Martin woke up and instantly knew he was alone. It wasn’t just that the space next to him was empty and cold, or the absence of the comforting weight against his side. Jon was a restless sleeper at the best of times, and it had only been getting worse lately; he often woke in the middle of the night (well, day) and slipped out of their bed, so Martin was sort of accustomed to the idea of waking up without Jon in his arms. But he couldn’t even sense Jon lingering nearby, maybe reading a book or putting together something to eat.
“Jon?” he called, despite knowing it was futile, even as he shoved off the blankets and sat up. God, it was cold. Like the temperature had dropped way below what was normal for this time of year. It was spring—he thought—he was pretty sure they’d said yesterday was the first day of spring—but the room felt less like spring in London and more like autumn in Scotland. Cold, clammy, and so very empty.
Martin got to his feet, made his way carefully over to the door, and opened it. It was even colder in the tunnel proper, and he was half-inclined to go back into the room, burrow under the blankets, and wait for Jon to come back. Surely he would be back soon. He couldn’t have gone far, after all. Probably he was just recording a statement. As much as he hated being interrupted, surely he wouldn’t mind Martin slipping in as long as he did it quietly.
They were better about the separation anxiety than they’d been when they first came back to the past, but Martin still didn’t like it. It was worse with Past Jon being away on his ultimately pointless road trip. It was too much of a reminder of what had happened to them, what could still happen. Too many close calls. At least Past Martin had his Tim to lean on. Martin had had to deal with it on his own.
He did turn back into the room, but only to find his cane. He hadn’t bothered with it much lately, since he was more or less constantly with Jon, and he knew the tunnels well enough by now that he could simply count his steps and find his way, at least around the upper levels, at least as far as he needed to go. Up in the Archives, it was more difficult, but with Jon or one of the Archives crew to guide him, he was fine.
But Jon wasn’t there—he was going to find Jon—and it felt…late wasn’t the word. Martin’s sense of time was all wonky from living underground, but it didn’t feel as though it was late in the evening necessarily. It had to be, though, because it felt…empty. Like everyone might have gone home.
Maybe they’d left early because the climate control system was broken. That would certainly explain why it was so cold.
Martin made his way up the stairs slowly, carefully, step by step. It got colder and colder the further up he went, which was weird. Heat rose, so logically it should be warmer above ground than below. There was probably some sort of reasonable explanation. He knew there was a gas line under the tunnels somewhere. Maybe that was it.
He didn’t need his cane to go up the steps; it was more a hindrance than a help at that point. He knew the rise of the steps well enough that he got up without any difficulty. There were fourteen steps from the tunnels to the Archives, because of course there were, and Martin knew that when he hit the tenth step, he needed to start pushing the trapdoor up or he was going to have issues. When he reached up, though, he felt no resistance. For some reason, the door was open already.
That probably wasn’t a bad thing, he told himself. It meant Jon was already out in the Archives. He probably hadn’t wanted to disturb Martin and had just slipped up to start recording. It was fine.
Martin would have to find him quickly, though. It was even colder than before, a cold Martin could feel in his bones. Jon was too thin and felt the cold easily, but if he was absorbed in a recording he wouldn’t think about it. He could get sick, and that was the last thing Martin wanted. He’d never liked listening to Jon do his recordings, and Jon had always preferred doing them on his own, but they could both deal with it if it meant keeping him warm.
Four more steps, and he was on level ground. He swept his cane around to find the door, but encountered nothing. He must have come out and stepped on it. No matter. It could stay open. He wouldn’t fall as long as he kept using the cane.
He stood still for a moment and held his breath, listening. Surely he would be able to hear movement, or the rustle of papers, or the quiet rise and fall of Jon’s voice as he read a statement. He’d worked very hard to get his hearing trained to pick out even the smallest of sounds.
But there was nothing.
“Jon?” he called. His voice seemed smaller than usual, quieter. He didn’t think it was on purpose, but it was an awful lot like the way he’d once sounded when he called for his mother after coming home from work—maybe loud enough to be heard, but quiet enough that he wouldn’t disturb her if she was still sleeping. It was the voice of someone who both did and didn’t want to be noticed. Small wonder there was no answer.
Nothing else for it. Martin picked a direction that seemed likely and began walking forward carefully, sweeping the cane along ahead of himself. The tap of its tip hitting the floor seemed oddly muted, like they’d laid down rugs for some reason, but when he dragged a foot experimentally, he didn’t get the rasp or catch of trainer on pile.
His cane encountered nothing. At first that was comforting, but it quickly became disconcerting. The Archives were crowded—not cluttered, exactly, but full. He should have encountered something by now. A shelf, a desk, a filing cabinet. Something. Either they’d cleared a huge space in the middle of the Archives for something, or he’d come up in the wrong place, or…something was wrong.
“Jon,” he called, but less certainly this time. Was Jon even there? He hadn’t heard him yet. Surely Jon would have responded to Martin calling him if he was there. He’d promised, after all, promised he would stay close, that he would always…they’d both promised. After, after, after that one stop on their journey from Scotland to London, the one where he’d—no, if he was there, he would have answered.
Jon probably couldn’t hear him, he thought, tightening his grip on his cane. If he was absorbed in a statement…how many times had Martin had to slap him or shout at him to break his concentration when one went on too long, or things got too dangerous? He was probably in the office, probably with the door shut. Martin would just…keep walking forward and eventually bump into a wall and then follow it around until he found a door and got inside. Easy.
Christ, it was cold. Martin took a deep breath to steady himself and pulled the chill, slightly damp air into his lungs. Damp? That wasn’t good, he thought vaguely, moisture was bad for documents. And there were a lot of documents here in—here in—
He shook his head slightly to clear it. Was he starting to get sick? He didn’t feel like he had a headache, but he definitely felt…fuzzy. Like it was hard to think. And everything still seemed muffled, somehow. Far away. Distant. Maybe he should sit down, or lie down. Maybe he should go back…down…go curl up under a blanket and wait for this to pass. Surely it would pass. Surely it couldn’t last forever.
There was a faint smell in the air, one that seemed momentarily out of place. So faint he almost couldn’t quite detect it. It was almost a nothing sort of smell, the smell of coldness and emptiness and absence. It didn’t belong in—belong—it didn’t belong there, did it? He inhaled deeply, nostrils flaring to catch the scent, and the cold sank deep into his bones. For just a moment, he ached at the deepest core of his being—his hands, his knees, his chest. Everything hurt, and he would have given anything for it to stop.
Salt. His brain finally picked up on the smell. It was the smell of salt mixed with cold, and damn anyone who said cold didn’t have a smell. He remembered having an argument about it once, a discussion with a lot of hand-waving and raised voices, but—how had it ended?
He couldn’t remember. Why couldn’t he remember?
Probably he’d lost. No reason to assume otherwise, really. He was usually wrong, even on the rare occasions when he was sure he was right. It was so easy for him to latch onto the wrong data, get his facts mixed up. He forgot things so easily, too; even if he thought he remembered something, odds were good he was remembering it wrong. Like the argument about cold having a smell. Why had he even brought it up? Why had he let himself be drawn into it when he knew he was wrong? Why would he have continued it? He knew better, knew not to try and air his opinions. He was so easily outclassed, and so obviously wrong, so there was no point in trying.
It was so cold, cold and clammy and faintly smelling of salt. He was lightheaded—no, it wasn’t just his head. All of him felt light…no, not light. Insubstantial. Like he was barely even there. As it should be, really. He wasn’t needed. Didn’t really belong. Not here. Not anymore. Not anywhere, really.
Where even was he?
Who even was he?
No, no, that wasn’t right, that wasn’t—he was someone, he knew he was someone. Maybe he wasn’t anyone important, maybe in the grand cosmic scheme of things he wasn’t worth much, but he was still a person. He still existed, he still had a name, he still—he still meant something to someone.
Right?
The cane in his hand wasn’t solid enough to ground him. He could still feel it in his hand, but it felt as light and—and unreal as the rest of him. No, that wasn’t right either. It wasn’t that he didn’t feel real. He just didn’t feel…present.
There was…someone. There should have been someone. He was looking for someone, wasn’t he? Hadn’t he come up here calling for someone? His lips formed a word, but he didn’t hear it, and anyway, there wouldn’t be anyone to answer. He was deluding himself, just like always. He could call all he wanted. Call, shout, scream until his throat was raw and bloody. It didn’t matter. Nobody would answer him. Even if there was someone there, they wouldn’t want to answer him, but that didn’t matter either. There was no one there.
He was all alone.
He didn’t feel the cold anymore. Or, well, he did, but it was so ever-present, so deeply permeated into his marrow, that he was beyond feeling it. He was aware of it, but in a distant way. Cold, pain, loss, anguish, all of that was far away. All the bad things were there, and he was somewhere else, and it wasn’t that they couldn’t touch him so much as it was that they just didn’t really affect him one way or another.
Martin. The name floated into his mind, more thought than sound, not quite as though someone was speaking it aloud, but rather like someone was thinking it so strongly that it was given form in the universe. But the cadence, the gentle caress of the syllables, was so familiar, so right, that it gave him a moment’s pause. Martin. Just that word…just that name. His name.
Martin blinked. Some of the lightheadedness faded, and he tried to gather his shaky wits. Right. Start small. Martin. He was Martin Blackwood. He was real, he was present, he was a person. He was an Archival assistant at—no, he didn’t do that anymore, he’d taken a promotion or a transfer, whatever you wanted to call it, to work for—but he didn’t do that anymore, either. He’d quit, hadn’t he? God, it was was so hard to think. He shook his head slightly, trying to clear away the fog.
Fog. Oh, God, that was it—that was what he was feeling. The cold, salt-kissed dampness of the air—that was a fog, a proper pea-souper of a sea mist. He was meant to be in the Archives…either he’d come out in the wrong place, or something was very wrong.
He had a sudden memory from when he was little—four, maybe? They’d gone to Bournemouth on holiday; his father had wanted Martin to see where he’d grown up. They’d been down at the shore and Martin had been collecting interesting stones in hopes of making his mother smile when a heavy fog had rolled in. He hadn’t been able to see more than a few inches in front of him, and it was so thick it had muffled even the crash and roll of the waves. He’d been scared and crying, stumbling around lost and calling for his parents, when he’d heard his father singing in his deep, resonant bass.
Martin closed his eyes, even though he didn’t need to, and listened. He swore he could almost hear the singing through the fog, not just his father’s voice but his own. They’d done a medley of sorts at the last concert he’d been in, a cross of the shanty his father had sung to lead him out of the fog and the hymn he’d sung him to comfort him once he’d run sobbing into his father’s arms, and Martin had somehow managed to score the solo. It was a song where not only the words but the memories were comforting. Softly, he began singing along to the half-heard, half-remembered words. Let your lower lights be burning…
He felt something suddenly bump against his arm—a rope, like a tow rope. Hastily, he reached out to grab it. It wasn’t slack; there was tension to it, like it was tied to something at the other end. A guideline. A lifeline.
Throw out the lifeline, throw out the lifeline…someone is drifting away…
Martin tightened his grip on the cane with one hand. With the other, he twisted, looping the rope around his wrist, then clasped the remainder tightly. This would at least get him somewhere. He swept ahead with the cane and pulled himself forward with the rope.
Clang!
“Jesus Christ!”
Martin’s eyes snapped open, producing absolutely no difference in his vision. The cold was gone. So was the clamminess. So, he noted, was the rope. His right hand clutched uselessly at nothing, but at least the cane was secure in his other hand. He’d obviously hit an obstacle—probably a filing cabinet or the leg of a desk—and from the shout, he’d probably almost stepped on Melanie.
“Sorry, sorry!” he said quickly, taking a step back. Hopefully there was nothing behind him.
“Where the hell did you come from?” Melanie demanded. She sounded more bewildered than angry, but there was still plenty of both. “You just—appeared!”
“Oh.” Martin’s knees buckled. “Damn it.”
He’d thought he was free. He’d thought he’d finally shaken the last of it. But if he’d backslid, if he’d given in…
“Whoa, whoa, hold up.” Melanie was suddenly there, grabbing his arm and trying to take his weight. “Here, have a seat…there’s a chair here.”
“I’m fine,” Martin said, but he didn’t sound very convincing to himself. That was confirmed by Melanie’s snort. He felt around for the chair with his free hand and managed to locate it, then slowly sat down. “Give me a sec and I’ll head back downstairs. Wouldn’t want You-Know-Who to notice me.”
“If he’s watching anyone right now, it’s not me. I’m still not interesting enough,” Melanie muttered, but she touched his shoulder. “Do you need help? Where’s your fiancé?”
“I don’t know. I thought he was up here.” Martin took a deep, steadying breath, well aware that his hands were still faintly trembling.
“Why would he be up here? It’s the middle of the bloody afternoon. Thought you two didn’t come up during working hours.”
Martin swallowed hard. If it was that early…“I thought—I assumed it was later than that. It just felt like…like the place was abandoned.”
“Nope. Sasha left early, but the rest of us are still here. I think Martin was taking a statement from someone.” A chair creaked; Martin guessed Melanie was taking her own seat. “Kinda surprised you couldn’t hear us. Tim and I were trying to see who could come up with the most atrocious pun. I was winning, up until—”
“Hey, Melanie, did you—whoa, what are you doing up here?” Tim’s voice was already concerned, but it sharpened into something that was almost fear at the end. “If we’re being watched—”
“We’re not. Elias has a meeting.” Past Martin sounded somewhat shaky. “Unless I did just hallucinate that whole thing.”
“Wh—oh. Shit.” Martin rubbed a hand over his face as a curious mix of fear, regret, and relief flooded his body. At least it hadn’t been his fault. “That explains a lot, actually.”
“Okay,” Tim said, in a brusque and slightly bossy tone of voice, but there was a gentleness to it that told Martin he was probably looking at Past Martin as he spoke. “Okay, hold on. Why don’t we…why don’t we all go downstairs and talk about this? I don’t know how long this…meeting is going to last and I think we’re due a break. Mel, you wanna go down with these guys and I’ll be down in a minute with tea?”
“Sure. Martin, wanna give yourself a hand?”
“Yeah, okay,” Past Martin said. As Martin got to his feet, he felt an arm slip through his and Past Martin murmured in his ear, “Do I need to prepare for this?”
“Not if we can help it,” Martin said fervently.
The creak of the trapdoor opening would have surprised him if he hadn’t already figured out what had happened. Once they were in the stairwell proper, he let go of Past Martin’s arm and led the other two downstairs. They didn’t say anything until they made it into the little room Jon and Martin had made their own. Martin leaned the cane in a corner and sat down on the floor with his back against the wall. It was solid and cool to the touch, but not as bitter cold as it had been before. The air smelled dry and earthy and slightly stale, without a hint of salt, but his face felt stiff and sticky. He touched his cheek and felt the drying traces of tears there.
He hadn’t even realized he was crying.
There were rustling noises and a faint click, and then Melanie spoke. “I’ll be right back. Just gonna go pop down the hall here and see if I can find where Jon Prime is holing himself up. He needs to be here.”
“What makes you think he’s down here somewhere?” Martin asked.
After a brief pause, Past Martin said, “She’s, um, she’s gone now, but—probably because she brought a statement down for him earlier. M-maybe he was asleep when she came down the first time and she figures he found it and went off to record it.”
Martin’s mind helpfully supplied him with a vague memory of Jon telling him it was okay. “I think he was awake. But…yeah, that’s probably it.”
They lapsed into silence again. After a moment, Martin heard more rustling, and then he felt a weight against his side and an arm draped over his shoulder. Martin closed his eyes and leaned into his counterpart’s warmth.
“Thank you,” he murmured. “It’s—it was so cold.”
“Tim will be along with the tea soon.” Past Martin’s voice was low and soothing. “And I’m sure Melanie will be able to find Jon Prime.”
Martin had no way of telling how much longer they sat there, but he straightened up a little when he heard footsteps, and then Tim’s voice floated in. “Hey. Where’s Mel?”
“She hates being called that, you know,” Martin murmured. He reached out automatically and was relieved when something heavy and warm was placed into his hands. “Uh, she went to see if she could find Jon. My Jon, I mean. She thinks he might be recording a statement.”
“He’s not now, but he was,” Melanie said. She sounded annoyed. “Found these in a room down the tunnels a bit, right near one of the other entrances. I poked my head out, but I didn’t see him. He probably did something colossally stupid like go to investigate something in the statement.” There were more rustles of fabric. “Anyway, I left him a note telling him to get his ass back here pronto. Maybe he’ll be back before we’re done talking.”
“Maybe.” Martin brought the mug to his lips, but he didn’t drink it, just inhaled the steam. After several long moments, he said, “Thank you. For coming down here with me. I—it’s not a good idea for me to be alone after that.”
“What happened?” Melanie demanded. “One minute I was by myself at my desk because Tim went to see what Martin was up to, and then suddenly, whoosh! You were right in front of me. Can you, what, become invisible or something?”
“Not…on purpose. Not anymore. I haven’t—done that in a while.” Martin took a deep breath. “It’s the Lonely. It’s—it’s like what the Eye did to the three of you. It took traits I already had and just…enhanced them. I was used to being ignored, to not being noticed, to feeling like nobody was listening to me or would care if I had anything to say. Like I wasn’t—”
“Like you weren’t present,” Past Martin supplied softly.
“Yeah.” Martin rubbed one hand over his face. “But that hasn’t happened since…Scotland. Since Jon got me out of the Lonely. I had some bad nights at first, but it was easier to shake with him there. And…there were a couple hairy moments on our way to London—you know, after. We had to—to get from the safehouse to the Institute, to what was the Institute anyway, we had to walk through a bunch of domains of the different fears. We were in one, it was this—this house, all these people wandering around lost, looking for—for people they loved, that they couldn’t find. We got separated, and the fog—it got in. Took me forever to shake it enough that Jon could find me. The other time was, well, it was my domain, I guess.”
“Your domain?” Melanie and Tim said in unison.
“We told you. After the Apocalypse, pretty much everyone was either Watcher or Watched. And everyone who was a Watcher, well, had something to watch.” Martin swallowed back the memory. “Mine wasn’t very big, just a few people, but—that’s enough. A mix of the Lonely and the Eye. Full of people whose biggest fear was of, of disappearing with nobody to remember them.”
“Can’t imagine why,” Past Martin said, his voice absolutely flat.
“That won’t happen,” Tim said fiercely. This was punctuated with the most aggressive rustle of fabric Martin had ever heard. “Even if you did—even if anything happened, you’d never be forgotten. Ever.”
Past Martin didn’t answer, but Martin could imagine what was probably going on. He gripped the mug tightly. It was slowly cooling—or was that his imagination? The sudden pang of loneliness that hit him, the ache of longing for Jon to be there and hold him the way Tim was undoubtedly holding Past Martin, was so intense as to be nearly painful. He could feel the chill creeping in again and tried his hardest not to panic. It’s okay, it’s okay, Jon’s out there somewhere, he’s coming—
“—tin? Martin!”
Martin gasped. The mug slipped from his suddenly numb fingers and shattered on the floor, but he didn’t care. “Jon!”
Almost before he’d finished the word, Jon was there, familiar and warm and solid, kneeling on Martin’s lap, his hands bracketing Martin’s face. “Martin, oh, God, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I didn’t—I-I was coming back, I swear I wasn’t leaving for good, you know I would never—a-are you all right?”
“I’m fine. I’m fine.” Martin wrapped his arms around Jon and pulled him close. Jon’s heart was pounding furiously, and he could feel his own pulse fluttering. “I-it was just—I don’t know, I wasn’t—I woke up and I was alone. It wasn’t so bad at first, I was—I was looking for you, and then I went upstairs and…God, I must’ve walked right into it and it just—” He took a deep, shuddering breath and said softly, “I guess I didn’t think about the fact that just because my connection to the Eye was broken didn’t mean my connection to the Lonely was.”
“I should have thought about that, too. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, love.” Jon’s forehead came to rest against Martin’s.
“No reason why you should have. It hasn’t come up before.”
Someone cleared their throat. Martin guessed it was Tim from the fact that he spoke next. “What do you mean, ‘you walked right into it’? Was it just, like, lurking in the Archives? Will it come back?”
“Maybe. It didn’t just appear,” Martin added hastily. “But—you said something about Elias having an appointment?”
“What?” Jon sounded confused.
“Yeah,” Past Martin said. “Or at least that’s what the man who—I’d just finished taking a woman’s statement, she was just leaving, and—some man just, just turned up in the office and started talking to me. Asking me what kind of a boss Elias was, if there was anything I thought he could do differently? It was really weird. I tried to ask Tim, but he said there hadn’t been anyone in but that woman with the Desolation statement. I swear he was there, though.”
“He was,” Martin said. “Not surprised nobody else saw him, though. Hardly anyone but me ever saw him in our time, either. If it’s who I’m thinking of. Inch or two shorter than you, steel-grey hair, blue peacoat and a pilot’s cap?”
Jon stiffened in Martin’s arms. “Oh, no.”
“That’s him. Who was he?”
“That,” Jon said grimly, “was Peter Lukas.”
“Which is why I got caught in the Lonely,” Martin added. “He’s—it’s his domain, the whole family is bound up in it and he’s sort of high up in it. It trails after him. And me having been so tightly wound up in it for so long…even if I didn’t fully go over to it, there’s enough of it in me that I guess walking into it unprepared almost got me. Especially since I was already alone when I woke up.”
“I thought he was supposed to stay away from you,” Tim said. He sounded annoyed—no, more than that, he sounded properly angry. “Wasn’t that what the deal was? Your dad tends the Light and the Lukases leave you alone?”
There was a short pause, and then Past Martin said slowly, “Yes. Yes, that was the deal, wasn’t it?”
Martin could hear the smile in his counterpart’s voice and knew what it meant. “Unfortunately, the Institute is a blind spot of sorts. Those pictures he talked about, they don’t show when you’re in here. He’s got no idea you’ve met Peter Lukas.”
“No, but the tape was still running, which means I have it on the record,” Past Martin replied. “And I’ve heard the story, so I know the deal. I can reach out to him. In theory.”
It wouldn’t be that easy, Martin knew. The Light was specifically designed to be hard to find, and none of them were lonely enough to draw the old oak doors anymore. But he wasn’t going to kill the hope and optimism Past Martin had, and besides, if anyone could find the Keeper, it was probably him. “In theory.”
“Are you going to be okay now?” Melanie asked quietly. “I mean, we should probably get upstairs. If Elias finishes his meeting and, like, takes a look to see how Martin’s holding up…”
“I’m okay. Thank you again. It really helped a lot,” Martin added.
“Hey, what are friends for, right?” There was a lot of shuffling and crunching as the other three got to their feet, and then somebody—probably Melanie—awkwardly patted Martin’s shoulder. “Talk to you tomorrow, I guess.”
“Thank you,” Jon said softly.
Melanie grunted. The door closed with a quiet creak, and Martin could just hear three sets of footsteps moving away. He and Jon were alone again.
After a moment, Jon sort of slid off of Martin’s lap and settled into a more comfortable position against his side. “I am sorry, Martin. I should have been here.”
“It’s not your fault, Jon. It’s—I’m okay.” Martin tucked his chin over Jon’s head.
“It is—”
“Okay, it’s your fault you weren’t here, but it’s not your fault it happened. It might’ve happened even if you were. We don’t know. Maybe not as bad, but you remember those early days in the safe house,” Martin pointed out. “How many times did you have to talk me back to myself? I never slipped so far under that I was literally walking through walls again, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t fall. I’ve been a lot stronger since the Apocalypse. I guess Peter Lukas was just stronger.”
“I know. Still…I should have been here.” Jon sighed heavily. “And I haven’t—I shouldn’t have been doing what I was doing. I—I have a confession to make.”
“You were investigating a statement,” Martin guessed. “Melanie said she’d brought you one earlier. Was it a new one? I-I mean, one we never got to? Or just, like, one we never really followed up on?”
“Technically, neither. It was—you remember that one you found me before the Unknowing, the statement of Anya Villette?”
“Any—oh, no.” Martin stiffened as the memory came back to him. “The house cleaner? The one who didn’t seem to exist and who’d had the contract at Hill Top Road?”
“That’s the one.”
“Jon. Please tell me you didn’t go to Hill Top Road alone.”
“I know! I know I shouldn’t have. I should have at least come back to wake you up. I almost did. I just—I c-couldn’t, Martin. I had that strong feeling I should stay away from it, and—the only other time I ever felt that was when I was trying to listen to Eric Delano’s statement, where he told Gertrude how to quit. It was something the Eye didn’t want me to know, and…I was afraid if I went back for anyone else, I’d lose my nerve. Or let you talk me out of going. And I thought—I didn’t think anyone would be there. I thought I’d have the chance to look around, maybe get some answers without Annabelle Cane warning me off.”
Martin closed his eyes. “What did you find?”
Jon was silent for a moment, then admitted, “I found Annabelle. She said she—or the Web—I’m still not sure which, but she said she wanted to help. With our plan.”
“What exactly did she say?” Martin asked carefully.
Jon heaved another sigh. “She said she didn’t know what the plan was, only the goal, but that I couldn’t hope to succeed without you. Then she said our bond needed to be…stronger, or there was a chance neither of us would survive. She said it would—” He suddenly gave a hoarse sob and clung tightly to Martin. “Martin, I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said yes without asking you, I should have waited, but—I was afraid it was a now-or-never thing. That if I didn’t answer right away I’d never have the chance. And I cannot lose you. Not now. I-if it was the only way to—to protect you, I—I took the chance. I let her bind us together.” He drew in a quick breath. “I hope. She didn’t—I don’t think she knew who I was, but i-if she bound me to your past self, or bound our past selves together—”
Martin stilled, thinking over the afternoon. “I think it worked. Jon, I think—how long ago was this?”
“I’m—I’m not sure. Why do you ask?”
Quickly, Martin recounted his experience from the time he’d woken up to the time he’d run into Melanie. Jon’s arms tightened around him as he spoke, which was fine, because his kept tightening around Jon, too. “I was struggling, I’d almost gone completely under, and then I felt you saying my name, o-or thinking it. It was—it’s hard to explain. And then there was this song, this—I did it in a concert, but before that, my dad sang it for me once when I was lost in the fog to let me know where he was and that I was safe, so I was kind of singing that to ground myself, and then I found a lifeline. I—I grabbed and I pulled and then I was solid and in the Archives.” He drew in a breath. “If that was—I think that was you, Jon. You threw me a lifeline. You pulled me out of the fog.” He kissed Jon’s temple lightly. “Again.”
Before he could pull away, Jon captured his lips with his own and kissed him, deeply and intently. The warmth filled him, chasing away the last vestiges of the Lonely. Martin let his eyes drift close again and let himself get lost in the kiss.
“You got yourself out,” Jon whispered when he at last drew back for air. “You’re—y-you’re so much stronger than you know, and I love you so much. I’m glad you’re here, but…I’m sorry I made that decision for you.”
“I forgive you,” Martin assured him. “And I would have done the same. I don’t trust Annabelle—much—but if she can make the difference between you living and dying…well, I’ll take it. I’ll run any risk.” He pressed his forehead to Jon’s. “I love you, too.”
“No more going off alone,” Jon promised. “Not without telling you first.”
“And I promise to tell you if the cold starts setting in, before it gets bad.”
“Deal.” Jon kissed Martin again. “Now then, let me clean up this broken mug and set up the kettle for tea, and we can talk about what this bond is going to mean.”