There was nothing physically wrong with the building, nothing out of place. It bore no signs of having been used recently, although the pantry was well-stocked with non-perishable staples. The air was slightly stale, everything covered in a fine layer of dust, but other than that, it was perfectly put-together and preserved. It was fine.
It still felt wrong, on a bone-deep level that had nothing to do with anything about the building itself, or even what its intended purpose was.
Really, Jon thought distantly, he ought to have expected the door to dump him out here. As much as he’d hoped he would wind up in the Institute, where he desperately needed to be, he’d rather suspected that wouldn’t be the case. And if it wasn’t going to be there, it was going to be somewhere else significant.
He just wished it had been anywhere but Detective Alice “Daisy” Tonner’s safe house in Scotland.
Jon Knew that it was about a six-day walk from the safe house to the Institute, if he didn’t stop. He’d have to, though. Time went on here, and his body would react accordingly. He’d need food, and sleep. He tried not to think about the fact that he’d probably need a statement before long, too. That would have to wait. He couldn’t risk being seen, let alone preying on some poor unsuspecting person. In fact, it would probably be best if he traveled after dark. Hopefully it wasn’t summer and the nights would be a bit longer, he might get farther along before he had to stop. He was looking at a journey of about a week, more than likely two, unless he could hitch a ride for part of the way. If he could find a safe way of doing that.
Time was precious. He knew that. He had no idea what day it actually was, or what might be going on in the Institute, but every moment he lingered was a moment that Jonah Magnus’s plan could advance. And like a tug-o’-war rope, every pull towards Jonah’s plan was a pull away from theirs. They had to stop it, and he certainly couldn’t do that from here. Besides, Martin was waiting for him (oh, please let Martin be waiting for him).
Still, he gave himself a few moments to slowly, carefully, with the lightest of treads, traverse the little cottage and remember—if remembering it could be said to be. Here was the kitchen where they’d playfully battled over recipes and spices, there the living area where they’d sat together on the lumpy couch and read aloud or talked quietly. This was the curtain Martin always pulled back long enough to check the day’s weather before deciding if it was worth going for a walk or not, that the rug Jon constantly tripped over because he didn’t pick his feet up enough when he walked if he wasn’t paying attention. Upstairs and to the right was the largely barren room Daisy probably used for storing things and Jon had intended to use for reading statements, even if he’d only read the one. To the left…
Jon paused in the doorway and stared into the bedroom. It was relatively small—cozy was the word Martin had eventually used, and Jon had agreed—with a dresser and wardrobe, a double bed, and a nightstand, nothing more. When they’d first arrived, Jon had spent most of the day planning a precise, elaborate argument for why Martin should share the bed with him rather than forcing himself to sleep on the couch, rehearsing it over and over in his mind so he could say it without stammering or feeling even more like an idiot than usual, and then it had come to the point where they were both visibly getting tired and Martin had just asked if they could share it outright. They’d laughed about it, later, once they’d really had time to discuss what they were to one another.
Everything.
He’d have to hurry. Not just because he worried about what Jonah was up to, but because he worried about Martin. The Keeper had promised he would send Martin through with a way to shield himself from the Eye—from Jonah—but what if it didn’t work? What if Martin was in danger? What if he’d been caught—captured—maybe even hurt?
Jon hesitated, then went into the bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed. He knew it wouldn’t smell like Martin, or have any of his warmth, but maybe if he lay there for a minute, he could pretend. But first…
He’d promised he wouldn’t try to Know anything about Martin. But…just a quick peek, he told himself. Just a brief look to find out where he was, whether or not he was okay. He wouldn’t go into what was in Martin’s head. Taking a deep breath, he closed his eyes and reached out with his powers.
Nothing.
Jon sat up straighter, unconsciously balling the quilt up into his hands. He tried again, concentrating all his mind on Martin, his Martin, his anchor, the one he’d clung to, the one who’d saved him. The one he loved. Hidden from Jonah, protected, that was all very well, and Jon certainly couldn’t assume he was stronger than Jonah even now, not when Jonah had had two hundred years to hone his abilities. But this was Martin. Jon ought to be able to find him, no matter how well-hidden.
But there was nothing. Not even the faint, muted, muffled, distant echoes he’d felt when they’d been separated in the Lonely’s rambling hell-mansion. Whatever had been done to hide him from Jonah, it had closed him off to the Eye altogether.
Jon bit back a moan of distress and put his face in his hands. For a moment, he was tempted to give in to despair. They hadn’t spent more than a few—hours? Time meant little, but it never felt like very long—apart since they’d been reunited in the Lonely the first time, as if they were making up for all the wasted time. They’d tried to give one another some space, as much as they could, and their separation when Martin had gone through his domain and Jon had gone to deal with Helen had probably done both of them some good, but they’d always known the other wasn’t far away. Now, though, Jon was alone in a place they’d once been together, and he had no idea where Martin was.
No. No, he did know where Martin was, or at least where he would be. They’d discussed their plan. They had a plan, and it all centered around the Archives. Martin had gone through first. The Keeper had told Jon, when he’d come to open the door for him, that Martin had arrived. He’d be in the Archives by the time Jon got there. He had to be.
There was a faint whirring sound. Jon lifted his head and turned to glare at the tape recorder that had definitely not been on the nightstand when he walked in. And yet, there it was. He’d wondered if the damn things would keep following him around in the past. He should have known better about that, too.
Almost without conscious thought, he reached for the device and brought it up to his lips. It was almost identical to the ones Martin’s recordings had been on when they’d been separated on their way to the Panopticon, a thought which sent a lance of pain through him, but he was driven by the need to speak into it, to make a statement…of sorts, anyway. He didn’t know how much of it was the Eye compelling him and how much was just his desperate need to feel less alone, and honestly, he didn’t care.
“It’s an odd feeling to trust someone with your own life and safety, but have so much harder a time trusting them with another’s,” he said, feeling the texture of a statement on his tongue. “You would willingly walk into the mouth of hell if someone told you that by doing so you could save the life of the one you love, but the minute they ask the one you love to do the same for you, all you can see is the danger. How little your life is worth in comparison to theirs, how much more important their safety to yours. You have to have so much more faith when it’s not your actions that determine their fate, and it’s far from easy.
“Somewhere a man in a thick blue-grey sweater and a dark fisherman’s hat stands at the window of a lighthouse overlooking a desert, surrounded by cans of alphabet soup and jars of cherry preserves, and watches doors appear and disappear, never staying long enough, and he knows, he feels what those in his realm feel, because behind one of those doors is the reason he is set to his task. He stands there because he has made a promise, a bargain, to protect the one he loves, and he will abide by that bargain whatever it costs him, because the safety of the one he loves is more important. And in a future that no longer is, that man promised to help knowing that by doing so, he may give up his chance to ever see the one he loves again. He knows what safety is and he knows what love is, and he is willing to sacrifice for both.
“Somewhere a man in a sweater that brings out the color of his eyes paces through rows of shelves in an otherwise empty building, surrounded by files and objects, and hunts for intruders and danger and signs of invasion, and he knows, he feels the same sense of being watched and followed he has felt since coming here, because he has seen the evidence all around him. He tells himself that it is for the best, that by drawing the danger’s attention to himself he is protecting the one he loves, and that it will harm no one if he is destroyed so long as the one he loves stays safe. And in a future that no longer is, that man looked the most dangerous being in the world in the eye and refused to move in order to protect the one he loves, despite knowing what he risked. He knows what safety is and he knows what love is, and he is willing to sacrifice the one for the other.
“Somewhere a man whose hair tells lies about his age sits behind a desk in an office with the door closed, surrounded by papers and recording equipment, and tries to find the threads of truth in tales of the fantastical and the fearful, and he knows, he feels what those who have given their statements feel, because he in his own way has tasted it before. He looks at the cup of tea sitting on his desk and he worries for the one he does not yet know he loves, hopes that he is doing the right thing to keep him out of danger, though he scarcely knows why the safety of that one is so important to him. And in a future that no longer is, that man clung tightly to the one he loves and refused to let him go, even at the cost of the whole world. He knows what safety is and he knows what love is, and he is unwilling to sacrifice either.
“The Keeper would not harm either of us. More particularly, he would not harm Martin. He does not break promises, and he loves, he cares deeply. He made a promise to get us back in safety. He was honest about what we faced—separation, the loneliness of distance—but he assured us that our time and space would align again. Unlike Helen, the Keeper did not want the world to be the way it was. He does not want the world to be the way it is. He is still human enough to regret. But he cannot help what he is, any more than—” Jon sighed, hating that he had to say it, even though he was still caught in the mire of the statement. “Any more than the rest of us can. Nor can he help the nature of the corridors through which we had to travel. Some things are too great to be controlled, and we must live with that.
“No distance is too far to travel, no obstacle too difficult to traverse. We will be reunited. Wherever he is, Martin is safe and well and waiting. And wherever he is, he knows I am as well. He knows I am coming. Love and trust are bound in one another, and if we have brought nothing else out of our long, arduous journey, we have brought out trust. I trust Martin. I love him. He loves and trusts me. And when we are together, there is nothing we cannot do.”
Jon took a deep breath, feeling the static of the statement recede. He set the recorder back on the nightstand gingerly. He didn’t bother to turn it off; it would stop recording when it was good and ready, and if he tried to stop it before it was, it would turn itself on anyway. Instead, he turned sideways, lay down, and curled up on the dusty bed.
He was right—it didn’t smell like Martin. Of course it didn’t smell like Martin. Martin had never slept in this bed, not yet. But it was soft and warm and comfortable, and it did at least stir up the memories of lying here with Martin, his head tucked into the crook of his boyfriend’s neck or Martin’s head resting against his chest or just the two of them facing one another and talking quietly in the darkness. The memories were tinged with melancholy, though, because Martin wasn’t here and Jon would always touch empty space if he reached over to where Martin should have been.
He hooked one hand into the collar of the sweater he wore and pulled it up over his nose. It was silly and juvenile, he knew that, but…well. It was Martin’s sweater, and even if Jon had been wearing it for a bit, it still smelled and felt enough like Martin that it was like he had a bit of his boyfriend there. Which, well, he did. That had been rather his point in wearing the sweater in the first place. The weight of it felt like one of Martin’s hugs, and the faintest scent still clung to the fibers—cinnamon and tea and, oddly, cherry. Jon had never understood why Martin smelled of cherries and hadn’t asked, but he did and the odor was a comfort.
He didn’t know how long he actually lay there. He must have fallen asleep at some point, because a beam of light poked through the chink in the curtains and stabbed him in the eye. He grumbled something that might have been five more minutes and rolled over, intending to burrow into Martin’s softness and warmth.
Instead, he hit the cold, empty, dusty nothingness beside him, which jolted him awake more effectively than a bucket of cold water.
Jon sat up in a panic. He started to call Martin’s name before he fully came back to himself and remembered. He was in Scotland, yes, but alone. Martin was—presumably—in London, already in the Archives and waiting for him, or at least on his way there. The world hadn’t ended. They were, for a given definition of the word, safe, if apart.
They’d done it before, Jon reminded himself. They could do it again. It would only be a few more days.
He got off the bed, brushed off the dust that clung to his side, and straightened out the covers. He picked up the tape recorder and checked the inside of his bag. There was still food in it—a little of the stuff Martin had packed when they’d left Salesa, but most of it given to him by the Keeper. Jon traded the tape recorder for something he could eat quickly, slung the bag back onto his shoulders, and headed down the stairs. He could eat on the move.
He checked on the threshold of the little house. The last time he’d stepped through this door, the sky had blinked at him and he’d set out through a series of post-apocalyptic hellscapes designed to extract the maximum amount of fear from those trapped within their depths, and for a moment, he froze with his hand on the doorknob, unable to make himself turn it and go out. There was a momentary, almost childish fear that he would see the same if he stepped out now.
Ridiculous. Jon closed his eyes and forced himself to recall all the other times he’d stepped through this door—the times Martin had convinced him to stop moping about like a hermit, Jon, it’s a beautiful day outside and you need some vitamin D or you’re going to make yourself sick and come with him on a walk. He thought about rolling green hills and quiet winding paths, about slow-moving farmers and shaggy red cows, about puffy clouds drifting across perfect blue and stars twinkling in velvet black, about drying hay on the breeze and his boyfriend’s voice reciting a favorite poem.
He took a deep breath, turned the knob, opened the door. The sun was almost finished setting, bathing an idyllic, well-produced scene in a red-gold light. The road rolled onward, the world turned ever on, and everything was fine.
Right. First order of business: Find Martin. Second order of business: Save the world. Easy.
“I’m coming, Martin,” he whispered. “Hold on.”
Then, straightening his shoulders, he stepped over the threshold and set off towards London.