Chapter Text
“Statement ends,” Jon says, once Martin’s finally gotten everything out, spilled the entire story. The basement, spending two weeks trapped and afraid. The worms. Jane Prentiss. “You’re sure about all of this, Martin?”
Martin frowns at him. “Look, I’m not going to lie to you about something like this, Jon. I… I like my job." He makes a face. "Most of the time.”
“Very well.” Jon nods, something resolute and steady solidifying in his gut. Jon has read the reports, read the statements. “Obviously, if Prentiss knows where to find you, you can’t go back to your flat.”
“I— wait, really?” And he does look genuinely baffled, staring at Jon with wide owl eyes.
“Of course.” Even Martin has to realize how unsafe that would be, come on now. “You can’t risk another encounter like that.”
“No, uh… Yeah, that makes sense, I guess I just—” Martin shrugs, looks down at his lap, his hands curled there— “Honestly, I didn’t think you’d take it this seriously.”
Jon doesn’t fidget with his hands in the way he has spent a lot of time and effort practicing not fidgeting with his hands. It’s a tell he can’t afford to have right now (or ever, in this job). “You lost your phone two weeks ago?”
“Uh, yeah, about then. When I was in Vittery’s basement, I think.”
Jon takes his own phone out of his pocket, pulls up his text chain with who he spent the last two weeks believing to be Martin. He shows Martin all texts he now knows came from something he’s still trying very hard to pretend is entirely human, although definitely not Martin.
“So,” he finally says, “if this does involve Jane Prentiss, then I take it deadly serious—” His sentence is punctuated by a buzz, and Jon’s phone vibrates in his hand. “Hang on.”
When he looks at his phone, the way his stomach lurches with some awful mixture of dread and confusion must show on his face, because Martin leans over the desk anxiously.
“What is it?”
Jon takes a second to school himself back into practiced neutrality — or he tries to, at least. “Another text. From you.” He holds the phone out again, so Martin can read along with him. “‘Keep him. We have had our fun. He will want to see it when the Archivist’s crimson fate arrives.’”
Martin blinks, swallows. Looks up to meet Jon’s eyes. He looks smaller than ever, here in Jon’s office, dark circles under his eyes only more obvious with the way his skin's gone almost feverishly pale. “What does that mean?”
“It means I ask Elias to hire extra security. I should also probably warn Tim and Sasha. And, again, it means you shouldn’t return to your flat.”
Martin nods slowly. “Right…”
“Have you got anywhere to go?” Jon asks him, briskly. “Friends, acquaintances, maybe, who you could stay with…?”
Martin flushes, deeply. “I, I mean— n-no, not really,” he stammers, and then goes even redder. “Or, just, y’know, not that I’d want to, to. Put in the middle of this. Put in danger of, of worms.”
“Ah,” Jon says, “No, of course, that makes sense.” Why drag anyone else into this mess? Seven people died during Prentiss’s initial hospitalization; the collateral damage of roping someone from outside the Institute into her orbit doesn’t bear thinking about. “In that case…” Jon feels like there’s some alternative solution, one that's hanging just beyond his reach, evading him, and Martin needs somewhere safe to stay now. “My sofa is quite comfortable. You’re welcome to come and stay with me until you figure something else out.”
There's a moment of loud, drawn out silence, where Martin just stares at him.
Jon frowns, and Martin blinks.
“I— Wait, what? Sorry. What? Really?”
Jon shifts uncomfortably in his chair. “It just makes sense.” There’s no reason for Martin to get so indignant. But then, there’s no reason for Jon to feel defensive about it; he’s not supposed to care what Martin thinks of him. “I would suggest asking Tim or Sasha since I believe you’re... closer with them, but it’s hardly fair to put them at risk.”
Martin nods slowly. “Right, yeah. Oo-kay… Uh. Okay. Okay, right.”
“… And as you were put at risk doing Institute research, it only seems fair that I ensure you’ve got somewhere safe to go.”
“Right.” Another slow nod, Martin’s stunned, brown eyes not leaving Jon’s the whole time. “Right. Uh, you’re sure?”
“I wouldn’t have offered otherwise.”
Marin opens his mouth, works his jaw for a moment, and nods. “I— okay. Um.” He looks down, then back up at Jon, and his voice is very quiet, frayed around the edges, when he says, “Thank— thank you.”
Jon hums, eyes slipping away. He lets his mind drift forward, skipping away from Martin, past this awkward moment, onto the next steps.
He’ll — unfortunately — need to schedule a meeting with Elias. He'll have to find time on Monday to sit down to explain all of this to Tim and Sasha. He’ll need to file this statement, maybe start looking into Jane Prentiss— he could swear there’s a statement from her around here, somewhere...
Martin is still in his office. Sitting in the chair opposite Jon’s across the desk, looking imploringly at him, fidgeting with his hands in a way that’s all too familiar to Jon. He feels an odd twinge; he supposes, this time, Martin has every right to his nerves.
Jon just doesn’t quite know what to do with it.
(Of all the things Jon counts himself to be good at, comfort is not, typically speaking, one of them. If he tries to take Martin’s feelings into his hands right now, they’ll slip through his fingers and shatter.)
So Jon just says: “Do you… need anything else, Martin?”
“Oh, er.” Martin shrugs. “I— no? I guess not? Um.” More fidgeting. “I don’t really… I’m not quite sure what to do now?”
“Oh.” Jon nods. “Well. I-I am, that is, I was in the middle of a case when you—” he gestures vaguely at the dead worms Martin’s deposited on his desk. “But… Ah. If you’d like to give me a bit to finish things up, we can leave for the day. Get, get situated.”
“Okay...” The fidgeting slows, hands steadying until only Martin’s right thumb is tracing idly over his left palm. He gives his best impression of a smile, even with exhaustion and fear making his face almost unrecognizable. “That, uh. Yes. Sure. That works for me.”
Jon nods again, more decisive this time.
This time, Martin takes the hint, stands up.
There’s a moment of awkward hovering; his hands slip apart, and he pats the back of the chair he’d just vacated as he goes. He pauses, for a moment, hand on the doorknob, not looking at Jon. “Um. Thanks, again.”
And then he slips out before Jon can pull together any kind of reply, the door clicking softly shut behind him.
-
Jon doesn’t keep good time. He never has; he loses track and lets hours slip away in what barely feels like minutes, or he’ll look up after what seems like hours of work to find maybe 10 minutes have passed. It’s — it’s been an issue he’s been aware of since he was young, but it’s not something he’s ever been very good at mitigating.
Anyway, the point being… Jon really meant to just finish up his end notes on the Moira Kelly case, maybe find some related material, locate that document on Simon Fairchild he’d vaguely recalled reading that name again today, and get everything organized and in one place so he can dive back into it on Monday.
But nothing is that simple in the Archives, and... things slip away from him.
It’s not that Jon forgot about Martin. He’s not that callous. The Prentiss incident has been itching at the back of his mind since Martin’s statement. It’s just. Well. These statements tend to suck the time right out from under Jon’s feet.
So when he next leaves his office and sees Martin still out in the Archive, he has to do a double take.
He’s sitting hunched over his desk, staring into a mug held tightly between his hands. His fingers are still in a way that feels very conscious, draws Jon up short. He doesn't think he's ever seen Martin entirely still; there's always some unconscious movement. Jon thinks this has to speak to Martin’s anxiety almost more than any amount of fidgeting, like the fear has become so pronounced he’s become aware enough of it to try and clamp it down.
It feels oddly private, makes Jon feel odd intruding. He hesitates for a moment, but his shoes scuffling the floor must’ve gotten Martin’s attention because he looks up, spots Jon, and straightens up in his seat.
He flashes something that Jon thinks is meant to be a smile. “Er, you ready?”
No. “Yes, of course.”
Honestly, he’d just planned to come out for another file, maybe a glass of water, before getting back to it. But the clock on the wall tells him he's done that thing again where he gets caught in his head and loses a handful of hours. It’s well past the end of the day, and Martin can’t leave without Jon.
“If, if you’re ready, give me a moment and we can go,” Jon tells him.
“Oh, yeah.” Martin pushes his mug away and stands. “I mean. I don’t really have anything, so. I’m, uh. I’m ready whenever you are.”
Right. Of course. Martin fled here this morning after two weeks of confinement. And he doesn’t even have a phone, because Prentiss stole it. Jon hums vaguely. “Give me… just give me a minute.”
“Oh, yeah." Martin nods tightly. "Sure, sure.”
Jon nods curtly, does a 180 and vanishes back into his office.
He flexes his hands into fists and then forces them to relax, smoothing them out and wiping his palms against his thighs, and gets to it.
He spends 30 seconds collecting all the loose papers scattered over his desk, crams them unceremoniously back into their folders. Normally, he gives the statements more care. All the pages will be out of order now and it will drive him mad when he gets back in on Monday, but that thought is so distant he can’t let himself worry about it right now when there are... more pressing issues to worry about.
He thinks about stuffing the whole folder into his bag and just bringing it home, but he doesn’t want to have to deal with work when he’s going to have so much else to deal with this weekend. Instead he shoves it into the top drawer of his desk to be dealt with when he has more time. (As if he ever has more time.)
He almost forgets his laptop, and has to turn on his heel at the last second to snatch it off his desk, and he’s still trying to cram it into his bag without taking anything else out or stopping when he leaves his office again.
Martin’s still standing just where Jon left him a moment ago, looking a bit like a last lamb in a rumpled jumper and old sneakers.
“Shall we?”
Martin starts, snaps up to look at him. “Yep.” He nods. “Sure.”
Jon returns the nod and heads out. Martin starts after him, just a few steps behind on the way out of the Institute. They’re silent most of the way, which Jon is grateful for. When things are tense Martin sometimes tends to babble, and Jon has an uncanny knack for finding the worst possible thing to say in any given situation. Even if you take away all the extra stress and awkwardness building up around them both, Jon doesn’t see these two things mixing well in their current predicament.
Jon is not normally one to let himself feel self-conscious. He does things a certain way and it’s okay if other people don’t exactly get it, most of the time.
But he hasn’t had anyone else in his flat for a very, very long time, and… he’s not sure how welcoming it’s going to be to a man freshly out of some kind of worm-imposed urban survivalist isolation.
They make it to the elevator before Jon finally breaks, tension cracking open like an egg inside of him. “Full disclosure, I am… not entirely sure how much food I have at mine right now. I can, I-I can order something for the both of us, when we get there, i-if you’d like.”
Martin opens his mouth, but the elevator dings before he manages any words. It’s not until they’ve crossed the lobby, and Jon’s about to let them out into the chilly March air that Martin says: “Um. I don’t— I kind of. I left my wallet at home? I don’t. I don’t have any money, right now. I mean, I can— I can go get it, at some point. B-but…”
Jon's fingers go white-knuckle tight around the strap of his bag. He is not going to snap, he can be civil.
It’s — look, it’s not that Jon feels guilty. He didn’t ask Martin to break into Carlos Vittery’s basement; it’s not his fault, he knows that.
It’s just… Well, every footfall sounds like knuckles rapping on hardwood, and when Jon blinks all he can see are spindly legs unspooling behind an unfamiliar door.
It is not Jon’s fault Martin was attacked. It isn’t.
But he can’t stop thinking about the blank, enraptured face of a man whose name Jon can’t even remember as he vanishes forever behind a strange door, the look on Martin’s face when he’d looked up at Jon and said I wanted proof, for you.
It isn’t Jon’s fault — it can’t be. It can’t be. He can’t deal with that on top of everything — but.
But Martin almost died because of Jon. He spent two weeks alone and afraid for his life because he wanted to find proof of something Jon’s known was out there since he was eight-years-old, and Jon didn’t even notice he was gone.
And anyway, the pay raise from researcher to Head Archivist may not have been lavish, but he’s fairly proud of the fact that he can shell out for delivery to feed a hungry co-worker when the need arises.
“It’s fine, really,” Jon tells him. “I can cover it.”
“Oh,” Martin says. “Oh. Are you sure?”
Jon pointedly does not look at him. “Yes. I said it’s fine, don’t worry about it.”
Martin falls silent again, and with the evening traffic drowning out their footsteps Jon finally gives in and chances a glance at him to make sure he’s still following. He is, and thankfully he doesn’t look back at Jon. He’s got his arms crossed tightly over his chest and he’s looking down at his shoes, instead.
Jon looks away before Martin can catch him staring.
“Okay,” Martin finally says, “thanks.”
“It’s really not a problem.”
“Still,” Martin says, faintly. “Thanks anyway.”
Jon waves him off, humming noncommittally.
They get on the Tube at the station nearest the Institute, and only when Martin settles awkwardly on the seat beside Jon does everything start to feel real.
This— this could be a huge mistake. Jon, chronic over-thinker and class-A worrier can already conjure up a full list of ways he could fuck this up. And yet… There’s a small part of him that also just… Kind of likes being able to do— something.
There isn’t ever much he actually can do; he’s been at this job for months and he’s barely made a dent in the work Elias wants done. Even before the work became personal, before Jane Prentiss apparently made it her personal mission to terrorize his assistant, Jon had no clue what he was doing or if he was making any kind of progress. Every day since taking this job he’s felt like he’s wading deeper and deeper into something he can’t even see the shape of, and he’s already in so deep over his head he can’t see the surface.
He can’t un-read A Guest For Mr. Spider. He can’t erase the last two weeks.
But this? He can fix this. He can offer Martin a safe place to sleep, and he can keep them both fed. This one thing, he can manage.
So, even if it means sleeping on his couch and putting up with Martin Blackwood in his flat for the foreseeable future, then that’s okay.
This can be okay. Jon can make this okay.