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From where Sasha is sitting, she can just see through the thin, dirty window that stripes down the centre of the staff room door. There are stickers accumulating along its starboard side: a yellow biohazard warning stolen from Artefact Storage; colourful Pride memorabilia from a building society she doubts cares for the cause beyond June; the logo of the band Tim has been trying to get her into for years. She catalogues each one again, slowly, before looking through the slice of a window to where Martin is standing near the fridge, having a panic attack.
She wonders if he knows it isn’t quite a hiding place, that lonely gap between the fridge and the door. The staff room is not especially ergonomic, trying to be too many things at once, and because of this, there are bizarre breaks between appliances and furniture, spaces too awkward to be filled but large enough to linger in.
Martin lingers.
At first, she worried he’d seen something—a silver worm, burrowing into the bin or even the moulding countertop—or was already assessing this corner as a space that might be suited to a fire extinguisher. He was so calm when she arrived, even though it was six in the morning and her coat was stained with blood. He didn’t look like he’d been asleep, although he had been on edge. Expecting someone. Not her, though. Still, he’d taken it in his stride, wrapped her in one of the blankets they’d equipped the spare room with and led her to the chair in Jon’s office while he made calls. Tim first, then Jon. He spoke calmly to them both, only flinching when Jon snapped about how “there had better be a good reason for this, Martin” before Martin had a chance to explain. Listening to Martin then, she knew he hadn’t been asleep. His voice was lacking that rusty disuse, the weariness from being woken up. He sounded tired, but not that his rest had been disturbed. She wondered if he had been talking to himself in the night when it was silent in the Archives and no one else was around.
And then Jon had arrived. He looked unimpressed but otherwise deliberately neutral when Martin explained that he knew where the first aid kit was in Jon’s drawer, that he had already opened it and helped Sasha with her wound. Tim arrived and made a fuss and went to get coffee because Jon was irritated by his constant pacing and hovering. Martin disappeared. Sasha gave her statement.
Somehow, she ended up back in the open plan office, slumped at her own desk while Tim texts her from the Pret down the road and Jon searches endlessly for Jane Prentiss’s statement and Martin has a panic attack in the break room.
She should have intervened earlier. Intervened when he went to make her a cup of tea, but she had been too tired and disorientated to remind him she preferred coffee, that Tim was already on that particular mission. Intervened when the kettle boiled and popped and Martin went to get the milk from the fridge and something made him stop. A collapse of the calm he had gifted her, perhaps. One moment of intense, stubborn, heart-breaking resilience too much. She watches him breathe too fast. He’s right in front of the door; if someone opens it, they will open it into him. She thinks, I need to get up. I need to help. But she is just too tired.
Her phone buzzes. She manages to pull her eyes away, although the tiny motion disorientates her, and when she gets her bearings—she’s forgotten about Tim. There’s a prickling at the back of her neck, like the sensation of being watched, and she just has time to think not again before she is thrown off track by the arrival of Elias.
At least it’s not Michael this time. Although, to be honest, that thought is not as comforting as she expects.
“Sasha,” Elias says, his voice infused with a concern that makes her skin itch, “Jon informed me you were injured?”
Sasha forces a smile. “Thank you, Elias. For your concern. But it’s nothing serious. Really, I’ll be fine, Tim is actually out right now getting me some—”
“Coffee, yes. You’ll be needing it after such a long night.”
Her inhibitions are lower. She doesn’t have the energy to pick apart this conversation, to remember again and again that she is talking to her boss’s boss. She squints at him. “I, um—how did you—?”
“An assumption. Based on what Jon wrote in his email. You recall me mentioning that he had emailed about your unfortunate encounter?”
“Y-yes?” she replies, but she’s not sure she remembers.
“I came down here to speak to Martin, as a matter of fact, but it’s a good job I ran into you,” Elias continues jovially, “Why don’t you take a few days off? I’m sure you could use some rest and relaxation,”
“Jon already offered…”
“How generous of him.”
“But I—I’m not sure I need—”
“The Archives will be quite alright without you, Sasha,” Elias tells her with an odd smile, “Quite alright indeed.”
Sasha doesn’t say anything. Her head is spinning. She wants Tim to come back right now and diffuse the oddness of this situation with his bulldozer workplace humour.
“Now, would you happen to know where Martin actually is?”
The realisation comes, blessedly, with a moment of razor clarity: Martin. Elias is obscuring her limited vision through the staff room door, but Martin hasn’t left yet. The certainty that Elias knows this, somehow, grips her like a hand around the throat. He smiles placidly at her, but there is something cutting in his eyes, something that knows far too much.
“Nothing untoward, of course,” Elias adds, “But he has been going through a rather rough time lately and I wanted to check in with him. Jon has asked me to replace the fire suppressant system with CO2 in case of any future worm infestations. I thought that might also put Martin’s mind at ease somewhat. You know what he’s like.”
Sasha forces herself to meet Elias’s eyes. To not look over his shoulder, to give him any reason to even glance into the staff room. “He’s with Tim.”
Elias’s smile twitches. “Is that so? I could have sworn I saw him down here only a moment ago.”
Sasha continues to look him in the eye. She knows that the only way to look through the staff room door, the only way to catch a glimpse of Martin, would be from her desk chair, from the exact angle she had been sitting in. She had tested this. She used this particular trick when Jon was trying to hide from them all but she needed to ask him something.
Elias hasn’t seen Martin. And yet. It snags at her mind, her logic, that subconscious but vivid sense of wrongness.
“He’s not here,” Sasha says, “But you could tell me how the CO2 system works. In case one of us needs to activate it.”
Elias’s smile falls a fraction. “Another time, perhaps.”
“Another time,” Sasha echoes, trying to hold this as a promise in her mind. She feels like she needs to know. She understands now, the way Martin has sharpened himself in anticipation of an unavoidable future. He is not different, but he is not the same. None of us will be, she thinks. And it scares her how naturally that thought comes, as if from somewhere deep and unknown that she would not be able to conjure on demand.
“I’ll leave you to recover,” Elias says with false grace, “Take all the time you need.”
Sasha summons an insincere smile and hopes he doesn’t realise how desperately she wants him to leave. He turns and walks from the Archives without a glance in the direction of the staff room, but Sasha gets that same impression that he knows Martin is in there. Knows why Martin is in there.
She wraps her hand around the desk and uses it to leverage herself up. But the change in elevation is immediately a bad idea, and her wheely chair has a mind of its own, spinning away before she can throw herself back into it. She stumbles, spots cartwheeling across her vision, and she thinks she is about to fall when a hand closes around her elbow.
“Whoa, steady there, Sash,” Tim murmurs. He slides the coffee holder carelessly onto her desk and puts his other arm around her, steadying her further. “You okay?”
“Tim,” Sasha says, still dizzy, “You’ve played poker, right?”
Tim huffs a small, confused laugh. “Let’s get you sitting down again.”
By the time he’s herded her chair back to the desk, still with one hand holding her steady, Sasha’s vision has cleared. She sinks gratefully back into the chair and grapples for the coffee holder, dragging it across the desk. There are four takeaway cups. She has no idea which one is hers. She wants to drop her head against the desk and sleep.
Tim crouches beside her chair, one hand soft against her forearm and the other shifting nervously at his side. He looks up at her, earnest and worried. “How are you feeling?”
“I’m fine,” she says.
“Sasha.”
“Poker. I need to ask you something about poker.”
“I’ll tell you all about poker once you’ve—”
“No, tell me now,” Sasha insists, “While I remember.”
“Alright, alright. What do you want to know?”
“Tell me what people look like when they’ve shown their hand too early. You know, when they’ve—they’re winning but they’ve just told everyone they’re winning.”
“I mean, I just used to play in my college’s basement. And the others were all set on spending daddy’s money, so it wasn’t like anyone really cared if they gave the game away.”
Sasha groans. She brings her hand to her face, rubbing at her eyes, which feel heavy and sore. “Tim, just… humour me.”
“They looked smug, but…” Tim thinks for a moment, his thumb brushing against the inside of her wrist. “Still smug, that’s a hard foundation to shake, but like for the first time in their life someone’s seeing through them. Is that—was that what you needed to hear?”
Sasha drops her hand and smiles tiredly at him. “Yeah. I’ll… I can try and explain, but…”
“Later, yeah?”
Sasha sighs gratefully. “Later.”
Through the door, Sasha sees Martin trying to steady himself. Deeper breaths, shaking out his hands to dispel some of their trembling. He tips his head back for a moment, squeezes his eyes shut and seems to try forcefully summoning some semblance of calm.
“This one’s yours,” Tim says, placing one of the coffees in front of her, “I got the barrister to put extra caramel in there for you.”
“How sweet. When’s the wedding?”
“Psh,” Tim says with a flick of his hair, but there is a seriousness in his eyes that doesn’t match his words when he continues, “I have eyes only for you, my dear. And oh, would you look at that? I’m already on one knee! Sasha James, will you do me the honour—?”
Sasha rolls her eyes. “Get up.”
“As you wish.” Tim winks before he stands.
“Can you go and check on Martin?”
“But I’m currently in the process of checking on you.”
“I’m fine. Martin’s having a panic attack in the staff room.”
Tim whips around before Sasha can tell him to be subtle about it, but it’s not like he can see through the door at his angle. “Oh, shit.”
Sasha leans slightly in her chair. Martin is no longer in view. He must have moved away from the door, which is good. Tim won’t crush him when he opens it. “Go now or he’ll open the new milk for no reason.”
“Oh, god, not the new milk,” Tim gasps.
“Tim.”
“Look, I’ve—we spoke the other day. About the panic attacks. He says he prefers to be alone for a bit, afterwards.”
“Do you think that’s true?”
“I don’t know,” Tim replies with a small, almost imperceptible flinch, “But Sash, you’re still covered in blood. Can I—will you let me check if you need stitches, at least?”
“Martin already looked at it,” Sasha replies, her tongue loosened by exhaustion and blood loss, “Did a pretty good job considering he never actually completed his first aid training.”
Tim smiles, half fond, half admonishing. “I am not letting you near Jon right now. There are some things he really doesn’t need to know.”
“Jon asks me to ‘free up’ official records and whatnot. It’s not like he doesn’t know,” Sasha replies. But she pauses for a moment, defensiveness eclipsed by guilt. “That one was accidental, though.”
“Finding out or letting it slip?”
“Both?” Sasha tries. Tim looks dubious.
“Right,” Tim announces, moving on, “Can I go all nurse Stoker yet?”
“Fine. But you’re checking on Martin afterwards. Promise me.”
“I promise.”
Sasha eases off her coat again. The grey wool is stained and she is sure no amount of dry cleaning will get it out, besides the fact that she doesn’t want to weather the awkwardness and anxiety of having to explain it to them. Michael’s hands—talons?—had ripped a neat but gaping hole in the shoulder and sewing has never been her strong point. She could ask Tim to do it, she supposes. But it looks like a lost cause where it droops to the floor beneath her desk and comes to a mournful, final rest.
“I liked that coat,” she sighs.
“I’ll get you a new one,” Tim murmurs distractedly, now fully focused on his task, “Anything for you.”
Sasha grits her teeth as Tim carefully peels away the gauze Martin had applied earlier to inspect the wound beneath. She can feel the wound is clean, almost surgical. It throbs in a similar way to the incision on her lower back when she’d had a mole removed a few years ago, although there was no anaesthetic this time, no warning. Behind her, she hears Tim inhale sharply when the entire gash comes into view.
“That looks deep,” Tim says sympathetically.
“It’ll be fine.”
“I think you need stitches.”
“I don’t need stiches, Tim.”
“To be fair, Sasha, you can’t see it. I can take a picture or something. It’s deep. And it can’t hurt to check, can it? Just in case.” Tim pauses, taking a trembling breath. “Humour me.”
“You know I don’t like needles,” Sasha mutters.
“I know.” Tim’s voice is so warm, so reassuring.
“I really don’t like needles.”
“I’ll hold your hand.”
“What about Martin?”
“He can come with us.”
“He doesn’t like hospitals.”
“Do I want to know how you know that?”
Sasha glances at the door again. She still can’t see him. She wonders if he’s okay. If he has forced himself to go back to making tea, if he is composing himself so they won’t ask when he steps back into the office. “I was watching Gray’s Anatomy the other day on my break. I asked if he wanted to join me since he was looking sort of lonely, but he said he could never get into those kinds of shows, never liked anything to do with hospitals. I mean, I kind of had to force it out of him. I think he would have sat and watched it just to avoid offending me otherwise.”
Sasha knows from Tim’s silence that he knows something she doesn’t. She forces herself not to push.
The staff room door creaks open in a way only Martin can seem to manage—so quiet, so deliberately quiet they wouldn’t hear if they weren’t listening. Martin himself steps out, looking washed out and red-eyed. He doesn’t look like he’s been crying, but he does look like he’s rubbed at his eyes, scratched slightly at his cheeks. He musters a small, shaking smile for them both, a cup of tea in each hand. The surface of the tea ripples with the lingering motion of Martin’s hands.
“Hey, guys,” Martin says quietly, “Oh, Tim, I didn’t realise you—I didn’t make—but you can have this one. It’s got sugar in it. But I know you don’t mind sugar sometimes. Although it’s the mug with the—”
Tim moves around the desk so he’s hiding the coffee cups behind him. “Oh, no, you keep it, mate. It’s your tea. And you look like you could do with the caffeine.”
“Yeah, I need to get on with some follow-ups or Jon won’t exactly be happy with me.” Martin’s smile is still wan, still too small. “And I don’t want to fall asleep at my desk again,” he adds with false cheer.
“Didn’t Jon tell you?” Tim says cheerfully. Sasha marvels, for a moment, at his ease. She knows he is good at this—at seeming happy even when he is not—but her heart hurts at the ways life has forced Tim to lie. “We’ve got the rest of the day off.”
Martin frowns. The smile falls away quickly, as if grateful for the excuse. “We do?”
“Yeah. It’s a workplace rule.”
“About?” Martin says, dragging the word out in nervous curiosity.
“Traumatic events,” Tim replies seamlessly, “I’ll get you the employee handbook if you—”
“As long as we don’t get in trouble.” A humourless laugh from Martin. “As long as we don’t get in trouble, I’ll take it.”
“Why don’t you go and rest a bit? I know you had an early start with all the commotion this morning.” Tim gives Martin a gentle, encouraging smile. Sasha can only see it in profile, but she knows it well enough herself to grasp the full picture. “I’m going to take Sasha to A&E just in case she needs stiches, okay?”
“Oh.” Martin’s lips tremble almost imperceptibly. “Oh, Sasha, I—I didn’t know—I thought maybe it—I’m sorry. I really should have checked better, I—”
“Oh, Martin, no. No,” Sasha interrupts, as gently as she can, trying to mirror Tim’s calm, “You did a great job. Tim’s just being a mother hen.”
“You know me,” Tim adds merrily.
Martin looks even paler with guilt. “I can come with you. If you need someone to—I can tell the doctor about the first aid earlier if they need to know the details—”
“I’ll be fine, Martin,” Sasha tells him, “And Tim’s right. Go and sit down, at the very least. I woke you up far too early this morning.”
Martin looks almost like the words Sasha is thinking are on the tip of his tongue: I wasn’t asleep. But he offers another blank smile, a valiant attempt, but there is something deeply sad and guilty around his eyes. “Keep me updated?”
Sasha smiles. “Of course.”
“How about I come and let you know when we’re leaving? I need to let Jon know before we go, anyway, and Sasha’s not in a rush to go near any needles,” Tim offers.
Sasha wishes her desk wasn’t enclosed so she could kick Tim. Martin just nods and begins walking away, almost ghost-like, still holding both cups of tea as if he doesn’t know he is in possession of them. Sasha wonders when he will notice. If he will punish himself for it in some hidden, devastating way.
Like refusing to sleep under the guise of keeping watch.
“God,” Sasha murmurs, “I really—I feel awful.”
Tim watches the shadowed hallway Martin disappeared through. “I’ll talk to him. And you have nothing to feel bad about. You couldn’t help waking him up and it’s not like you were feeling—”
“It’s not that.” Sasha chews at her lip. She almost doesn’t want to tell him, even though she knows he won’t judge her. That almost makes it worse—that she shouldn’t be forgiven, but she will be if she speaks it aloud. “I was—I kept trying to make it logical in my mind. Jane Prentiss, the worms, Martin’s encounter. I realise now I was just trying to make myself feel better, but I kept telling myself that if she was really a serious threat, Martin would be dead. But, Tim, he’s—he’s far more resilient than any of us give him credit for, and I’ve been a complete—”
“Sasha,” Tim whispers, brushing his fingers against her knuckles where she’s clenching the desk again, “I understand. I do.”
“I guess I’m just a bit shaken by it all.”
“I know. We all are. But it’s going to be alright. I’m going to do everything in my power to make it alright.”
Sasha meets his determined gaze. “Me too.”
“Right, I’ll text Jon and tell him where we’re going. He’ll be elbow deep in statements somewhere and very grumpy if I interrupt.”
Sasha musters a weak laugh. “Don’t be mean. He was nice to me. I think he was worried.”
“Jonathan Sims? Worried?”
“Tim.”
“No,” Tim assents with an apologetic smile, “To be fair, it’s been a stressful few months. I know he cares. I just wish…”
“He’d show it a bit more?”
“Yeah. Just a bit.”
Sasha sighs. She gives Tim a weak push. “Please go and check on Martin. Don’t make me ask again.”
“Okay, okay, but…” Tim smiles, almost shy. “Can I kiss you?”
Sasha taps her forehead, just once. It’s a familiar, well-worn routine by now. Tim lowers his lips to her hairline, places a gentle kiss where she indicated and then moves away from her desk. He smiles, a genuine, real smile—nothing behind or beneath it. Uncomplicated, complete. She returns it.
“I’ll be back,” Tim warms in an overly-dramatic voice as he hurries away to check on Martin.
Sasha sits alone at her desk and thinks, incongruously, about fire extinguishers.
When the Archives are under attack, when Jane Prentiss roams hissing and writhing through the rooms and halls where she used to laugh with people she no longer knows are alive, Sasha doesn’t go to Elias.
When she finds the fire suppressant system, when it takes her nearly ten minutes to work out the wiring and the code and the mechanism, she is almost sick with the fear that she is too late.
When she finds out she was right on time, she weeps.
And when she looks at Jon and Tim’s scars, when she notices the shadows beneath Martin’s eyes, when she faces down her own nightmares about a siege that could have been so much worse and yet wrought so much damage, she still cannot help but think she dodged a bullet.
It’s a stranger of a feeling. The certainty of it is new and unsettling. But it doesn’t leave her, this sense that she escaped something intended for her. She cries with fear when she hears fire alarms, close or far, and finds herself intensely, unexplainably grateful.