Chapter Text
Martin likes his job. It pays the bills, obviously, but there’s something else about it. Perhaps he was always meant to be an archival assistant, credentials be damned. He likes to think he’s been doing a pretty good job of it. He makes mistakes of course—he’s still Martin. But they don’t seem to matter as much when Sasha gently corrects them and shows him the right way to do things, or when Tim claps a hand on his shoulder and smiles. All things considered; he’s got it pretty good at work in spite of his background.
There's something more, though. Maybe he’s just paranoid, read a few too many statements, but he swears the Magnus Institute is haunted. It’s not like he broadcasts the theory or anything, but there are times things just feel off. Even when he’s completely alone, Sasha shut up in her office doing whatever Head Archivists do and Tim off swooning information out of people, he doesn’t feel like he is. It’s like there’s always something lurking in the shadows, watching.
It can be creepy, but Martin thinks maybe its just a part of the job.
He tries not to think about it. He pretends that the third desk in he and Tim’s setup doesn’t radiate such an intense presence despite being empty. He pretends that Tim is the one that leaves books lying open in odd places, despite the contents having nothing to do with a current case.
Martin is good at slipping things between the cracks and pretending they’re whole.
There is no shortage of work to do. The previous Head Archivist had left the place in a state of disarray, and she hadn’t been replaced for quite some time. Sasha often handed cases out to Tim and Martin to try to make a dent in the pile. She prefers that they transfer the statements to an audio format and include findings from any follow up. The world is digital now, and a catalogue means that things can be categorized and tagged to make research that much more efficient for them or any other scholars.
Martin doesn’t mind. Though the statements can be quite unsettling, it gives him a chance to practice his oration. It’s a nice little exchange, and the statements are easy enough to record to a laptop.
Until they aren’t. Statement 9941509 refuses to be recorded to his laptop, the file corrupting on multiple software. He even tries his phone, but it never seems to save anything past “Statement of”. Martin works on it for a substantial amount of time, frustrated that he can’t figure out what he’s doing wrong and too embarrassed to ask for help.
“You’re still working on that?” Tim asks, late in the afternoon, stretching as far back on his chair as he can, “What’s up? Is it super spooky or something?”
“I can’t get it to record,” Martin admits, “I’m not sure what I should do.”
Tim’s face wrinkles as he thinks, “Your phone?”
“Tried that,” Martin answers, just a little relieved that he hadn’t been stupid for trying.
“Hmm,” Tim shrugs, “Ask Sasha. She knows everything.”
“Y-Yeah,” Martin nods, but he gets up from his desk slowly. Sasha is…intimidating. She’s nice, of course, but almost too nice. He can’t help but think that she sees him as a rather dull child who needs his hand held to get any real work done. She’s never indicated so, but Martin’s skin prickles just at the thought that she might.
Her door is almost always open, unless someone wants to give a live statement. Martin knocks on the frame of it anyway. She looks up at him and smiles, “Martin! What can I do for you?”
“Uh, well,” Martin steps into her office, gripping the statement. “I’m having some trouble recording this statement. It’s one of the old ones you gave me—not that that matters obviously, I’m not sure why I can’t…why none of my electronics are working correctly today.”
Sasha taps the eraser side of a pencil against her lips, regarding him with interest, “That’s strange, but you know what? I’ve actually had one or two like that as well.”
“Oh,” Martin, a pulse of relief throbbing through the fingers holding the paper. “What did…what should I do?”
“Well,” Sasha leans back, opening one of her drawers. The scrape of wood on wood is obnoxiously loud. “Rosie lent me this tape player. I’ve put the others on tapes, that way we’ve got something, until we can figure out the issue and rerecord them to get them into the database.”
Martin is a little surprised, “Alright, that—that works. Can I borrow the tape recorder?”
“Of course,” Sasha smiles, sliding it toward him, “All yours.”
“Thanks, Sasha,” Martin says, and he means it.
Martin tucks himself into one of the empty study rooms and spreads out everything. He rather likes having his own space to himself in here. The tape recorder is easy to use, and it seems to be cooperating for a reason unlike his more modern technology. He clears his throat and begins to read the statement, doing his best to add inflection as necessary.
It is…it affects him. It is about a woman who finds that she can’t recognize her mother, but nobody takes her seriously that the woman she sees and the woman she knew are not the same person. It’s easy to lose himself in the hopelessness of the statement giver, the frustration and confusion.
He can’t help thinking of his own mother. His perception of her has been about the same since he was a child. But what if some lucidity claimed her and turned her into a different person? He wonders if that would be better, and then feels guilty for even thinking it. A tiny voice needles at him, though, that she would certainly prefer if he were replaced. But Martin has spent so much of his life trying to change himself into something that would please her that he doubts there is any change that would ever satisfy her.
Martin nearly jumps a mile when the door to the study room slams open. Tim is standing in the doorway, huffing around a giant grin. “Tim!” Martin cries, heart beating at a pace that’s surely not safe.
“Sorry,” Tim says, but he doesn’t sound it. “But you’ve got to come see this! There’s a cat that managed to slip inside, and now its resting all comfortable on the stacks like it owns the place!”
Perhaps Martin can forgive Tim. He nearly stumbles out of his chair, “You're joking. Where?” The thought of an animal in the Archives makes the back of his neck tingle for some reason.
The two head off to see this marvel, and Martin doesn’t realize he’s left the tape recorder running until a few minutes later. He dashes back to shut it off, cursing himself. Later, he’ll have to re-listen to the tape so that he can mark the spot that it should have ended.
He isn’t able to do so until the next day. The cat takes up the rest of their afternoon, even the head director, a man with a slick smile named Elias coming down to see it. He considers the cat with an odd sort of calculation, eventually flashing his teeth and saying, “Perhaps the Archives could use a guard kitty looking out for us all if no one comes to claim him.”
Martin likes cats well enough, so he volunteers to make sure that its fed and watered and taken care of. It’s got no collar and seems quite cozy in the building. It makes Martin feel useful, to be able to provide for something that all of the other employees seem to care for. He takes pride in setting up the accommodations for the cat, a fluffy Maine Coon with sharp yellow eyes, and only remembers his actual work later.
He sits through himself giving the statement, cringing only minimally. Martin lets the tape keep playing as he writes the end mark information down. He even smiles a little at his and Tim’s conversation. He is not expecting to hear a heavy, tired sigh emit from the tape recorder a few moments after he and Tim had surely left already. Martin freezes, blinking when the tape finally comes to a stop with a loud click. He rewinds it, strains his ears and hears the sigh again. It is definitely a sigh, deep and pronounced.
Martin doesn’t waste any time gathering his things and leaving the study room behind. It is only later, hands wrapped around a warm mug of tea, that Martin lets himself really think about it. So what if the Archives are haunted? The ghost hasn’t done anything to harm them, has it? It must be rather lonely, actually. Martin feels a little guilty after that thought and resolves to not be so afraid.
It’s easier said than done. It is much harder to ignore all the little signs of something being off now that he’s sure the Archive is haunted. He tries not to let this get in the way of his work, recording and researching statements to keep himself busy. It mostly works, until Case
0140911. Martin encounters the same sorts of problems he did before, only this time he knows there’s a solution. He’d returned the tape recorder to Sasha after the Sigh, and now he’s reluctant to retrieve it.
It’s his job, though, and Martin doesn’t want to let anybody down. He approaches Sasha’s office with what he hopes is a calm and normal face. “Excuse me? Any chance I could borrow that tape player again?”
“Oh, sure,” Sasha says, without looking up from her work, “’Nother tricky statement?”
“Yeah,” Martin says, his voice betraying him just enough. Sasha reaches into her drawer again and retrieves it, finally looking at him. She pauses.
“Are you alright, Martin?” she asks, and he knows the concern is genuine.
“Just fine. Just a bit—well, a bit spooked, really,” Martin hedges, resisting the urge to wring his hands together.
“What’s going on?” Sasha asks, even though Martin thinks its rather clear he’d like the conversation to be over.
“I…” Martin swallows and admits, “I think this place is haunted, actually.” He forces a laugh, “Crazy, right?”
Sasha doesn’t indulge him. “It is,” she says.
Martin blinks at her, “Sorry, what?”
Sasha shrugs, “It must be. I mean, Gertrude—the last Archivist—she died here. I think it’s pretty likely we’ve got a few ghoulies.”
“Oh,” Martin responds, unable to keep himself from asking, “So I’m not crazy?”
“Martin,” Sasha smiles at him fondly, “You are definitely not crazy.”
Martin can feel the heat rising to his cheeks, and Sasha finally hands him the tape recorder. “Thanks,” he says, his voice too soft.
He’s feeling better about the whole thing and returns to the study room to record this statement. His good doesn’t last very long. The statement is about a man who finds himself stranded in a nowhere neighborhood, utterly alone. The only thing the man finds is the body of a woman who’s apparently killed herself. The man believes he’s going to die there—alone in a place that could be anywhere but is nowhere. The man does escape, though it’s not particularly clear. One minute he’s alone and then he’s not.
It scares Martin, the loneliness bit of it. To think of anyone being stranded in a place that’s so full of life, to fade into the background until there is nothing else, to only be pulled out by what—chance? It makes the back of Martin’s neck prickle.
There isn’t much to follow up on and Martin makes quick work of the findings bit. He practically jumps out of his seat when he hears the chirp of the Library Cat (it’s yet to be named) outside the door. He could use a bit of cat love right now, so he leaves his things behind and goes to see about the cat.
Martin is not expecting the man standing in the hallway to be there, no cat in sight anymore. He looks a little sad, Martin thinks at first. But then he really looks at the man and feels heat bloom in his cheeks. The man is a few inches shorter than Martin, black and silver hair tousled in a way that is almost unprofessional, and he is striking to look at. The best description Martin can think of in the moment is that he looks like a professor of some sort that has perhaps missed a few nights sleep.
“H-Hello,” Martin squeaks before he can stop himself, red spreading to his ears.
The man glances at Martin and looks away, but then looks back as though he’s just realized Martin is talking to him. Shock flashes across his face, followed by confusion. Martin takes a deep breath, “Do you need help with something?”
He’s pretty close to the library side, so the man really could be an academic looking to research. The man swallows visibly and turns toward Martin. His voice is hoarse, as though it’s not been used for a long time, “I…I’m not really sure. I thought…I thought I heard a...cat?”
“Oh, yes,” Martin says, “He lives here—well, in the Archives.”
They both fall silent. The man is looking at him a little strangely, like he’s trying to figure something out. Martin offers his hand, “I’m, uh, Martin. I work in the Archives, in case you need, like, help with anything or…”
The man takes Martin’s hand after a moment. It’s cold. Martin can only focus on the contrast of the man’s skin against his own. “That’s a…nice name,” the man says, and he nods after moment, as if to himself.
Martin tries to ignore the flutter in his stomach, “Yours?”
The man has the decency to look embarrassed, and maybe that’s why it takes him a moment to answer. “Jon…my name is Jon.”
“That’s a nice name too,” Martin says, wishing he could smack himself.
The man looks a little…pleased, though. Reassured. “Good,” he murmurs, “Good.”
“Well, I’ll let you get back to your research,” Martin says, though Jon’s never mentioned any. “It was nice to meet you, Jon.”
“You as well, Martin,” Jon says, and his smile is so soft that Martin almost melts. Martin turns to go back to the study room before he can make any further a fool of himself. He shuts the door and leans against it, shaking his head.
“Don’t be stupid,” he mutters to himself, “He’s just a very attractive maybe professor who thinks my name is nice. No reason to get all worked up.”
Martin has never been very good at making himself feel better.