Chapter Text
The tape clicks off, and the absence of the recorder’s whirring fills the room. It is odd how this little outdated piece of technology marks the difference between important and trivial, official and informal, fake ghost stories and real encounters.
Jon stares down at it, but doesn’t really see.
He'd been vaguely aware that at some point, they'd have to deal with Prentiss, if only because no one else seemed to be taking the threat seriously.
But he had hoped that the actual involvement of the Magnus Institute would be confined to a phone call to the ECDC, maybe get Elias to pull some strings to make sure they are prepared. He hadn't expected him or his staff to get directly involved.
"Jon?"
Jon focuses back on Martin, who is just sitting there looking embarrassed, exhausted, and somewhat grimey.
"Right. I'll show you where you can sleep before I talk to Elias."
The storage room is right of the big open entry space into the archives, where the assistants have managed to unearth three desks out from their burial mounds under piles and piles of lose statements, random notes, and overdue library books.
Jon prefers to keep the door locked, to prevent spillover from what he has come to think of as 'the big mess'. If they can't keep that contained, they might as well not bother.
It's not a small room, but it is narrow, almost more of a corridor, and the utilitarian metal shelves that line the walls aren’t exactly inviting. They are stuffed with boxes and lose files, except for the bottom rows.The filing system of a person to frail and withered to bend down for documents all the time. Also the filing system of a person with no regard for any form of coherency.
None of the boxes are labeled, and if there is a system behind the coloured tape on the back of some, but not all, of the files, Jon hasn’t decrypted it yet. He needs to hone his skill first, maybe tackle the Voynich manuscript as a warm up.
Martin stops in the doorway, stares at the rows and rows of files with a mix of awe and horror. “Woah. Have we looked into these at all? Are they important?”
“Wouldn’t be surprised,” Jon sighs, as he pulls the camping bed from its nook between shelves.
“But they are even more eclectic than in the offices, which I wouldn't have thought possible. I want to get a filing system established before we start moving them, which is why I keep the door locked, so please do not touch anything.”
The guilty silence tells him that yes, Martin of course was about to just pull out files and start browsing.
The cot is surprisingly comfy, and Jon suspects that Gertrude Robinson brought it in here for mid day naps. It certainly would explain her lack of productivity.
He snaps the safety latches into place with more force than necessary and gives the bed a shake for good measure.
His frustration isn't just at the prospect at having to either home every night, or sleep at his desk again. Or due to another person encountering Prentiss, and of all the people in London, it had to be Martin.
And Martin really went above and beyond to bring this on himself.
Jon pulls the pillow and blanket out of the empty casefile box where he, not hides, he’s got nothing to hide, stores them, throws them on the bed, and stuffs the small digital alarm clock he brought in case his phone ever died on him between some files.
It's not like Jon ordered Martin to go to Vittery's house after all. He can hardly be held responsible for what his assistants get up to in their spare time.
"The alarm is off," he says, mostly to drown out the sound of his conscience, which is playing 'proof for you' on repeat.
"But if you want to set it, the manual is in the box, and there's-"
"Jon," Martin interrupts and when Jon faces him he's just sitting on the bed, head in hands.
"Thank you, really, but I'm just so, so done. I just want to sleep. I'll figure all the other stuff out later. When I can actually think."
He looks l tired, like - exactly like he hasn't slept for two weeks.
Jon is used to being the most tired person in the room at any given point, and seeing the normally aggressively cheerful man looking exhausted feels off. Like the wrong puzzle piece has been crammed into place by force.
"Right, sorry. I'll leave you to it."
Martin just nods and slides down on the bed, and Jon makes his way to the door, but pauses and turns, with his hand on the handle.
"I'm -" he starts, but Martin is already out cold. Jon leaves the lights on, and closes the door behind him as quietly as he can. He gives himself five seconds of leaning against the door and breathing deeply.
Right. Action.
First of all, call Sasha and Tim. Warn them about the worms, ask if they can come in on a Saturday, while also keeping them from bothering Martin for the next eight to twelve hours.
Call the ECDC, don't mention that he's from the Magnus Institute, or they won't take him seriously.
Inform Elias of the situation, if possible without admitting to using the camping bed before. What Elias doesn't know can't be written up as technically trespassing.
Stock up on microwave meals and tea for the break room. Stock up on fruit for the break room, because Jon has done the instant ramen diet, but Martin is what, in his mid thirties? If he keeps eating like that he'll probably die of utterly mundane causes.
Get a proper sleepover kit ready, although he should outsource that to Tim. Tim goes hiking, he'd know what to bring.
Just keep busy, keep moving, get things done, and maybe at some point the guilt will stop.
Not that he has anything to feel guilty about.
*
For a good five seconds after waking up, Martin is sure that he's having a nightmare.
The Files are surrounding him, crowding every corner of the room, mocking him with their incomprehensible numbering system, and odd academic abbreviations he’ll have to google as covertly as possible.
His eyes land on the alarm clock, which, if he really was having a nightmare would have woken him up with the sound of worms hammering on his door.
Instead it just quietly informs him that he’s slept for a good sixteen hours, through all of Saturday and a good chunk of Sunday.
Quick worm check, all clear.
He is feeling a lot more coherent than he has in the last two weeks. Sure, he’s been wearing the same clothes for a week, and he’s sore from running all the way to the institute, but- Christ, did he really do that? The power of sleep deprivation and blood curdling terror is truly amazing.
His statement is probably a jumbled mess, but if it was convincing enough for Jonathan ‘People die from suffocating on spiderwebs all the time’ Sims, then he must have expressed something right. Unless letting him sleep in the Archives was just a ploy so Jon could call security to remove the raving madman. But that would have taken less than sixteen hours. Which means, for the moment, he’s probably safe.
Still, Martin approaches the door slowly, and peers through the small window.
No worms, no security, no police. Just the usual mess of filing cabinets, cardboard boxes, cluttered desks, and… Tim and Sasha in front of the white board that they installed there on their first week.
They turn once he opens the door, and for a second he’s terrified that their faces will be honeycombed through with holes.
But they are okay, perfectly normal, and the only thing on their faces is concern, as they rush over.
"Jon told us what happened, how are you?" Sasha asks.
"Fine," Martin says automatically. "Well, not fine, obviously. I'm better, I guess. Slept for a day, that helped. Still a bit tired and lost. But why are you here on a Sunday? Wait, you didn't have to sleep here too, right?
They exchange a glance before Sasha says:
"No, but we think Jon did. He was here when I left yesterday-"
"And there when I got in this morning," Tim adds, as he cranes around Martin to see inside the room. "Probably slept at his desk, for old times sake. I didn't know he set up a proper airbnb back here, I thought he just found a good chair to nap in. He’s still searching for Prentiss’s statement. Don’t think he’s found anything yet. We came in yesterday for a briefing, but you were asleep."
“And what are you doing now?” Martin asks, with a look at the whiteboard. The usual chart of tasks to do and who is going where is covered up by a Map of London tacked onto the board with fruit-shaped fridge magnets. There’s a couple spots marked with thick red circles, one of them Martin recognizes as his address.
Sasha taps her chin thoughtfully.
“Known sightings of Jane Prentiss, or infected victims. Your flat is the most recent one, so we’ve been making a few calls to your neighbours, hospitals, and police stations in the area, but there hasn’t been any report of Prentiss, parasites, or anything particularly spooky.”
She turns back to Martin, and look at him with appearant unease.
"Martin, we really didn't know anything was wrong, or we would have done something. But Jon said you had some stomach bug, and I figured you didn't want anyone around while you're sick."
That's pretty much what Martin had told himself, while he was hauled up in his room.
And it's fine. They’re work friends, after all. And the worms called in sick, so there was no reason for his work friends to worry.
He tried not to dwell on the fact that apparently he doesn’t have any non-work friends who'll check up on him if he drops off the face of the planet for two weeks.
"No, no, I really don't when I'm actually sick. Runs in the family. And, I mean, if it was you, my first thought wouldn't have been 'Well obviously Sasha had her identity stolen by worms'. What kind of paranoid life would that be?"
Sasha forces a smile.
“Alright then. And hey, we got you the stuff from your list. But you’re not actually planning to move in here, are you?"
"I don’t know, I didn’t really plan on anything yet. Wait, what list? "
"The to do list." Sasha hands him a sheet of Institute stationary from the desk. It’s a carefully laid out list, complete with neat little checkboxes. One side 'Do', with various numbers to call, the other labeled 'Get' listing
toothbrush, toothpaste, fruit ('no peaches!', underlined twice), body wash, shampoo…
It looks like a checklist for a primary school field trip, and Martin is still a bit groggy and disoriented, but he’s pretty sure he didn’t write it.
Tim points at a gym bag next to the door to the storage room.
"It's all in there. Well, the food is in the break room, but the rest is. And I went shopping. Just a couple sweatpants and t-shirts, figured you could use a change of clothes. If you want us to pick anything up from your apartment, just say the word."
"What?! No, don't do that! What if the worms are back? "
“I ain't afraid of no worms."
Martin starts laughing, tries to at least, but somehow the chuckles turn into sobs.
"Hey, do you want a hug?" Tim asks, and Martin manages to nod.
Tim is, unsurprisingly, extremely good at hugging. He pulls Martin in without any hesitation, and wraps both arms around him, one hand up against the back of Martin's head, holds him firm, but gentle.
Sasha is a lot more tentative, but her awkward pat on the back is still grounding.
It still takes Martin an embarrassingly long time to stop sobbing into Tim's shoulder and when he finally extradicts himself, his voice is more of a croak.
"Okay. Okay, okay, okay, okay. I'm okay. Thank you."
"Any time. Let us know if you need anything else."
"Actually, uhm, could you get me a coffee? I could really use a caffeine shock.”
Tim actually beams.
"I can totally do that. Doing that right now!"
“I’ll be back in the library,” Sasha says. “I want to check the police ticker, and the wifi here is just atrocious.”
Tim gives Martin's shoulder one more reassuring squeeze, and they leave together, almost slamming the door into Jon’s face on the way out of the Archives.
"Wow, sorry. Have you been lurking out here?"
"Don't be ridiculous, I just got here. You should really be more carefull opening doors."
Tim rolls his eyes behind Jon's back, and closes the door with exaggerated care.
Martin furiously wipes the last tears from his face, the last thing he needs is to break down in front of his boss.
"Sorry about this," he says and makes a vague gesture mainly towards his face, but also towards his whole being. Martin has always been an ugly crier.
"Don't know why this is happening now, when it's safe. Guess I'm just a - "
"That's perfectly normal. You've been through a traumatic ordeal, you've got adrenaline running high, and now that you feel safe, your terror is catching up."
Jon is speaking in full academic lecture mode, but he too is looking a little worse for wear.
"That said, if you do want to talk about it with someone, I can," Jon starts and Martin says:"Oh God no" right as Jon finishes with: "recommend some therapists."
They stand in a very awkward silence for a moment, until Jon clears his throat.
"I talked to Elias, we're getting the extra security. And he agreed to count the last two weeks as paid overtime."
Martin's chuckle comes out a bit more cynical than he's feeling, but at least it's not another crying fit. Figures that the best way to get some extra money out of his job was to just go out and put himself in mortal peril. Should have done it ages ago.
"And he's fine with me staying here?"
"Honestly, I didn't ask. I just stated it as fact and he didn't object, and that's good enough for me."
"Thank you."
"Think nothing of it. Next point: I went through some statements last night. I had hoped to find Prentiss's, but no luck so far. But those statements brought up a few follow up tasks I'd like you to do. Just calling people, confirming a few dates, any additional information you can get."
The conversation has taken a sharp turn that Martin didn't expect, for more than one reason.
"Are you sure? You weren't exactly happy with my last interviews, something about ‘wasting time with trivial nonsense’."
That's a very charitable edit of the actual tirade Jon went on last month, which Martin chose to think he wasn't supposed to overhear. And maybe it's wishful thinking, but Jon does look caught off guard for just a moment before he speaks again.
"You need to focus more on relevant facts, and less on whatever tangent the subject wants to go on, even if you find it interesti-" Jon cuts himself off and looks almost embarrassed.
"What I meant to say is: These are tasks I'd like to get done, but it's nothing urgent. If you are feeling up to it, they'll be a good start to get you back into work.
I imagine you've had enough of just sitting around. I know I would."
Jon brings his arms up front, and for one terrifying moment Martin thinks he's going for a hug, and that would be so absurd it might actually break him.
But Jon holds out a keyring.
"The small one is for this room, the big one is for the main door of the bathroom, in case you want to use the emergency shower there. As long as you shower outside office hours, you shouldn't bother anyone. But you might feel safer with the option to lock up."
Martin takes the keyring almost mechanically, and Jon immediately shoves his hands in his pockets, and then just stands there, looking tense, and looking uncomfortable, and looking at anything in the room but Martin.
It’s very strange behaviour from someone who usually has no problems with conflict, especially not when in conflict with Martin.
Then it finally clicks.
Jon is trying to be nice to him. Sure, he's not good at it, and he looks like he'd rather be pulling out his own teeth, but Martin wouldn't be Martin if he didn't find the attempt endearing.
"Okay. I'll take a shower, get some food, and then I'll get to work."
"Good. I’ll, uhm, I’ll see you later."
Sprinting away from an uncomfortable social situation would be unbecoming of the head archivist of the Magnus Institute, but Jon manages a pretty close likeness.
*
By eight, even Jon has to admit that he’s simply too tired to do anything productive and calls it a night.
He can’t just stay in the Archives overnight anymore, thank you Martin, so he makes his way home through the cold, brooding about what to do next as he lets his feet do the walking.
They haven’t found any signs of Prentiss throughout the city, and he doesn’t feel like blindly combing through random basements.
By the time he reaches his building, he’s convinced himself that the only thing to do is wait, and continue going through the archived statements.
The light in the staircase is still out, he really has to call someone next time he has a spare minute during business hours. But since he hasn’t managed to do so in the last month, maybe it’s not that important.
The Prentiss Statement is somewhere in the mess that is the Magnus Archives. He knows it is. But finding it is going to take a lot of time, unless- the keys catch on a loose thread on his coat and fall to the ground with a clatter. Jon curses softly, bends to pick them up, and freezes as he sees the sickly white worm squirming on his doormat.