Work Text:
‘Ah, Martin, you’re still here. Excellent.’
Martin bit back a question about where else would he be. The alternative was his equally miserable flat, and if he was there, he’d have to pay for the heating.
‘Hi Peter,’ he said, in his best approximation of a customer service voice. ‘What can I help you with?’ The main thing he missed about the Archives, apart from the obvious, was that he hadn’t had to be polite to anyone there since everyone had started dying horribly.
‘Nothing too onerous,’ assured Peter, in the confident tones of a man who was definitely lying.
‘There’s not a… sixteenth fear entity emerging, is there?’ asked Martin.
‘What? No. Of course not,’ said Peter, frowning. ‘I need you to go and visit Elias and deliver a message from me.’
‘Um,’ said Martin. This sounded worse, actually.
‘If you could let him know that despite my best efforts, Lady Cordelia has perished,’ said Peter.
‘Er,’ said Martin.
‘And that since he doesn’t seem to be going anywhere any time soon, I finished his shortbread before it got stale.’
‘But-’ said Martin.
Peter faded into staticky fog.
‘What,’ said Martin. He turned back to his desk. The tape recorder wasn’t playing, so he addressed his stapler instead. ‘A sixteenth fear would be better,’ he said.
The stapler looked like it might be judging him.
The prison visiting room was dank and miserable.
It was not nearly as dank and miserable as the Archives, so Martin was starting to think Elias was getting off lightly.
‘Hello Martin, to what do I owe the pleasure?’ said Elias, smiling with more amusement than actual warmth.
Dickhead, thought Martin, as loudly as he could.
‘Peter said he’s killed, um… someone called Lady Cordelia?’ he said at last. ‘And he ate your shortbread.’
Elias sighed deeply. ‘If you could tell Peter,’ he began, through gritted teeth, ‘that I was quite clear about how often Lady Cordelia needed watering.’
Martin stared at him for a few seconds.
‘It’s a- that’s a- he’s killed a- plant?’
Elias rolled his eyes. ‘If he’d killed a person he’d hardly be apologetic about it now, would he?’
‘I don’t- I don’t think he actually apologised,’ said Martin.
‘He sent you in person, rather than allowing me to learn of this via my usual methods,’ said Elias. ‘Really, Martin, you’ve still got a lot to learn about the Lonely. And do tell him if he eats any more of my biscuits I shall replace them all with peanut butter cookies when I get out.'
Martin stared at Elias, uncomprehending.
'He particularly dislikes peanut butter,' explained Elias, smugly. 'Now please instruct him to put the rest of my food in the freezer and it will keep perfectly well. I hardly plan to be in here for that long, after all.’
‘Right,’ said Martin. ‘Great.’
It was three blissful weeks of almost-peace - aside from the general sense of encroaching doom, and the fact that the only company he had was his stapler, and occasional visits from his evil boss - before Peter asked him to visit Elias again.
‘There’s something clanging in the pipes in the penthouse on Acaster Street, you see,’ Peter explained. ‘I need you to ask him to Know what it is, and how to fix it.’
Martin squinted up at Peter. He glanced at the stapler, to check they’d heard right. ‘Can’t you… hire a plumber?’ he asked.
Peter gave him an extremely reproachful look. ‘Plumbers cost quite a lot of money, Martin,’ he said.
Martin considered pointing out that his salary for the time off work - and the expenses he claimed for the Oyster fare to the prison - also cost money. Unfortunately, he suspected that a plumber would probably cost more.
‘Maybe your flat’s haunted,’ he suggested.
Peter looked even more reproachful which, well, mean. Not that Martin’s sense of humour was doing particularly well these days, but Peter could at least pretend he was funny.
‘Fine, OK, I’ll go ask Elias what’s backed up your pipes,’ he said, and then immediately regretted his choice of phrasing. Fortunately Peter didn’t seem to notice.
‘Oh, and here’s some shortbread for him,’ said Peter. He gave Martin a tin. ‘I made it,’ he added proudly.
Martin stared at him. ‘You… bake?’
‘Everyone needs a hobby, Martin,’ said Peter. 'Perhaps you should try it yourself. You're looking a bit peaky, honestly. It’s quite good. You don’t need anyone else around. You just need a well-equipped kitchen.’
Martin’s studio flat had a kitchen that had been described by an estate agent as “spacious”, which meant he could only open one cupboard at a time because otherwise the doors would hit the other cupboards. The fact that it had more than one cupboard - in London, on his salary - had felt like a luxury at the time.
‘I’ll definitely think about it,’ he said, instead thinking about what would happen if he chucked his stapler at Peter’s head.
‘Tell Peter,’ said Elias, without preamble, ‘that the shortbread he stole was from Harrods, and that I’m not interested in his cooking experiments. I want like replaced with like.’
‘Can I keep it then?’ asked Martin, who had been stuck on a delayed underground train for what felt like hours and was feeling hungry.
Elias pursed his lips. ‘No,’ he said, and extended his hand for the tin of shortbread.
Worth a try, thought Martin, as he handed it over. He wondered how abhorrent and evil he would have to get before someone would bake for him.
‘And the plumbing thing?’ he asked.
Elias sighed deeply.
‘The downstairs neighbour has recently become involved with the Hunt,’ he said. ‘Unfortunately he’s not yet learned how to dispose of his victims.’ He sniffed. ‘Honestly that building used to attract a better class of tenant. ’
Martin shook his head, trying to make sure he’d heard right. ‘Wait- is- is the Hunt not posh enough for you?’
‘Frankly, serving the powers used to mean something a bit more than flushing body parts down a toilet,’ said Elias.
‘“Something more” like… using your eldritch knowledge to avoid hiring a plumber?’ asked Martin.
Elias narrowed his eyes.
‘Jeez, touchy,’ muttered Martin. ‘All right, fine, I’ll tell Peter to chuck the bloke downstairs in the Lonely. Problem solved.’
Elias raised his eyebrows. ‘Eager, aren’t we, Martin?’ he said, a smirk spreading across his face. ‘I was merely going to suggest raising rents to a suitable level to keep out the less desirable tenants.’
Martin scowled. He didn’t think being a terrible landlord was so much better than feeding a serial killer to an eldritch power that Elias got to judge him about it.
‘I hope he’s poisoned your shortbread,’ was what he said.
‘He hasn’t,’ said Elias smugly.
The next time, Peter summoned Martin to his office.
‘I’ve a couple of things I could use your help with, Martin,’ he said.
‘Great,’ said Martin, trying to sound like he meant it.
‘I’m trying to update the Institute website,’ said Peter, which, despite Martin’s months of indoctrination into dulling his feelings by way of Eldritch Evil, sent chills down his spine.
‘Great,’ he said again, with even more enthusiasm. He was wasted in this job. He could have won an Oscar if he’d gone into acting.
‘I thought it would be better for our coffers to allow members of the public to make donations to the Institute,’ said Peter. ‘However, when I try to link the main page to this new “How to donate” page that I’ve created, it doesn’t work.’
Martin took a deep breath. This was fine. He could do this.
‘Do you want to, um, show me what you’re doing?’ he asked. He wasn’t sure he wanted to see what Peter was doing. He was going to have to change the password to stop Peter from doing things, actually.
Peter turned back to his computer with all the confidence of a man who could - and did - make all of his problems disappear.
Martin watched as he - confidently - selected the text (which read “Click here to DONATE NOW!!!”). Then he watched as Peter - extremely confidently - found the formatting toolbar. Then, with continued confidence, Peter selected the option to underline the text, and then coloured it in blue.
He then attempted to click on it before he turned back to Martin.
‘So you see, it doesn’t actually link to the page at all,’ he explained.
‘Yeah it, um, doesn’t, does it,’ said Martin. He considered his options. One of which surely had to be murder. Unfortunately, there were no blunt objects within grabbing range. ‘This is, um, quite a difficult website change, Peter. How about you save what you’ve done, and leave it for me to figure out the rest?’
‘Excellent,’ said Peter. ‘I knew I could count on you.’ A beat. ‘How do I save?’
Martin leaned over, took Peter’s mouse and did it for him. And then he logged Peter out of the website with extreme prejudice.
‘If that’s what you wanted then I’ll just-’ he began.
‘Oh, one more thing, before you go,’ said Peter.
Martin felt his stomach sink. ‘Yes, Peter?’
Peter picked up a cardboard folder. ‘I have an… event this weekend,’ he said, looking as though there was a bad smell. ‘Please ask Elias which of these outfits would be best suited.’
The folder turned out to contain three glossy, high quality photographs of Peter in what looked to Martin to be an identical captain’s greatcoat.
Elias, however, scrutinised them for an excruciating ten minutes. The only sound was the ticking of the clock in the corner of the visitor’s room.
‘They’re the same outfit!’ burst out Martin, at last.
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Martin,’ said Elias, with a sniff. ‘I know you’re working with the Lonely these days, but you still have eyes, do you not? This one-’ he held up one photograph, ‘would clearly be quite unsuitable for such a formal occasion. Meanwhile this one-’ he held up a second, identical photograph- ‘is perfect. It really brings out the colour of his eyes. The third would be acceptable, but not quite such a good choice. The cut doesn’t do his figure nearly quite so much justice.’
‘The- the cut doesn’t what,’ said Martin.
Elias was looking at the photographs again. He looked… interested in what he was looking at. Extremely interested. Things began to click into place.
‘Oh Christ,’ said Martin.
‘That’s a very judgemental and old-fashioned attitude, Martin,’ said Elias coolly.
Martin decided that yelling “I’m gay, you dickhead,” meant Elias would win, and tried to think calming thoughts. Calming thoughts like throwing a brick at Elias’s head. Or dancing on Peter’s grave.
By the time Martin got back to the Institute, he could no longer remember which photograph Elias had picked out, so he just grabbed one at random. They were, after all, completely identical.
The next time Peter asked him to visit Elias, Martin was reading a book about poisons found in the natural world. Peter had told him he needed a hobby, after all.
‘I’m having some issues with the staff, you see,’ explained Peter. ‘Not the Institute. My personal staff.’
‘And Elias… can help… from jail?’ asked Martin dubiously.
‘They’re all getting a bit friendly,’ said Peter, wrinkling his nose. ‘Morale is getting too high. I’ve taken all of the usual measures but it hasn’t helped nearly as much as it should have done. It feels like there’s something going on. There must be some… some lynchpin of happiness. I need Elias to sniff them out.’
‘Right,’ said Martin. ‘Fantastic. Sounds great. Can’t you just… fire them all?’
‘It’s extremely hard to hire and train a good staff, Martin,’ explained Peter, frowning down at him. ‘It’s far better to only rid yourself of one or two trouble-makers and make sure the rest fall into line.’ His smile was warm, but his eyes were not. ‘Perhaps this’ll help you with managing Institute business.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Martin, biting back what he actually thought. He couldn’t help but think he knew who the Institute’s “trouble-makers” might be, after all.
Elias regarded Martin with folded arms.
‘Would it,’ he demanded, ‘be too much to ask for a husband who occasionally enquires as to my wellbeing?’
‘I’m sorry, a what?’
‘I’m the one who’s in prison, after all,’ continued Elias, as though Martin hadn’t spoken. ‘But instead it’s “oh Elias, tell me this”, “Elias, what’s broken with that?”, “Elias, I’ve stolen your food”. Not a word about how I’m doing.’
‘Er-’ said Martin. ‘You- He- you- what?’
‘For once in his life, perhaps Peter should try expressing an interest in someone other than himself.’
‘But…?’ said Martin.
‘Do try to keep up, Martin,’ said Elias, rolling his eyes.
‘You’re married?’ he managed in reply. ‘To- to each other?’
‘At present,’ said Elias icily. ‘However, if Peter wishes to remain thus, he ought to put in a trifle more effort.’
‘You did- marry an Avatar of the- the Lonely though, right?’ said Martin. ‘Like, you… must have… capital-K Known what you were getting in to?’
‘Very droll, Martin,’ said Elias flatly. ‘And you may tell my husband that he can sort out his own staffing issues.’
‘Yeah, fine, I might as well,’ said Martin. He paused. ‘So. How long have you two been married?’
‘Which marriage?’
‘Which- what- oh Christ, I’ve changed my mind, I do not want to know.’
Peter took the news silently and then disappeared back to the Lonely in a cloud of sulky static, which certainly improved Martin’s day.
It did mean he had to get back to reading statements about the Extinction, the fear of which seeped into his bones and left him unable to concentrate except for thinking about the great change and the world after. This was, however, still better than talking to Peter or Elias. He also caught sight of Jon from a distance, moping about the canteen, and felt a brief thrill of forbidden romance, before tamping that down and hurrying back to hide in his office. All in all, a good day.
When Peter found him again, a week later, he was engaged in a spirited debate with his stapler about whether he could get away with buying a gun in central London.
‘Ah, Martin, you’re still here, good. I need your assistance,’ said Peter.
‘Well I am your assistant, after all,’ said Martin.
‘What? Oh! Very clever wordplay there, Martin. I like it.’
Martin stared at him. He was not paid enough for this.
‘Anyway, I’ve decided I need to send Elias a gift, to make sure he knows he’s appreciated.’ He held out his phone.
On the screen of his phone was a photograph. The photograph was a picture of a slightly distorted view of his computer screen, which was open to a webpage containing an edible arrangement. There were, as best Martin could see, heart-shaped pieces of melon. There were bits of pineapple in the shape of flowers. There were also some strawberries, some of which were even covered with chocolate, so it wasn’t a total loss. The price tag was, if Martin was reading it correctly, fifteen pounds and ninety-nine pence.
‘Do you think he’ll like it?’ asked Peter.
‘That looks… great.'
‘Fantastic,’ said Peter. ‘Please purchase it and take it to him.’
Martin suppressed a sigh. ‘Right. Yeah. Of course,’ he said. ‘Can you just send me the URL and I’ll do that?’
Peter blinked down at him. ‘What’s a URL?’
‘Um,’ said Martin.
‘You’ve got the photograph, Martin,’ said Peter, frowning, and waving his phone. ‘What more do you need?’
It only took seven hours to track down the particular edible arrangement Peter wanted him to buy. Despite that, Martin couldn't help but think that this was probably a more valuable use of his time than spending three days interviewing old women named Angela after being explicitly told to do so by Jon, only to be yelled at by Jon for spending three days interviewing old women named Angela. But at least Jon yelling at him had been hot. Peter disappearing into the fog didn’t even have that going for him.
Still, if Martin hadn’t already had his suspicions, this seven hours of his life would probably have been the moment where he’d started to wonder if the Extinction was actually a real threat.
‘I want a divorce,’ said Elias.
Martin considered first Elias, and then the edible arrangement that he’d been forced to carry on the tube. He’d got a lot of stares, right up until he’d slipped into the Lonely to hide from them.
‘I think he’s… trying?’ offered Martin. He really didn't want to go back to Peter with nothing more than divorce papers to sign. Even if they both deserved it.
Elias narrowed his eyes. ‘Oh please,’ he said. ‘A ten pound gift basket-’
‘Fifteen ninety-nine actually,’ said Martin. ‘Plus delivery. Plus my Oyster fare.’
‘That man owns a shipping conglomerate, and is a slumlord many times over,’ huffed Elias. ‘The least he could do is pay for a singing telegram.’ He then narrowed his eyes at Martin in suspicion.
‘Nope,’ said Martin with some urgency.
‘Good,’ said Elias firmly.
‘I mean, it’s quite… hard to be romantic. In the Lonely.’ Martin winced, wishing this was all a bit less true.
Elias sniffed, irritated. ‘It didn’t used to be like this,’ he said. ‘He used to be all about the big, grand gestures. He once delivered no less than thirty victims - I mean, prospective Institute employees - right to my doorstep.’
‘Wow,’ said Martin, hoping he sounded suitably impressed rather than extremely nauseous. ‘I mean, if it helps, he’s forcing me to visit you in jail. That’s torturing someone.’
Elias tilted his head slightly. ‘I suppose that is a little romantic,’ he conceded. ‘But it’s very low effort compared to the Peter of old.’
‘He said what?’ demanded Peter.
Martin shut his eyes. He wondered if this was it, if he was finally about to die. He probably should be more worried. Mostly he was thinking about the fact that being thrown into the Lonely over failing to prevent a divorce was a rubbish reason to be offed by an Eldritch power.
‘What did you say?’ complained Peter.
Martin risked opening one eye minutely. There was a definite sulkiness to Peter’s tone.
‘Um,’ he said. ‘I… did my best?’
He actually had. That was the worst of it.
Peter made a grumbling noise under his breath. ‘I suppose you probably did,’ he conceded. ‘It’s not really your fault, Martin.’
Martin let out a breath, and opened his second eye.
‘After all,’ continued Peter, ‘I know romantic endeavours are hardly your speciality.’
Martin scowled. ‘Wait- hang on- I'm not- That's-’
Peter fixed an eye on him genially. ‘Of the two of us, who is actually married to a servant of the Ceaseless Watcher, Martin?’ he said, paternally.
Martin opened his mouth.
Martin closed his mouth.
‘Exactly,’ said Peter. ‘Now listen, between you and me, Martin, I think you make yourself a little too available to your romantic prospects. You need to play a bit more “hard to get”, as I believe the phrase goes. Have you considered vanishing into the Forsaken for ten or more years? That does wonders in invigorating a relationship, I always find.’
Martin made a noise that he hoped came across as interested agreement rather than strangled fury.
‘Now, if you’ll excuse me,’ continued Peter, ‘I need to think about my next steps.’
Static rose, and Peter vanished.
Martin turned to his stapler. ‘Do you think blunt force trauma would do it?’ he asked.
The stapler did not respond.
‘No, I- yeah- probably would be a bit squeamish, you’re right,’ he said. ‘Rat poison in his tea? I mean, I could probably expense it and he wouldn’t notice.’
Silence continued.
‘Bit of a waste of good tea, though,’ continued Martin. He reached for another statement.
‘I’ve got it,’ said Peter, appearing out of nowhere in a sudden buzz of static.
‘Argh!’ Martin yelped, and nearly dropped his tea. ‘Right, um, yes, hi… Peter. How are you?’
‘We’re going to romance Elias.’
‘Um… who’s “we”?’ managed Martin.
‘What we need,’ said Peter, ‘is to write him some love poetry.’
‘I… don’t see how… “we” need to… do that,’ began Martin. ‘I think “we” established that I’m not very good at romance, remember? I’m very, very bad at romance. Can’t romance anyone. I basically am guaranteed to get you divorced.’
‘Come on, Martin,’ said Peter, frowning. ‘I know you do all of this fancy poetry stuff in your free time. You must already have something dedicated to an eyeball monster I can use.’
‘This- this might come as a surprise to you, Peter,’ said Martin, his voice coming out extremely high-pitched, ‘but the whole eyeball monster thing isn’t actually part of the appeal, you know, for me.’
Peter looked rather taken aback. ‘Isn’t it?’ he said. He wrinkled his nose. ‘What on Earth is then?’
‘We are not having this conversation,’ said Martin. ‘We are not having this conversation. We are not having this conversation.’ At some point he had started rocking backwards and forwards slightly.
‘Really, Martin, you’re being extremely melodramatic,’ said Peter, sounding disappointed. ‘Do calm down, I need you to write me a love poem and take it to Elias.’
‘There was an old man with a boat,
And all he knew was to keep it afloat,
But to his great surprise,
He met a man filled with eyes,
And now all he knew was to dote.’
Elias regarded Martin with an entirely straight face.
‘My goodness,’ he said at last. ‘How very moving.’
Martin watched him stonily.
‘Naturally, I’ll have to call off the divorce,’ said Elias.
‘Naturally,’ echoed Martin.
‘Really quite reminiscent of Keats at his best, I think,’ said Elias.
‘OK, you know what,’ said Martin, getting to his feet, ‘fuck y-’
He could definitely hear Elias snickering as the prison guards politely escorted him out.
‘I probably couldn’t chuck Peter in the Lonely myself, could I?’ he asked his stapler, that evening. ‘Not strong enough. Plus he’d get out.’ He puffed out a breath and twiddled a pen. ‘He’s always saying I’ve got the Eye and the Lonely, but what good is that? Am I meant to just look him to death? The Eye’s shit.’
The stapler was definitely judging him.
Part of being a good assistant, Martin had always felt, was making sure your boss ate actual food. He'd done it for Jon, and enjoyed it, especially when it meant going out to cafes together and awkwardly talking about everything and nothing. For Peter, it meant popping out to buy him a sandwich every now and again. Fortunately without any expectation of actual conversation.
A good assistant always got the right order, and picked it up on time.
A bad assistant - or a good one who was at the very end of his tether and who was feeling extremely petty - might make mistakes.
'So sorry, Peter,' he said breezily, pushing open Peter's office door to let himself in, 'must have got the sandwiches mixed up and given you mine by mistake, hope you don't dislike… peanut… butter…'
Peter Lukas was lying on his desk, face down, looking extremely dead, a half eaten sandwich in one hand.
'Oh…' said Martin. 'Oh… oh… fuck.' He raised his hands to his head. 'Elias, you- you- you- said he didn't like it! You didn't say he was allergic!'
Things began to move in rather a blur after that.
‘Martin!’
‘Oh,’ said Martin. He pulled at the hem of his prison uniform, suddenly self-conscious. They’d told him he had a visitor. They might have had the decency to tell him his visitor was Jon. He could have had a meltdown in his cell about his clothes and his hair looking terrible. ‘Um. Hi.’
He sat down opposite Jon and tried to work out what to do with his face. He wanted to smile. He wanted to cry. Jon looked great.
Well, no, that was a lie. Jon looked like a disaster who hadn’t slept in a week, but Martin was extremely into it.
‘Martin for Christ’s sake,’ said Jon, leaning forward over the table, ‘the next time you commit a murder, call me. I have a coffin to a fear dimension that I mostly use for filing, but I can definitely hide a body in there.’ He looked extremely earnest. It was very distracting.
'Erm,' said Martin eloquently, before his brain caught up with him. 'Wait, hang on, "next time"? "Murder"? It was an accident!'
Jon blinked owlishly at him. It was stupidly cute.
'Elias said Peter didn't like peanut butter!' huffed Martin. 'How was I supposed to know he meant "deathly allergic"?! I had an actual plan, you know. Sort of. I just wanted him to have a miserable lunch one day. Christ.'
'Well your browser history did come out in the trial,' pointed out Jon, unreasonably reasonably.
'Look, just because a man googles how to murder his boss, it doesn't have to mean anything. We all need hobbies.'
Jon looked like he was trying to suppress a smile. 'Very well, Martin,' he said, voice fond in a way that Martin didn't know what to do with, making Martin’s face feel very warm. 'Next time you commit manslaughter, call me, and we'll shove the body in the Buried and stop you taking the fall. '
'I'm really hoping there's not going to be a next time,' said Martin sulkily.
'There's still Elias,' pointed out Jon. He sounded a bit hopeful. Martin wasn't sure what to do with that.
'I guess… let me know if you get any of his allergies beamed into your brain,' he said. 'He and I are neighbours now, anyway.'
'Oh lord, yes,' said Jon. 'Has he been causing trouble?'
'No, actually,' said Martin. 'He's having a proper sulk. I'm starting to think he didn't want me to off his husband.'
'His what?'
'You heard me.'
'Good lord,' mumbled Jon.
Martin nodded. ‘Suppose it’s one way to get donations,’ he said, and was rewarded by a snort from Jon. Martin preened. At least some people could appreciate a mildly amusing joke. 'How's work?' he asked at last.
‘All right, actually,’ said Jon. ‘Without a boss the department heads have taken over. I was banned from talking to donors by popular vote on day two. Artefact Storage has burned every Leitner in our possession. The Archival Assistants are on strike. The Research team has split into factions. It’s, ah, a bit chaotic. But rather less miserable than it had been.’
‘Shame I’m missing it,’ said Martin, quirking his lips slightly.
‘Well, at least it’s only two years,’ said Jon.
‘Yeah, that’s, um, quite a low sentence given I, you know, got done for murder despite not actually deserving that,’ said Martin. ‘I don’t remember hiring a barrister, but that guy was pretty good. I don’t even think he’s sent a bill.’ Jon dropped his eyes and shifted on his chair, his cheeks darkening. ‘Jon?’
‘Is it my fault if the legal system is incredibly corrupt?’ huffed Jon. ‘Your judge was responsible for a hit-and-run last year. Your barrister agreed to work pro bono in exchange for my not mentioning to anyone certain transactions at his firm. The arresting officer has a cocaine problem.’
‘Jon-’
‘Unfortunately the prosecutor was squeaky clean and tried to have me arrested, but attempted supernatural blackmail doesn't leave much evidence, especially not when the police are all trying to cover up their own crimes.'
‘Well,’ said Martin. He felt his lip wobble, as something big and unwieldy inside of him tried to burst outwards and envelop them both. ‘Thanks.’
Jon was looking at his own hands. ‘Of course,’ he mumbled. He tugged the sleeve of his jumper in the silence for a moment, before he spoke again. ‘I brought you some things.’
Something in Martin’s stomach lept.
Keep it together, he told himself.
‘Oh?’ he said, in a totally normal and not-at-all high-pitched tone of voice.
What Jon extracted was a few cardboard files, however. ‘Seeing as how you’re probably still tethered to the Institute, I thought I’d better bring you some statements, in case you get sick,’ he said.
Martin’s stomach sank.
‘Great,’ he said. ‘That’s… great, Jon. Thanks. Looking forward to it.’
Jon, however, had stuck his hand back in his bag, and pulled out a flat envelope. ‘I also got everyone to sign a card.’
Martin blinked. ‘You did what, sorry?’
Jon shifted again. ‘Well I wasn’t really- I just thought Daisy, Basira and Melanie might like to, but then so did everyone else. He wasn’t exactly the most popular boss.’
Nonplussed, Martin reached out to accept the bright red envelope and slit it open. The front of the card read “We miss you!” which was a nice sentiment. The inside of the card was filled with dozens of notes from what looked like everyone in the Institute, saying things like “Nice one, Martin!”, “Took one for the team, buddy!” and “F@%# THAT GUY, KILL HIM TWICE”.
‘I… realised a bit too late I perhaps should have vetted the messages,’ said Jon, whose own message very appropriately read, “To Martin, I hope you’re keeping well, Jon xxx”.
Martin told himself he wasn’t going to fixate on the “xxx”. Except everyone knew that three “x”s meant more than one “x”, didn’t they? Surely even Jon knew that? One “x” was for everyday messages. Three “x”s were only for communicating something much more meaningful. There was no way that hadn’t been on purpose… wasn’t there?
Not that Martin was going to fixate, as he’d decided.
Plus his eyes were going a bit wet, reading the whole thing. He hadn’t really thought he’d be missed at all, actually.
‘Thanks, Jon,’ he said, meaning it this time. Jon was either polite enough, or awkward enough, not to mention the way Martin's voice was wobbling.
‘Oh, and, um, one last thing,’ said Jon, reaching back into his bag to pull out-
‘That’s not shortbread, is it?’ said Martin, mouth speaking before his brain could stop it, as he took in the biscuit tin Jon was holding.
Jon’s forehead creased. ‘No, I’m afraid not,’ he said. ‘Do you… want shortbread?’
‘No! God no. Definitely not.’
‘Well… good?’ said Jon, looking quite reasonably confused. ‘I, um, made you some brownies.’
Martin blinked. ‘You… what?’ His voice came out embarrassingly squeaky.
‘They might not be very good,’ said Jon in a rush. ‘They look a bit dense in the middle. I was using Mary Berry’s secret recipe - the one she doesn’t tell the BBC - but I’m not actually that good at baking yet, and- oh god please don’t cry Martin, you don’t have to eat the brownies, I’m sorry.’
‘I’m fine,’ said Martin automatically. Jon’s hand almost patted his in a helpless, flapping way, not quite daring to touch.
‘Sorry,’ said Jon again.
‘No, um, it’s good. I just- didn’t expect-’ Martin sniffed and wiped his eyes. ‘Sorry. Thank you.’ He wiped his eyes again and gave Jon a watery smile. Jon smiled back, and it was lovely.
‘Look, I know it’s- well, it’s really not much, Martin,’ he said. ‘Is there anything else I can get for you?’
‘Oh, no, I don’t expect- it’s fine,’ said Martin. ‘Honestly, I’m doing all right.’ He gave an attempt at a little laugh. ‘I don’t think you can do much about the springs in my mattress from out there.’
Jon pulled out a notebook and pen from his bag and wrote down New mattress at the top of a fresh page.
‘Er… Jon?’
‘I’m visiting the warden now,’ said Jon, almost brightly. ‘He also has a few secrets. How do you think Elias gets so much special treatment? Is there anything else?’
Martin stared at Jon for a few seconds. This felt faintly unethical. But then, so did feeding a man a peanut butter sandwich and sending him to an early grave, so he probably shouldn't judge.
‘The food’s a bit rubbish,’ he said at last. ‘Elias definitely gets his own catering service - I never see him at dinner.’
Jon nodded and made a note. Martin tried not to feel too warmed by it.
‘Jon, I-’ He broke off and swallowed and suddenly found himself the focus of Jon’s gaze again, which was always a bit unnerving. He shut his eyes and forced himself to be brave. ‘Will you visit… again?’
‘Oh,’ said Jon, just the faintest exhale of air. Martin risked a glance to see Jon giving him an extremely wobbly smile. ‘If- if you like, of course. I wasn’t sure if you’d- But yes. Yes I will.’
‘Right,’ said Martin. He swallowed and tried not to cry again. ‘Cool.’
‘Do you have any dietary requirements I should know about?’ asked Jon abruptly.
‘Erm. No? Why?’
‘I was going to try a Victoria sponge next,’ said Jon. ‘Unless you have any requests?’
‘No, that’s- that’s fine?’ said Martin.
‘Good,’ said Jon. ‘Now I’m afraid I do need to go and blackmail the warden before his shift finishes. I’ll be able to stay for a bit longer tomorrow, although I might arrive later as the cake’ll need time to cool. If you think of anything you want me to buy or bring for you, let me know then.’
‘Thanks?’ said Martin. He was still feeling a bit confused by this whole interaction. He was pretty sure he and Jon had left off at “awkward friends with some unrequited love going on” and then he’d moped around a lot when Jon had died, and then he’d repeatedly told Jon to shove off. He wasn’t sure how they’d got from there to Jon bringing him baked goods, possibly on a daily basis.
Then Jon reached across the table extremely slowly and put one hand on top of Martin’s for about half a second. It was still enough for Martin’s brain to short-circuit.
‘Hi?’ he squeaked.
‘See you tomorrow, Martin,’ said Jon, in that extremely soft voice of his again, as he stood up. ‘Look after yourself.’
It took… some time before Martin recovered enough to collect his card and reach for his tin of brownies. The prison guards were keeping a weirdly respectful distance, so possibly Jon’s campaign of blackmail had already begun.
Opening the tin, he realised he had about forty brownies to eat in the next twenty-four hours.
‘Jesus Christ, Jon,’ he mumbled.
He was, he reflected, about to become the most popular bloke on his cellblock. And he was not going to be sharing with Elias. Maybe getting done for murder wouldn't turn out to be quite so bad, after all.