Archive of Our Own

i stuffed a towel at the foot of every door.

leave, i told the air.

i have no use for you.

i drew every curtain in the house

go, i told the light

no one is coming in

and no one is going out.

cemetery - rupi kaur

There is no knocking on Martin's office door.

Considering everything that he's had to wrap his mind around these past few years, from monsters to killers to godlike fear entities trying to destroy the world, it's almost an embarrassingly straightforward detail for him to get stuck up on. There's no knocking because no one is outside, because no one is there, and no one is trying to get in.

But it — it bothers him.

When there was knocking, it made sense. His behavior, that small twinge of insanity reaching forward and digging its claws into his brain — it was justified, at least. Because Martin was trapped in his flat with nothing to do but anxiously pace around and dig through his cupboards and try to survive. Jane Prentiss was on the other side, singing or silent, but always knocking. A grating repetitive noise that made Martin grind his teeth and try to plug his ears with his whole fist.

There's still that little bit of him that recoils when he hears a polite knock. Something that hesitates and tenses in a way that never would've before. But it was understandably awful, so there's a valid excuse for that thrumming dread in his chest, beating along to the tune of someone's fist against wood. There was a threat, a real tangible danger, and Martin had no choice but to remain staring at his locked door and hope that it would remain sturdy. He searched through each piece of furniture, revealed the dust on the top of his fridge and the stain on his couch, rummaged through the torn out pages of a long forgotten notebook, and found nowhere he could go to escape his demise. The distance between himself and the doors and the windows felt like it was getting smaller each day, and it drove him mad. But it made sense, because there was knocking, and who wouldn't start to crack under those conditions?

Here, though, there's something just a touch off about the silence. Here, there's just nothing. No spooky monster, nothing that makes him feel anything more than just a bit lonely, nothing that's… well, really worth mentioning. It's just his office, and there's just the slow tick of a clock, and Martin still tries to put as much space between himself and his locked office door.

At least Martin's time trapped inside of his flat had made him better understand his own patience. How good he truly was at the simple task of waiting.

It's not anything new, not really. He always had to be. Waiting for his mother to go to sleep so he could make dinner, waiting for her at her bedside with a practiced comfort on his lips. He waited for Jon to place a new statement folder on Martin's desk, looking at him with a hardly contained scowl. He waited beside a phone for hours, waited to learn if anyone he cared about survived. He waited at a cemetery, dressed in black, trying to remember which death it was that he was mourning.

Martin was good at waiting. He'd been doing it his whole life. He could wait for a little while longer.

He could wait until —

Until —

He could wait.

Martin sits in his office chair, hands fumbling with an old notebook of his. It's just a bit larger than his hand, and his pale fingers stand in contrast against the dark dull blue of the hard cover. He used to write poetry in it, used to turn his thoughts into ink and spill them across page after page, either meaning the world or nothing at all. Now, its pages are scattered with dates and numbers, money and emails, letters and words without any substance or form. Maybe at some point, Martin could find the artistic appeal in such a thing, representing the bleak side of adulthood and the loss of creativity, but now it just seems like a waste. Writing is… familiar to him, though. Enough so that he'd almost say that it was a comfort. That he found relief in those small fragments of nothing words that never quite mimicked what he had in mind when he first started. That's just the nature of poetry though, it's not supposed to be perfect, and this — this is just for him. There's no one to share it with anyway.

His fingers eventually peel the book open, the noise of the fluttering pages falling into place almost sounding nice if it weren't for the sharp interrupting tick of his office clock. It's so much louder than it needs to be, and it just ticks, over and over and over again, with no sign of stopping. Not for the first time, he imagines trying to rip it from his wall and smashing it into dozens of tiny little pieces, feeling the glass shatter beneath his palms and breaking the clock's hands with his own.

He doesn't, though. And it's not like that went very well last time.

The clock's ticking is more constant than Martin's breath, more constant than the creaking of his chair and the typing of his keyboard.

The pen is tight in his hand, and it shakes, just a little, before it touches paper.

Time is, he writes, coming out in smooth black ink. He pauses and lifts his pen, letting his words stare back at him from the lined pages. Then —

Time is a stabbing sensation, a tick tick tick
A prickle on your neck,
And it will expand into forever,
If you think too much of it.

The absence of something,
The essence of everything,
A writhing ache.
Never asleep,
Never awake.

The notebook closes sharply, a cold gust of air falls on Martin's hands. They twitch away from the feeling, and he throws the pen in the trash.

The clock ticks on.

Martin's always been waiting.

Every moment of Martin's life has always felt like just that — moments, seconds, hours. It's always felt like time spent, like he could feel the stopwatch speeding forward with every step he took, never knowing when exactly he'd arrive at his destination, but knowing that the timer wouldn't change its pace depending on the direction Martin went. He could feel that little invasive ticking in the back of his mind constantly, no matter how many pillows he'd tried to silence it with.

When everything in Martin's life was as good as it could've possibly been, having lunch dates with Jon, spending afternoons out buying lunch with Sasha, even just getting to enjoy the pleasure of an quiet early morning — he was waiting, still.

A little itch in the back of his mind would tell him to check the time, and he'd suddenly stop seeing the hours barreling towards a new deadline, or showing that he was late, or that he only had a few minutes left of break. Sometimes, he'd just turn to a clock and think: It's Wednesday. 4PM, the fourteenth. It's been a long time, longer still to go.

He thought he was just waiting for it to end, that the horrid pessimist in him was betting on it all turning sour, and was just biding time until proven correct. But once it did, once the threat of the end of the world hung over his head like a meteor about to crash, even when it did crash and Martin stood alone in the burning wreckage, he was still waiting.

It's always been this way, for him.

Even way back then, he was waiting. Still with fear that wasn't interchangeable with familiarity, wandering his quiet house with four walls and closed doors, carefully choosing the right floorboards to step on to pass the time. When the only ghost that left empty footprints in his home was one of a man who Martin never knew the shape of, but haunted him and his mother just the same, he waited for his own steps to be the ones echoing down the hall. In the quiet nights, he'd whisper one day, one day, under a thin exhale of foggy breath, and knew, deep in his twisting gut, that he was going to be waiting forever.

It's always been this way, if always carried the same weight and packed the same punches as it used to. If always even meant anything to him now, when the extent of his exhaustion and strained patience and locked office door carries through his entire being, when it's become so laced and intertwined with who he is that he can't find what used to be.

He doesn't even really know what he's waiting for. Maybe for some dreadful event that he'll feel in his very bones so intently that it'll finally change the shape of them. Maybe he's waiting for his wildest fantasies and dreams to come true, for his life to be shaped into something so perfect and so fundamentally different that it'll feel like a clean slate.

But somewhere between a bated breath and the wrong end of a phone call, he found that while the ticking never stopped, it did lose it's impact over time. Like seeing a word too many times until it turns into shapes and meaningless forms, like running on an hour of sleep until the haze of exhaustion becomes another factor of living. The minutes moving forward feel less as though they're carrying him towards something, and more like the tide rolling in and lapping around tired feet before they retreat back to the water. There's no dread or fear — just a little bit of waiting, of standing still, until a wave comes and finally pulls him under.

(Sometimes, quietly, Martin wonders if people see the absence of moving forward, the stillness of the body, the long blinks and shuddered breaths and call it rest. If they think about waiting, in any form, and think of it as any kind of relief.)

Martin has become very used to waiting.

He's sure that's one of the reasons why Peter chose him. For all of Martin's glares and comments that sit bitter on his tongue — when Peter says that Martin needs to be patient, he stays in his office and waits. It doesn't matter if Martin should be doing something more, if he should stand up straighter and fight back. He's… just too tired for that now, and the time will pass anyway.

Maybe Tim would get up in Peter's face, loud and bright and searing. A relentless fire against old damp wood. Popping and cracking and burning when they get too close, maybe hurting a few others in the process. Maybe Jon would just rip what he needed out of him, face shifting into something momentarily inhuman as he'd drink Peter's fearful response, ripping that smug faux concern off of his face. Maybe Sasha, a woman who is all but unrecognizable to Martin's eyes, would study Peter and outsmart him in a matter of days.

But they're not here.

It's just Martin, and Martin alone, and he keeps his head down, and he waits.

The time passes slowly, as it always does, dragging Martin along with it.

(He tried to listen to music for a while, but after a few weeks, all of it just turned to static. He used to keep it on quietly, just as white noise, just to drown out the clock — but then the static would begin to rise and fall like waves crashing onto sand, and the air would taste of salt. There's hardly a difference between the ticking and the sea, but perhaps just out of spite, Martin prefers the ticking.)

His flat is as unwelcoming as ever. A corpse of what it used to be, and cold to the touch.

Thinking about it, the Institute has been more of his home lately — using the word as loosely as possible, of course. Some nights he spends back at his flat, but at least back at the Institute Martin knows which fear and horror is waiting behind each corner. The moment he steps outside, it's anyone's game.

…Well, technically the Hive has long since marked his flat as theirs, and Martin's never actually bothered to reclaim it, so he does know which fear is lurking in his walls, but his point still stands otherwise. He doesn't mind it as much, but the trip to his flat and back has proven to be more trouble than it's worth, evil horrors not included.

It was the grating repetitiveness, the shuffle back and forth and the bustle of life surrounding Martin's absence of one. It made him cold —no, that isn't quite right — it made the world colder, for Martin and Martin alone. Just slightly, just enough for his breath to be visible each time it dissipates and swirls into the air, so that each inhale and exhale left a quiet understanding that the world was not made to fit Martin into it.

Then people at the Institute began to talk to him a little less, notice him a little less, and Martin found it easy to slip away into the background. Whenever he was pulled into the front it was just unpleasant, and overall something that he began to avoid. It just wasn't worth it. It was better to stop and stay indoors, let the fog blur the edges of his shape until there wasn't one to see anymore.

But tonight… Martin just needed something. It doesn't mean anything of course, but even if it was just a poor act of rebellion, there was still a small amount of comfort in putting on his coat, leaving the institute, and getting to head home. A small shitty piece of normalcy, pried free with his own grit teeth, calloused hands, and slathered in blood.

He's trying not to look at that though, so he avoids the mirror in the foyer and in the bathroom.

His flat isn't pleasant, by any means. All homes of his have been haunted by something unwelcoming, something that doesn't belong to him, but it still irks him. He still recoils at the sight of his pantry, and feels slick worms crawling up his legs and into his throat whenever he gets a whiff of peaches.

Jon had once admitted that it was the same for him. That he too had —

(Not tonight.

Just… not tonight.)

Each step he takes in his bathroom is soaked and underlined with exhaustion. His eyes burn with strain, each limb aches with some dull uncomfortable weakness and throbs with it. The simple motion of grabbing a towel is done through a haze, through heavy sighs and eyes stuffed with cotton.

The water is cold when he steps into the shower, but he doesn't really mind. Any kind of shower is a nice one for him right now, and he won't be too picky.

Though, after a moment, he decides to sink down into the tub instead. The metal drain goes down easy enough, and he switches the water to fill the bath. Martin's legs are pushed against his chest, hands wrapped around himself as if to keep himself contained, to keep himself put neatly away in the corner. But as the water rises, he slowly unwinds, and lets himself sink deeper.

The water rushing is an almost soothing noise, and he can feel the rise and fall of his breath against the waves. It surrounds him, begins to rise and rise and overtake his body, like he's being buried alive. It's a kind thing.

He lets his arms rise to the surface of the water, unbound, and watches it all vanish. His vision is hazy as he stares forward at the faucet, brightening and then darkening, fading in and out, refocusing and blurring like a stuttering heartbeat monitor, ready to give in.

Then he looks everywhere, and he finds nothing. But that's… fine. He could use a break anyway. He rests his weary head and lays it upon the water. It fills his ears, laps around his cheeks, and he closes his eyes.

It's cold, but the chill and the numbness just simply make everything more tolerable. It makes everything less… loud. He's been getting colder, but here, shivering in the water of his lifeless flat, he thinks it's nice, in a way. He wouldn't ever admit that to Peter, of course, but it's the truth.

He won't let it go too far. Right now, he's just resting in it for a minute or two. Now that it's just him left, he's allowed to be a little selfish. He's earned a bit of rest, for a little while.

Those thoughts are washed away when it becomes impossible to breathe. It's fine. He'll take rest wherever he can get it. He never turned off the water, and his head keeps being pulled in deeper, so he sinks into the sea and drowns. For just a little while, of course, and it's fine when he wakes up.

(He didn't remember ever falling asleep, either in his bath, bed, or in his office cot. The next thing he knows he's in his office, shivering and soaked through to the bone. It's pitch black in there, but the battering of rain makes itself known outside. Maybe he just wandered in from the rain and forgot.

Still, that's the last time that he goes to his flat. It doesn't really matter, but something in him fears that he'll find his bathroom flooded with only a body to show for it. A corpse, cold to the touch, and all that.)

The walls trapping Martin inside, closing in around him, suffocating him in empty space are familiar, and Martin finds some comfort in being choked by a hand that he already knows the shape of. And so Martin wanders his office. Some days, he can see nothing through the fog, only splotches of colors that blur together until they form meaningless shapes and dull gradients. But, sometimes — in those first few months, Martin thinks — he sees the walls. He sees the wooden bookshelves that are so bare that he can trace the empty gaps between the books before his eyes are drawn to read the names of them.

Sometimes Martin can actually see the whole of his desk, and he finds his office computer next to stacks of messy papers and statements. He sees his notebook, and the numbers and keywords and passwords written in familiar handwriting etched into the pages. He thinks he might've used that notebook for poetry, once, but… he hasn't ever checked. He doubts he'd find any meaning in any of his old poems anyway, if he could ever muster up the courage to read them. He doesn't even know if they're in that book.

(He doesn't even remember writing down those passwords, those numbers, those emails. He doesn't remember writing it even when the ink is still wet. Everything just feels so distant, and it's only getting farther away. Is that even his book? Is he even writing with his own hands?)

Various bits of litter scatters across his office, trash overflowing out of the small bin in the corner, dishes building up on whatever surface is most convenient. Yet another small thing to add onto Martin's growing list of inconveniences. Because, of course, even after all the supernatural bullshit he's had to get accustomed to, and all the normalities and bits of humanity that he's lost, the one thing that he has to keep is his responsibility to wash the dishes. To keep tidy. He doesn't — he doesn't even dream anymore, but oh, of course he still needs to remember to empty the bin.

That small nagging voice in his head that told him to clean up, to be presentable, to keep a good environment died a long time ago. Maybe it died somewhere in a hospital, where Martin watched it fade out quietly with a flat empty tone in a cold room. Or maybe it went out writhing, Martin needing to hold it down underwater till it finally stopped moving.

The clutter is all just background noise to him now, but noise quieter than the clock, so it's fine. It's… tolerable.

Peter had commented on it once. A small shake of the head, a frown, feigned concern. It had looked so unnatural on Peter's face, like a silicone mold being stretched beyond its original use and cracking a bit at the edges. He had asked if Martin was alright, if he needed help with anything, because, well, it's probably been hard for him lately, and he wanted Martin to have a clean space at the very least. A clean space means productivity, and above all, Peter wanted Martin to stay productive. Ha.

In his effort to help, Peter had wandered Martin's office, invaded the little space that he had, and collected a few things. But instead of reaching for the dirty plates, the trash — Peter grabbed books, a framed photo, a cup of pens that Martin had never actually used, but had grown accustomed to clicking when he'd grow restless. Peter had cleaned off a shelf that Martin never bothered looking at for very long, but the sudden absence of its pleasant clutter had made him recoil. Like Martin had to die in an empty freezer, because God, wouldn't it be awful for him to go out with a fake succulent to keep him company.

Some days, Martin's glad that the fog and the dark covers it. He's glad that he can't see his office, even if he still feels its chill.

Back then, without the fog, months, years, or seconds ago, the emptiness of Martin's office made the few present things significantly more intruding. The desk was just so wide — and the bookshelves were so thick, as though purposefully robbing Martin of any extra space. The walls too felt as though they were shifting, leaning further and further in, trapping Martin in his suffocating room that dissolves into nothing if he looks too close.

His flat had more room than his office did. At least when he was trapped there he had room to walk around more than eight paces.

(Is it eight? Is it ten? Is it just one? It feels like it. It feels like there's no room, no space for him to breathe, but there's too much space, too. Does the cramped room go on forever? Does nothing turn into everything, as well? How can he measure that? How can he try to look at it from a good angle and a clear mind, file it away under some label that isn't just insanity, and feel as though he learned something? Walking one step forward and one step back — does the motion of his stillness even matter if he's not going anywhere?

Ha. He should write that down. It'd be a good addition to his little poetry book, another little fragment of nothing words that can't exist in any way that means something to someone who isn't him.

He can't even do that, though. Because every time his pen touches paper with the intent to write something that isn't just business bullshit, it's always out of ink. Then he writes, and he writes, empty pen jittering desperately across blank paper until he rips the page. He's ruined a whole notebook with that once, he thinks. Unless he didn't. He doesn't remember, and the trash has been overfilling with blank scraps of paper for as long as he's been here.)

The knocking of Martin's door has been replaced with the tick of a clock.

There always has to be something, he supposes. He can't just exist in silence, dwelling on his entrapment without some discordant noise repeating and echoing and piercing and —

Martin isn't trapped in his office though. Not really.

That's part of the deal. He doesn't have to be here. Martin could leave whenever he wanted to, he could step out of his office and breathe the fresh air. Could get away from the four walls and thick bookshelves and closed door.

This time there's no worms on the other side, so Martin doesn't need to study the firm lock, checking to make sure that it's secure, that no one could get in. He doesn't need to draw the curtains and stuff towels underneath the door and the cracks of the window, as though the air outside can't enter. He doesn't have to do any of it, but he does, by his own choice. But he does, because he —

Martin pauses.

How long have those towels been under his office door? How long have the warm curtains of his office been replaced with blackout ones, and how long have they been drawn tightly against the window?

Did Peter do that, or did he?

(No matter how long Martin rattles the handle of his office door, desperately hoping someone will come and save him from this freezing office, he knows he refuses to glance down at the door handle because one of his hands is still holding the lock in place. He just doesn't have the key. He doesn't remember when the night first begun to feel like it was extending into forever, but he remembers the feeling of the curtains against his fingers all the same.)

His knees buckle from beneath him, and he leans his head against the wooden door, hands falling limply to his side.

No one is getting in, and no one is getting out.

Tears don't blur in his eyes this time. He tries to think of it as progress.

Martin dreams that outside of his office, the halls have no color and the proudly hung paintings of the ocean that used to be a touch unnerving are now all tolerably blank.

Martin isn't there. Or — well, he is, but not really.

Just the shell of him, a layer of skin with nothing else inside. Just pale cracked lips, frost laced fingers, and broken glasses. Enough to be his shape, a form, an idea, but hollow. Like a house, not a home.

He walks through the institute, passing disembodied voices that either pay him no mind or try to speak to him before realizing that he isn't there. Then the institute is left behind too, and suddenly it's just Martin wandering, walking, alone and untethered. His warm breath occasionally cuts through the chill air like pollution, like a splinter, like biding time.

More people pass by, wandering to and fro, going about their own lives. They don't look at him, he doesn't look back. The street drawls out forever in front of him, unwinding. An offer. Martin takes it.

He walks, and he walks, and he walks. Heel first and slow, a weight on his back, the burden of himself, his feet aching too with a distant chill. His pace is slow but he could do it forever, and he does, so it doesn't matter.

There's nothing that can aid him here — empty roads with their only direction being away. He can't read the names of any streets, can't imagine himself not taking another step, and can't bare to ask himself where he's going. Some part of him tries to fight back, some broken gasp caught among the wind and then snuffed out. Go back, it whispers, go back, go back.

He doesn't.

The fog becomes so thick that he can't even figure out where back is. If he turns around, if he loses sight of his next step, then… He doesn't even want to think of it.

There's only forward. And forward is — forward is a noise, a call. Waves crashing onto sand. The tide coming in. A heavy blanket of fog overtakes his vision, wraps itself around him as he blindly stumbles forward. The pavement beneath his feet is replaced with the shifting of sand, and the distant cars, the distant people, get farther away. His vision never clears, but his sight is born anew.

He doesn't know how long he walks, but dreams rarely have a solid timeline. Mismatched and incomprehensible, there is no difference between where he is and the movement of his leg, but he counts the steps towards the waves regardless.

Eventually, he sees his own dead body wash up from the shore. He takes a step towards the deep blue sea, lets the tide come forth, and is pulled under. He watches this from a distance, and feels dread lap at his feet.

There is no one in the water. And it's not quite ready for him.

It leaves him behind, but he still never makes it back.

Martin dreams that he's sitting on his office floor, legs up to his chin, hands trembling as they try to plug his ears. Trying to do anything to muffle the noise of the dreaded knocking coming from the door, just a few feet away. There's not enough room, not enough distance to be safe. All Martin can do is hope that he'll be okay, for a little bit longer.

The door handle rattles, but the lock stays firm in place.

Martin, Jon shouts on the other side. Martin, are you in there? Can you hear me? I'm going to get you out. I won't let Peter take you, I promise. I'll get you out of there.

Knocking, knocking, screaming.

He'll tire himself out, Martin thinks, trying to comfort himself, and waits until the only noise he can hear is the soft tick tick tick from his office clock.

When he finally removes his hands from his face, he finds that he's still in the dark, the curtains still drawn. His situation hasn't changed, his body still takes the shape that it always has, and his heart is still beating. The only difference is that some time has passed, minutes, hours, days — There's still a long way to go. He thinks, longer still to wait.

Martin is, to put it simply, incredibly tired of waiting. Martin is a patient person — he knows that he is, but he's spent his entire life waiting. Is it so wrong that he just wants something to go a little faster? So that he can finally get it all over with?

How long has he even been here? How long has he been waiting? Has he really got nothing better to do than to ask himself questions that he knows he can't answer?

There's a small calender on his wall. It says that it's late November, but Martin knows that it's not. He looks over at his computer, and sees that it proudly announces itself to be May. It doesn't really matter to him anymore.

It really, really doesn't.

At least he has the date that he stopped giving a shit about time marked on his wall, illuminated by the lamp on his desk. He reaches forward, turns it off, and allows himself to be plunged into the darkness. The only light now comes from his computer.

He stares at the screen, at the numbers that dissolve into meaningless shapes that dissolve into the light that dissolves into nothing. Then, it's his turn.

(Martin stopped having dreams when he started working for Peter. Or maybe he just stopped waking up from them. There's hardly a difference, is there?)

Martin lies in the dark, head against the wooden floor of his office, body splayed out and ready to become something other than his. It's just so heavy, so hard to move, yet weightless. Numb.

It might be morning, it might be midday, or the rest of the world might be dark as well. He — he doesn't know. The curtains are still drawn tight against his window, keeping the light from entering his office. Keeping it from touching him, from gracing his skin with a kind warmth. Martin, he can't — he can't be touched. Not here, not now, not by anything kind.

There have been many times in Martin's life where he thought he was going to die. From accidentally running into the street when he was a child, to Jane Prentiss, to endless halls, the Unknowing, Elias — times where his heart threatened to beat out of his chest, and the implication of almost made his head spin and his eyes go wide and afraid.

Martin has seen death miss him, just barely. An arrow whizzing past his ear, ruffling his hair and making him freeze while it burrows itself into something just behind him. Then it becomes just one of many sharp things in the world, it's only importance to Martin being that it was a loved one who was its target.

But this is something else entirely. This is the first time Martin's held it. The first time that he's been able to feel death in his palms, hold it close to his chest, and not let go. Here, it's real, tangible, not wrapped in possibilities and what-ifs, nor sharp and sudden like the pierce of a knife.

It's slow, but certain. Just a whisper, followed by a soft press of lips against his forehead. But not quite kind, not tender or affectionate, just… merciful. Like putting down an old dog. Like Martin's being reassured as he falls into his final sleep, the knowledge of his demise being the comforting whir of a nightlight. Safety, for the very first time, in a way that feels plausible.

His ending, the final tick of a clock, the tide rolling in, is all inevitable. He's always known that, but before, he had other things to fill in the silence. He had fits of laughter and nervous stammering, arguments and fear and genuine joy, he had… a life. But those things are gone, washed away, and now it's just the dark, a computer screen, a locked door, and an understanding.

He understands that this moment will stretch into forever. Martin is dying. So he is already dead.

He closes his eyes — the action having no use in his pitch black room — and hopes that this moment, this infinity, this unyielding fraction of forever, will pass by quickly.

Tucked safe in the corner of his office, Martin finds a notebook. It has a faded blue cover, and its pages are warped with time and neglect.

It's entirely blank, save for one line in the top left corner of a random page, somewhere in the later half of the book.

Time is, it reads, written in shaky, unfamiliar handwriting.

He doesn't know what it means, so he tears out all of the pieces of paper. They crumple in his palm one by one, and then he throws them all away.

It's just curiosity that has him grabbing the scissors, gripped tightly in his hand. A harmless question tugging at the corners of his mind. Through the fog, through the lonely, everything in Martin has been dulled, which makes him wonder — can he still feel something sharp?

A small drag across his skin, a bit of pain blooming beneath it in small beautiful red flowers.

He goes for his throat text.

(There was another page that did have writing on it, codes and nonsense numbers and the phrase the world is always ending written a dozen times wherever it could fit.

Martin really wishes it would just hurry up.)

Anger has always been a confusing thing.

Martin's kept a tight leash on his emotions for longer than he cares to recall, taught them how to sit and keep quiet. He spent hours carefully learning and reflecting on all their little tricks and methods of attempting to break loose, and learned just the right way to tug so that they'd never get free and cause problems.

But anger has always just… been there, throbbing in his chest as though it were the same as his heart. It either turns into an ugly cruel thing, spiteful and envious, bitter and rancid, or it just shakes and bleeds, and the tears that come with are never enough to dilute the red that leaks from his very core. The former, he's dealt with, he's discovered how to keep it cold and hidden behind polite smiles.

But the latter always comes through, weeping, when he never expects it.

He never knows what to do with it — it just makes his heart hurt in a way that can't quite be ignored in the same way that disappointment or grief does. It makes everything harder to focus on, makes his body feel stiff and tense and he burns with it. So it gets extinguished as soon as he hears the first beep of the alarm.

Back then, when he could feel that burn bubbling over, he'd finally give himself a chance to breathe. He'd treat himself to a nice extra something when he'd go shopping, he'd go for a nice walk on a nice day to clear his head. Anything to cool off, to stomp out that fire over and over again until the coals turned into ash and dust.

He never had the time for it, either. There wasn't ever a time for him to be properly angry at something — he always had somewhere to be, someone to take care of, something to do. Exploding or snapping at someone never helped, it didn't make it go away or help take a load off, so Martin just didn't.

But now, it seems, Martin has all the time in the world, and he can feel that familiar pulse getting louder and louder, harmonizing with the background tick tick tick. It didn't quite seem to get the memo. It didn't seem to realize it would follow Martin down as he fizzled out in this shitty office. It didn't understand that the only anger he had now was a distant wish that Peter would come up with a more interesting way of disguising the taste of the poison Martin's been drinking.

These are Martin's last days, this is the way that his life is coming to its end, and it's a passive thing. There's no room for — for punching a hole in the wall, for screaming someone's ear off. Martin's not even the one taking the step forward, he's just waiting for someone to push him into the road. He's just waiting in his dark office with blackout curtains, not being able to even stomach seeing the light outside. Seeing that there is an outside, that the rest of the world didn't end when Martin's did.

He just… needs to wait.

He's sure that his anger will die out with the rest of him, eventually.

Yeah.

He just needs to wait. The only thing he's ever truly been good at.

God.

Fuck that.

He sits up from his desk, hands clenched. He's tired of waiting, he needs to do something. What's the worst that could happen? Peter kills him? It's about time, anyway. It's not like there's anything that Martin has left to lose. God. He can't believe that this is happening now. Martin's finally letting himself boil over, and it's to let his losing card be years of built up spite and bitterness.

The clock mocks him, like it always does, like Martin isn't already aware of all the time that he's wasting.

Martin turns, stumbling over his cot and his blankets and scattered boxes of statements, and reaches up towards his office clock. It comes easily off the wall with a single sharp yank, cold and uncaring in his hands. He falls onto his knees while fumbling with the backing, trying to desperately figure out how to rip out the batteries. To make the clock finally stop.

It feels a bit damp and humid from the fog. Martin's breath stutters. He hesitates, for just a moment, before he grits his teeth.

(This didn't go very well last time.)

Fuck all of this, actually. Fuck Peter for not doing anything, for just letting Martin's own mind eat away at itself until there's nothing left. Fuck Elias for dragging them all into this, for his sly grinning eyes and him forcing Martin's hand, for him not being allowed to be right at the heart of the Unknowing, for not being allowed to die in another persons company.

And fuck Tim for getting to steal that spot from him, for dying in his place, and Martin's heart bleeds red ugly and envious at the thought. He's always understood Tim to a certain extent, but he never trusted that flimsy rope bridge of understanding to be enough for them to both be on the same side of the divide. But maybe he should've crossed anyway, because if Martin had the chance to go down swinging, to go out in a fiery explosion and let someone else clean up the wreckage for once, then maybe — maybe he would. Maybe he'd just like the option.

And, ha — fuck Jon for leaving him with this. For dying, for being nothing more than a lifeless corpse with a low whirring hum like a goddamn tape recorder and yet still pulling Martin along for months with the distant promises of return.

It's all pointless. All of this is just — it's all pointless bullshit.

His fingers slip off the back of the clock, its smooth surface giving him nothing to latch onto, nothing to do to stop that ticking, and his hands are already clenched, so he slams then down as hard as he can.

It hurts. But even that's dulled, even that was taken from him, even that doesn't matter.

So he keeps going, frantic and desperate, and something in him is laughing. Because all of this is so stupid, and of course, the final showcase of Martin at the end of his ropes is him breaking a fucking office clock. Cue the applause, hope the Beholding finds it entertaining. That it can look upon this inactive locked office where nothing happens and see a trapped desperate thing inside, trying to gnaw off it's own leg.

Erratic gasps and broken glass seem to be the only sound in the world, crashing in his ears with each swing. For a moment, he almost rejoices knowing that all the noise is coming from him. But even here, he doesn't scream. He knows that he's indulging himself, but that seems like crossing a line, somehow.

Like, ha, like he doesn't want to bother anyone. God.

His heart pounds out of his chest to the rhythm of his fists, he keeps going, long past the point of no return, past when his cheeks are wet with tears and his hands are buzzing with pain and blood.

He swings down, once, hard, and that's for withheld plans and flimsy promises and hung paintings of the sea. Then for lies of omission and time spent in the dark. Then for Martin's reflection, when he still had one, showing his father first. For Document and Artefact Storage. For poorly disguised suicide attempts. For white walls and uncomfortable chairs. For hand holding and please wake up's and you said you'd come back —

He crumbles into himself, curled up on the floor and pathetically heaving, everything in him screaming and far too loud for his taste. He needs it all to stop. He needs it all to quiet, because now the ticking's gone, but he can still hear his breath, and that's a far uglier thing.

God. What a waste.

This can't — this can't be it.

Martin stands, legs shaking and head swimming. There has to be more than this. Martin's here, and he's ready to do something, and he's not going to just lay back down and accept his fate. Once more he stumbles forwards, feet now getting caught on broken glass.

He had a life, once. That thought lodges in his mind, hits his chest in a way that feels far too real.

There was once a time where he'd go off to buy lunch with Tim every other day, slowly but surely forming a friendship that he genuinely thought might last. There were nights spent recounting proof of it, the reassuring grins, the hands on his shoulder, and how Tim had never overstepped, never wanted anything in return. There was a time when Martin actually felt appreciated after receiving a new mug from Sasha, even if they weren't as close as they could've been. It was a small thing, but it felt like a promise, and it always fit nicely in his hands during early mornings at home.

Somewhere, the sun is still shining through the institutes windows, and Tim's voice still rings clear down the hall proudly declaring it to be time for break. Sasha's hands are still hers and she's still throwing his coat at him from across the room and telling him to not forget it this time. Somewhere, Jon's working at an ungodly hour, and his face is unwinding in poorly contained relief when Martin delivers him a cup of tea, and they don't quite know each other yet. Martin's still trying to figure him out, still wondering — is he kind? Is there something soft and warm beneath his stiff and stuffy annoyance? Is he kind? Can I find a way to prove it?

Somewhere, all four of them are still alive. Somewhere, Martin's still who he says he is, there's another day waiting around the corner, the sun is warm against his skin, and life isn't frozen like a shitty snow globe in a shittier office. It's out there, somewhere, and Martin just needs to find it. Just — just needs to see it, for a moment.

His body is trembling when he approaches the window. In anticipation, in fear.

The blackout curtain is big, hanging high above the window and reaching far past the sides. It's even tied to the wall, ensuring that no unwelcome light leaks in. It was checked over and over again, dozens of times, when it was first put up.

He still doesn't remember when that was.

The curtains are soft when they meet his fingers. Heavy fabric that's just a touch too stiff. They're… just curtains, but nostalgic, almost. He got a set for his mother to make sure that she could get the rest she needed. Mostly just for the rough nights and mornings, but sometimes, when things got bad, they'd stay up and closed for days on end. It was always weird to step into her room, when he had to — stepping into a void of nothing, where his mother was resting, and would rest for eternity were he not there. Some days, he wondered if he could just lean against the edge of her bed and stay there forever, unnoticed, unremarkable, and not bothering anyone. An extra shadow didn't mean much in the dark.

Once, he did. Burdened with his own selfish exhaustion, needing a moment to just vanish from the world. He doesn't know how long he stayed, though. If it was just for a second, or if he never got out.

She was always groggy when she awoke and left the room — of course, when the reason for her coming out wasn't because of something he did. But she looked more disoriented, more out of place, like even the shadows beneath her feet were unsure of where they belonged.

It was always hard for her to rejoin the rest of the world.

Martin doesn't even think he wants to go that far. He just — he just wants to check if it's still there.

Slowly, carefully, his fingers push past the curtains and curl around the edges, ready to pull back. He feels like he can't breathe.

It's like ripping off a bandaid. A sharp twist of his arm, tense and bracing for pain. His eyes squint, ready for the blinding light to overwhelm him. It doesn't come.

It's… the middle of the night.

Ha. Yeah. That makes sense. Of course it is. He didn't — He didn't even think to check the time before doing all of this, before getting all excited about the sun.

There's a heavy fog outside. It clings to the window and the buildings and streets. In the dark, he can't make much out. It almost looks like the world has vanished. It's just gone. All of it.

Of course, it's not gone, gone. All he needs to do is wait for the sun to rise.

He just needs to wait.

Wait for the sun to rise. Wait for the door to open.

A laugh bubbles up his throat, low and bitter. He closes the curtain, and then slides onto the cold floor. His hands reach up to cover his face, and then remain still. Days or years or seconds pass, but such a thing doesn't matter anymore. It's just nothing, it's just more waiting.

He wonders for a moment what would happen if he reaches forward and stumbles around in the dark. If he'll go past the confines of his office and enter an equally dreadful room, if he'll crawl along carpeted floors and accidentally set his hand upon himself, silently sobbing against the edge of his mothers bed.

It's more likely that he'll just bump into his door, and his hands will once again grip the freezing handle. It will rattle and Martin's heart will drop, and the door will remain closed.

Martin doesn't try to check. He decides on just staying perched against the wall, and he doesn't cry. He doesn't shiver, he doesn't move, he just… stays still. Lets the buzz of pain be reduced to yet another dull ache, and lets the fire flicker out. He waits. Unnoticed, unremarkable, and not bothering anyone.

Eventually, the clock begins to tick again, a cold and uncaring thing hung on the wall.

"Right." A mess of colors. Too bright. "Um. How's…" Fidgeting hands. "H-How's the poetry?" Searching eyes. A shaky breath. A dead body stumbling out of the hole it's been buried in, writhing with it's own heartbeat. Desperate and futile, but the even the small implications are too heavy to hold. Dead feet again walking the earth, a shitty flickering lighter breaking through the fatal dark. A savior, no matter how faint. Hope. A second chance.

Martin stares at him. He doesn't know who he's looking at, but it hurts to meet his gaze.

A voice responds, lines of scripted betrayal leaving Martin's own lips — no, no. Not betrayal. That would imply that it wasn't expected, and that it was done by someone familiar.

Martin doesn't know who's talking to who, which one is talking to empty air, which one of them is dead, and who's refusing to let flowers begin to grow over their grave. He can't figure out what all of this means, but something inside of him is twisting in dread. Things are changing, this is a point of no return, and unease is eating away at him, bit by bit.

"Yes, of course." A beat. A raised brow, the fallback of shoulders, a deflating balloon. "You've been busy."

Yeah.

Maybe he has.

"I very much hope so." Peter says, smiling. Martin looks past him.

The door.

It's open.

Just a crack, but…

Peter gives him an odd look. "Of course, if you need more time…"

"I don't."

Martin was trapped for a very, very long time in his office. But here, there are no locked doors and confined spaces. There is no time slowly ticking and pulling Martin along with it. It's just… nothing. The only sound comes from the waves rolling in before retreating, and the shifting of sand. Not even his feet ache here. It's freedom, in the only way it matters.

It wasn't ready for him before, or maybe he wasn't ready for it. There was just too much of him back then, and he couldn't be taken away just yet. He was hollow, but he still was. He didn't realize that the thing letting go was also what needed to be let go of. He knows better now.

The wind blows through him, sweeping up the last remnants of hurts that he still holds and carries them out to sea. The water washes away his footprints and any trail or proof of himself that he still accidentally leaves behind. All smoothed over and forgotten. Soon though, there won't be a need for it. Soon, there will be nothing left to even leave.

Burdens and responsibilities slip through his fingers and join with the rest of the ocean, unremarkable drops of him that quickly vanish in the waves. It feels like he gets to finally shed an old battered coat, gets to unshackle himself from the burden of being.

That moment of respite he felt that first time he came here, those peaceful minutes where he was untethered and alone, unknown even to himself — that feeling is a constant, now. He would hold that feeling and cry of relief if he had hands to hold it with.

But he is alone. He has abandoned even himself. There is no one coming to save him. There is no one to save.

And so Martin drowns. He drowns, and he drowns, and he drowns.

Martin dreams that a million years later, on a couch in Scotland, Jon places a blanket over his shoulders. Carefully. but almost professionally. His fingers take great effort to not accidentally grace his neck, but still ensure that the blanket is straightened and covering as much of him as possible. To keep him warm, or whatever it was that Jon said.

"I'm not cold." He whispers in response, not for the first time. It'd fall flat, usually. A bit distant and uninterested — but he's here, present and intrusive, and the depth of his existence spreads to his voice. A roughness, proof of his exhaustion and all too loud. It feels like someone's hammering nails into his ears each time he speaks, each time his own voice plays in his ears and echos through the room, undeniably real. But he doesn't remove the blanket, though he also doesn't look up to meet Jon's gaze.

He still feels the way that Jon falters in the corner of his eye — turning his head a bit awkwardly and making a weird breathy noise in his throat, waiting a moment, as though stumped. Lines were drawn at some point, of what was and wasn't okay to do. They grew further and further past those lines through the months they spent together, until Jon died and was still gone, despite what he tried to do to prove otherwise. Those lines are the only things that truly remain now, just the bones of what used to be. Blaring red lights and turn back signs, arrows pointing back the way they came and warnings and do not cross written everywhere it can fit. Now though, it's Jon trying to make his way across.

"You're shivering, still." Jon gently counters, and then, slowly, giving him the chance to stop him at any point, Jon reaches forward and touches his hand. It burns a little. "And your hands are cold."

It's quiet, but that only means that the smallest noises are that much louder. The night outside sometimes batters against the rickety windows, wind not so kindly asking to be let in. He can hear their joined breathing. Jon's, he doesn't mind — but inside is his own breath, an ugly stuttering thing. He shivers, and feels cold air travel down the back of his neck, down his back, and then spreads across his skin. It's heavier than the blanket.

Maybe he is cold.

"…Martin." Jon asks, cautiously, and perhaps even worse than hearing his own voice, his own breath, is his own name.

His own name? That implies that he does, in any way, own it. He is not the owner of that name. That name does not belong to him. He doubts there is any name in the entire universe that could be formed on anyone's tongues that could become something belonging to him. Martin. Martin. A terrible name for him, honestly. Hearing someone say it — it sounds so personal. Like they know him, like he's something that can be labeled, something that can be pointed out. Yes, that one, there, shivering on the couch. That's Martin, you see. Yes, yes, the one with the — with —

Hm.

He doesn't exactly remember what he looks like, now. It's hard to make a point about being seen without knowing what there is to see in the first place.

Jon probably knows.

The thought is not as comforting as he'd like.

He shivers.

"Martin." Jon is saying again, a bit urgently, and — heh, 'Martin' looks up at him in question.

Jon's face is tight with concern, eyes desperately and frantically scanning and searching through Martin's expression. Martin's not sure what's more surprising, the frenzied manner in which Jon is looking, or how certain he seems that there's something to find. Honestly, Martin would try to help him search if he weren't so tired. He's almost curious to see what Jon would dig up, if there's anything left in him to be found.

Oh, right. Jon's still waiting for an answer.

"…What?"

A pause, a small exhale of breath. Martin can't quite tell whether it falls under relief or resignation. "I was wondering if you wanted a cup of tea." Jon whispers. "Hopefully it'll help warm you?"

Martin nods, but he knows that he's not really there to drink it anyway. He's really standing just outside of the safehouse, fiddling with the closed front door with frostbitten fingers and trying to find the key to unlock it.

"…Do you want to talk about it?" The words come gently, purposefully crafted and shaped to be free of compulsion. Scarred hands are placed overtop cold ones. Flowers over a grave, or something.

Maybe this is just grief, touches of comfort threaded with denial. Jon should know better though, should know that bargaining with a corpse only draws you to the dirt, and a compromise only makes room for you in the grave. It never ends well. There's no world in which both are alive after the deal.

Martin freezes like usual, regardless of his current state of life, though he's getting better at not freaking out as much. They're standing just in front of the door, ready to head out on an afternoon walk. They don't do mornings anymore, since Martin always sleeps through them — at least, that's what Jon says, but he always cuts himself a bit short, always swallows and looks away, brows a bit furrowed and underlined with hesitance. There's more to it, but Jon never says, and Martin never asks.

One of his hands is holding onto his coat, the fabric unfolding in his loose grip and swinging down, ready to slip off of Martin's fingers and fall to the floor. Right off the edge of a cliff, but it's more of the cliff that's still hanging on. This usually happens. Martin will do something, say something, or not do either of those things, and Jon will rummage around and pull out anything that looks like a bruise and hold it up to the light. You froze when I mentioned your poetry. Why do you keep eyeing the calender? Why are you always either following or leaving? Sometimes he misses the mark. Other times, he digs up old scars in spots that Martin swears were never touched by anything sharp enough to draw blood.

Martin gives Jon's hand a squeeze, offers a small reassuring smile, and pretends like both of them aren't horribly aware of how rusty he is at looking fine. "I'm alright now, Jon." Martin says, not for the first time.

Jon just shakes his head a little, reluctantly lets go of Martin's hand to allow him to finish putting on his coat. "It must've been difficult, though." Jon's eyes perk up towards him with his tone, a tiny question, a prompt. He watches Martin fiddle with the zipper, a small frown forming on his face the longer that Martin stays quiet.

The moment drags — no, crawls on, and on, and on. Hauling itself over unpaved roads with scuffed hands and knees. Reaching forward, fingernails digging and cracking when it's met with hard gravel and rock and mud, then pulling the heavy weight of itself a few inches further up the path. Then again, and again, and again. Martin doesn't mind though. He still has time to spare, after all. He takes a slow deep breath, and pretends that it doesn't taste of blood. "Not really." Martin replies, testing the coats stability with a small shrug.

Another pause. Jon looks to the front door, then back. "Martin—"

"I know, Jon." Martin sighs. "I know you want me to talk about it. But there's — there's not really much to say? It was just a lot of nothing, for a long time." He says, but Jon still looks unconvinced. "Look, there was no spooky monster, nothing that wasn't just a bit lonely, or — or anything worth mentioning, really. Unless you want me to ramble on about how vaguely annoying it was that I couldn't leave my office, there's not much to it. It's not that I don't want to talk to you," Not the only reason, at least, "but I just don't have much to talk about. I really didn't do much other than just stare at the lock on my door and mindlessly sort spreadsheets."

Jon nods, a bit unwillingly, before suddenly pausing. "You couldn't leave your office?" Jon asks quietly, eyes wide and careful.

Martin stares at him. "The door was locked."

"Your office door didn't have a lock."

Martin looks away, then hums. "Yeah." He agrees. "Yeah, I suppose it didn't."

It makes sense, really. Martin knew that. It just —

Just hurts a little.

It's been a long time since then. Martin thinks. Longer still to wait.

They don't really talk about much for the rest of the day. Or at least, Martin doesn't hear any of it.

Martin dreams that he's back in that cemetery that Jon told him about all those lifetimes ago. He knows it by the chipped and broken headstones, the open inviting mouths laid in the dirt, and the all consuming fog. Martin's just visiting, coming to a friend of a friend's house while nobody's home. Not unwelcome, but not invited. The fog wanders here though, pulls him along with gentle coaxing as though he wouldn't be swept here regardless, with or without promise of reward. But something else gets mixed into the fog — a touch of rot, and it doesn't take long to discover that some of the coffins aren't empty. He knows the faces of those buried by heart, and yet he does not recognize any of them. A shame, he thinks, looking down at their gravestones, names all forgotten by time. A shame, a shame—

No.

Martin dreams of shattering between his feet. Of shouts and yells and trying to hide in fake pleasantries and cabinets and closets. He dreams of that sudden twist of danger, of falling off the tightrope and learning that it hurts less at the end if he doesn't try to grab hold of anything. Breathy comments spoken with ones whole heart that have more impact than a bat swung to his head. It had to be Martin, didn't it, and I shouldn't have gotten my hopes up on you and what a goddamn waste—

No.

Martin dreams that —

Martin dreams.

Shivers run through his limbs, all curled up in on themselves, trying to stay as small as possible, and he's laying on an unfamiliar bed in a familiar dark. His fingers reach out, hesitantly spreading and then gripping desperately onto the blankets. Without that flimsy tether to ground himself, he'll just float away. He knows better, of course, but he still holds on.

What is he even holding on for? It's not like he has anything left for him now. He wants to let go. He wants to drift away into nothing and let whatever he leaves behind gather dust in an abandoned house. Let himself be an imprint, worn carpets, a shitty paint job, and boxes in the attic, ready for someone else to cover him up and throw him out and finish the job for him. He's only there to be an idea, an offhanded mention of the previous owner's strange taste in decor. Or maybe just a place to break into, windows coming pre-shattered and the bedroom already only having a dresser with empty drawers, a bare bed frame, and cobwebs in the corner. Abandoned and forgotten. Left haunted by the notable absence of a ghost.

The blankets are brought closer to his chest, and Martin fights the thought to try and hide under them. He learned long ago that it won't protect him, but something terribly childlike and afraid wants to try anyway. He settles on tightening his grip, trying harder to hold on while his heart pounds away in his hollow chest.

(He's fine, is the thing. There's no danger, the creeping chill isn't malicious, it's just the middle of the night, and he's past all of this now. He knows that he's fine, he just —)

Before he can fully understand the weight of what he's doing, Martin is out of bed and he begins to trace the walls of his office, taking careful steps around the room. Sometimes when he goes too long without checking it begins to shift on him, feeling far too open or far too tight. It's just natural to check. It's certainly one of his better habits.

His office has a few new additions, such as two big carrier bags stuffed with clothes sat against a dresser, rummaged through and put aside. There's a nightstand and a lamp, an empty bin off to the side, unused and unremarkable. His cot has also been replaced with a larger bed, and the blankets he left behind move up and down with slightly uneven breath. He doesn't want to wake them up.

His fingers brush against fabric, against his curtains, but they don't feel right. Too light and too carefree, clean air instead of thick murky water. He reels them back, pulls on the blinds, and looks out the window. A single blurry point of light looks through him somewhere far away. The moon, maybe, but the night is dense with so much fog that it's a waste to spend time on guessing.

But it's wrong, because now the light is coming in. These aren't his blackout curtains, and maybe this isn't even his office, and this is probably something that he should wake Jon up for.

(He remembers the feeling of Jon's hand in his. Squeezing it with a hopeful reassurance while he gets a worried gaze and a reluctant smile in return. A plea, a twinge of desperation and the reminder of danger in replace of sweet nothings. You'll wake me up if you need me? If something happens? Jon asked, eyes wide, and Martin never replied. But Jon could tell that he was promising something, and that was enough. He just didn't know that Martin's promise was to never disturb Jon's already fitful sleep, to never wake him up for something so entirely unimportant that it would become nothing but a half-mention and a shrug over breakfast the next morning. Jon just… worries too much, and Martin's fine.)

But his office is still wrong. Wrong in every way that matters.

The curtains twist in his hands and sway with the slight breeze of the night wind. It's too soft in his palms, and it's too quiet outside, and the fog is leaking in through the cracks of the window. Maybe he should grab some of those clothes he found and block it from coming in. Make sure that the fog stays out.

But then he imagines ruffling through the bag, going back to old habits and refusing to let the fresh air in, and — maybe that's worse. Maybe he should just let the fog in. It'd be progress, or something, for him to not lock the door and shut the curtains. For him to let the night wash over him, sweep him away. That's at least a change of pace. Progress.

(It would be, if he didn't phrase it like that. God.)

He takes a step forward anyway, presses his palm against the cold glass pane, and opens the window as much as he can. The chill greets him like an old friend, and Martin leans into the touch. The shivers seep into his bones and cover them with frost. They trail down his body until they meet his feet, and freeze them to the cold floor.

Everything in Martin aches. His arms are so heavy that he can feel the strain on his shoulders as they try to keep them attached. His knees, if they weren't firmly locked in place, would be threatening to give out from the weight of his chest. And then his feet — his feet throb with that dull distant pain, becoming all too apparent when he tries to sway.

Then the window, the fog, the promise of away is closer to him. If his office door weren't locked, he'd be bolting out of the building to walk into the distance until he becomes it. Even now, he fights the urge to climb out of the window. He hates being trapped like this, being attached to his body, his life, like a dog tied to a fence. He wants to be free like he was before. Free to wander without being.

(It was freedom. It was, it had to be. Even if it was just madness. Just keeping pressure on the wound until the towel bleeds through, but not bothering to call anyone. Just murder disguised as help, as comfort. Even if it was just another way to die, at least it was almost in peace.)

God. He wants out. He wants out of his office and he wants to crawl out of his body and abandon anything that resembles what he used to be and not have to worry about the mess he leaves behind. He wants out.

There's a screen behind the glass pane. Torn mesh flimsily repaired with tape, and it's easy to peel off. He pushes the tips of his fingers through the holes, feels them meet the dark outside, and continues pushing forwards. His fingers, then his palm, and then his arm — just up to the elbow. It slips through the mesh like it never existed. The fog outside is trying to pull him out. It's helping.

But he can't — he can't fit. He can't fit through the window. He can't get out. There's too much of him. No matter how far he pushes his arm, no matter how much the fog calls for him outside, the rest of his body is too wrapped up in existence to get out.

Fine. That's — that's fine, and it's probably for the best, anyway. As long as he can keep ignoring the cold wet tears shining on his cheeks, as long as he can just… keep trying to get a little closer to it. That'd be fine, right?

The screen rips easily, but soon Martin realizes that he can just push the frame out. It only takes a minute or so of fiddling with it before it drops, falling to the grass outside. Then the curtains keep falling over the window, trying to stop the fog from entering, so he pulls them off of the curtain rod. And it's fine, because none of this really matters anyway. It's all just more sleepless nights that exist in some weird pocket space of memory, always just lurking on the outskirts of importance and yet never getting too close. Always just a little bit distant.

But oh, isn't everything? Isn't everything just a little bit out of reach, a little bit out of touch? He's learned that through his time in his office tearing up notebooks and breaking clocks, starving and drowning and bleeding and poisoned and doing anything to find an out. There almost was one, but he cared a little too much and now he's back alone in his office.

What was even the point of any of this then? Why is Martin still here? Why can't he get out? Why can't the fog get in and take him away? Why can't he just —

"Martin?"

He freezes, and Jon's voice cuts clear through the haze.

Slowly, carefully, Martin drags his eyes towards the bed, and sees him. He's sat up and hunched over with blankets clinging to his shoulders. Shivering and still a bit drowsy, trying with little success to blink the dreams out of his eyes. Jon scans around the room, once, twice, and finds nothing of note. Then shuffles, rolling out the mattress from his back, before zeroing in on the fallen curtains beside Martin's feet.

Jon narrows his eyes, face scrunching up in confusion, before —

"Martin!" Then he's out of bed in one swift motion, swinging the blankets off of him, stepping over the discarded curtains, and reaching for Martin's hand. It goes straight through, because his arm is just a bit lost, a bit faded, like a poem written from a pen that's just out of ink. Regardless, Martin doesn't have the words to describe this to Jon before his eyes are wide and movements erratic, patting over Martin to see what is and isn't there. "Wh—What happened?" He's asking, like either of them could have an answer. "Martin? Martin?"

Martin turns his head away, recoiling with shame and embarrassment. "Sorry, Jon." He chokes out, the words raw from being.

"It's—It's okay, Martin, it's going to be okay." Jon looks between Martin and the window, a twinge of confusion and panic rolling through his face, mimicking Martin's own. It's far too real, and that means that what Martin just did might've actually happened. It didn't, of course, because that means that what he used to do might've been real as well, and he just… can't even entertain that right now.

The fog outside is loud. It's trying to sweep Martin away, but his feet are still frozen to the floor.

When Jon speaks, his voice is quieter. Still a bit ridden with underlining panic, but not accusatory or upset. Just… gentle, confused. "What were you doing?"

And that's the question, isn't it? What was Martin doing? What could he have possibly accomplished from — from whatever it was he was trying to attempt? He knows that he can't leave his office, he just… "I don't know." He whispers. "I'm sorry, Jon."

Jon isn't satisfied with that answer, and Martin barely has to be there to know it. Jon is rarely satisfied with anything that Martin has to say these days. But instead of pushing, his eyes dance around, face twisting into vague resignation. He opens his mouth then shuts it again, trying to carefully pinpoint any collection of words that could salvage any of this. "Can I close the window?"

He must nod, because soon Jon's reaching forward and sliding the glass back into place, blocking the cold's way in, and Martin's only way out. "Sorry, Jon." Martin's saying again automatically, distant and creeping further away. "You can go back to bed."

Jon shakes his head, perhaps with a bit more behind the notion than intended. "No. No, Martin, I'm not going to—" He shuts his mouth firmly, swallows, and then continues after a pause. "I wasn't getting very good sleep anyway. I could do with a—with a break. We could, um, make some tea? Sit out in the living room and work on one of those puzzles? Or we could just, ah, do nothing at all. Just lay on the couch with some blankets, and…" He trails off, running out of ideas, then looks up at Martin, wide eyes twinkling with hope. 

The only thing that Martin can manage to do is breathe. He wants to say sure, but he just ends up giving a small nod and looks back at the floor. The curtains are still at his feet.

"Okay." Jon says, still searching. Martin should know better than to expect anything different. "Okay. Let's go."

They step out from the corner of the room, and Martin takes slow steps towards the door. Jon's just behind him, taking one last cautious glance around the room while waiting for them to leave. Martin reaches out towards the door handle, and he —

He's not quite able to grab hold of it. His fingers shake around the air, like he's being repelled.

Maybe he can't manage breathing after all.

"…Martin? What's wrong? Are you—"

"I can't open it." He whispers, voice quiet but still laced in fear. "It — the door's locked, Jon. I can't open it."

Jon takes careful steps until he's next to him, then, slowly — Jon reaches his hand forward and wraps it around Martin's, carefully guiding it closer to the doorknob. Martin breathes out, his shaking hand seeming more stable when it's being held. Jon's hand is warm, and he applies a bit of pressure, closing Martin's fingers around the doorknob, twists his wrist, and —

The door opens.

Before he knows it, Martin starts crying from relief.

It's — well, quite embarrassing, to be honest, but he tries to think of it as progress.

Martin wakes up. It's morning, and the sun is shining.

It's a lot harder to believe than it should be.

Jon lays beside him, breathing slow and even. The light catches on his skin, making him look… nice, actually. Peaceful, if that's something still in the cards for either of them now.

Martin realizes that this is the first time he's waken up before him. This might be the first time he's waken up.

The curtains are open — or, well, gone. Martin sees them half haphazardly folded on the dresser. Presumably done by Jon last night, since Martin was probably too out of it to consider such a thing. But even so the warm sun is coming in, gracefully coating parts of the room in a loved gold. Martin extends a hand upwards, and watches with amazement as the tips of his fingers light up. Then his hand, then up to his elbow.

His movement causes Jon to shift a bit, expression flickering with displeasure at being accidentally pushed away. Jon wraps his arms around Martin, pulling him in a little closer. Martin almost scoffs at this, and relents to letting Jon hold him a bit tighter.

Eventually he wakes up as well, though still barely adjusting to the realm of consciousness. "You're up early." he tries, voice muffled by sleep and the edges of Martin's shirt. Martin just hums in response, then shifts to look out the window. There's a small pause, though it's not quiet. Birds are chirping outside, their breathing is steady, and it might be okay, for a little while. Jon shuffles a bit, pulling away to catch a glimpse of Martin's face. "Are you alright?"

Martin blinks at him, caught a bit off guard. "Yeah." He says, "Just." He pauses, then gestures vaguely towards the window. "It's light."

Jon stares at him, tilts his head a little, waiting for him to elaborate.

Martin shrugs. "I don't know." He whispers. "Just been awhile. It's… nice."

Jon hums against him — and Martin knows that he'll be asking questions about that later — but for now, he just moves in a little bit closer.

It's warm. Martin's awake, it's morning, and the sun is shining.