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ickmick · 3 months

Text

ashes in my way

ao3 link twitter link

character/pairing:

jon/The Archivist centric oneshot; implied martin and jonmartin, but neither are directly mentioned.

major tags/warnings:

(see more/in depth detail on ao3 endnotes)

angst , hurt no comfort , implied suicide / death , dehumanization , fear , manipulation

summary:

jon is loath to be acknowledged as he is currently. and yet, he can't stop his descent as he thinks it over. how unfortunate, that he is only a vessel. OR author's first take on an introspective angst scenario, where jon becomes The Archivist. sort of like an 'instead of a coma...' but not really at all, either. take it as you will, i just went at it until i liked it.

yeah... remember this nice drawing? well my first tma fic is the complete opposite of light hearted, rip. heed the tags, i beg of you.

jon feels… he feels like shit. the words won't come easy, even as he tries to sort it out in his head. to determine why he feels this way- what he even feels.

he tells himself to be less dramatic; to stop being selfish. if anything, he's the lucky one in this situation. he's loved, and cared for earnestly despite how utterly unworthy and pointless he is.

i don't know what i'm supposed to say, he'd confessed quietly, brows furrowed, what do you want me to say? it had practically been a plea, a begging cry hidden behind his solemn expression and tone. they hadn't answered.

it's so unbelievably cold, alone as always in his silent flat.

sometimes he pictures them here, by his side. he'd rather enjoy that, he knows it for a fact, as he's wanted so long to have an understanding companion. jon has always been starved for touch, abandoned.

his chest continues to ache, a dull throb that pulses in his ears and drowns out all coherent thought. crying is for people, a honeyed voice reminds him, people who haven't ruined everything. and he is neither of those things.

not even the duvet pulled up to his nose warms him.

part of him whispers in disbelief that hours ago he'd felt proud. he'd been happy today. all through the morning and even afternoon, he’d been productive, and filled with a feather light contentment that he hadn't held for a long time.

but there are no picture perfect days, not for The Archivist. no, it's a creature of grimaces, of secrets held close to it's chest for only itself to Know, of broken promises. it's the maker of all mistakes, past and present.

any and all delights belong to those who don't lurk in the shadows. it feels unfair, to see others practically float through life and make it to their goals. he Knows there's more to it, yet yearns for that kind of freedom blindly.

it's only right, he decides, i deserve to rot alone; i made this mess myself. each of these horrors are my own, and nobody can save me from them. jon doubts that anyone would want to to begin with.

he could See the answers, most times. whether those held weight or could be used in his favor varied. more often than not, recently, he'd fumbled them.

the ceiling is bland, as most are. cracked white texturing, with a faint water stain near one corner. his eyes scan it in the dark regardless, begging for something else to think of.

anything, he assures the ghosts in his withered heart, anything to forget even for a moment. it's his own fault, he knows that. but even so, he searches for just what he did wrong.

maybe it's the dragged out silences, the delayed responses. or maybe it's his incessant rambles, how he goes on and on about whatever holds his fancy at the moment. they used to think it was charming, endearing even as they indulged him.

for a while, he didn't notice how they'd started going quiet. how the nodding smiles and interested questions turned into droning hums and annoyed eyes. jon wishes he'd never noticed.

that would be too simple, too easy, though, even if they likely would've let it go on for months before confronting him. they still had that tendency. it's the coward's way out.

but that's what he was. a coward, forever skirting consequences or responsibility for fear of change. ignoring how that change occurs regardless.

he feels so stupid. playing the fool- and playing it well- jon has managed to convince them that he is worth their time, worth their love. feigning unawareness isn't the same as genuinely missing the point, they'd likely tell him if they found out.

it always felt aggressive, knowing them well enough after the years to understand that the casual comments were actually scathing irritation. he'd pull back, alarmed and confused despite knowing very well what he's done wrong. when did it become a crime, The Archivist grumbles, knowing it's role well after all this time, to lose interest in a project i didn't start?

you should know by now, it continues, undeservingly affronted, you should know i can't predict the future. i don't control when i move on, however much i try! softening, and offering a loving smile, it soothes, i promise i would if i could.

but it never was about the typical situation, he doesn't have to See to know that. it was the disinterest that came after, how he'd pick up the next thing and gleefully talk about it whilst stood in the silenced rubble of the last. spitting in the face of all their hard work, intentionally or not.

he wants to think it's all been entirely unintentional. that's how it goes, jon would shrug, offering a genuinely mournful look, sometimes it's impossible to keep motivation. you understand, don't you?

it's selfish of him, taking and taking while barely giving anything but scraps. it's possibly the closest thing he has to being human anymore. humans are typically selfish beings, aren't they?

his limbs feel heavy, as if he's sinking into the bed.

it's around dinner time, and his stomach gurgles, pulling him from his thoughts. he'd meant to get up and cook a while ago. likely something easy and quick, since he feels so dreadful.

the idea of warm food is a comfort, even if it is just toasted sandwiches. maybe he should get up now, so he can think more clearly. but the voice croons, eating is for people, for people who don't ruin all they touch. and he is neither of those things.

so he doesn't move, and lets the panic-spurring feeling envelope him.

The Archivist can faintly feel his eyes burn as it stares up unblinking at the ceiling faint slivers of light spilling through the blinds. it's Eyes replay the same dread filled scene, stomach dropping and twisting each time he registers the frustration in their words. it feels more visceral, like a fresh laceration stinging, each time.

the silence has become a deafening static, overtaking even the sounds of his heart and stomach. it's a gracious reminder that he is alone. completely and utterly abandoned, like the disease ridden mutt that he is.

it's only right, he thinks again, repeating the phrase like a twisted mantra. i deserve to rot alone, after all. it's just disappointing that they finally realized, and it rings true in his small, empty bedroom.

bed rotting, he recalls, is to spend countless hours in bed during the day voluntarily, typically to avoid stress. jon thinks it's a rather fitting description of his current activity. the sheets are soft, and if he were to roll over and finally let the dark take him, he just may find a brief happiness.

its unfortunate, then, that it's not nearly close enough to midnight. there's time yet to be productive, he swears, urging heavy eyelids to stay open. sure, i’ve worked all morning, but there's still time to prove my worth.

and how fleeting emotions can be. sometimes, it's a blessing; to shrug off inconveniences and turn to brighter things. other times, it's a despairing loss of those same bright things- of happiness.

he knows that if he were to get up, even just roll over, take his phone, he could distract himself online as usual. find a good documentary, or listen to an intriguing podcast while he works on some papers. christ, he thinks, hopeless, i'd settle for even a shitty youtube video to make myself laugh.

jon also knows it won't help him. temporary solutions are temporary for a reason, they don't fix anything long term. so then why could he never discover a permanent fix to his broken parts?

there are so many unsaid things eternally locked inside his chest; behind his ribs.

when was the last time his mouth felt so sticky, he briefly wonders. perhaps it always was this difficult to speak, this impossible to even open his jaws. his tongue sits heavy, unwilling to move even if he had the energy.

his voice is grating anyways, jon assumes, nevertheless longing for conversation. besides, reminds the voice so sweetly, they only want to talk to people, it digs it's claws into him, affectionate, people that don't ignore their anger for their own delusions. and he is neither of those things.

it's not as if there is a soul to speak with anyhow, not tonight.

sometimes, the worst solitude is the one that is self-enforced. a deep, aching dread settles in his chest the longer that his phone is silent. by now they should have called, or at least texted- but isn't it his turn to reach out?

it's nearly funny, in a borderline hysterical way that has The Archivist grinning up at the ceiling. all of it's many eyes are open, seeking through it's catalog of horrors. oh how this could've been worked on if only he'd just offered a real effort, a proper conversation.

it doesn't find room to care, though. there are so many other things it desires, things it values more than frail human connection. any Knowledge that could be garnered from this solution means nothing in its Archives, which feed off fear and pain anyhow.

the bleak ruminating of its vessel is far better than connections.

he desperately wishes he weren't so stubborn, that he'd make the first step for once. but jon, comes that wretched voice, louder than any other thought now, they want people around. people who don't cave to impulsive, foolish, temporary solutions like a coward.

and i, jon acknowledges as it's eyes- the real ones- shut with finality, am neither of those things.

it's only right then, after all, that jon doesn't wake again.

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