings probably.
"-Which was totally not cool, by the way," Tim continued as he pushed open the door with his hip, his hands warped around two mugs of coffee. One with an outrageous beach scene painted on it with the words 'I'd rather be on vacation' on it and one a plain dark green mug.
"Hey bud, you feelin'-" Tim turned his attention to Jon and cut himself off with a sharp gasp, his eyes growing wide at the sight of him. For a brief moment, Jon was confused, then as his breath huffed out of him in another sob, he suddenly remembered he was crying.
"What-?" said a woman's voice, but Tim had already crossed the room in moments, setting the mugs of coffee down on Jon's desk and bending over to be eye level with him.
"Jon, hey, what's going on?" Tim's brow creased with concern, and, god, Jon couldn't help the sob that ripped out of him at that. Memories pushed to the forefront of his mind, memories not just of his original Tim, but this one as well, both universes blending together in a bittersweet mess.
Christ, he had forgotten just how much he missed Tim. The dull ache of his absence never went away, but now, seeing him trying to soothe Jon and wipe away his tears… The pain of losing him had never felt so fresh.
"Come on buddy, tell me what's wrong ok?" Tim worried as an oh-so-familiar yet unfamiliar woman came to stand right beside him, her face creased in worry as well.
"Jon?" Sasha asked, and Jon felt his heart swell even more with a mixture of pain and warmth as Sasha, the real one, stood in front of him.
He both remembered her and didn't, memories of the Not!Sasha from his world and Sasha from this one mixing together. He tried to desperately shove the memories of that creature away, focused on Sasha, the real Sasha, the one with long dark hair and a tendency to snoop where she really shouldn't.
"Please tell us what's wrong," Sasha asked, and Jon could only shake his head as he brought his hands to his face. He couldn't tell them. How was he supposed to tell them about…
No.
They would never know. They would never know those horrible things because they were never going to happen to them. He was going to keep them safe, he would keep them all safe if it killed him.
And it likely would.
Jon felt arms wrap around him and pull him into a hug, and Tim held him firmly to his chest, a much smaller hand coming down to rub at his back. He let himself melt into their embrace, the embrace of his friends. He might not deserve their comfort after what he let happen to both of them, but he would earn it. He would earn being worthy of them.
Eventually, his sobs subsided, and his tears began to dry as the pair comforted him, the coffee on his desk growing cold. Once Jon seemed all cried out, Tim slowly backed off, moving his hands from his back to firmly holding his shoulders.
"Feeling better?" Tim asked, his brow still furrowed as his eyes scanned every inch of Jon's face. Jon mutely nodded.
"What happened?" Sasha asked, her hand still rubbing his back.
"I…" Jon trailed off, trying to think of something to say. He was a rotten liar, but he certainly couldn't tell the truth. "It's alright-"
"Nope!" Tim said, popping the 'p.' "Try again."
Jon sighed as he avoided their gazes. Maybe he could just tell them the truth? Part of it, at least. The parts they could understand.
"My, My head hurts," he replied dumbly, "And I had a… A really terrible nightmare."
And god, did the last few years feel like a nightmare. A horrible, never-ending nightmare that twisted into shapes Jon never thought possible and took more from him than he knew he had to take.
"Must have been some nightmare," Tim hummed.
"It was," Jon laughed humorlessly.
Sasha gave him a gentle smile, "I'll get you some ibuprofen."
"T-Thank you," Jon nodded and winced as his brain rolled into his skull.
Tim let Jon sink back into his chair as he grabbed his own chair from his desk and rolled it over. The two men sat in silence for a few moments before Tim sighed.
"You really need to take better care of yourself, Jon," he told him, and Jon could tell he was trying to keep his voice light despite his concern. "This isn't healthy."
"I know," Jon whispered, his eyes trained on the two mugs of now cold coffee. Out of the corner of his eyes, he could see Tim look at him in surprise. He likely expected another dismissal or argument as to how Jon was 'perfectly fine, thank you' just like every other time.
But Jon was tired.
Jon was so damn tired of feeling tired, of knowing he would always feel tired. And selfishly, the concern felt good. It soothed a part of Jon's soul and made him feel just a bit more human.
"So you're gonna stop sleeping at your desk?" Tim asked.
"I'll… I'll try to stop sleeping at my desk," Jon tentatively agreed.
It was worth it to see the wide grin on Tim's face and the sparkle in his eyes. Had Tim always cared so much about Jon's health? Had they all?
Jon didn't understand why they cared about him so much.
"Good enough for me," Tim grinned as Sasha re-entered the room.
"Here, Jon," she smiled as she handed him a few pills and a glass of water, "I got a glass of water, too, since Tim's mud is probably ice by now."
Tim gasped loudly and clutched his chest, "Sasha James!" he cried, "Did you just call my coffee mud?! I'll have you know that coffee recipe has been passed down for generations!" he lamented.
Sasha rolled her eyes, "I didn't realize throwing some dirt in water was such a time-honored tradition in your home."
"I'll have you know we only use the most finely grounded dirt in our coffee; thank you!" Tim huffed. "But if you're going to be so cruel, then I wouldn't tell you about the miracle I just performed!"
Jon watched the two as he sipped on his water, the liquid soothing aches he didn't realize he had. Sasha raised an eyebrow, "Oh? A what miracle would that be?"
Tim smirked as he puffed out his chest, "I got Jon to promise not to sleep at his desk anymore!"
"Seriously?" Sasha swung around to look back at Jon.
Jon felt a self-conscious blush begin to rise on his cheeks, "I-I said I'd try! I hardly promised."
"Still, I'm really glad to hear it," Sasha smiled at him, and Jon felt another aching part of his soul relax and hum in contentment.
Jon averted his gaze as his face grew a bit redder.
They didn't get much work done that day. Jon could tell Sasha, and Tim were still a bit worried about him due to this breakdown in the morning, and honestly, Jon wasn't really feeling all into the work either. He had other, much more important things to think about, such as foiling Jonah and stopping the apocalypse.
He couldn't let Jonah- Elias, know he knew. He would need to be very careful of, well, everything, really. He couldn't just act. He couldn't just fix everything as much as he wanted to.
Because right now, he was human.
He was a fragile, squishy little human with everything to lose.
He stood absolutely no chance against Jona-Elias as he was. Worse yet, he had no idea where the Web and the Mother of Puppets stood on all of this. If the Web wanted the apocalypse again, even with his future knowledge, it would be a hellishly uphill battle. But if they didn't, maybe he stood a chance.
He couldn't let anyone know what he knew, especially J-Elias, and he could only operate on the knowledge he would realistically know.
He was so absolutely screwed.
He had no allies, nobody to turn to, nobody who understood the gravity of the situation, nobody that could help him figure out what course of action to-.
Then he realized.
He was working in research with Tim.
He wasn't in the archives yet. He wasn't the Archivist.
Gertrude Robinson was the Archivist.
Gertrude Robinson was still alive.
After work, Tim had suggested the three of them go out for drinks because 'god knows you need to loosen up a bit Jon,' but he had refused, and Tim and Sasha went on their own, leaving Jon alone to his own devices.
He knew what he had to do. He had to talk to Gertrude, and he had to do it right then. He couldn't do it in the Archives or even in the Insitute in general. Elias' eyes were everywhere. But there was one place he knew they weren't, one of many places Gertrude had made sure he couldn't see, and that was her flat.
Which meant breaking into her flat (again) was the only reasonable solution, really.
Jon remembered the dozens of crossed-out eyes on the book covers, wards against the Eye and Elias. He prayed it would be safe because if it wasn't…
He really didn't want to think about that.
He secured his hood a bit tighter on his head and pulled the scarf on his face even higher as he looked at the lit window of her flat. She was definitely home, at least.
Jon took a deep breath before emerging from the bush he had been crouched in and quickly climbed up the wall past the ground and first-floor windows and up to Gertrude's second-floor apartment.
It was easier than he remembered it being the first time he did it. He supposed the aches from the worm scars and his… less than good eating habits made the ascent more difficult, but at the moment, it was as easier as he remembered it being when he was a child.
He shimmed his way over to the window and, with a few deft moves of his lock pick, unlocked the window and shoved it open, crawling inside and landing in a heap on the wood floor.
He took a moment to catch his breath before he heard a metallic click right above him. Jon sighed and grimaced, recognizing the sound as he looked up.
A very alive and very unhappy-looking Gertrude Robinson stood over Jon, the rifle in her hands pointed directly at Jon's head.
"You picked the wrong flat to rob, boy," she scowled at him.