Archive of Our Own

There are certain things one can’t get in sleepy Scottish villages in the middle of nowhere.

Cough drops that will actually affect Martin’s newly active subvocals, for example.

Jon may not quite see what the problem is, given that he’s not the one chattering hi, hello, love you, love you, love you every five minutes or so, though he certainly tries his best to keep up with his reciprocal rumbles of hello, I’m here, love you, love you, love you .

But eventually all that strain adds up, and licorice tea with honey can only do so much when Martin’s chest is starting to feel like a squeaky toy caught in a grinder.

After London, it’s almost a bit of a shock to live somewhere where the nearest Boots or Superdrug is more than ten minutes away.

As it happens, the nearest Boots is actually forty five minutes away by car, in Aberdeen.

They wake up at an ungodly hour in the morning to make the drive in. They joke it’s because Elias never came in to work before eleven, and that this way he’ll still be asleep and won’t know they’ve been and gone until hours after the fact.

Neither of them say anything about getting in and out early enough hopefully means what few souls will be there will be unlikely to have any statements to take.

To make the journey more worthwhile, Basira’s sent them some statements to pick up at a post office in the city as well. This way, there won’t be a paper trail leading straight to the safehouse for anyone who decides to try and track Jon down that way, and Martin has the excuse to go to town regularly with him to pick up more of what he needs.

Not that he needs an excuse to go anywhere with Jon.

His subvoice is determined to let everyone and everything within earshot know that.

They agree to split up for each of their errands, like every horror movie cliche ever. This way they can get both tasks finished and go home faster, and Martin won’t embarrass himself in front of an entire shop full of people by singing about how much he loves Jon and what an amazing and virile lover his (boyfriend? partner? husband?) his Jon is.

That was the plan anyway.

Did you know Aberdeen is a coastal city? That it usually dawns gloomy and grey? That sometimes fog from the sea comes up through the streets and makes even the early morning bustle feel like walking through a throng of ghosts, unless you pay attention, grasp onto every detail of life and noise that you can?

Martin didn’t.

And now he’s frozen at the door to the Boots, staring out at the misty morning streets as though Jon will materialize with the car if he only looks hard enough. Pretending that there aren’t irritated little chuffs from other customers behind him, waiting for him to leave the light and safety of the store.

One older woman gets impatient and barges through him to leave, push-pulling him along with her, and then he’s in the grey fog and can smell the brine on the air and feels his subvocals freezing up on instinct despite how desperately he doesn’t want them to now, it took him so long to get them back, he can’t lose them again, he can’t lose Jon again, he can’t—

hello? Anyone? Hello? I’m alone. I’m hurt and I’m alone.

Martin’s head snaps up.

None of the bleary-eyed commuters or salarymen seem to acknowledge the call, all of them sleepily shuffling around Martin to get to their destinations. From how some cock their heads to the side or hitch their shoulders, they do hear it. They just shake themselves and keep on their way, like it’s just a remnant of a dream lingering on waking.

But it is real—Martin can feel his subvoice perking up again in response to the soft cries, primed to reassure and nurture what sounds like a very young O-Type in distress. Perhaps a child who’s gotten lost from their parents? Or one whose call their parents refuse to answer?

“Stop it,” He tells himself sternly. Not every parent is like his mum, and not every child who subvocalizes like this is going through what he went through.

Keep it together, Martin K. Blackwood. Stay here. Stay now.

Still, he finds his feet taking himself towards the source of the calls, almost without him realizing. Surely this won’t take long— he’ll find out what’s happening, and if it’s a lost kid he can help, he’ll lead them to the nearest police station. If not, no skin off his nose.

Anything to keep him in the here and now and not going back— there.

It continues, quiet and nearly indistinct under the bustle of the city waking up. I’m sad. It hurts and I’m alone. Please, someone? Anyone? Please. I’m here. I’m scared.

It doesn’t sound…quite right somehow. Both slightly too echoey and yet…muffled.

He follows it still, walking through leftover puddles and avoiding splashing from cars going too fast on the road for a minute or so until he ends up in front of a large white building that proclaims itself to be His Majesty’s Theater.

Martin did not survive three years at the Magnus Institute by going into buildings he knows other fears have a fondness for blind anymore.

He’s learned his lesson from Prentiss.

He decides to scope out the area outside first to see if the hypothetical child is around here somewhere before attempting to breach the theater, so if something does pop up he’ll have a much easier time getting away. Besides, the cries are too clear to come from inside a closed and locked building.

The alleyway closest to him seems to be empty. Just a bunch of boxes and theater detritus, remnants of sets and costumes and dummies thrown out into the street to rot.

Martin can’t quite help the shiver that creeps up his spine at the sight. He only ever met Breekon and Hope, hadn’t even really seen the Not-Sasha when she wasn’t…well, Sasha anymore. But that doesn’t mean he can forget Tim’s anguish, forget the statements, of mannequins that move or empty skins asking for cigarettes.

Come to think of it, that one was in Scotland, wasn’t it?

He takes a step back, and wonders if he should just go back to Jon and the car, forget whatever monster’s clearly trying to lure him to his doom.

Martin’s stupid subvocals clearly take a different message from all this, however.

Hello? I’m here. Are you okay? It’s not safe. Where are you?

A resonant ‘m here rings out, less muffled than before but still slightly indistinct.

A small head pops up behind some of the boxes. A pair of eyes blink, hazy and unfocused. The lower half of their face is covered by a pale blue medical mask of some kind, like what surgeons wear.

It’s a child.
It is very clearly a child even with the mask on, and not a small adult or adult-like mannequin like he was fearing. It has a mop of hair that’s dirty enough to be an indistinct color and a style that’s best described as “haystack”.

He thinks it’s older than eight, maybe? But at this point in his life, most children in a certain age range appear so small and baby-faced to him that it is a genuine struggle to place them in definitive age boxes, and this one looks particularly small besides.

Hollywood and its tendency to cast twenty-somethings as fifteen-to-seventeen year olds in their blockbusters have a lot to answer for this gap in his knowledge, he feels.

Martin trills instinctively. Hello? I’m here. Little one. Are you safe? Are you okay?

At the sound, the child’s brow furrows, an echoey involuntary whine of no! I’m sad, I’m scared, I wanna hug escaping them.

Then they seem to hear what they’re vocalizing, and blink again, eyes focusing on Martin.

He flashes a weak grin and gives a small wave. “Uh…hello?”

The child leaps back with a speed that’s uncanny, the grace of the maneuver only impeded by the fact that they trip the over discarded boxes they were apparently sleeping in.

They land in an undignified heap with a painful thud. 

He winces.

The child presses themselves flat against the wet and muddy ground where they’ve fallen, eyes wide and terrified as they fix on Martin, hands moving too fast in front of them to parse the shapes their fingers and palms are forming.

Help, back off, go away, help, danger, danger, I’m small but I’m fierce, I’ll hurt you, go away, not safe, I’ll bite—!

The frantic echoing subvocalizations cut off with a painful-sounding crack. The thin, reedy whimper that follows has him stepping forward despite himself.

“Easy, easy, I’m not— I don’t want to hurt you.” Martin says, holding his hands up as his tired subvoice hums out,  poor little one, it’s okay, it’s okay, don’t worry, calm down. All is well. Are you hurt? Where does it hurt?

The child shakes their head, brow furrowed in concentration and hands not slowing even as their legs scrabble uselessly against the tarmac. No, no, no, go away, not safe, not safe, no, bad, danger, I’ll hurt you, go, go, go, please go away.

A distant part of Martin wonders why the child hasn’t spoken a word to him yet. Why it hasn’t screamed for him to get away, for someone else to come help with the vocal cords that are actually designed to do so.

He has a feeling he won’t like the answer.

The Boots bag swings where it’s wrapped around Martin’s wrist, the bright pink of the cough drop bag visible through the white plastic.
The cough drops he bought to soothe his subvocals.

He crouches down so he can set the bag down and not have its contents go spilling everywhere as he tears the “pull here” tab of plastic off.

The child freezes as he gets closer to their level, a whimper of please no away dying in their chest.

They’re hardly dressed for the October chill, an ill-fitting, bleach-stained jumper pulled over a fraying turtleneck and patchy trousers that stop well above their ankles. It doesn’t look like they even have socks on under their too-big trainers, let alone gloves or a scarf.

(He and Jon wouldn’t ever let them or any hypothetical future children of theirs leave the house without making sure they were dressed snugly for the weather, but that’s really neither here nor there in the grand scheme of things, no matter how much his needy Type-O instincts insist otherwise.)

Martin reaches into the cough drop bag and fishes two out. “Um, these are cough drops. Special ones, for your subvoice. Because mine have been, ah… active lately. Would you like one? It-it sounds like you’re a little hoarse yourself.”

As if to prove his point, Martin’s chest lets out a rusty purr of safe, yucky but safe. Poor little thing, eat this, it’ll stop the hurt that’s just on the edge of uncomfortable.

He unwraps one of the cough drops and pops it into his mouth, wincing a little at the artificial taste that claims on the bag to be honey-lemon. Martin sighs as the beginnings of numbness soothe his subvocal apparatus in his chest. Yucky. Bleh. But feels nice. Safe!

The child is watching him with wary eyes, blinking as their hands gradually still. No hurt? I’m hurt. I’m sad. Make it stop?

He hums enthusiastically and holds up the other cough drop so they can see. “I won’t come closer, not if you don't want me to. Would you rather I-I just rolled it towards you, or maybe you could catch it?”

The child looks at the ground, hands fluttering up to tap too-thin fingers against their neck for a moment.

Then they bring their hands down and together in front of them, cheap plastic glow brackets around their wrists clicking as they cup them towards him.
Just like those poor little mites on the Give Water adverts that always get him choked up and crooning at the telly, much to Jon’s concerned amusement.

He has to stop thinking about that so he won’t get too overwhelmed to gently toss the cough drop with the right amount of force and aim, so he doesn’t accidentally hit them in the face with it.

He’s still a little too hard and high on the throw, but the child’s eyes track the projectile’s path and they lunge to snatch it out of the air with all the invisible speed of a frog’s tongue snagging a fly.

They proudly show off the lozenge cradled in their palms to him. Look! Look!

Martin can’t help the satisfied churring that this inspires. Yes, there we go! Good job! Very good little one.

The child wiggles from side to side, little chest puffing out as they pull open the wrapper on the cough drop. Yes, yes, I am good, I am—

Then they shake their head abruptly, a crackly whine slipping out behind the mask. No, no, bad, I’m bad, danger, scary, go away, not safe.

Martin doesn’t bother to hide the huff that tirade inspires. No, stop it, none of that. You’re not bad, you did well, very good. Eat up, go on.

It’s almost like dealing with a miniature, less snappy version of Jon.

He very determinedly tries not to get lost in the sweet familial daydream that thought invokes in his brain, and is only partially successful.

A low, pained whimpering is what breaks him out of it. The child is staring at the unwrapped cough drop, brows drawn together in distress as their chest lets out a confusing litany of no, don’t wanna, don’t wanna and have to, need to, and scary, bad, run away.

“Is…” Martin thinks about reaching out to them like his instincts are screaming to, but decides respecting personal space is probably the better part of valor in this case. “Is everything okay?”

The child looks up at him, then exhales shakily.

They reach up, slowly, very slowly, and pull one of the loops of the medical mask away from their ear.

Martin nearly swallows his cough drop.

“I thought you needed to be in Glasgow to have that type of grin,” part of his brain says, a little hysterically. At least this particular intrusive thought doesn't blurt itself out through his mouth or subvocals.

The closest analogy he can think of is a nutcracker, oddly enough.

A thin, dark seam curves from the edges of their mouth to under the cheekbones and down both sides of the neck. From what is now visible above the worn turtleneck that they’re wearing, the skin on either side of this line looks tender and slightly inflamed.

The other “grin” part of the initial Glasgow Grin impression comes from the fact that child’s mouth is curved in a toothy, manic smile that’s completely at odds with the rest of their dour expression. Their upper teeth seem normal enough, but the lower…

Well. It looks like someone’s carved indentations for teeth-like shapes into one block of wood. Or plastic.

His earlier fears about being lured into this alley by an agent of the Stranger suddenly seem much more plausible.

They open up a little to pop the cough drop inside, and then seem to struggle with pulling their lips down over their teeth, lower the edges of their mouth from the grinning rictus, a furrow in their brow forming as they try to contort their mouth into a position vaguely resembling neutrality.

Tears start to bead in the corners of their eyes from the force of it.

The child then notices Martin is still watching, and quickly pull the mask back on, eyes going down to stare at a puddle on the ground, like a chastened animal.

Bad. I’m bad. I’m sorry.

His subvoice croons without his conscious input. No. Not bad. Not bad. Good little one, poor little one, poor baby, does it hurt? Does it hurt?

And something in him breaks a little, seeing them blink back at him with wide, watery eyes and emit a wavery little hum of yes. it hurts. I'm scared. I hurt.

Then the child startles again, like they did when they woke up, and turns away from him.

He pretends he doesn’t see them swiping at their eyes with their sleeves.

Or hear the surprisingly loud sneeze that erupts from them after a few sniffles, leaving him startled and struggling not to giggle. They’re so tiny, even smaller than Jon, how can they make such a big noise?

The child (because Martin can’t not think of them as a child now, even if they are a doll or a puppet of the Stranger or what have you) pulls out a tattered backpack from the pile of boxes where it was sleeping.

There are the edges of an assortment of books peaking out of holes in the sides and bottom of the bag. Martin thinks he gets a glimpse of one with the title Beginner’s Guide to BSL in big, friendly letters as the child digs through the backpack’s compartments.

Finally, they seem to find what they’ve been looking for. They turn around with what looks like a cracked jam jar in hand, though the label’s long since been reduced to adhesive smear.

They struggle with the lid for a moment before it pops off. The child then puts the jar on the ground, nudging it towards Martin with one of their feet  while repeatedly lifting one of their palms towards their covered chin and lowering it slowly, almost as if blowing a kiss. Good, nice, kind, so kind, I’m sorry, thank you, thank you, thank you.

Martin leans forward carefully, just in case this is another case of the-apple-with-teeth-in-it.

There’s no human body parts, thank goodness.

What there are are about ten five pound notes and two twenties stuffed haphazardly together, pinned between a ridiculous number of pound coins and pennies. He thinks one of the pennies may actually be a bit of discolored gum.

It takes him a moment to work out what this is supposed to be.

“Wait…” He asks, looking between the jar and the child who’s started to tremble at his tone. “Are-are you trying to, what? To pay me, with all this? For a cough drop?”

They nod.

A noise of involuntary discontent grouses out of him, a mixture of well I never and but why?? and how dare at the implication his care is something that has to be paid back.

The child’s shoulders hunch, their hand freezing mid-movement and head ducking. Sorry, I’m sorry. Not enough, not enough, I know, I’m sorry—

“No, no, it’s not you , it’s just—keep it, you don’t need to-to pay me back for that. It’s just a cough drop. Not worth all this.” He backtracks, pushing the jam jar back towards them while trying to summon his most reassuring chirr. “Where did you even get this money anyway? Did you—did you rob a bank or something?”

The child narrows their eyes at him, a near-comical look of bewilderment and offense replacing their previous hangdog air.

They look between him and the paltry contents of the jar with a profound air of injured pride.

One of their hands curls around their money jar with a pouty little grumble of really? Really?? how dare. I could do better than this. Don’t be mean to me. I am small. How dare.

“Yes, yes, I’m sure you could make off with the crown jewels if you wanted to,” He says, warming to his subject with an indulgent chuckle. “What, did Orsinov run a side business as-as Fagin to pay for the circus? Is that where Dickens got the idea?”

There’s a quiet and shaky inhale.

The child is staring at Martin with a mounting look of horror.

They’ve gone eerily silent.

His smile drops off his face as they continue to stare. Hello? Little one? What’s wrong?

Very, very slowly, the child reaches for the backpack behind them, never taking their eyes off of him. Their elbow and wrist bend in such a way that makes Martin’s own joints tingle with a sense of wrong wrong wrong, their fingers feeling over the books before seizing onto and pulling out a battered legal pad and a worn-down stub of a pencil.

They flip through the pad, pages upon pages of writing flying past his eyes.

He thinks he catches glimpses of certain words repeated in a neat, rounded hand, words like “Brother” or “scare” or “remember”, but he can’t quite tell at the speed the paper flicks past his eyes until very few are left.

They set the nub of pencil against the clean page they’ve found and start to write, eyes flicking nervously from his face to the paper.

The child exhales shallowly as they finish writing and hold the pad up.

“Please don’t send me back to the Circus, I don’t know how you know about them and Nikola, but PLEASE don’t send me back there PLEASE.”

The noise that rips out of him is lower than he’d known he could make and wounded.

They’d though that he was—that he would—

NO.

“No. Oh God, no, no one’s—nobody is going back to the creepy evil mannequin circus.” He’s babbling, he knows he is, but he needs to convey this, needs to get how very against the idea he is across. “Not that anyone can go back there, given that Ti-Tim blew it all up, but, no. Orsinov’s dead, the rest of the circus too, and good riddance. Blown to hell, may it burn for eternity.”

Part of his head spares a moment to wonder about the reality of Hell and other metaphysics of that nature, considering they’ve got fourteen fear gods watching their every move.

The child is sitting very, very still. If not for the scratch of the pencil on cheap paper, Martin would doubt they were actually breathing.

…Actually, given how motionless they are, that might be a legitimate concern.

How long did Jon say he could hold his head underwater for now, again?

He almost doesn’t notice when the legal pad is held up for his inspection again.

“Dead?” They’ve written on the notepad. Their chest warbles with a soft, hopeful Gone?

Gone.  Martin hums back, subvocals only cracking slightly in the middle. “My friend, Tim, he, ah. He made sure they can’t hurt anybody ever again.”

He has to take a moment to blink his eyes back into dryness and swallow the frog in his throat. The noxious scent of brine feels like it’s clogging his nose.
I’m sad. I miss him. I miss him.

A soft, comforting chirring fills the alley, lessening the gathering fog.

I’m sorry. Thank you. I’m sorry.

They sit there in companionable quiet for a moment, while he gathers himself.

“So!” Martin claps his hands together, hoping the noise will disguise the lingering croak in his throat. “What’s your name, then? Only I’ve just been calling you ‘child’ in my head and, well. Seems a bit rude, really.”

The child ducks their head again, avoiding his hopeful gaze. Their subvocals have taken a decidedly downtrodden turn as their pencil moves over the paper again.

They hold out the legal pad.

“They called me the contortionist in Training and in the Circus but I hate that. I can’t remember my real name, or my family’s, or my birthday. I don’t even know if I’m a boy or a girl. They took all that stuff away from me when they took my voice I think.”

Then, underneath, in slightly smaller font.

”One boy I met after I ran away called me Benjamin for a bit. But then he got bored with it. I’m not sure if I am a Benjamin either.”

Martin nods, as though this makes perfect sense. He has to, to avoid freaking out about everything else written on that page. “Right. Lot of responsibility, being a Benjamin, I imagine. I’m just a Martin though, so I wouldn’t know. Martin K. Blackwood. I’m here with my hu—my bo—Jon. My Jon.” 

The child tilts their head to the side, as though mulling this information over.

They drag a hand up and down their jumper, and tentatively proffer it towards him, with a small trill of hello, hello, nice to meet you.

It’s a very small hand, and quite a cold one too. But the cold of a warmblooded person who’s been exposed to the elements far too long to be good for them, not the cold of bloodless and fleshless plastic or wood. 

Martin can’t help smiling back as he shakes it and lets out a answering trill of it’s very nice to meet you, hello, how are you?

Once released, they press the hand which shook his to the back of their neck, fingers tap-tap-tapping there as they let out a contented purr of Warm.

Poor baby, so cold, need warming up, taking care of. His subvocals coo. He has to fake a coughing fit to reign in the urge to offer a cup of tea, or maybe a hug. He doesn’t have the materials on hand to provide the former, and the latter might not be as welcomed as he suspects (hopes) it would be.

”Is there anything about yourself that you can remember?” He asks instead, because there is the small chance that this child has a family out there, looking for them, who could potentially be found through whatever negligble-seeming details are left in their head.

A family which would surely be overjoyed to learn that their child is alive, if a bit more seam-filled and flexible.

(He tries to ignore the grumbling of the overprotective Type-O inside him, which insists that if their former caretakers let this happen to them and then didn’t move Heaven and Earth to try and find their child again, then those caretakers must not be worthy enough to be trusted with their welfare. He knows it’s not a fair assessment, but try telling his instincts that.)

(Those instincts also insist that he and Jon would take much better care of them, and that Jon would be overjoyed to become the father of Martin’s children, despite his (Martin’s) many attempts to shove that intrusive thought into a box and push it to the very back of his mind where he won’t be plagued by it anymore.)

The child makes a considering sound, and puts the pencil back to paper, scribbling industriously.

Occasionally, they’ll flip back through some of the other pages on the notepad, scanning their previous writings until they chirrup an Aha! and go back to their new one.

Martin wonders absently if they regularly cross-reference information about themself, using past conversations they must have had through this medium.

They hold up the pad again, with an insistent little look! Look!

It’s somehow both more and less than Martin expected.

“I’m 12 years old. I used to be afraid of snakes, but not the Dark. I like animals, but I don’t think I’ve ever had a pet. I liked riding trains more than airplanes, but I’ve been on planes more. I have one little brother and I love him very very much, even if I can’t remember his name or face. His favorite flavor of ice cream was vanilla until he discovered mint chocolate chip. He’s allergic to cats. He’s scared of the Dark. He didn’t leave home with me, so he’s safe. I’m not very good at making friends because I always talked too much and said the wrong thing. I had two of them though, somehow. They left home with me, but I can’t remember what happened to them. I hope they got out.”

He exhales gently.

So he has a twelve year old avatar of the Stranger on his hands. One whose family may not even be situated in the U.K. if the airplane comment has the relevance he thinks it does. 

And given that the only memories they have left are centered on a brother who’s even younger than they are and two friends who’ve probably met some awful fate already rather than any trusted adults…

Poor baby. All alone. Poor baby.

The child gives a confused, inquisitive chirp.

Martin pastes on a smile that feels more like a grimace. “Nothing! It’s nothing much, really…just ah, do you have somewhere to go? Where you live? That isn’t— that isn’t outside, or in boxes, I mean. Where you can have a hot meal, and more cough drops.”

They shift uncomfortably, subvoice a nervous involuntary chatter. No. I’m alone. I’m scared. I’m—

The child presses one arm tightly against their chest with an irritated noise, muffling the subvocalizations as best they can. Their other hand is occupied with picking up the nub of pencil again.

The pad is abruptly deposited in his lap once they’ve finished their missive, and he has to take a moment to adjust his gaze to read the now cramped letters tapering off the end of the page.

“No I don’t but it’s okay. I’m pretty tough because I’m a monster, so I can survive without it. I scare people because of my face, so this is better. Safer. Thank you for worrying though.”

He raises an eyebrow, narrowly resisting the urge to scoff. “Surviving is not the same as living. Trust me, I’ve had the difference impressed upon me a lot by this point.”

Good lover. So kind and strong, takes care of me so well, love him, love him, love him! Martin’s subvocals take the chance to crow. Because he really should know by now that they cannot shut up when Jon is concerned, even when he’s just mentioned in polite conversation and isn’t even physically present.

The child blinks at him, nonplussed. 
He struggles with the urge to bury his face in his hands.

“Any-Anyway,” He stammers, trying to will the heat away from his cheeks. ”The point is you shouldn’t have to settle for surviving, or focus on making others comfortable at the expense of your health and safety, no matter how tough you are. Plus I’m not scared of you, and I’m people.”

The child shrugs, tapping the sides of their neck. You’re good, kind, nice, too kind. I’m scary, danger, scary.

Stop that. He huffs. “You’ll give me an overinflated ego at this rate. There’s nothing special about someone wanting to make you’re safe and not freezing to death. Which is all I’m trying to do, right now.”

He stands, brushes off his knees, and proffers a hand.

Their gaze flicks between him and it several times, as though they can’t quite believe it.

“Listen, I get the whole ‘not-wanting-to follow-a-strange-adult-home’ thing, and I won’t make you come, and you’ll of course be free to leave whenever you want.” Martin swallows down a small grumble of discontent at the idea of returning them to this cold, dank alley at any point. “But if you’d like a place to sleep for the night that isn’t outside, or a hot meal and a wash, you’re welcome to stay with us as long as you’d like.”

”And-and maybe we’ll all decide it won’t work, and we’d be better off going our separate ways or making other arrangements, but it’d be nice to at least try at first, right? So you don’t have to stay out here all the time. We have enough blankets that we can make up a bed for you on the couch or get around to clearing the spare room out, and there are lots of cows around. Very good, very fluffy cows.”

The child is staring at him again.
The naked longing in their eyes is nearly painful.

He flatters himself with thinking it’s for more than just the cows.

They pull their backpack closer to them and reach out one hand, making a grabby motion and a coo. Please gimme.

He doesn’t quite understand it for a moment. 
Then he realizes he’s effectively holding their notepad hostage, and returns it with a bashful huff of sorry.

They take it and turn it to the side to write in the margins.

”I don’t know how much you know about things like me, but I have to scare people at least once a fortnight or else I get really sick. Dying levels of sick. I can go to other places to do it easily, but it can take me a while to get back. Is that okay?”

His brow furrows. “Wh-what? How? How does that work?”

They shrug, hands raised and eyes wide and guileless. I dunno. No one tells me nothing.

For a brief moment, Martin considers the possibility they may have lucked out in some aspects, serving the Beholding. At least in being devoted to the fear god devoted to Knowing Everything, you’d have a decent chance of understanding how and why certain aspects worked the way they did.

Then he remembers that they had to work for Elias Bouchard, and that instantly outweighs any possible benefits that could ever come from the Eye.

Still. Only feeding once a fortnight? He can barely remember the days when one Statement a fortnight would sustain Jon.

(And that’s the rub, isn’t it? Because no matter how dangerous this little Stranger thinks they are, they are so far from the biggest fish in this metaphorical pond it’s mildly hilarious. Until very, very recently, Martin himself would lower the atmosphere by a few degrees whenever he walked into a room, both literally and figuratively, has helped beat back monstrosities of the Flesh, and was fully prepared to give himself over to the Lonely to stop the Extinction. Jon has swallowed a Dark Sun and climbed out of the Buried and the Vast, feeds on the stories of those who give them to him and haunts their nightmares, destroyed Peter Lukas on his own turf and pulled Martin out of the Lonely.)

(They are, in a way, the perfect couple to foster this little avatar. And that’s not just his instincts talking. He thinks.)

”We’ll make it work.” He says, subvocals humming, come little one, come on, home time now. “We’ve lived with worse. We’ll find a way to make this work.”

Their hand is still small and cold when it takes his.

And they’re very small, even standing up next to him, leaving him worried they’ll get knocked down if anyone larger than Jon bumps into them. It makes the tattered, bulky rucksack on their back look a bit ridiculous in comparison, like a snail’s shell or something.

But then they give his hand a little squeeze.

Warm, they hum, with something like awe.

Martin can’t quite contain the grin spreading across his face as he gently squeezes back. It is, isn’t it?

Their car is parked outside the Boots.

Well, that phrase might be a little bit of an exaggeration, given that the car is actually Daisy’s old beaten up mini Coop whose keys Basira had pressed into Jon’s hands alongside the keys to the safehouse and an envelope of cash, so it is strictly speaking not technically theirs. 

It’s also not so much parked as it is rammed half onto the pavement for pedestrians to scoot around with irritable looks right outside of the doors to the Boots.

The rear door opens easily when Martin tugs it, and the radio is playing some scottish equivalent of BBC Radio 4, which means the engine is running. There’s a huge, milk-crate sized box shoved into one of the seats in the back, with multiple forwarding stickers covering it, so this is likely Basira’s shipment of statements.

This hypothesis is confirmed when the child peels back the tape from the top of the box and pokes their head inside, only halting their curious exploration when Martin lets out a gentle no, stop that, we don’t do that.
They withdraw their hands with a guilty chirrup, but he’s only half paying attention to it. 

Because what there isn’t in the car is Jon.

The child makes a questioning, half-worried noise at him. What’s happening? What’s wrong? Danger?

Martin wets his lips, frantically scanning the passersby on the street, the patrons of the Boots. “I-I don’t know. L-listen, you just stay here, take the cough drops, guard the car. I’m going to go see—see if I can’t find Jon. I’m, I’m sure he’s around here somewhere, I—!”

”MARTIN!!”

Jon’s wiry body slams into him with all the force of a freight train, nearly winding him. His subvocals feel like they’re vibrating through Martin’s very bones, a litany of You’re here, you’re here, where were you, I couldn’t find you, I missed you, I was scared, so scared, don’t go, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you—

Martin curls around him on instinct, clutching him close and burying his nose where Jon’s neck and jaw meet, nuzzling against the waxy marks of the worm scars that encircle Jon’s scent glands, the strong scent a physical reminder that Jon’s here, he’s here with Martin, they’re both together. I’m here, I’m here, I’m here, I’m not going anywhere, I’m here I’m right here, where were you, I missed you, I’m here, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you—

Jon’s babbling fit to drown out his subvoice when he pulls back to smooth his thumbs over Martin’s cheeks, eyes drinking his face in desperately. “I was in the post office, and whenever I tried Seeing you, I just saw you standing outside here, but then I got Basira’s, and I noticed, you weren’t—you weren’t moving, weren’t even breathing, and I tried Looking harder and you just—just dissolved, I came as fast as I could, I was so scared, what happened to you, where did you—“

There’s the quiet rustle of paper behind Martin.

Jon freezes.

Then his eyes go more venomous than a snake and a furious snarl tears out of his chest. INTRUDER.

It even shocks Martin’s subvocals into quiet, until he hears the terrified whimper that follows.

“Jon, Jon, no, no, it’s okay—” Martin manages to catch his arm before Jon can get by him to—what? Mentally eviscerate a child in the middle of a bustling street? All is well, all is safe, no danger, no intruder, calm down please! I love you!

“Martin.” Jon says, voice surprisingly level despite the growls of intruder, danger, mine, don’t move, danger, I’ll tear you to shreds, get off, get away his subvocals have begun keeping up. “Why is there an avatar of the Stranger in the back of the car?”

The aforementioned avatar of the Stranger is now pressed as far up against the now-opened box of statements as they can go to escape Jon’s protective fury, one of the statements clutched so tightly in their hands it seems like it might rip.

They’ve gone silent again.

”Ah, well, funny story.” Martin says, gently shifting more between the two to act as a sort of buffer. “Jon, this is uh…name…pending? They haven’t actually decided on one yet, so I was just saying we could go over that baby names book Daisy has at the house together to find one, see if any stand out. Name…pending, this is Jon. My Jon. Remember, I told you about him?”

The child temporarily known as “Name Pending” nods hesitantly.

Their hands move very slowly, dropping the statement onto their knees, fingers going through shapes a bit too quickly to keep up as their hands move from in front of their chest to touching it, to their chin and back down again. Hello, hello, I am small but I’m fierce, I’m scary, but I will go away if you don’t hurt me. Please don’t hurt me.

Jon stares down at them, with the unsettling intensity that means he’s a few blinks away from going all Archivist on them.

At least the new growl of I’m watching you, no funny business he lets out is a little quieter than the ones his subvoice had been issuing.

Martin can’t quite help rolling his eyes and holding the hand that isn’t gently squeezing Jon’s elbow out behind him. The little avatar latches onto it slower than he would like, clearly still scared of upsetting the territorial Type-A they’ve managed to anger.
They squeeze his hand gently, for reassurance.

Jon’s growl ratchets up a notch. The child flinches with the tiniest frightened squeak.

I love you, now stop that. Stop scaring the baby. Martin’s subvoice scolds before he can reign it in.

That shuts them both up, at least.

Jon gawps at him, mouth hanging open.

He hasn’t twisted around to see what the little avatar looks like, but judging by the way their grip on his hand has gone tight and rigid, he reckons it’s probably a pretty good mirror.

”Ba—I— what? What??” Jon asks.

Then he makes the face he usually makes when he’s asked a question and the Beholding has decided to let him Know the answer.

It’s always looked to Martin like Jon’s in the middle of trying not to sneeze.

Jon’s face relaxes, then drops into an expression of exasperation that Martin has mentally dubbed Jon’s “Martin-stop-touching-weapons-of-mass-destruction” face, usually reserved for interactions with plastic explosives and other Fear powers. I love you so much, but… “Really, Martin? Really?”

”W-well I was hardly going to leave them alone on, on the street now, was I?” He blusters. “It’s not right. They’re only twelve, Jon.” 

Baby. Martin’s subvocals insist. Baby. My baby, our baby.

Danger baby. Jon’s subvocals reply, though it’s softening from the warning growls of before.

The child’s subvocals squeak out baby??? Where? Where is baby??

They’re eyeing his stomach with sudden trepidation, as if they expect a newborn to pop out from under his jumper.

Jon raises an eyebrow. “It’s you.”

The little avatar’s eyes widen in comical indignation, before narrowing as their little chest puffs out again. No! I’m big. I’m bad. Danger, scary, I’m scary. Lookit how scary I am.

“Of course.” Jon says, his other eyebrow joining his first as his subvocals rumble, Baby.

The child crosses their arms over their chest pointedly, grumbling. Don’t be mean to me. I am small. I am scary! Big meanie.

Martin can’t help an indulgent coo. Yes, yes you are small. So small, such a scary baby.

They shoot him a pitiful look that can only be called ‘betrayed’ and flop backwards onto the car seats with one arm thrown over their eyes for effect and an overdramatic whine. Bullied! I am being bullied! How dare. How dare. I am small. I have done nothing to deserve this. 

It is at this moment that the statement which was perched precariously on their knees suddenly gives in to the whims of gravity and topples off.

The little avatar lets out an alarmed sound that can only be called a squawk and rears back up to grab at it.

The stiff papers bounce off their scrabbling fingers, somehow flies back up into the air, and falls straight past their final desperate swipe for it.

The statement lands in the large puddle on the curb.

Jon swears and Martin lunges for it.

But even as he scoops up the sodden pages, he can tell it’s too late. Whoever transcribed this one had the poor idea to do so in some kind of fountain pen or something, and the words have all bled through into an illegible mess, the excess ink dripping off the page as he flaps the papers to try and dry them out some.

Jon makes an injured noise at the sight, hands fluttering like moths. No, no, no…

The child echoes his dismay, eyes wide and horrified. Sorry, sorry, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to, how do I fix it, I’m sorry—!

“It’s fine. It was just the one, thankfully.” Jon glances dourly at what remains of the cover page. ”I suppose whoever Hazel Rutter was, they’re going to have to stay a mystery now.”

Martin opens his arms and pulls Jon into a hug, rubbing his cheek against Jon’s hair to comfort him. It’s okay. It’ll be alright. I love you. I love you. I love you.

Jon goes without resistance, the ruined statement crumpled beyond repair in his clenched fist, his replying hum of I love you soft and sad.

Martin tightens his hold.

A chirrup has the pair of them looking up at the child sitting in the back of the car.

They still have the hangdog air about them, but their gestures are quick and purposeful as they chirr. What is it?

Jon’s lips work silently for a moment before he responds. “Well, Statements are usually documentation of traumatic encounters with the supernatural that have been submitted for review to, ah…to the temple of the Eye, to strip away the farce. I need them to…keep my strength up. To feed on, as it were.”

Their hands are moving again before Jon even finishes his last sentence, posture primed and tense. But what about this? Is this right? Is it good?

Martin’s half-certain they’re using their subvoice mainly to include him in the conversation at this point, which he does appreciate even if it can’t quite convey all the nuances they’re communicating. “I didn’t know you knew sign.”

Jon’s brow creases. “I don’t. But I suppose our patron has to be good for something, can’t have any secrets hidden behind something as crude as a language barrier, after all… and letters would count as a Statement if they documented a supernatural occurence, yes, but what…?”

The child promptly turns back to to their rucksack, rotating their torso nearly 180 degrees to do so. Like a spine is just a suggestion they’d read in a magazine once and decided they wanted nothing to do with.

”Oh good lord—!”

“O-kaay then! Right, right, let’s just,” Martin tries to move in front of the little avatar, who’s still searching their bag, attempting to block the view from traumatizing any unsuspecting pedestrians, voice lowering to a whisper-shout, “Let’s everyone remember we’re in public!” 

Jon, ridiculous man he is, immediately starts and then tries to fake casual leaning against the open car door to hide the window.

Martin almost thinks he’s going to start whistling for a moment, and has to fight off the urge to giggle at the mental image. Judging by the suddenly scandalized look Jon shoots him, he’s not entirely successful.

The little avatar gives an Aha! as they lift up their rucksack and find what they’re looking for.

They twist back around and finally stop violating the limits of the human form, brushing off their prize and holding it out for Jon’s inspection, expression hopeful and eager.

It’s the tattered legal pad from their conversation earlier.

Like this Martin can see the words “Dear Brother,” written at the top of the first page, upside down from his perspective, which makes it a little harder to make out the first lines of the ‘letter’ underneath that. 

Jon takes the notepad warily, carefully avoiding looking at the writing on it as much as he can, like it might explode if he starts reading. “And what’s all this then?”

The child’s hands move through a flurry of signs, but their subvocals are much more direct. Me. It’s me. 

Jon sputters and nearly drops the pad himself. “Wh—every encounter since—I, I can’t accept this. This is far too much, especially in comparison what was lost.”

Martin gets an odd sense of deja vu when the child’s face falls and they try to push the legal pad back into Jon’s hands when he attempts to return it to them. Not enough, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, please let me fix it.

It’s fine, you’re fine, not broken, don’t need to fix it. Jon hums back, resorting to the tactic of using Martin as a human shield. 

“What if it was just one?” Martin suggests tentatively. “Not all of them, obviously, that would be like. Like, trying to pay too much for a cough drop, but just the one? And since it’s already written out, it should be safe, right?”

Jon makes a considering noise. “I…suppose that could work. We could always have you re-transcribe it, Martin, get another degree of separation for safety’s sake. That is if you’re up for it?”

”Well, I’ve done so many of them by now, and carpal tunnel hasn’t got me yet!” He jokes, pleased with this solution. Clever, so clever, love you, love you, love you.

Jon butts his head against Martin’s arm with a dry huff of laughter. Love you. Love you.

The little avatar gives a small grumble, but they’ve stopped looking like they’re about to chase Jon around Martin until he accepts the notepad, their shoulders lowering from the defensive hunch they’d taken up. This is…good? Yes? Fix it?

He gently takes the pad from them and reaches into the car to place it on top of the other statements Basira sent. Yes. It’s okay, it’s alright now. Calm down, all is well. “Here. Why don’t we discuss all this further at home? I-I think we could all use a fresh cuppa and a bit of rest before we do anything else. That is, if that’s alright?”

He looks at both of them hopefully.

Jon scratches the side of his jaw. “Ah—a cup of tea sounds lovely, right about now. If. If you’re okay with coming back with us, of course.”

The child fiddles with the dimly glowing bracelets around their wrists, peering nervously up at them both. I’d like to. Really like to. Is it okay?

Martin can’t quite keep from smiling, a smooth churr of contentment building in his chest. “Of course. We, ah, we should probably get off the pavement before the police ticket us anyways.”

The child drops off about five minutes after they’ve passed the outskirts of Aberdeen, face smooshed against the window and snuffling slightly in sleep.

Martin can’t help sneaking glances at them in the rearview mirror.

”Are you sure this is a good idea?” Jon asks, tone doubtful. Worried. I’m worried about you.

”Not…entirely.” He admits, flicking on the indicators to change lanes. “But I just. I couldn’t just leave them there, Jon. Not after everything they’ve been through. With everything we know is out there.”

He can feel Jon’s gaze on the side of his face. Quietly understanding.

”Plus,” He says, trying to inject brightness into his tone. “This is more a, a trial basis than anything. Just to see if we could make it work. And if it doesn’t, no harm done, we just. Figure out something else.”

God, he hopes they can make it work.

“…The Usher Foundation could take them.” Jon murmurs eventually. “They seemed…marginally less terrible than the Institute while I was over there. Less likely to be in service to the Beholding, at any rate.”

”See?” He looks over to give Jon a weak smile. “We’ve already got one Plan B on the table. Go us!”
He tries to avoid thinking about the fact that the Usher Foundation is all the way in America, where it would be near impossible to see them without incurring massive travel costs and potentially attracting Elias’ attention, and would they even like it in America? Baby, our baby. No, no, no taking our baby away.

One of Jon’s hands curls over his knee, squeezing gently, soothingly. It’s alright. It’ll be okay. We—

A high pitched whine erupts from the back. 

The child’s eyebrows are scrunched in sleep, their eyes moving restlessly under their lids. hello? Anyone? Please. I’m alone. I’m hurt and I’m alone.

Oh. They sleep talk. 
His heart breaks a little more in his chest, like it hasn’t already taken enough beatings today.

Martin opens his mouth, already primed to soothe them awake—

Only for Jon to twist around where he’s got his hand still on Martin’s knee, and rumble All is well. All is safe. Settle down now. We’re here. You’re not alone. We’re here. We’re here.

The child gives a few soft whimpers of here? and oh and Sleepy, before their subvoice finally quiets and their brow smooths out from the little furrow that had formed there. A few seconds later, the soft, snuffly snores begin to fill the car again.

From where Martin can see, Jon’s profile has gentled into a soft, quietly proud smile. The small kind, that’s usually reserved for when Martin catches him staring while writing poetry, or petting a good cow. 

I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, Martin’s subvocals sing softly. Such a good daddy, our baby and you, I love you, I love you so much, so much.

Jon coughs in the face of the praise, twisting back round. “Yes well. Just keep your eyes on the road, will you?”

”Of course.” I love you, I love you, I love you.

The hand on his knee squeezes. I love you. I love you. I love you.