Chapter Text
“Even when I look away I am still looking.” - Richard Siken, from Portrait of Fryderyk in Shifting Light
The first thing Jonathan Sims did after their quarantine ended was buy a pack of cigarettes.
He felt weird. Weird was a bad word for it, an unsatisfactory word, but it was the one that came to mind. He had a kind of buzzing under his skin, a nervousness in his gut that wasn’t quite anxiety. And a cigarette would help.
It did, a little bit. He felt more settled, a little less - jumpy, he supposed. He hadn’t counted on how loud the world would be, after so long in the Archives. The loudest thing there was usually Tim, and even he’d been quiet, since Prentiss.
He ended up getting a cab, with a frustratingly chatty driver, who he gave far too large a tip because he couldn’t be bothered waiting for his change. When he got to his front door he panicked, thinking he’d left his keys at work. The thought of having to go all the way back, or find a hotel, or make his landlord open the door for him, made him want to cry. He was so tired and everything was so loud - and then he slipped his hand into the inside pocket of his jacket, and remembered Martin saying: Got everything? Did you check your desk?
His flat was quiet and dark, and empty, blissfully. It smelled musty, from the dust and from not having the windows opened for far too long. He didn’t want to think about the state of the milk in his fridge.
He lit another cigarette, found a bowl to tap the ash into - he’d gotten rid of all his proper ashtrays, the first time he quit - and forced himself to drink a glass of water. He thought, distantly, that he should take some more painkillers - he needed to, if he ever intended to sleep. But he also knew that they made him tired, and fuzzy, that they seemed to knock his ability to stand or read or focus his eyes out of him. And there was still that itch under his skin, saying Go back, go back, go back.
Making his way through to the living room, he tripped on the slightly-loose linoleum in the kitchen and landed, hard, on his knee. The pain seemed to bleed through him slowly - not the same small, biting pains the worms had left him, but big and slow. It made him feel a bit more like a person again, for some reason.
He thought, I’ll just stay here for a while. He’d get up again, eventually. He thought about what Martin would’ve said, if he’d seen Jon take a fall like that. He’d probably have made some sympathetic noise, and then said, Hey, you alright? That was what Jon wanted him to say, at least. He didn’t want anyone else to say it to him, he realised - just Martin. Martin’s warm hands, and his warm voice, and his warm eyes, and his ability to care without pitying.
It’s the meds, Jon thought, they make me weird. He tried to move, and pain blazed up his leg into his hip - that was the worms. Some of them had gotten into his hands, some into his chest and the skin around his collar bones, but most of them had stayed around his hips and his legs. He looked like the ugliest connect-the-dots on the planet, he thought, and then laughed, grimacing slightly.
He felt like crying, but… he’d never been any good at that. He’d feel better, afterward, he knew, but the tears wouldn’t come. Just that itch to get back to work, slightly dulled by the cigarettes and the pain. He managed to make himself sit up, and rested his head against the doorframe.
At least he was home, he thought, but that didn’t really mean anything. This place had never felt particularly welcoming - he’d never tried to make it feel welcoming. His office was the homiest place he could think of; Sasha had stuck a picture of them all at the Christmas do to his computer, with blu-tack, and he’d never bothered to move it. All the slightly-chewed ballpoint pens in his desk were actually Tim’s, stolen in cold blood. And the tea Martin would bring him, always in the yellow, Winnie-the-Pooh mug, always balanced just in his eye line.
He didn’t know why Martin always brought it in that mug. He was pretty sure it actually belonged to Sasha, or had done, once. It certainly wasn’t his favourite - he didn’t even know if he had a favourite, actually. Maybe it was Martin’s favourite, he thought. Maybe Martin was the kind of person to give away his favourite mug, for a small, everyday kindness.
He was overthinking it, Jon knew. He had a tendency to do that. But when he’d woken up, after the paramedics had arrived, it was Martin who’d spoken to him first, who’d told him to stay calm. His attention had clearly been split between Jon and Tim, and he’d had a soothing hand on Tim’s shoulder. Jon had felt so relieved, that they were all alright, or that none of them were dead, at least, and then the pain had hit him.
He thought about how warm and solid Martin had been, that night he’d found Jon panicking in the office. The way he’d very gently unfurled Jon’s hands from the tight fists he’d made of them, the way his thumb had just barely brushed over the palm of Jon’s hand, his firm, kind voice saying She’s dead, Jon. She’s dead. Say it. She’s dead, she’s dead -
He’d never thanked Martin, for taking care of him. Taking care of all of them. That was supposed to be his job - he was the boss. He was supposed to take care of them, to know what to do, to… to figure it out. Not to rely on anyone, because he was supposed to be relied on.
He dragged himself up, and threw himself down on the sofa, too hard, the injuries on his chest and shoulders twinging. He’d suffer through the pain. He needed his head to be clear, if he was going to unravel this mystery. He’d solve it, he’d fix it. It was what he was supposed to do. He lit another cigarette, and thought, it’s my job. I’ll figure it out.