Chapter Text
Martin had always liked the idea of soulmates, and he very much hoped he didn’t have one, or at least he’d never meet his..
The whole concept was very romantic, of course—sharing the injuries and pain and scars of your loved one, bearing the burden of life and pain together. Martin still remembered when his parents laughed and traced delicate fingers over the scar they shared on their arm. And he still remembered the day all the dirty laundry was spilled out in the open, when his mother sliced her palm cutting onions and his father’s skin only showed a faint white scratch.
His mother lectured him on soulmates constantly after that. It wasn’t worth it, she said, to love someone so deeply that you could literally feel their pain. She groused about how she hadn’t had a choice, how her skin had stung when she’d met his father, how from that day forward she had to share every paper cut and bruise. It was a great burden, Martin learned, to love and be loved. Love was literally pain, his mother taught.
Martin loved reading romance novels that unrealistically framed soulmates as perfect, but floundered when he thought about actually having one for himself. Martin practiced walking carefully just in case—if he met his soulmate, how would the man forgive him if he left bruises and cuts all over their bodies? Every time he met eyes with a man, he drove himself into hysterics over the slightest itch on his skin. Several times, he thought he actually felt that burn his mother had described. He hoped he’d never know what it feels like. According to a few articles he found, it could feel different for everyone.
As it turned out, he didn’t even know when he and his soulmate locked eyes.
He’d seen Jonathan Sims around, of course, when he started working at the Archives. He knew Jon was newer to the research department, and already one of Elias’s favorites. That was fine by Martin—the less attention Elias paid to him, the better. It was quite surprising when he got assigned to the Archives after Jon’s promotion. Martin might have been jealous that Jon was promoted after four years, if it weren’t for the fact his own ten years were built on a lie. Jon obviously thought he was incompetent, and not even for any of the reasons Martin was actually unqualified. He was just snippy and bitter, and Martin didn’t like him very much. He felt uncomfortably seen around Jon, as Jon’s eyes never slid over him—they landed on him with contempt, then skidded away as if he wasn’t worth looking at. And yes, Jon’s eyes were very pretty, and his hands were delicately beautiful, but that didn’t make up for the way Jon clearly couldn’t stand Martin. Martin tried to ameliorate it with hard work and occasional plates of cookies in the break room, to no avail.
And then Martin got a papercut.
Martin was typing in a followup to one of the more obviously fake statements when he felt a sharp pain in his finger. He muttered an “ow” and looked down at his left ring fingertip, which was bearing a very shallow yet obvious papercut. Martin didn’t have any paper within arm’s reach.
“Damn,” Jon swore as he walked out of his office.
He stormed over to the tiny first aid kit on the wall and rummaged for a bandage. Martin could only stare as Jon wrapped it around his left ring fingertip.
Jon returned to his office, and Martin just gazed, uncomprehending, at his screen. It was a coincidence, it had to be. There was no way his asshole boss was his soulmate. Yes, Jon was mildly attractive in the way Martin liked, but he’d been nothing but a jerk since Martin had started working under him.
Jon’s finger bled far more than Martin’s. It was a coincidence.
It was not a coincidence.
Jon was not clumsy, per se, but he seemed very annoyed at the fact that he was forced to inhabit a physical form he had no idea how to deal with. The amount of bruises he accumulated from furniture put a brazen middle finger to his short stature, and the statements cut his fingers like he owed them money. Fortunately, Martin seemed to experience those injuries at a smaller scale, but it was still annoying to hear a thud from the next room just as his leg started to throb. Martin was thankfully very careful, so Jon was none the wiser. Martin shuddered to think what Jon would do or think if he found out.
Martin always waited for an innocuous amount of time before knocking on Jon’s door and innocently asking if he needed an ice pack or a bandaid. Left to his own devices, Jon would only treat any wound that was actively bleeding over his papers, and that meant they were slow to heal, which meant Martin had to keep dealing with them. Several times, he almost snapped at Jon to be more careful, as he wasn’t the only one whose skin was suffering. Martin always held his tongue, though. Jon would throw a fit.
Jane Prentiss didn’t hurt Martin. Which was a relief. Martin had no idea how he’d explain any sudden holes on Jon’s skin. Maybe he didn’t have to worry about it. After all, he probably wasn’t making it out of this flat alive, so if Jon did receive any soul marks, they’d be gone pretty fast.
Martin lay awake on the cot in document storage. There were no writhing worms, and his thoughts were for once not consumed by fear. Instead, he thought about Jon. He’d expected to be laughed out of the office, but Jon had believed him and offered him a cot. Not just any cot—Jon’s cot.
He remembered the little downward quirk of Jon’s mouth, the way his eyebrows had raised slightly when Martin mentioned Prentiss. He was actually invested. Actually afraid and worried for Martin. Martin had stared at Jon for a few seconds too long after that, cataloging the gentle concern in his deep mahogany eyes, the ways his long and delicate fingers twisted nervously, the adorable way his lips pursed.
Martin curled up on his cot and clutched the thin blanket in his hands. Jon had gotten another papercut that evening, and Martin had bled, slow and pulsing and inevitable. The kind of tentative blood that indicated something blooming, something ill-advised, something that could be crushed before it had time to take root.
He decided to start carrying around a first aid kit.
Elias had found out. Martin knew it. Why else would he have been called to the boss’s office for the first time since he’d been hired? This was about the fake resume. He’d get a firm dressing down for lying to everyone for 10 years, then be unceremoniously kicked out, forced into the long process of finding a new job. The home would kick his mother out if he couldn’t pay. She’d die without care. He had to keep his job. He resolved to beg if he had to, to convince Elias to keep him on as a janitor. He should have told Jon—no, he shouldn’t have, Jon would push for Martin to get transferred, alleging it was “unprofessional” for soulmates to work together when he was really just glad to get Martin out of the office.
The door opened, and Elias’s previous meeting exited, an old man with a cane and a twinkle in his eye.
“Come in, Martin,” Elias called. Martin obeyed, shuffling in and shutting the door behind him. He really didn’t want the others to see this.
“Apologies for the wait,” Elias smiled pleasantly. “That funding dispute took a little longer than expected.” He gestured to the chair on the other side of the desk. “Sit.”
Martin sat, trembling and silent.
“So,” Elias continued, “Martin, you’ve been with us for...about ten years, right?”
Martin swallowed. “Y-yes.”
“And in that time, Archival Assistant is the highest position you’ve received, correct?”
Martin nodded.
Elias smiled. “I think that’s a bit unfair, don’t you?”
Martin winced. Here came the lecture, when Elias put on a stern, detached, disappointed tone and told Martin all about how it wasn’t fair to let some liar and fraud take positions away from people who were actually smart and qualified, and Martin would nod and pretend to be deeply ashamed and walk out, not saying goodbye to his coworkers as he left for good.
“I mean,” Elias said, “Tim, Jon, and Sasha haven’t been here half as long as you. You’ve done consistently good work, and you’ve had some previous experience working with the Archives. I think a promotion is in order.”
Martin blinked. “W-what?” he spluttered.
“You’ll still be working under Jon, of course,” Elias went on, “and your responsibilities won’t change much, though I was hoping you would help him with his little audio project. I’ve got a full job description right here.” He handed a sheaf of paper to Martin, who could only stare blankly at it. “The position comes with a bit more responsibility, but better pay and the title of Archivist. Should you choose to accept it, of course.”
“Yes!” Martin said immediately. “Yes, of course I accept it!” He leapt to his feet and shook Elias’s hand. “Thank you very much, sir.”
As he exited the office, Martin couldn’t stop grinning. Despite his total lack of qualification, he’d done well enough to be an Archivist! Not on the merit of his resume, but on his merit! And the pay was better! His smile faltered a little as he thought of the others, though. Tim and Sasha would act happy for him but be jokingly (maybe not so jokingly) jealous, and Jon...well. Martin was confident that Jon wouldn’t let him touch the tape recorder with a ten foot pole. And Martin of all people being promoted? Jon had softened since Martin had started sleeping in the Archives, but he still wouldn’t be happy.
He dragged his feet a bit on his way down to the Archives. Maybe he just shouldn’t tell them? No, that wouldn’t work.
“What was that all about?” Tim asked as Martin stepped into the Archives.
“I, um.” Martin’s tongue was dry. He held up the paper. “I got a promotion. To Archivist.”
Tim’s eyes widened. “A promotion! That’s great!”
“Martin got a promotion?” Sasha emerged from behind one of the shelves. “Martin, that’s excellent! You deserve it.”
‘O-oh? You think so?”
“Of course!” Sasha walked over to clap him on the back. “You’ve been here longer than any of us, and you’re great at your job.”
“Not sure I’ll be great at this one, though,” Martin sighed, reading over the job description. “I’ve got no background in library science.”
“Neither does Jon,” Tim pointed out. “Hey, we should celebrate. Drinks on me tonight.”
“Okay,” Martin agreed. “Should we—should we invite Jon? I should at least tell him, right?”
As if on cue, Jon emerged from his office.
“What’s the racket out here?” he demanded. “You’re paid to work, not stand around and gossip.” He glanced around shrewdly. “There better not be another dog.”
“Jon! Hey!” Martin greeted, internally wincing at how high his voice got. “Um. There’s something you should know.” He held up the paper, no longer able to hide his grin. “I got promoted! I’m an archivist now. So, if you need, ah, help with the recording, or, all that, you know what, I’ll just email you the job description. I’ll still be able to help you with research, and anyway, we’re going out to celebrate tonight, do you want to come?”
Jon raised his eyebrows and gave Martin a long, considering look.
“Congratulations, I suppose,” he finally said. “I’ll...I’ll come to your little celebration.”
Martin beamed, and he was fully aware he was beaming far too much. “Great! Great.”
He practically skipped his way to the pub with an enthusiastic Tim and Sasha and a grumpy Jon. Maybe this wouldn’t go so bad after all.
Martin couldn’t help his giggle as he walked into the break room. Jon’s hair was sticking up in a frazzled halo, and he was staring at the microwave as if gazing into the void. His button-up was rumpled—he’d probably slept in it.
“What’re you making?” Martin asked.
Jon yelped and whirled around, his hand banging against the the table. Martin winced.
“M-Martin! I didn’t know you were, ah.”
“I basically live here now, Jon. Remember?”
Jon made a little “humph” noise and turned back to the microwave. “It’s morning tea, if you must know.”
“In the microwave?” Martin demanded.
He shook his head disapprovingly, but couldn’t hide his fond grin. Jon was exactly the sort of person to make tea in a microwave. It really wasn’t fair how warm Martin felt in his stomach.
“It’s just fine, thank you,” Jon said waspishly as he removed the tea. He glared at Martin as he took a sip, and Martin’s tongue burned with heat and bitterness. Jon immediately made a face that he tried to hide.
“Jon,” Martin said. “Is it terrible.”
Jon gave him a tight-lipped smile and took another sip. He grimaced, then quickly erased that grimace from his face as if Martin wouldn’t notice. As if Martin didn’t know it was bitter. “It’s fine. I made it just fine.”
“Jon.” Martin could barely suppress a giggle. “Would you like me to make you another cup?”
Jon’s expression was overtaken by relief as he poured his tepid tea out into the sink. “If you wouldn’t mind.”
“Have you had breakfast?” Martin asked as he fired up the hotplate teakettle. Jon hovered awkwardly over his shoulder, clearly unwilling to give up control of the process.
“So,” Jon said, “I had a few statements I was hoping you could help me record.”
“Jon. Have you had breakfast.”
“No,” Jon muttered.
“There’s some cereal in the cupboard. Get yourself some.”
“I’m fine.”
“Get yourself some breakfast or no tea,” Martin threatened.
“I’ll make my own.”
Martin looked Jon in the eye and switched off the teakettle.
“Okay, okay, I’m getting some cereal,” Jon grumbled.
“There you go!” Martin sang. “I don’t think I want to know what your eating schedule looked like before I started living here.”
Jon grumbled something indistinct. Martin watched him fondly as he unsuccessfully reached for the top cabinet that contained the cereal. He could almost pretend that they were living together. Like real soulmates.
Jon scrambled up onto the counter.
“Need some help?” Martin snickered. “You, ah, can’t quite reach that.”
“I. Am. Fine. Thank. You.”
Jon punctuated his comment by grabbing the cabinet door, causing it to slam open into his face and knock him off the counter like a vaudeville character. Martin made a little “oof” as Jon crashed to the floor and Martin felt every knock and bruise. His leg didn’t feel quite right, and he almost stumbled as he rushed to Jon’s side.
“Ow,” Jon muttered as he pushed himself to his feet.
“Are you all right?”
“I’m fine! Stop asking!” Jon snapped. “You don’t need to fawn over me like an overprotective mother hen.”
Martin took a painful step back. “Oh. S-sorry. I’ll just, ah.”
He reached into the top cabinet and set a box of cereal down on the counter. He immediately regretted it as Jon met him with a seething, steaming glare. Martin’s stomach dropped.
“I’ll, um. I’ll get started on my work.”
He turned tail and power-walked out of the room. He bit down on his lip as he scurried back to the Archives to record some statements—an endeavor he was trying very hard to get used to. Jon still didn’t trust him with something so simple as a tape recorder, or even finding another way to record those glitchy statements.
Martin was glad that he was careful not to get injured. He didn’t think he could take it if he got some sort of noticeable cut or bruise, only to see Jon unbothered and unblemished.
“I can’t watch this,” Martin groaned.
He rushed behind a rickety filing shelf just as Sasha plunged the corkscrew into Jon’s calf, and bit down on his hand to muffle his whimper as he felt the metal burrow into his own leg. It was slow, too slow, as Sasha carefully dug for the worm. The sharp point probed at his flesh, and Jon cried out in pain. Martin had no such luxury. Tears welled up in Martin’s eyes, and he couldn’t tell if they were from hearing Jon’s agony or feeling his own. His teeth dug into his palm. He hoped Jon wouldn’t notice. He slid to the floor and pressed one hand down on the burning wound in his calf as blood percolated through the fabric of his jeans, while his free hand fumbled for some gauze. His portable first aid kit was hopelessly inadequate, but he managed to stop the bleeding. Hopefully the others wouldn’t notice. Fortunately, he wasn’t so far gone that the wound went as deep as Jon’s.
Martin gritted his teeth and tried not to limp as he returned to the others. His jeans were dark, but they’d still see the bloodstain if they looked.
“Finished being sick?” Jon snapped. His face was flushed and his eyes were rimmed with red.
Martin scowled at him. He didn’t have time for this, not when both of them were bleeding and probably about to die. Jon gave him a look that, to Martin’s optimistic imagination, seemed almost apologetic. For a moment, Martin was angry at Jon for causing all this pain, for being such a dick that Martin had to hide his bleeding. Then Martin just felt incredibly guilty. None of this was Jon’s fault. Martin just had to grin and bear it.
He just had to keep running. Martin panted as he tried to retrace his steps back to the Institute and Jon and Tim. He skidded to a stop as he heard the writhing of worms around the corner, cursed, and turned back around.
He felt a little jolt against his side—presumably Jon had crashed into something. He rushed into a room and slammed the door behind him, then slid to the floor and pulled his knees to his chest.
He couldn’t help Jon and Tim. He couldn’t get back to the Institute. He dug his fingers into his legs and sniffled. The room was dark, and Martin could pretend he was somewhere else.
Martin yelped in shock, a gasp torn from his throat as the first hole appeared in his skin, then screamed in pain as writhing and wriggling mouths tore through him, digging into his flesh, invading him, sending jolts through his muscles. Martin spasmed to his feet and clutched as the doorknob as blood started trickling down his back. Was the darkness from the lack of light or his slipping consciousness?
He stumbled out into the hallway and immediately fell to the floor. The dirt burned like fire against the bleeding holes in his hands. The scream of a million voices echoed down the tunnel. Prentiss. The Institute. He had to make his way back.
He left streaks of blood on the dust behind him, and collapsed into blessed unconsciousness before he even figured out which direction the ladder to the trapdoor was.
“Do you need help?” Jon asked.
“N-no, no, I’m fine,” Martin told him, awkwardly lowering himself into his chair and leaning the crutches against his desk. “Thank you. But I’m fine. Really.” He winced as he picked up his files with bandaged hands.
Jon sighed. Martin had apologized profusely for leaving Jon and Tim behind, which didn’t feel fair at all, because Martin had it the worst out of all of them.
“Do you want tea?” Jon offered. “I could make tea.”
Martin hadn’t been making much tea lately—he tried on good days, but getting to the break room required climbing a flight of stairs. Jon couldn’t imagine the pain he was in—he’d received the same sort of injuries as Jon, but instead of passing out immediately, had apparently walked on his injuries for a significant amount of time trying to get out of the tunnels. Jon had tried to convince him to take more time off, as Martin’s work as an Archivist would suffer if he took a long time to recover, but he’d refused.
Martin offered back a weak smile. “No offense, Jon, but I’m not taking tea from someone who makes it in the microwave.”
“There’s no difference,” Jon huffed. “I’ll be in my office.”
He shut the door behind him with perhaps a bit more vehemence than necessary. His scabs were starting to fall off, and everything itched from his bandages to his dermis. And Tim and Martin held the same marks, an eternal reminder of the worst day of Jon’s life.