Author's Note: Okay, so I said that the last one was gonna be part one of chapter 9... but part two ended up being.... longer than I initially drafted. It makes more sense to just split them up as different chapters now. Soooo I'm just gonna call this chapter 10.
Can you believe I thought this was gonna be short fic??? Anyway, hope whoever's left here enjoys this! I will start to edit and update on AO3 this Saturday.
When Martin wakes up, you have the Archivist say “I love you.’’
You say ‘I’ in the same way a human might crouch while cooing at a small animal. With this word, you present yourself as smaller than you are, as more individual and personal. Still, when you sit on the edge of the bed, Martin’s fear spikes.
“What are you… what are you going to do?’’ Martin asks, wearily.
“Nothing you don’t want.’’
This pronouncement doesn’t make Martin less afraid. The Archivist frowns.
“You’re worried that we still want sex. That this is all just to get your guard down to make the moment we force it on you later more horrible. But that’s not quite it.’’
“Not ‘quite?’’’ Martin asks, bitingly.
“We--I would still like to have sex. That is true,’’ you say. “No use in lying about that. But last time was—it was unpleasant. It is better if you participate willingly. That will make for a more pleasant experience for all parties involved.’’
Martin stares. “That’s not going to—Jon doesn’t—how does an eldritch horror even want…?’’
You blink at him, hoping that will break up the discomfiting nature of your stare. Martin clamps his jaw shut.
“I don’t think you even have a concept of what… ‘willing participation’ means. In anything, much less...that.’’
“That’s not true,’’ you say.
“Then let Jon go. Stop controlling him.’’
“It’s not control. I am ‘Jon,’ the Archivist. Jon is us.’’
Martin shakes his head, and turns back over. He squeezes his eyes shut, believing everything you said throughout this conversation to be a lie but still hoping you will stick with this lie a little longer.
“Martin,’’ you plead.
“I want to go back to sleep.’’
“No. You can’t sleep forever.’’ You tug at his sleeve. “Stay with us.’’
Martin stays there, speechless and unmoving, until you relent, and let him drift into calmer nightmares.
Again, when Martin wakes, you make sure the first thing he hears is “I love you.’’
Martin says nothing to this.
“Martin,’’ you say. “Come with us. With me. You’ll feel better if you get up.’’
He does not move. He’s figured out you like it when he talks to you, and beyond his one request he doesn’t want to give you the satisfaction. Your agitation expresses itself through the Archivist as pacing.
“There is tea and breakfast. Muffins, made exactly like the ones from that café by the Institute that you used to love. Eating will help you feel better. We want, I want you to feel better.’’
Martin lies there, trying to will his thoughts and fears still, trying to make himself small and beneath notice as he used to do with his mother. It is as futile as running or fighting was, but he doesn’t know that yet.
“We will wait,’’ you say, “Until you’re ready.’’
The self-harm doesn’t start until you take the Archivist out of the room.
It was a silly gesture, perhaps, but you thought he might feel better with the illusion of a moment's privacy. Of course, you extend far beyond the Archivist, so you are still with Martin in that room even when the Archivist is not. But you still thought it might be a comfort.
Martin explores the room first—checking behind the curtains to confirm there are no windows, trying the doors, looking in every cupboard and only finding a single pen and his notebook.
Nothing, of course there’s nothing. Stupid, why did I think for minute--
He hits his head against the wall, suppressing wail of despair. Then, he digs fingernails into the skin on his arm.
It’s hard to say why he escalates. His thoughts are racing wordlessly, and there is no single moment where he thinks or decides to hurt himself. Perhaps it’s the urge to punish himself, somehow, for the suffering he imagines ‘Jon’ is experiencing. Perhaps it’s just that the intensity of physical pain, at least, is enough to drive everything else from his mind.
Either way, his skin tears, and blood starts to drip onto the floor.
“Martin!’’ the Archivist’s voice goes shrill. “Martin, stop!’’
Of course, the Archivist is there the second that you want him there. Martin jerks away, still too wild for reason.
“Stop it. Be calm,’’ the words are yours, now. “Sleep. Rest.’’
Martin falls limp into the Archivist’s arms.
“I love you.’’
Martin notices the Archivist’s voice first, and then the bandages on his arms. He closes his eyes, and wants to sleep again, even though he knows it won’t bring him any relief and it will always lead to him waking up here.
“I love you,’’ you have the Archivist say again. “I don’t want you to be hurt. I want you to be...’’
You want Martin in all of the ways he can be—and yet, hurt-Martin is the one you want the least of all, right now. The conflict this creates in you is too confusing to put into human words, so the Archivist trails off.
You itch to lay hands on Martin again. But the mere thought stings. Because it will make Martin hurt (but you want him hurt) (but you want him to be happy) (but you want--)
“We can, I can take you anywhere in the world. The most magnificent falls. The pyramids. All the wonders of the world,’’ you tell him. “True, they’re all demolished now, but we can change that. I can fix them up again just so you have something beautiful to look at for a moment. Just get up and come with me.’’
Martin is, for a human, incredibly stubborn. He gives you nothing.
He knows he cannot hurt you, really. He cannot keep you from this thoughts or his fears, if you want to dig into them. But he can deny you his words, his movements, the reactions of he makes that you love. So now he throws himself into this final battle of attrition.
He has to get bored of this eventually. That’s how they are. Like the train, with that woman who gave up...
“No,’’ you say, responding to his thoughts in the absence of his words. “We won’t ever get tired of you.’’
You stoke his fears by walking the Archivist closer to his bed. His heart freezes at the sound of the footsteps, but still will not deign to give you a single twitch, if he can prevent it. It makes you ache.
(But you love his hate, you realize. You love his stubbornness. Even when it makes you ache.)
“I love you,’’ you tell him again.
Perhaps if you say it enough, he’ll begin to understand.
"Maybe other people will help you feel better,'' you say the next time he wakes. “Humans do need their friends.’’
Martin’s thoughts immediately jerk to attention.
"Not the troublemakers, of course,'' you say. "We'll keep them where they are, sealed in their blindspot, so they can’t do anymore damage. But Basira...''
Martin bolts upright, horrified.
"No.’’
The Archivist hums, feeling your happiness that Martin’s started to talk again. "But you like Basira.''
"I--'' --we never really--but she sat there with me after mum-- "No, I don't. We hardly know each other.''
Martin feels the weight of your many stares.
"She doesn't even like me.'' --when Peter started to close in, she kept trying to help-- ''And she can be really mean.''
Does he hear my thoughts all of the time? Or just whenever he wants to? If I play it off, can I...
"We always want to hear what you're thinking,'' you answer.
Martin looks down. When he speaks up, his voice is thin.
"Just leave her out of this.’’
But a thought stirs in discordance with . But if Basira was here, maybe together we could plan a way to—no, what am I thinking, she’d just be trapped--
"Basira has been obedient, before. She will be good for you,'' you say, happy at this emerging hope. "We'll bring her.''
"No! Please,'' --begging hasn't helped before, but I have to-- "I don't want her to see me like this.''
"But you want her around. I can see it in you. The thought makes you hopeful.''
"Hopeful that she'll save me from you!''
"Yes, exactly.'' You have the Archivist smile at him, softly. "Your hope is beautiful too, Martin.’’
Martin tears at his hair.
“You want a friend, and we like to give you what you want.’’ You turn your gaze upon Basira. “She is faltering now, tired from her long journey through a sea of bodies and twisted flesh. She longs for a soft place to rest, even if she feels she does not deserve it. Even if she will never ask it of anyone. We can enmesh the border of this realm with where we are, so that when Basira takes her next step--''
"Stop! Stop it!’’
Martin grabs the Archivist by the shoulders roughly, as though to shake him. For a second he furious, ready to retaliate. You thrill at the touch, more eyes opening in attention as your delighted hum escapes the Archivist’s throat. Martin winces, immediately losing his nerve. His grip slackens.
A thought flits by: a thought of the pocket where the Archivist used to hold his tapes, and how close Martin’s hands are to it now.
"I'll--if you leave Basira alone, I can--''
Martin leans his head closer to the Archivist. It feels like putting his hand on a stove-top. The thought of offering a kiss runs through his mind, but it makes him sick. You might ask for more, is what he worries. Maybe, he thinks, that is something you’d consider “willing participation.’’
I can't do it. I can't. Jon wouldn't want--but if Basira gets trapped here, then--
Martin's knees are shaking. You have the Archivist put a hand on his, to which he only shudders a little.
"Martin,'' you say, linking fingers with his. "You don't have to kiss us or… do anything you don’t want to, to save Basira from imprisonment. It wasn’t a threat.’’
''Like hell it wasn't,'' Martin chokes out.
"You don't have to do anything. Promise,'' you tell him. "Just rest.''
You have the Archivist wrap an around around Martin’s shoulder—but the movement is slower than you intend, as though you are moving it through thick mud. Till, you grab Martin a bit more clumsily than you intended, and guide Martin to sit down on a couch in the corner.
Martin takes a sharp breath, but the freezing panic in his gut quells when you sit the Archivist down beside him at a reasonable distance.
"We want you to be happy in your fear,'' you tell him again. “As much as you can be. Happy, and not in danger of hurting yourself. Human companionship usually decreases suicidal thoughts and self-harm.’’
"Please don't bring Basira here,'' his voice cracks. “I’ll—I won’t self-harm again, okay? If you want me to be happy, then listen to me. Please--''
I don't want to fuck over someone else because I was stupid enough to want something.
You can feel the Archivist’s face crumple, pityingly. “It’s not wrong, o-or your fault, for wanting things, Martin.’’
Martin actually lets out a sad laugh. “Please, please just leave Basira alone.’’
"Alright. Alright, we will.’’ A pause. “I won’t let anything happen to Basira.''
Martin lets out a breath. You reach for him through the Archivist. This time, the gesture is choppy and much faster than you intend. You grab Martin’s hand again, squeezing. He doesn’t resist, this time. It sends a happy thrill through you. You pull his hand towards the Archivist, and...
...and without thinking, you have (the Archivist has?) pressed Martin’s hand up to the breast pocket of his coat, where his lost tapes used to be.
Martin tenses. “What are you--’’
You freeze. Before you can even realize it, the Archivist has yanked Martin’s hand into his pocket, where it seems something had been sewn in there. There has been some trick pulled on you, some trick using the same material that created the blindspot, creating this inner pocket you could not detect.
Something crinkles. Martin yanks his hand away, but now there is something in his hands—a polaroid?
It’s the slightest moment of discordance between you and the Archivist. Hardly a twitch. It takes you less than a minute to seize the Archivist again.
It’s not enough time to stop Martin from looking at the hidden message.
[CLICK]
[WHIRRING]
MELANIE
You want a show? You want some information? Think you can web us in here and terrorize us and then get all of our secrets down on your little tape?
Bet you thought you could! Bet you thought we’d have no way out. Or that we’d have no way of keeping any information without you knowing about it. Fucking voyeur.
Well. You’re wrong, shithead. You’re not all powerful, or as all-knowing as you think. But if you really want a snack, here’s something for you!
[A MATCH LIGHTS]
MELANIE
Record this, fucker.
[THERE IS A ROAR OF FLAME. THEN, THE SOUND OF EXPLOSIONS, AN ENRAGED SCREAM, AND THOUSANDS OF SPIDERS SKITTERING AWAY.]
Re: Apple of Your Eye 10/???
When Martin wakes up, you have the Archivist say “I love you.’’
You say ‘I’ in the same way a human might crouch while cooing at a small animal. With this word, you present yourself as smaller than you are, as more individual and personal. Still, when you sit on the edge of the bed, Martin’s fear spikes.
“What are you… what are you going to do?’’ Martin asks, wearily.
“Nothing you don’t want.’’
This pronouncement doesn’t make Martin less afraid. The Archivist frowns.
“You’re worried that we still want sex. That this is all just to get your guard down to make the moment we force it on you later more horrible. But that’s not quite it.’’
“Not ‘quite?’’’ Martin asks, bitingly.
“We--I would still like to have sex. That is true,’’ you say. “No use in lying about that. But last time was—it was unpleasant. It is better if you participate willingly. That will make for a more pleasant experience for all parties involved.’’
Martin stares. “That’s not going to—Jon doesn’t—how does an eldritch horror even want…?’’
You blink at him, hoping that will break up the discomfiting nature of your stare. Martin clamps his jaw shut.
“I don’t think you even have a concept of what… ‘willing participation’ means. In anything, much less...that.’’
“That’s not true,’’ you say.
“Then let Jon go. Stop controlling him.’’
“It’s not control. I am ‘Jon,’ the Archivist. Jon is us.’’
Martin shakes his head, and turns back over. He squeezes his eyes shut, believing everything you said throughout this conversation to be a lie but still hoping you will stick with this lie a little longer.
“Martin,’’ you plead.
“I want to go back to sleep.’’
“No. You can’t sleep forever.’’ You tug at his sleeve. “Stay with us.’’
Martin stays there, speechless and unmoving, until you relent, and let him drift into calmer nightmares.
Again, when Martin wakes, you make sure the first thing he hears is “I love you.’’
Martin says nothing to this.
“Martin,’’ you say. “Come with us. With me. You’ll feel better if you get up.’’
He does not move. He’s figured out you like it when he talks to you, and beyond his one request he doesn’t want to give you the satisfaction. Your agitation expresses itself through the Archivist as pacing.
“There is tea and breakfast. Muffins, made exactly like the ones from that café by the Institute that you used to love. Eating will help you feel better. We want, I want you to feel better.’’
Martin lies there, trying to will his thoughts and fears still, trying to make himself small and beneath notice as he used to do with his mother. It is as futile as running or fighting was, but he doesn’t know that yet.
“We will wait,’’ you say, “Until you’re ready.’’
The self-harm doesn’t start until you take the Archivist out of the room.
It was a silly gesture, perhaps, but you thought he might feel better with the illusion of a moment's privacy. Of course, you extend far beyond the Archivist, so you are still with Martin in that room even when the Archivist is not. But you still thought it might be a comfort.
Martin explores the room first—checking behind the curtains to confirm there are no windows, trying the doors, looking in every cupboard and only finding a single pen and his notebook.
Nothing, of course there’s nothing. Stupid, why did I think for minute--
He hits his head against the wall, suppressing wail of despair. Then, he digs fingernails into the skin on his arm.
It’s hard to say why he escalates. His thoughts are racing wordlessly, and there is no single moment where he thinks or decides to hurt himself. Perhaps it’s the urge to punish himself, somehow, for the suffering he imagines ‘Jon’ is experiencing. Perhaps it’s just that the intensity of physical pain, at least, is enough to drive everything else from his mind.
Either way, his skin tears, and blood starts to drip onto the floor.
“Martin!’’ the Archivist’s voice goes shrill. “Martin, stop!’’
Of course, the Archivist is there the second that you want him there. Martin jerks away, still too wild for reason.
“Stop it. Be calm,’’ the words are yours, now. “Sleep. Rest.’’
Martin falls limp into the Archivist’s arms.
“I love you.’’
Martin notices the Archivist’s voice first, and then the bandages on his arms. He closes his eyes, and wants to sleep again, even though he knows it won’t bring him any relief and it will always lead to him waking up here.
“I love you,’’ you have the Archivist say again. “I don’t want you to be hurt. I want you to be...’’
You want Martin in all of the ways he can be—and yet, hurt-Martin is the one you want the least of all, right now. The conflict this creates in you is too confusing to put into human words, so the Archivist trails off.
You itch to lay hands on Martin again. But the mere thought stings. Because it will make Martin hurt (but you want him hurt) (but you want him to be happy) (but you want--)
“We can, I can take you anywhere in the world. The most magnificent falls. The pyramids. All the wonders of the world,’’ you tell him. “True, they’re all demolished now, but we can change that. I can fix them up again just so you have something beautiful to look at for a moment. Just get up and come with me.’’
Martin is, for a human, incredibly stubborn. He gives you nothing.
He knows he cannot hurt you, really. He cannot keep you from this thoughts or his fears, if you want to dig into them. But he can deny you his words, his movements, the reactions of he makes that you love. So now he throws himself into this final battle of attrition.
He has to get bored of this eventually. That’s how they are. Like the train, with that woman who gave up...
“No,’’ you say, responding to his thoughts in the absence of his words. “We won’t ever get tired of you.’’
You stoke his fears by walking the Archivist closer to his bed. His heart freezes at the sound of the footsteps, but still will not deign to give you a single twitch, if he can prevent it. It makes you ache.
(But you love his hate, you realize. You love his stubbornness. Even when it makes you ache.)
“I love you,’’ you tell him again.
Perhaps if you say it enough, he’ll begin to understand.
"Maybe other people will help you feel better,'' you say the next time he wakes. “Humans do need their friends.’’
Martin’s thoughts immediately jerk to attention.
"Not the troublemakers, of course,'' you say. "We'll keep them where they are, sealed in their blindspot, so they can’t do anymore damage. But Basira...''
Martin bolts upright, horrified.
"No.’’
The Archivist hums, feeling your happiness that Martin’s started to talk again. "But you like Basira.''
"I--'' --we never really--but she sat there with me after mum-- "No, I don't. We hardly know each other.''
Martin feels the weight of your many stares.
"She doesn't even like me.'' --when Peter started to close in, she kept trying to help-- ''And she can be really mean.''
Does he hear my thoughts all of the time? Or just whenever he wants to? If I play it off, can I...
"We always want to hear what you're thinking,'' you answer.
Martin looks down. When he speaks up, his voice is thin.
"Just leave her out of this.’’
But a thought stirs in discordance with . But if Basira was here, maybe together we could plan a way to—no, what am I thinking, she’d just be trapped--
"Basira has been obedient, before. She will be good for you,'' you say, happy at this emerging hope. "We'll bring her.''
"No! Please,'' --begging hasn't helped before, but I have to-- "I don't want her to see me like this.''
"But you want her around. I can see it in you. The thought makes you hopeful.''
"Hopeful that she'll save me from you!''
"Yes, exactly.'' You have the Archivist smile at him, softly. "Your hope is beautiful too, Martin.’’
Martin tears at his hair.
“You want a friend, and we like to give you what you want.’’ You turn your gaze upon Basira. “She is faltering now, tired from her long journey through a sea of bodies and twisted flesh. She longs for a soft place to rest, even if she feels she does not deserve it. Even if she will never ask it of anyone. We can enmesh the border of this realm with where we are, so that when Basira takes her next step--''
"Stop! Stop it!’’
Martin grabs the Archivist by the shoulders roughly, as though to shake him. For a second he furious, ready to retaliate. You thrill at the touch, more eyes opening in attention as your delighted hum escapes the Archivist’s throat. Martin winces, immediately losing his nerve. His grip slackens.
A thought flits by: a thought of the pocket where the Archivist used to hold his tapes, and how close Martin’s hands are to it now.
"I'll--if you leave Basira alone, I can--''
Martin leans his head closer to the Archivist. It feels like putting his hand on a stove-top. The thought of offering a kiss runs through his mind, but it makes him sick. You might ask for more, is what he worries. Maybe, he thinks, that is something you’d consider “willing participation.’’
I can't do it. I can't. Jon wouldn't want--but if Basira gets trapped here, then--
Martin's knees are shaking. You have the Archivist put a hand on his, to which he only shudders a little.
"Martin,'' you say, linking fingers with his. "You don't have to kiss us or… do anything you don’t want to, to save Basira from imprisonment. It wasn’t a threat.’’
''Like hell it wasn't,'' Martin chokes out.
"You don't have to do anything. Promise,'' you tell him. "Just rest.''
You have the Archivist wrap an around around Martin’s shoulder—but the movement is slower than you intend, as though you are moving it through thick mud. Till, you grab Martin a bit more clumsily than you intended, and guide Martin to sit down on a couch in the corner.
Martin takes a sharp breath, but the freezing panic in his gut quells when you sit the Archivist down beside him at a reasonable distance.
"We want you to be happy in your fear,'' you tell him again. “As much as you can be. Happy, and not in danger of hurting yourself. Human companionship usually decreases suicidal thoughts and self-harm.’’
"Please don't bring Basira here,'' his voice cracks. “I’ll—I won’t self-harm again, okay? If you want me to be happy, then listen to me. Please--''
I don't want to fuck over someone else because I was stupid enough to want something.
You can feel the Archivist’s face crumple, pityingly. “It’s not wrong, o-or your fault, for wanting things, Martin.’’
Martin actually lets out a sad laugh. “Please, please just leave Basira alone.’’
"Alright. Alright, we will.’’ A pause. “I won’t let anything happen to Basira.''
Martin lets out a breath. You reach for him through the Archivist. This time, the gesture is choppy and much faster than you intend. You grab Martin’s hand again, squeezing. He doesn’t resist, this time. It sends a happy thrill through you. You pull his hand towards the Archivist, and...
...and without thinking, you have (the Archivist has?) pressed Martin’s hand up to the breast pocket of his coat, where his lost tapes used to be.
Martin tenses. “What are you--’’
You freeze. Before you can even realize it, the Archivist has yanked Martin’s hand into his pocket, where it seems something had been sewn in there. There has been some trick pulled on you, some trick using the same material that created the blindspot, creating this inner pocket you could not detect.
Something crinkles. Martin yanks his hand away, but now there is something in his hands—a polaroid?
It’s the slightest moment of discordance between you and the Archivist. Hardly a twitch. It takes you less than a minute to seize the Archivist again.
It’s not enough time to stop Martin from looking at the hidden message.
[CLICK]
[WHIRRING]
You want a show? You want some information? Think you can web us in here and terrorize us and then get all of our secrets down on your little tape?
Bet you thought you could! Bet you thought we’d have no way out. Or that we’d have no way of keeping any information without you knowing about it. Fucking voyeur.
Well. You’re wrong, shithead. You’re not all powerful, or as all-knowing as you think. But if you really want a snack, here’s something for you!
[A MATCH LIGHTS]
Record this, fucker.
[THERE IS A ROAR OF FLAME. THEN, THE SOUND OF EXPLOSIONS, AN ENRAGED SCREAM, AND THOUSANDS OF SPIDERS SKITTERING AWAY.]
[CLICK]