“Martin…”

Another memory Tim cannot trust, of laying down next to Martin that one night, listening to the traffic below his window, watching the other man’s chest rise with every breath. He had found it quite peculiar, how Martin had looked somehow less vulnerable asleep than awake. As if once consciousness deserted him, his body returned to a steadier state, free from self-doubt and shame. It had made him more attractive, and Tim had almost woken him up for a second round. Instead, he had watched him until he had unwittingly started to match his breathing, and it had reminded him so vividly of summer nights spent by Danny’s side that he had cried silently, letting his tears soak the pillow until sleep had claimed him.

“I’m already dead, Martin. And so is Jon. You have to let us go. The sooner you accept it, the easier it will be.”

Tears spill from below Martin’s glasses. “H -how can you say that? Fuck.” A frustrated groan comes out of him as he wipes at his eyes angrily, one hand holding the glasses on his forehead. “Why can’t you care about your own life, the both of you!”

Tim sighs. “Martin, why are you here?”

“I… I don’t…”

“It’s a simple question. Why did you join the Institute? I’m trying to avenge my brother, Melanie got shot by a bloody ghost, and who knows what spooky bullshit Jon’s got going on. But what about you, Martin? Why, are you here?”

There’s an emptiness in Martin’s eyes as he gazes helplessly at the floor. “I… I had nowhere else to go.”