Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

[CLICK]

TIM

(mockingly) Statement of Martin Kartin Blackwood, regarding how thoroughly he played himself—

[SOUNDS OF STRUGGLE.]

ARCHIVIST

You- You're not funny, Tim, give that back.

TIM

Not until everyone hears about how you have a crush on not only me, but my boyfriend, too. And admitted it right to my face without even realizing.

ARCHIVIST

There's more than- than just my stupid crushes on that tape, Tim!

[MORE SOUNDS OF STRUGGLE.]

ARCHIVIST

Got it.

[CLICK]

[CLICK]

TIM

— see what the big deal is, Martin. There's no way it can be that bad.

ARCHIVIST

(sighs) Fine, go ahead and listen if you want to know so badly.

[ANOTHER TAPE RECORDER TURNS ON.]

ARCHIVIST (RECORDING)

— Some people are "lucky idiots," I would call them. The kind who use the wrong equation and still get the right answer. I am not a lucky idiot. It's possible I'm the most unlucky idiot in existence.

I lied- on my CV; I thought I would only get an entry level position, not ( frustrated ) this mess. “Head Archivist,” when I've never been in an archive in my life, much less worked in one. 

I have a mother who detests me, tells me I can never do anything right, no matter what I do. I tried so hard for her, I'm still trying hard. It never seems to be enough.

And to top it all off, I'm in love with two of my assistants, who are dating each other, one of whom hates my guts—

TIM (RECORDING)

For the last time, Martin, Jon doesn't hate you—

[THE ARCHIVIST YELPS.]

ARCHIVIST (RECORDING)

Christ, Tim!

TIM (RECORDING)

— he just struggles with change. And people in general.

ARCHIVIST (RECORDING)

Please, please , knock next time?

TIM (RECORDING)

The door was open.

[THE ARCHIVIST SIGHS.]

Ok, ok, I will… What were you doing, by the way?

ARCHIVIST (RECORDING)

I was- I just- It was- Ah, a statement! Yes, ( nervous giggle ) I was just finishing up a statement… How much did you hear?

TIM (RECORDING)

Uh huh, a statement. In that case… I'd like to make one, too.

[CLICK]

“I don’t think you should take the job,” Tim stated plainly, arms crossed and staring at Jon from across their shared flat. Jon huffed in response, not looking up from his computer. “It’s an offer, not an obligation,” Tim huffed back.

“It doesn’t feel like it. He said that Elias—”

“Elias can piss off, and so can Lukas for all I care. I’m just concerned that- I can barely get you to take care of yourself with this position. I just can’t imagine one with such high responsibility would be any better for you, if not catastrophically worse.” Tim moved to sit next to Jon, who pointedly stared anywhere but at him, and hovered a hand lightly over Jon’s. Jon sighed and looked at him, signalling for him that it’s okay to hold his hand.

“It’s not that I think you’re incapable, I just think it would be damaging to your mental health. Besides, Sasha is literally right there, with much more experience than the both of us combined.” With his empty hand, Jon fidgeted with the long sleeve of his oversized cardigan. Tim gave him a reassuring squeeze, and he leaned into him with a weary sigh. Tim could tell he still had that worried, overthinking look on his face, though, and gave him a soft kiss on the top of his head.

That look was also what greeted him the day they were reassigned to be assistants to the new Head Archivist, a new hire who looked like he might pass out from nerves on the spot. The first few months were definitely a learning curve, even for Tim.

"Marto, if you said something earlier we could have helped you!" Tim huffs, giving Martin a pitying look. "You’re doing pretty okay right now, but you could ask Sasha for help, too. She is the only one around here that actually knows what they’re doing.”

Martin gives Tim a weathered smile, relaxing slightly from where his stomach was working itself into knots as the tape was playing.

"Now, like I said, Jon doesn't hate you. You just have to give him a while to get used to your vibes."

"My… vibes?"

"Yeah, just, your aura. How your energy reacts with his own."

"I have no idea what you're talking about, Tim."

Tim shrugs, smirking slightly. Tim is no stranger to people crushing on him, so he takes it in stride; besides, making Martin flustered was so easy and extremely funny. He already decided not to tell Jon, but a little teasing never hurt anyone.

"You know, I could go out and tell him right now—"

"Tim, no ."

"— and maybe he'll ease up on you!" Tim finishes with a grin.

"I'll- I'll talk to him myself. But I promise I won't use my position- I'm not like that—"

Tim cuts Martin off there, expression going suddenly dark, some slumbering anger once again awakening and presenting itself anew. Martin looks like he might pass out from shock.

"I know you're no Elias, Martin."

Martin doesn't want to ask, but his curiosity gets the best of him, and the words are leaving his mouth before he can think to stop them.

"What happened with Elias?"

Tim feels a sensation of the words laid on his tongue dripping off and out into the air like honey, a faint buzzing filling his head.

"When Jon first joined the Institute, Elias tried to offer him higher pay, a better position, anything in return for," he grimaces, " sexual favours . That or he wanted to axe-murder him and was using that as a cover up, who knows with him?" he jokes half-heartedly. Martin doesn't react, and he lets out a sigh.

"Jon, being Jon, didn't take it well, and ended up only coming back to work the week he was arrested. Even then, he was near inconsolable, but I managed to get into his comfort zone and we’ve been close ever since. We try not to talk about it because I know it upsets him more than he lets on sometimes.” He snaps out of whatever state he was in while talking, and clamps a hand over his mouth, looking horrified.

"I don’t know why I said any of that. Please promise me you won’t tell him you know, and especially not that I told you?" Tim pleads. Martin gives a nod and Tim relaxes significantly, looking like his usual, casual self, if not a bit dazed.

“Anyway, I need to start working on follow-ups, see you, Bossman.”

"Wait, Tim–"

"Right! And, I'll keep your secrets." Tim winks conspiratorially as he closes the office door behind him.

Martin sighs and gets back to work, reaching for the tape recorder to record a statement and noticing it had already been running. He inhales sharply.

"Well, must have left it on."

"No, this one's true, I swear it," Sasha says pointedly, Jon rolling his eyes in return. 

"I've figured out the pattern; only the true ones won't record digitally, you can only use the tape recorders. Writing it down is useless too."

Jon hums, eyes tearing away from the pages of prose he was desperately trying to process. He picks up a pen, snatches the statement off of Sasha's desk, and drags a notebook over to himself.

"Don't try too hard, you'll get a headache," she warns.

Jon scoffs, light-heartedly brushing off her concern. As he goes to write the first word, he finds himself unable to even remember what the first word was, even when directly looking at it. He struggles for several minutes, before laying his head down on his desk with a humph , Tim laying a hand on his back.

"Ok, weird, but not necessarily indicative that it's true," Jon comments. Sasha hums, then her eyes light up and she grins wildly, pulling out her phone.

"But what if I can prove it?" she pushes excitedly.

"I doubt it, but I suppose I'd be willing to try it," he groans, with a slight smile partially obstructed by his arms.

"Great. My friend Melanie, you know, from Ghost Hunt UK? Yeah, anyway, she was planning on going out and doing her own poking around, no crew, but she invited me along, and I bet I can get her to let you come, too."

Jon shrugs, and raises his head, intent on returning to his work. Tim notices how he shifts and squirms in his seat, and it makes him antsy as well.

"You could always just go to Artefact Storage and fuck around and find out—"

"Hell no, that place is a one way ticket to a painful and violent death," Sasha cuts him off.

"Great proof of the supernatural, though," he jokes. When Tim glances over, he notices Martin stand from his desk, steel himself, and start walking toward them. Toward Jon specifically. Oh god, please don't tell me he's going to try right now. Really, really bad timing, my man.

"Hey, Jon, have you gotten anything for the—"

"I'm trying to," Jon snaps. "These two are making it difficult."

Martin visibly shrinks at Jon's tone, but tries to appear confident again.

"Alright. Also, could you, uh, stop by my office on your way out today?" he stammers, and Tim has to try very hard not to pinch the bridge of his nose. Jon makes an affirmative hum and Martin awkwardly slinks back to his office. Sasha shoots Tim a look, who simply mouths the word "later." 

He didn't mean it, of course, because he can keep secrets…

"Soooo, what happened?" Sasha asks, doe-eyed for effect. She has her head in her hands, leaning on the breakroom table and peering up at Tim from one of the shitty plastic chairs. He shakes his head with a small chuckle.

"Not telling, I was sworn to secrecy."

"Aww, come on, you can trust me!"

"I can trust you, but Martin deserves some privacy."

"Tim, what did he say ?"

Tim feels that sensation again, the weird buzzing and the words being spooled from his mouth like ribbon.

"He has feelings for both me and Jon," he blurts out, shaking his head to hopefully clear it.

"Ah, yeah, that makes sense," Sasha comments, eyes lighting up.

"Whatever matchmaker schtick you're about to pull, I don't feel that way about him," Tim groans.

"No schticks here!" she announces cheerily, but the devious grin on her face says otherwise. Tim scoffs and rolls his eyes, and Sasha mocks offense.

"What? You're my boys, you know I have to meddle. Didn't you and Jon say I was your 'emotional support lesbian'?" 

"I think that's Jon's friend Basira, actually," Tim replies with a wicked grin. Sasha gives an exaggerated cry, and after a beat, bursting into laughter, Tim joining her.

"It's almost a little concerning how many lesbians Jon knows, when you think about it."

"We just think he's neat," Sasha coos, and if she were saying it over text, it would have been the perfect tone for a smiley face.

Jon walks into the breakroom, looking a little lost, and takes a seat next to Sasha, laying his head on the table.

"You okay, Jon?" Tim asks.

"I just now finished the follow-up I was given this morning," Jon complains. Tim and Sasha share a look, having both just finished eating lunch.

"What happened?" Sasha asks lightly.

"Ask my disorder-riddled brain," he groans, hitting the back of his head lightly. Tim silently takes his hand, rubbing gentle circles on the back of his palm.

"What all did you have to do? I can—"

"No, no, it's fine, I can handle myself. It's just some reading, all I need to do is focus." Tim gives the back of his head a pitying look, and Sasha shrugs.

And focus he could not, it seems, as the page remains unturned for a whole of 20 minutes before Jon bursts into tears. Tim and Sasha are on him immediately, rubbing soothing circles on his back and whispering reassurances.

When Tim pops into Martin's office to ask him to send Jon home, Jon protests, but eventually goes along with it.

"Wanna talk about it?" Tim asks later that night, arms wrapped around Jon.

"Nothing to talk about. I just got frustrated was all." 

"You're sure?" Jon pauses, then sighs deeply.

"Yes, Tim, I'm sure."

Tim presses a gentle kiss to his forehead, and Jon curls into his chest.

Chapter Text

[CLICK]

JON

What are we doing here again?

MELANIE

Everyone else is too afraid to check out this area because the ghosts aren’t confirmed to be “safe,” I got ostracized for pursuing it but I need to know. I wanted to go on my own in case of danger, but, well, here you two are...

SASHA

At least you get to prove Jon wrong!

MELANIE

That is true.

[A BEAT.]

(hushed) I think I saw something.

[SOUNDS OF STRUGGLE. JON YELPS.]

SASHA

Oh, Christ, Jon, are you okay?

[JON CRIES OUT IN PAIN.]

Ok! Ok, I won't touch it.

JON

(calmly) Melanie, I am going to kill you when we get back.

[MELANIE SNICKERS.]

Could one of you help me back up? My legs gave out when it tackled me.

SASHA

I got you, Jon.

[SASHA HELPS JON TO HIS FEET.]

MELANIE

Well, I guess we should get back before Jon bleeds to death.

SASHA

(wearily) Yeah.

[CLICK]

[CLICK]

ARCHIVIST

Are- You're sure you don't need to go to hospital?

JON

I'm fine, Martin, I assure you.

ARCHIVIST

Ok, I just—

JON

The faster we get on with this, the faster I can go home, Martin.

[THE ARCHIVIST SIGHS.]

ARCHIVIST

Statement of Jonathon Sims regarding…

JON

… Ghost stabbings.

ARCHIVIST

Right. Martin Blackwood recording direct from subject. Statement begins.

JON

I’ve always put on the front of being a skeptic, even in my research days. I do believe in ghosts and preternatural beings and what have you, but I don’t like to announce it to the world. The air of professionalism I try to keep mixed with the comfort of denial made it very easy to pull off. Enough so that I convinced the entire department I was blind, actually.

Anyway, this skepticism bit eventually resulted in Sasha offering to “prove” to me that a statement about quote unquote war ghosts was real. We met up with Melanie late at night outside of a recycling yard in Rotherham. She said something about an old carriage that reeked of blood, or something like that.

I can… respect Melanie as a YouTube personality, but less so as a serious paranormal investigator. So, I suppose my skepticism this time was genuine, and quite frankly warranted. We made the arduous climb to get in and wandered around in the dark for awhile. We had torches, of course, but feared any light would attract unwanted attention from the tight security that lingered around the yard. I think we all caught the scent at the same time, from what I could see of Melanie and Sasha’s features. Figuring it our best lead, we followed it until Melanie could make out the approximate shape of what was described in the accounts she found online. I remember, now, both Melanie and Sasha complaining of shadow figures in passing train cars, as well, though I didn’t see anything, and simply assumed they were being overdramatic.

Part of me thought it was a prank, thinking back. “How convenient,” I thought, “that Sasha just so happens to know someone scouting out a potentially credible supernatural occurrence so soon after our conversation.” Maybe that’s what got me in this situation.

Only when we reached the carriage did we decide to turn on our torches. Sasha laid back, probably in apprehension, while Melanie was making note of… something. I’m still not sure what she was writing down. Nonetheless, that left me to open the sliding door.

I’m not quite sure how I missed the thick red stream trailing down the side of the car before I opened it, but only after I did did I notice it, shining in my torchlight. In my distraction, I entirely missed the movement farther back in the carriage; But Sasha did not, and made that fact very clear. I think if she had screamed any louder, my eardrums would have gone out. By the time I had glanced up, the first thing I could process was a blur of white headed straight for me. After that, I felt the wind being knocked out of me and not much else, vision going white.

I had only realized I’d been stabbed at all when Sasha, knelt over me, had gone to touch the wound. Fearing security, they quickly helped me to my feet and we fled as quickly as we could, thankfully remaining uncaught. Sasha luckily had some first aid training and was able to stop and bandage the bleeding well enough, and I insisted on coming here to make a statement as early as possible. And now here we are.

ARCHIVIST

Here we are indeed.

[HE SIGHS.]

Go home, Jon, get some rest.

JON

I had quite enough rest already, I think.

ARCHIVIST

(incredulous noise) Th- 3 hours is not enough rest for being stabbed, Jon!

JON

You could say I’m simply “built different.”

ARCHIVIST

Don’t quote memes at me, Jon, please. If you just- You know what? No. You don’t have an option. (a bit forcefully) Go home.

[JON SIGHS.]

JON

Fine.

[A CHAIR SCUFFS THE FLOOR, JON LEAVES.]

[A BEAT, THE ARCHIVIST SIGHS.]

ARCHIVIST

Oh! Statement e—

TIM

Huh. I’m surprised that worked—

ARCHIVIST

Tim! Again, knock!

TIM

— he’s usually a bit harder to convince, even for me.

ARCHIVIST

(muttered) I swear, one of these days, you’ll give me a heart attack.

TIM

Come on, you know you love to see me.

ARCHIVIST

(slightly sarcastic) And to what do I owe the pleasure?

[CLICK]

Jon hisses as the hot, damp rag presses against his wound, flexing his hands so as to not jerk backwards. He focuses on the heat of it, how it seems to seep through his skin and fall along the outline of the thin pocket of flesh now opened on his shoulder. The rag begins to scrub lightly, but Jon still has to swallow a cry of pain, burying it deep in his stomach. Purple, bruised skin dots the edges of the angry, red, and he tries not to focus on it, but it still makes him light-headed. He’d never been great with pain, the smallest amount always made him feel like passing out, something genetic he’d been told. Next to him, Tim whispers something, but he can’t understand it over the ringing slowly overtaking his hearing. He closes his eyes, and gasps as something cold hits the back of his neck, opening again to see Tim now holding a different rag.

“I thought you were going to pass out, figured that might help,” he says, trying to burying his concern deep in his throat. Jon nods minutely in thanks, and they share a quiet moment, before a knock at their front door startles them both. Tim exits the bathroom casually and crosses the living room at a leisurely pace; He quickens when there's another.

"Martin?" Jon heard Tim gape through the ringing.

Martin naturally spoke a bit quieter, and the distance was no help either, so all he could make out was; "— just came by—how he's—."

Tim nods and lets him in, and Jon is suddenly very aware that his chest is out, scars very visible. It's not that he doesn't want Martin to know, he'd of course be understanding; it's just that Martin can be a bit… over-supportive. The first time Jon had felt comfortable enough to wear a skirt since he went stealth was shortly after he started working in the archives. Martin, trying to be encouraging, brought it up every other time he talked to Jon, for several days. It didn't deter him from skirts completely, but he had to wave off Martin with a "I thought it would make it difficult to do my job," after he inquired some weeks later.

He scrambled for a shirt, not bothering to redress the wound, and slipped it on painfully. Tim, who had turned around just in time to see this, makes a concerned noise and moves quickly, shutting the bathroom door behind him.

"At least let me put the bandages back on you dolt," he scolded.

"I didn't want him to see my scars," Jon snapped back quietly.

"You could have just closed the door," Tim points out, expression softening as he wraps the fabric gently around Jon's shoulder. Jon chokes out an aborted "oh" before hissing in pain. Tim loosens the bandages and gives Jon a fluttering kiss just next to his wound before helping him back into his shirt.

Martin clears his throat lightly as they walk out of the bathroom, giving Jon a sheepish smile.

"I- it's been a few days so I figured- I thought to come round to see for myself how you were doing."

"I'm doing… fine, Martin," Jon responds tersely, before remembering his manners. "Thank you, for asking."

"I'm not sure how much you like sweets, but I made you some biscuits, as a- a get well present," Martin offers, holding a small paper bag out, flushing slightly. Tim has to hold back a laugh at how obvious Martin is being and how oblivious Jon's response is.

"Thank you, Martin, that is certainly kind of you."

Tim sighs, running a hand down his face.

"What he's not telling is that these will be gone in 5 minutes the moment you step ou—"

He wheezes slightly, doubling over; Jon's smug look melts into a worried one.

"Oh god, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to hit you that hard—"

Tim laughs maniacally as Jon doubles over as well, and they both devolve into a laughing fit, Martin joining in awkwardly. Calm once again, Tim beckons for Martin and Jon to follow him to the kitchen.

"Come, sit, how do you take your coffee, Martin?" he says, gesturing to the small table pressed against the wall next to the only window in the entire flat.

"No tea?" he asks timidly, and earns a snort in response.

"We don't even try to live up to your caliber, Marto," Tim grins, earning a flush, "besides, Jon prefers energy drinks to anything else." 

"Cheaper than prescription," Jon shrugs, "even if it's more likely to ruin my organs."

He wasn't quite certain if it showed on his face, but Martin felt like his whole world flipped, just like his stomach when Jon gave him a rare laugh. Jon's laugh seemed to change every time he heard it, ranging anywhere from a high, squawking noise to a low belly laugh. No matter what, though, he always laughed with his entire being, body shaking with his breaths.

Surely, it must have shown, as Tim elbows Jon and stage-whispers to Martin.

"See, he's only a stuffy prick when he's at work," he teases with a grin. Jon simply rolls his eyes, smirking slightly.

They fall into an easy conversation over their drinks, Martin preening at being able to get Jon to laugh more. When Tim excuses himself to the bathroom and Jon falls quiet, Martin fears for a second that things will turn awkward fast.

"I'm- I apologize, for, uh, treating you rudely during our first interactions. I'm working more on my… people… skills. You seem, ah, you seem nice enough, to know, outside of work," he offers lightly, not quite meeting Martin's eyes. Certainly a good thing, Martin supposes, as he feels his cheeks heating up already.

"Thank- thank you? I appreciate the apology," Martin replies with an all-too-cheesy grin. 

Tim returns before things can truly get awkward, as it seemed that was the course of that conversation, and Martin finds a moment to excuse himself. His heart about bursts out of his chest when Jon gives him a small smile as he's saying goodbye.

Chapter Text

[CLICK]

ARCHIVIST (STATEMENT)

— and I shall probably fall into the trap again, God forgive me.

ARCHIVIST

Statement ends.

Sasha managed to get ahold of Mr. Murray—

[A KNOCK.]

Come- come in!

[A DOOR OPENS AND SHUTS.]

JON

Hey, Martin, have, uh, have you heard anything from Tim lately?

ARCHIVIST

[A PAUSE.]

No, I don't- I don't think I have? I knew he hasn't been coming in but I supposed he was just on one of his skipping stints.

JON

He hasn't- It's- It's been a few days, since you sent him to do the follow up for the Barnabas statement, with, uh, with Agnes Montague? He hasn't returned to the flat and I'm- worried. I'm worried.

ARCHIVIST

I-

I'm sure it'll be fine, Jon.

JON

(noise of frustration.) Okay, okay. 

Here's—

[SOUND OF A FOLDER DROPPING ONTO A DESK.]

— my follow up, by the way.

ARCHIVIST

Oh! Thank you.

[CLICK]

[CLICK]

SASHA

So, Jon's been acting weird, yeah?

ARCHIVIST

Y- yeah, well, you would know more than me, really—

SASHA

And I haven't seen Tim for a week straight.

ARCHIVIST

[HE SIGHS.]

Jon mentioned a few days ago that Tim hadn't returned to their flat in a few days. I tried to comfort him but I'm worried myself.

SASHA

What were you having him do before?

ARCHIVIST

He thought he'd tracked down a woman from one of the statements- Jude Perry, I believe? Either way, he—

[A DOOR OPENS.]

JON

Oh, sorry, I didn't realize you were busy—

SASHA

It's alright, Jon, it wasn't anything important.

[A BEAT.]

ARCHIVIST

Did- did you need something?

JON

Melanie invited me to go with her on an "expedition" again, but this time to India. It's in a few weeks and would be over the weekend but it might bleed into Monday so I wanted to make you aware of that.

ARCHIVIST

Oh! That's quite alright. Have fun, then!

[A DOOR CLOSES.]

SASHA

(playfully) I can't believe Jon has stolen my friend already! She didn't even invite me.

ARCHIVIST

He could use the break, though.

SASHA

[SHE SIGHS.]

Yeah…

[CLICK]

Martin nearly jumps out of his seat when the knock on his door comes Monday night; he nearly faints when a bloodied Jon with a nasty burn on his face greets him as he opens it.

"Christ, Jon, are you ok?" Jon's expression suddenly goes steely.

"I found Tim," he spits through gritted teeth. Martin's heart sinks into his stomach. Martin begins sputtering something, but Jon cuts him off with a frustrated sigh. "He said he'd be back in a month, maybe, when he ‘gets his new powers under control.’" Martin sighs in relief that his worst anxieties were wrong, then blinks in confusion.

"I don't—"

"I'd like to make it a statement, if you will," Jon interrupts, bouncing on his feet impatiently. He fishes a tape recorder out of his coat pocket and hands it to Martin expectantly, who hesitates for a moment.

"Statement of Jonathan Sims regarding—"

"My partner's newfound abilities of destruction."

"Martin Blackwood recording direct from subject. Statement begins."

Jon takes a deep breath in, mentally preparing, and exhales, eyes icing over with barely contained rage.

"I had just gotten back from the airport about 7 o'clock, deliriously tired and just ready to lay down."

"If I may- how was your trip?" Martin interjects quietly.

Jon looks thoughtful for a moment, then blanks.

"I got shot by a ghost," he states, vaguely gesturing to his blood-stained pant leg. Martin makes a choked noise, caught off guard, as Jon continues.

"The first thing that hit me when I walked in the apartment made me about phone the police right away. It so strongly stunk of smoke and ash that I briefly suspected someone with a nasty cigarette habit had broken in and squatted there while I was gone. I hesitantly moved to investigate, keeping low with the number pulled up, and crept into the main part of the flat, not bothering to turn on any lights. I, at first, mistook the light peeking around the corner to be from the TV, but soon found that something else was emitting the dull glow." He pauses and shivers, before regaining his composure. 

"Sat perfectly relaxed, with a dark blanket draped across his lap, was Tim. I don't quite remember the noise that forced itself out of my throat, a sob maybe, but I vividly remember the tears that found no trouble in forming paths down my cheeks. He opened his eyes, looking startled for a moment, before rushing to stand and make his way toward me." Jon had started crying again, but he continued with an icy determination. 

"There was- god- there was a certain spark behind his eyes, I think I should have- have recognized it at this point. A split second before he reached out, I saw the regret pooling; realized what was about to happen. After that, I felt a great pain across my cheek and laid heavy on my chest, vision flashing white." He absent-mindedly traces the scabbed mark lining his cheekbone, and Martin notices a slightly singed part on the edge of his cardigan. 

"As I sunk to the floor, I blindly reached to grab him, still crying my eyes out like- like a child. I just sat, a fistful of his shirt, in intense pain, bawling for maybe, uh, 10 minutes? Hard to say, really, I wasn't paying attention and I've never had a good grasp on the passage of time. Regardless, by the time I was done, he had settled next to me, hands hovering over the burns cautiously, looking at me with pure terror hidden deep in his eyes. Once I could talk again, I told him what had happened while he was gone, and he began to explain." He sighs deeply, wide eyes turning daggers toward Martin.

"I blame you for this, just know that." Martin sputters incredulously at the accusation.

" You're the one who sent him to- to go talk to Jude. I know you don't- you probably didn't- it wasn't intentional, but I just…" he trails off, and Martin nods understandingly, suppressing the urge to reach out and just hold Jon as angry tears still make their way down his face.

"What else did- what did he say about—"

"He's going to take a few months to get it under control, hopefully, and then come back," he recites pointedly.

"Ah- that's not- I wasn't going to ask yet, but that- that's good to know," he stammers. Jon simply gives him an expectant look in response.

"I was going to ask if he could- if he said exactly what happened."

"He did," Jon states dryly, "you'll have to get it out of him yourself, though."

"Right, well, I'll be off, then," he says as he stands, quickly heading for the door.

"Wait, don't—" Martin calls in vain, but receives only the slamming of the door in response, followed by an unsettling quiet.

"This whole thing's really gotten to him, huh?" Sasha mutters, picking at her food with her fork idly. Martin hums in response, head in his hands as he stares hopelessly at the blank paper in front of him.

"He's honestly been acting a bit of a pri- uhm, like he did when he first joined research. Prickly," she corrects after Martin shoots her a look.

"I'm just concerned is all, what with Tim still gone and him acting like this and… you," she says, distressed. Martin looks bewildered for a moment.

"He didn't tell you?" he slips. 

"Tell me?" Sasha presses, taken aback.

Martin considers brushing it off, knowing it's not his place to say, but something pushes him to continue.

"Tim came back last Monday and then left again." Sasha gapes, and Martin's face flushes deep with regret. She frowns, brows furrowing, then seems to come to a decision, standing abruptly.

"I'm going to talk to him," she nods to herself.

"Wh- Sasha I don't think that's—" She's already out the door, however, and Martin is left with his regrets and an empty notebook. So, he begins to write.

When his mind returns to his surroundings, Jon is sat in front of him with an icy, thousand-yard stare. He makes a startled squeak, nearly jumping out of his own skin, and Jon turns his gaze toward him.

"I'm not mad, I just want to know why," he says through gritted teeth.

"I- I don't know, I just- I figured she had a right to know, too?" Martin offers uncertainly.

"That," Jon clenches his jaw, then relaxes it, "makes sense, yes. I… apologize." He goes to leave, giving a terse nod to Sasha as she passrs him coming through the door.

"Well, that certainly… went."

Chapter Text

[CLICK]

TIM (RECORDING)

— you could come with me, Jon.

JON (RECORDING)

I know! I know, I just…

TIM (RECORDING)

I can keep my distance, I wouldn't- I won't hurt you again.

JON (RECORDING)

It just feels… wrong, somehow. To leave the Archives for so long.

TIM (RECORDING)

[A PAUSE.]

I know, that's how it felt when I was trapped—

JON (RECORDING)

You know, you don't have to- to talk about it if it makes you uncomfortable—

TIM (RECORDING)

(overlapping) I know, I know.

I… kind of want to, though.

JON (RECORDING)

[A BEAT.]

Okay.

TIM (RECORDING)

I guess I should probably start at when I was first tracking down Jude— No. Honestly, I probably should have trusted my intuition when it was screaming at me when Martin assigned me the follow-up in general. There just- that case never felt right to me, something about the statement itself put me off, probably the mention of Jude herself, what with the weird vibes I got— I'm getting ahead of myself.

I was cross-referencing the other statements with Agnes in them, mostly just to be thorough. I ended up finding Jude's statement, and some quick research found me that the other woman in Jack's statement matched her last known description. So I tracked her down; when I rang the doorbell to the flat she was staying in, that's when I got that weird vibe— Almost like déjà vu. She was nice enough to— well, I wouldn't call it nice considering the outcome, but— she humoured me. I knew better than to- I kept my distance, in the flat, but at some point during the talk she managed to get ahold of me. I heard her say something about "assets" and "bonding," I think? It was hard to focus through the pain. Then, suddenly, it stopped hurting, and I lost feeling almost entirely. There… might be more I'm forgetting, honestly, 'cause I don't think that's how becoming like- like her would be that simple.

[THE OTHER RECORDER CLICKS OFF.]

JON

I found this tape when I was clearing out all the recorders from the flat—

ARCHIVIST

Wait, why?

JON

(a bit irritated) I don't… know. Tim advised that I did, and it just— I don't know, it felt right.

[THE ARCHIVIST HUMS.]

I had no idea it was even on.

ARCHIVIST

Yes, I've had that happen before. I always just- I figured I'd left them on, you know?

JON

(irritation rises) Maybe not the case then.

[A BEAT.]

If that's all, then, may I—?

ARCHIVIST

Right, yes, of course—

[DOOR SHUTS A BIT HARDER THAN NECESSARY.]

(whispered to self) Christ, Jon, you'll take the thing off its hinges like that.

[A DOOR OPENS.]

[A SQUEALING STATIC RISES IN THE BACKGROUND.]

HELEN

It's a shame, really, he would be quite useful to me if he weren't already claimed twice over.

ARCHIVIST

Wh- Can I help you?

HELEN

(to herself) Though, I suppose there really is no limit.

ARCHIVIST

I- I'm sorry?

HELEN

I came to ask for his help, but, well, it seems he is… preoccupied. 

[A BEAT.]

I suppose you could help with that, then— right, Archivist?

ARCHIVIST

I- what are you talking about? 

HELEN

[SHE HUMS.]

So you haven't figured it out yet? You are quite new, I shouldn't be so surprised.

Your friend has a... well, the best word would be "infection." 

ARCHIVIST

Who- How do you know?

HELEN

My knowledge consists of many things, though not as much as yours and your ilk.

ARCHIVIST

My— what- what do I call you?

HELEN

You may call me Helen.

ARCHIVIST

Do you— you know Jon?

[SHE LAUGHS. THE AUDIO DISTORTS SO HEAVILY HER NEXT WORDS CAN'T BE HEARD.]

(dazed) — right, ok, that makes sense.

Is there… can you tell me anything else?

HELEN

No, I don't think I will.

[THE ARCHIVIST MAKES A DISTRESSED NOISE.]

It will be much more fun to see you figure it out yourself. I believe in you.

[A DOOR CLOSES, THE STATIC FADES.]

ARCHIVIST

(quietly) "Infection…?"

[CLICK]

Heavy footfalls startle Martin from his musing, dropping the pen in his hand onto the desk with a far too loud clatter. Jon's crazed expression meets his own bewildered one, and he notices the other man wielding a fire extinguisher in both hands.

"You need to get out, now," Jon barks in command. Martin springs to his feet, confused.

"Is there a fire?" he asks, voice cracking.

"Worse," Jon replies, and Martin notices a silvery, writhing thing drop from Jon's arm. He curses, releasing the full force of the spray onto it, before motioning Martin to hurry. They get through the Archives fine, Jon only having to spray the occasional worm, but when they reach the door, Jon turns on his heel and starts heading back in. Martin cries out, but Jon just keeps going, and he stays put, against his better judgement.

"Sasha!" he hears Jon call out deeper in the Archives. Martin considers going back as well after it's quiet for a bit, but a tidal wave of worms headed his way quickly changes his mind. He exits the building as quickly as his legs will carry him, soon after seeing Sasha exit from another door.

"Where's Jon?" he asks helplessly.

"He was chasing… something into Artefact Storage last I saw," she replies, out of breath.

“Prentiss?” 

“I- I think?”

Martin curses under his breath, and pushes at the front door once again, only to cry out in pain and fall backwards. Sasha is on him quickly, inspecting him. His hands are slightly red where he touched the metal, as if it had burned him slightly; more importantly, there's a circular chunk of flesh missing from his forearm, silver flashing before disappearing deeper inside. Without thinking, Sasha grabs the corkscrew from her pocket and starts plunging it in after the worm. 

"Christ!" Martin yells, flinching away.

"It's only going to hurt worse if you struggle!" Sasha stresses, face betraying her terror.

"Oh yeah, that sounds real innocent, Sasha— ah!" he hisses as she tries once again to get the worm out.

"Maybe I'm trying to lighten the mood, Martin," she says, playfully mocking his tone.

"While we're about to get eaten alive by worms?!" he exclaims, but there's no real bite behind it.

She pulls it out with a yelp from Martin, flinging it out into the street where a car just so happens to crush it under its tire.

"Huh," Sasha says, realizing the irony of the timing.

"Huh," Martin repeats.

A loud ringing sounds through the doors, and they realize Jon must have set off the fire alarm. At least that means he's alive. They avoid the looks of the other employees and duck out of sight, heading for a side entrance to re-enter unnoticed. They reach the door, only to find that it was locked, and curse under their breaths.

"What should we do?" Martin asks hopelessly, turning to Sasha with desperate eyes.

"Well, the fire suppression system should be going off, and that's CO2, so that should kill all of the worms in the building… meaning, hopefully, we won't have to do anything." 

"Isn't that manual? So Peter would have to—"

The door opens with a spray of foam and dead worms, as well as a panting figure, who briefly locks eyes with the two of them before running off in the other direction. Martin hears Sasha yell a name through the ringing overtaking his ears, which fades as the door shuts and the figure disappears.

"That was—" Martin says breathlessly, to which Sasha only nods in response.

"So, you haven't seen them at all?" She crosses her arms, towering over Martin with a stony expression.

"No, I... I last saw— wait, does- does Jon use 'them'?" Martin cocks his head to the side slightly in mild confusion. She purses her lips, considers for a moment, then shakes her head.

"Just used to using neutral pronouns in investigations, must have slipped," she guesses, "You last saw him where?" 

"Going in- into Artefact Storage, after Prentiss."

"Alright, thank you—"

"Daisy?" a hoarse voice calls from down the hall, inviting both of their attentions.

Jon approaches the two of them cautiously from the direction of the Archives, a festering anger resting just beneath his nervous expression. Martin reaches out a hand to steady him as he stumbles, and doesn't miss the way he flinches away from his touch; Or the smell of singed wool. 

"What are you doing here?" he asks, forcing a light tone. He looks between them repeatedly with an odd look, like he were trying to determine if they were real.

"Investigating," she responds, relief and confusion peeking through.

"I thought you— right, ah, if it's about the worms, there may be something else you'd be interested in-"

"Jon, you've been missing for a week," Daisy cuts him off bluntly.

His mouth snaps shut, eyebrows knitting together in confusion.

"That doesn't make– you're certain? A— a week?"

Martin nods, looking just as confused as Jon.

"What happened, Jon?" Martin presses.

"I'll— I'll tell you later, both of you, I promise. I just—" he sways on his feet for a moment, before regaining his sense of balance. Martin nods in understanding, and Daisy starts to walk him out of the building.

When he returns to his flat once again, he has to choke down a cry of surprise in order to not alert Daisy that anything may be wrong.

A hand placed on his shoulder tells him his hesitation gave it away anyway. He brushes her off, slamming the door behind him before she can see inside. Too many questions that can't be answered right now.

"You're back, then?" he asks with a heavy sigh, collapsing onto the other side of the couch. Tim shifts closer hesitantly, heat radiating off of him in waves.

"I changed my mind. What all did you tell them?" he asks, resting his head in the palm of one of his hands.

"Nothing. I overheard Martin say he saw me chasing Prentiss into Artefact Storage but nothing about you. She had me— I was in there for a week?"

Tim nods, going to place a hand on his arm to comfort him, but thinks better of it.

"Can you— now that you're not angry, could you, uh, could—"

His hand makes contact with Jon's sleeve, but it doesn't burn, and cools even more so slightly with his sigh of relief. Jon basically tackles him in a hug, and for a second he fears he's accidentally hurt him again, but soon realizes the shaking and the tears weren't out of pain.

"I missed you."

Chapter Text

[CLICK]

[A WRITHING SOUND IS HEARD IN THE BACKGROUND.]

JON

(threateningly) I've got you.

PRENTISS

Oh, have you now?

[WORMS WRITHE MORE AGGRESSIVELY.]

JON

I have.

[EXTINGUISHER SPRAYS THREATENINGLY.]

PRENTISS

I will rip that dreadful thing—

[HER SPEECH IS CUT OFF BY THE FIRE ALARM BLARING.]

JON

(taunting) What was that?

[SHE SCREAMS IN RAGE. MUFFLED SOUNDS OF WORM VIOLENCE.]

TIM

(muffled by door) Jon?

[JON YELLS. A DOOR SLAMS OPEN.]

Oh, Christ.

[EXTINGUISHER SPRAYS.]

TIM

I think we're safe here.

[SILENCE]

Jon, I know—

JON

(tersely) Why now?

TIM

I don't– I don't know. It just felt like the right thing, like– like I could help.

JON

(slightly angrier) And you couldn't help before?

TIM

I already told you why.

[JON SIGHS HEAVILY.]

(sternly) Don't. Do that.

JON

(pointedly) Do what?

TIM

Look… I'm sorry, ok? I just didn't want to hurt you—

JON

Well, you did.

TIM

[HE GROANS FRUSTRATEDLY.]

Look, Jon, let me—

[SOMETHING CATCHES ALIGHT. JON YELPS.]

Sorry! Sorry—

JON

Can we please just—

[A CREAKING DOOR FOLLOWED BY STATIC.]

HELEN

Do I need to take you two to couple's therapy?

[THEY BOTH YELL IN SURPRISE.]

TIM

Who—

JON

(overlapping) What—

HELEN

Does it matter? I'm offering you two a way out.

TIM

I can find my own, thank you.

HELEN

Very well then. And you?

JON

I— These tunnels, I don't trust them. I- I may—

TIM

[HE SIGHS.]

Go ahead, go with the creepy noodle lady and maybe get lost forever, but if you die I'll be pissed.

JON

[HE HESITATES.]

I'll— See you at the flat?

TIM

I still don't have it under control, obviously, I'm not coming back yet…

I'll keep you updated this time, though.

[JON HUFFS.]

HELEN

Clock is ticking.

[WORM WRITHING GROWS LOUDER.]

[CLICK]

[CLICK]

ARCHIVIST

— I- I- I don't– I don't know! It was just left on my desk.

SASHA

Maybe Helen left it?

ARCHIVIST

I don't think Tim would risk coming back yet. And Jon…

SASHA

It's so weird, hearing him like that. It's… it's just not him.

ARCHIVIST

If it was Helen, maybe she was trying to—

[A CRASH. ANOTHER RECORDER CLICKS ON.]

ARCHIVIST (RECORDING)

— watched two men in overalls carry that same box out of my house, load it up, and drive away. That was about two months ago, and it was the last time I saw them, the table, Adelard Dekker, or the thing that wasn’t my cousin.

My—

[OTHER RECORDER CLICKS OFF.]

SASHA

What was that?

ARCHIVIST

That was– that was a statement about this man's cousin being replaced by- by something– that no one else knew.

SASHA

That's… incredibly creepy. 

ARCHIVIST

Do you– do you think it could be…

SASHA

(incredulous) Are you suggesting Jon was replaced?

ARCHIVIST

I don't– I don't know, maybe! Maybe that's what Helen was trying to tell me about—

SASHA

What did she say specifically?

ARCHIVIST

That- that Jon had an "infection" and uh, I would somehow know what to do about it?

[SASHA HUMS THOUGHTFULLY.]

Look I know– I know it's crazy but it—

SASHA

— could be more than coincidence.

We should keep an eye on him and look deeper into this before we… try anything.

ARCHIVIST

No, no, you're right…

[CLICK]

Martin is immediately set on edge as he enters the archives to hear snoring. Carefully making his way around, he finds the source in the area of the assistants' desks; Jon's upper body draped ungracefully over his, dead asleep, almost sliding out of the chair.

Briefly, the image of the web table sitting in Storage flashes into his mind, but he pushes it down as he goes to gently shake Jon awake. Nearly falling out of his chair as he jumps, Jon looks at Martin with eyes more tired than he's ever seen them.

"Have you been here all night?" Martin asks gently.

Jon blinks a bit, still trying to adjust to being awake.

"Yes… I have," he answers slowly; His voice drops a bit with sleep. 

"You should… maybe you should go home for the day?" Martin offers, and Jon musters the nastiest glare he can give through the grog.

"I… can't," and before Martin can get a word in, "it burned down." Martin stops in stunned silence, briefly considering offering Jon his flat before stopping himself dead.

"I'm- I'm sorry to hear that. I, uh, would offer you to stay with me but, uh, there's- there's not much room even for me—"

"It's fine, Martin, I can figure it out myself." There's an unusual bite behind it, but Martin decides to ignore it, and leaves to his office with a nod.

Later, he calls Sasha into his office.

"I know you think I'm being- that I'm way too paranoid about all of this, but," he begins, before collecting himself, "did Jon's flat really burn down?" he asks in a hushed tone.

Sasha nods, letting out a heavy sigh.

"He didn't explain, but he did show me pictures. I have a pretty good idea, though."

"Do you think, maybe- maybe they're working together?"

Sasha looks at him quizzically, head tilted slightly. "To do what?"

"Something evil? I don't know, after everything we learned about the fears I just- I just figured being under the control of one makes you automatically evil?"

"So we are too, then?" she points out, not unkindly.

"You're right, you're right," Martin concedes. "Just concerned, is all." 

Honestly, he still wasn't entirely convinced. He just felt that something was very wrong and he only needed to do a little more digging to find out. It wouldn't hurt anyone if he did it right… right?

"Your weird boss tried to get me to join you all," Melanie mentions, picking at her nails.

"The one in jail or his stand-in?" Sasha questions.

"Stand-in… on behalf of the one in jail," Melanie clarifies. 

They're sat opposite each other outside a small café, sipping casually at their drinks and delaying the inevitable. Sasha knows Melanie called her for a reason, but not knowing exactly what makes her stomach twist in ways that make her want to just try and get the answer out of her now. She also knows, however, that Melanie only stalls when it's something big, something that needs time to build up to.

"I'm assuming you said no."

"Honestly, I considered it for a second, but ultimately politely declined. Gave me this weird smile and said to call HR if I changed my mind," she admits.

Sasha only hums in response, idly tracing the rim of her cup with a finger. She was trying not to be impatient; she really was, but the thought that something she didn't know something that she could if she would just ask already…

Melanie shoots her a look, as if reading her mind, and gives a dramatic sigh.

"Fine, if you really must know," she pauses with a bit of a cheeky grin, but her tone sours, "Jon reached out to me."

Sasha's a little taken aback, though given he'd fallen off the map after his flat burned down a while and he stopped showing up for work that wasn't exactly unexpected.

Before the words can leave her mouth to ask, Melanie continues.

"Our friend Georgie took the both of them in after their little incident, and he wanted to ask me about—" she gets a bit of a guilty look on her face and reconsiders her words, "— about something I know quite a bit about, doesn't matter, I just figured you should know he's alive and safe right now."

Sasha feels the now familiar thrall to know more, to push, and can't push back fast enough for the words to leave her lips.

"What did he ask about?" Melanie's mouth pulls taut, and for a moment she's silent; Sasha's breath catches in her throat.

"I—"

"Don't you start that, too," Melanie says quietly.

"Sorry," Sasha says, swallowing the excuses and bile rushing up her throat. Melanie sighs, texting someone in her lap, and turns back to Sasha when it buzzes in reply.

"He said it's fine if you know; if you actually want to, that is," Melanie says, looking slightly less uncomfortable but still uneasy. Sasha pushes back against the urge creeping up her spine, and shakes her head.

"It's his business," she states through gritted teeth, and the feeling trickles out like a flame deprived of oxygen. She doesn't miss the shine of approval behind Melanie's eyes as she nods solemnly.

"I'm so tired of talking to men all day, tell me more about that cute girl you met," Melanie groans, leaning in conspiratorially.

In the dead of night, Martin sneaks back onto Institute grounds, and heads immediately for the Archives. He leaves behind very little light in his wake, relying mostly on memory or his torch to get around, not to say that he was necessarily doing anything illicit. Unlocking his office, he delves quickly into his task, reorganizing and compiling all the Stranger statements. When he first began working in the Archives, he and the others thought that Gertrude's system of organization was completely nonsensical, but he soon realized there was a pattern, and he quickly had to set to rectifying the traditional organizing they'd done up to that point. 

By the time the sun began to filter under the door to the Archives, Martin was so worn out from reading and writing his own notes that the knock that comes at his office door causes multiple files stacked in his lap to slide helplessly to the floor. Who accompanies it, however, makes Martin go pale.

"Good morning," Elias greets with a wicked smile from the doorway.