#CEASELESS WATCHER TURN YOUR GAZE SKIN#

Their memories would flutter in clarity with the passing years, but the Eye never allowed him to forget the sharpness of their worst moments of suffering. Gift me your Knowledge again, today, to keep those around me safe… At least those that are left.”įor a moment, Jon closed his eyes-as if able to pause the incantation-to think of his friends the ones who had died just rooms away, their voices still held as echoes in the walls the ones whose living voices could only buzz through a phone receiver every few days, more and more unsure of what to say to the quaking voice on the other end the ones that lived (and maybe died) far beyond his Sight the ones that had nothing left of them to See. His motion of respectful prayer turned into a mournful licking of aged wounds.

#CEASELESS WATCHER TURN YOUR GAZE SKIN#

He tightened his fingers around it, the skin still sensitive and scars thick. “Ceaseless watcher, turn your gaze upon this wretched thing and see it…” Jon slid his hands down to loop around his wrist. He would forget to prompt the Eye to remember the exchange: Jon’s sacrifice, details of which were kept secret and tucked into his quivering hands he clasped them against his waist slowly. With all the thrill of being in a home, a true home, with a man he considered one for so long-an amount of time physically unable to count, but sitting in Jon’s heart like an eternity-Jon feared he would forget to renew his promise. It was once offered to them that it could be arranged for a white fence can be placed around Hill Top Road-but Martin sharply disagreed, and Jon didn’t want to risk it. Only the cold, cracked, and chipped stones of the tunnels. No white picket ones now for him and Martin. It was the only fence he’d ever have a chance to run into, actually. It was the most thrilling fence-jumping Jon had to look forward to those days. Jon pulled himself to the end of the bed, swinging his legs over the iron bars and sliding himself up and over it. Jon slept against the wall now, since Martin had fallen on him more than a few times trying to climb out of bed in the pitch dark without his glasses Jon was the one with perfect night vision (now). That morning, Martin was already up and out of bed. Lay down with Martin and ignore his itching thoughts of causing accidental voyeurism in favor of Martin’s sweet, soothing company.

It made his morning routine- the only time he had to spend away from the Archives-shorter, far easier to complete without getting caught up in the oh dear god what am I doing-what have I done. Once Jon was at his proper desk chair, tape’s company uninvited but not always unwelcome, he figured he could hold off any true soul-searching for just another morning:

Which, as an insomniac, just made the act become Jon laying down with the sole outcome of adding more wrinkles to his shirt. It-both the habit and discomfort-didn’t matter much anyway: Jon slept on a bed far too small for both him and Martin slept in the archives down the hall from his own office, hearing the tape recorder whirring in the ringing silent nights slept without dreams or even vivid, startling visions never actually regained the ability to sleep and, at the very bottom on his (well, Martin’s) list of worry, slept in his everyday work clothes. Most nights, Jon went to sleep in his clothes.

Ceaseless watcher turn your gaze