Chapter Text
As soon as Martin’s done with his statement, he feels a weight lift off his shoulders. He breathes out as Jon hits the stop button with the end of a pen. He then uses the same pen to push the jar of worms even further away from him. Martin can’t bring himself to feel guilty about dumping them accidentally on purpose on his desk even when Jon grimaces while one of the worms wiggles insistently against the glass.
“Very well,” Jon says like they were just ending a completely normal meeting. “Could you step out for a moment, Martin? I just need to make a quick call.”
“Uh? Um. Yeah, sure.” He gets up and pauses for a second. “Um, are you sure-”
“Yes, Martin, I’m sure. I’ll be with you in a minute.”
At this point, Jon looks like he’s going to start pushing him towards the door so Martin starts walking out, still slow.
“If- if you need more proof I can check security cameras and-”
“Martin,” Jon says. It’s all he needs to say, his voice soft and aggravated. “I’ll be with you in a minute, alright? You’ll survive, I promise you.”
That makes Martin press his lips tight together, maybe in an attempt to not respond as snippily as Jon did. He needs to make a quick call? Seriously? Right now? Couldn’t he wait or spare a few words of comfort or maybe a cup of tea? By the time Jon’s shooed him out of the office, Martin’s practically grinding his teeth together. His indignation doesn’t fade until the door clicks closed behind his back and Sasha and Tim turn to stare at him. Now he’s just embarrassed, very aware of how he must look. Not in his night clothes thankfully, because those don’t include trousers, but still in things he’d only wear in the house. Old joggers, fuzzy and loose from washing, and a Winnie the Pooh t-shirt with a hole on the left, over his shoulder.
Tim’s the first to speak.
“Martin, you… you alright, mate?”
Before he has time to respond, Sasha pipes up and she’s a lot less tactful.
“What happened to you?” she asks, astonished.
Martin puts his palms out towards them, in an attempt to placate the questions.
“Just- I need to sit down first.”
He shuffles to his chair before essentially falling into it, finally going boneless and it draws a sigh of relief out of him. Something about the unsettling institute somehow seems so comfortably safe now. The feeling dissipates after about a second, quickly replaced by the sensation of Tim and Sasha’s eyes on him. He straightens and clears his throat.
“It… well…” Martin pinches the bridge of his nose. Somehow this was much easier to talk about to his uptight boss and not to his much nicer coworkers. “Remember the- the flesh-eating worm statements?”
Tim and Sasha exchange a capital-G glance.
“Yeah… did you…” Tim gestures vaguely.
“Get stalked by an- an infested monster before it essentially trapped me in my apartment for multiple weeks?” Martin snaps his fingers together, gives a not-entirely-sane laugh. “Yup.”
Something in the room changes after he says that. One of Tim’s hands reaches out and squeezes his shoulder while Sasha asks him quietly if he needs anything. Martin doesn’t know if he can handle much kindness for the day, at least not without excusing himself and having a little weeping session.
“What, you believe me?” he blurts out instead.
“Obviously, I mean, look at you, Martin,” Tim says.
“Well....” Sasha says softly. Tim elbows her. “You have to admit, it sounds… unlikely! But I mean, clearly, something happened, you know?”
“I brought some.”
“Some?” Sasha asks.
“Some of the worms as proof.”
Tim lets go of his shoulder.
“You brought flesh-eating worms to the Institute?”
“They’re in a jar!”
“They’re paranatural worms who eat people, Martin! Why would a glass jar stop them?”
“Nothing happened on the tube, I think it’s fine, actually!”
“You brought paranatural flesh-eating worms on the tube?”
“It’s a long walk!”
Tim snorts, shaking his head.
“But anyway,” Martin says. “I do have proof. So… yeah.” He crosses his arms. “In Jon’s office if you’re curious Sasha.”
She looks a lot more reluctant all of a sudden. Martin can’t help but feel a smidge of petty triumph.
“Maybe later.” A pause, then: “Sorry.”
Martin softens despite himself.
“It’s alright. I get it’s kind of hard to believe. Did happen, though.”
Sasha smiles.
“Yeah, ‘course.”
He smiles back before the sound of shoes tapping on the hardwood floor gets his attention. It’s Jon. He’s looking at his phone. Martin blinks. It’s a flip phone. A flip phone. He snaps it closed and Martin tries really hard not to jump.
“Martin, a word, please?”His eyes dart to Tim and Sasha. “In private?”
“Umm. Sure.”
Jon tilts his head towards his office before turning around and making his way towards it.
“Oh God,” Martin mumbles before pulling himself to his feet. “Well, see you guys.”
“Hey, he’s sweet really,” Tim says.
“To you, maybe,” Martin replies, but he smiles thankfully, all the same, wiping his suddenly damp palms on his jacket. Something about Jon makes him incessantly nervous for some reason. The door is half-open but he knocks tentatively anyway.
“Come in, Martin.” Martin does. Jon’s leaning against his desk, arms crossed. “Close the door behind you, please.”
Martin does, wondering what the hell he’s in trouble for now. Probably dumping the jar of paranatural flesh-eating worms onto Jon’s desk haphazardly while he was in the middle of recording.
“Um. You wanted to see me?”
“Yes. I’ll get straight to the point, you can have a seat if you like but I won’t be long.”
Martin would very much like a seat but he doesn’t like the idea of Jon looming over him so close since he won’t even be behind his desk. So he stays where he is, his back almost touching the door.
“Since your apartment is compromised, I wanted to ask if you had anywhere else to stay at the moment?”
“Oh.”
Martin hadn’t even thought of that, not even for a second. He’d just hoped he’d survive. And he did! So now what?
“...is that a no?”
And now he’d been quiet for too long.
“I-I mean I could always go back.” His own voice falters as he says it. Jon frowns at him.
“Martin, is any of what you told me true?”
“What? Of course, it is!” His voice goes high with indignation. “I brought the worms and everything-”
“Then-” Jon interrupts him. “-you are not, under any circumstances, going back, at least not without being accompanied.”
“Oh. Oh okay. Um.” Martin finds himself looking down and realizes he’s still wearing his slippers. That’s probably why he’s blushing. Not because someone is showing the smallest inkling of care towards his well-being`. “No. I don’t really have anywhere to stay.”
He really hopes Jon doesn’t prod anymore. He can just about imagine him asking about friends, and what about family? No? Then he’d raise his black eyebrows and recommend a hotel way out of Martin’s budget. However, Jon just nods sagely.
“I have a spare room at the moment. If you’d like.”
“Huh?”
That’s all Martin can bring himself to say.
“A spare room,” Jon repeats, uncharacteristically patient. “My flatmate is out of London for a few weeks on personal business and she said it would be fine as long as you respect a few house rules.”
“Oh- I-I couldn’t possibly-”
“It doesn’t have to be permanent. Maybe just tonight or this week till you can make arrangements. No rush, of course, you’ll stay as long as you need.” Seeing that Martin cannot bring himself to speak for the life of him, Jon continues. “It’s clean. The building’s a little old but it’s plenty of space for two people.”
“Erm- I-”
“Are you allergic to cats?”
“Cats? No- no, I’m not.”
“Perfect. Well?”
----
Martin gets the rest of the day off. He spends it dozing on the horrible break room couch Tim and Sasha always fight for and getting checked on by his suddenly doting co-workers. Tim gets him (over-sugared) tea while Jon hovers at the doorway. Sasha apologizes again after half-heartedly volunteering to bring the jar of worms to artifact storage.
(Martin had heard bits and pieces of that conversation. It was arguably funny.
“Why does it have to be me? I know for a fact that Artifact Storage doesn’t accept live… things!”
“Well, I already took Martin’s statement so I’ve had plenty enough of worms, thank you very much.”
“What about Tim?”
“Ah, here’s the thing…. I’m not touching that. Also, they like you more than me and Jon, you might just be able to leave it on a cursed table somewhere.”)
It’s almost more exhausting than a normal workday at the Archives. The end of the day is even worse. Tim and Sasha leave around the same time, Tim pats him on the shoulder again while Sasha waves at him as Martin pretends he’s just waiting for his stone-cold tea to be cool enough to drink before he leaves. He knows Jon works late usually, how late exactly, Martin has no clue, but he feels it might be a while so he sinks back onto the couch trying his best to down his tea.
It’s just as he’s given up and dumped the contents of the mug down the sink that Jon appears at the doorway.
“Are you ready to go?”
“Ah- yeah, just have to wash this.”
“Was the tea alright?”
“Oh, Tim made it way too sweet but it was nice of him, I guess.”
A pause. Martin rinses the mug.
“I made it actually.”
“Oh.”
Martin bites his lip. There’s no coming back from that one. So he keeps washing the mug before hurriedly placing it on the drying rack. When he turns around, Jon has his hands in his coat pockets, shoulders a little hunched. He’s looking at the floor where his shoe is toying with the end of a loose floorboard. If Martin didn’t know him any better he would say Jon was sulking.
“...Jon?”
Jon looks up.
“Thanks for the tea. The sugar was probably good for the shock or something.”
“...you don’t have to say that,” Jon says. But he looks appeased. Martin suppresses a somewhat hysterical giggle.
---
The ride to Jon’s apartment is short but awkward. Martin is finally put together enough to realize that he looks a mess and probably doesn’t smell all that great. He’s clutching a very full paper bag because he had just enough sense to ask Jon if they could stop somewhere to buy some necessities.
“It’s the next stop,” Jon says next to him, barely audible above the sound of the Tube.
Martin nods, reflects a little more on how surreal the whole situation is, then braces himself as they arrive. Jon doesn’t and stumbles slightly before catching himself on Martin’s arm. Martin does not overthink this. He refuses to, especially since Jon lets go as soon as he can and gets off the carriage without so much as acknowledging it.
“Not much further now.”
Martin nods again. It’s not until Jon is opening his apartment door that he realizes he hasn’t thanked him whatsoever. He swallows and tries to get his mouth and tongue to cooperate in forming a coherent string of words.
“...Jon?”
“Yes?” Jon says, sliding his shoes off. “No shoes in the house by the way.”
“Ah, right.” Martin chucks his own flip-flops off as neatly as he can. He’s not even wearing socks for god’s sake.
“You were saying?”
“Oh, I just- I just wanted to say thank you, like, for having me. You really didn’t need to. But you did. So, um, thanks.”
Jon’s eyes narrow a bit. Martin feels an uneasy squeeze in his stomach because for a second Jon looks irritated. But then he bites his lip and his cheeks darken, almost imperceptibly in the dim lighting and Martin realizes with a start that he’s managed to fluster Jon.
“S’alright,” Jon says gruffly. “I… I’ll show you to your room.”
“Oh- oh, okay.”
Jon leads him down a narrow, awkward hallway and opens a white door on the left wall.
“Here we are,” he says, his voice back to its usual evenness.
The room walls are white as well but you can barely tell because they’re so heavily covered in posters, hangings, and dozens of post-its. Aside from that, it’s irreproachably neat, with one of those sitting-standing electric desks surrounded with equipment: a microphone, cables, electronics Martin doesn’t recognize and even a small midi keyboard in the corner. There’s also a bed in another corner that almost looks like it was added as an afterthought: a single with blue sheets.
“Georgie does a lot of recording for her job so she apologizes about the clutter,” Jon says, as Martin steps inside, almost on tiptoe.
“No, no, it’s fine! I mean this is so much more than I expected to stay for free-” Martin stops abruptly.
Fuck.
Did Jon expect him to pay? This was a much nicer place than his own currently-possibly-infested apartment, he wasn’t sure he could afford it. Plus, that would be so awkward, wouldn’t it? Would he give him an envelope of cash? A cheque? Does…. Does Jon use PayPal? That seems like a stupid question but then again Jon uses a flip phone. Does the kind of person who uses a flip phone know what PayPal is?
Martin shakes his head. Spiraling about this in his head isn’t going to help. Might as well spiral outside of it. He turns back to Jon, trying desperately to look casual.
“So, um. About…” He’s already cringing. “...payment?”
Jon’s expression immediately sours, eyebrows knitting together. He crosses his arms.
“You-” he says, his tone icy. “-are a guest under my roof. You are not under any circumstances giving me any sort of payment.” Jon inhales deeply, his eyes closing under his furrowed eyebrows, exactly like when Martin makes a formatting mistake. “Anyways. The bathroom is the door at the end of the hall. My room is the one to the left, knock if you need anything. Feel free to help yourself to anything in the kitchen though I’m afraid there isn’t much at the moment. I’m assuming you don’t have any food-based allergies?”
“Ah- no, I don’t.”
“Good. I’ll let you settle in and we can order something for dinner in a bit.”
“Sounds good,” Martin mumbles as Jon leaves the room.
He hears him grumble the word ‘payment’ in a tone of disbelief from the hallway as he closes the door. He presses his head against the wood and exhales shakily before sliding to the ground and finally, finally having a bit of a cry.
You’d think it would be an issue being so close to the door but Martin actually has years of practice in silent sobbing. It’s hot and awful and quick, over in just a few minutes. Martin inhales deeply a few times, wiping his face with the sleeve of his jacket.
“Okay,” he says to himself. His voice sounds horrible. “Okay. I’m fine. It’ll be fine.”
A shower will probably fix things. Not everything. But it’ll make him feel better. He inhales again, holding his breath for a few seconds before letting it out. He grabs the bag that he’d left laying on the floor. Thankfully, he got a towel so he doesn’t need to go find Jon covered in snot and ask where he keeps his and if he could please borrow one. He peeks out of the room cautiously. Jon’s door is closed and he can see the light is turned on inside. Perfect. Martin hurries down the hall into the bathroom and closes the door behind him as quietly as he can.
The hot water is absolute bliss and when Martin steps out he honestly feels like a new man, especially after brushing his teeth and using some deodorant. His eyes hover over some leave-in conditioner on the shelf but he doesn’t dare use it. It’s a brand he’s familiar with and he realizes that he and Jon must have the same, or at least very similar, hair types. Huh.
He rifles through the bag for the clothes he’d bought earlier. Not much, just a five-pack of t-shirts as well as some joggers and some nicer pants in case he can’t get his stuff back before going into work. Thankfully, tomorrow is off. Thank god, Martin thinks to himself, He pulls his things on and tidies the bathroom, picking up some stray hairs here and there before finally emerging from the bathroom.
A floorboard creaks noisily under him and there’s a muffled rustle nearby before Jon’s door opens. His glasses are resting on his head. He acknowledges Martin with a little nod.
“You’re done. Good. I was thinking of ordering Thai, does that sound good to you?”
‘Hot food!!!!!’ Martin’s brain happily exclaims. He tries not to nod too enthusiastically.
“I love Thai. That sounds great.”
The rest of the evening goes by a lot smoother. Martin doesn’t remember it very well because every time he closed his eyes he’d fall asleep for a few seconds. Conversation with Jon was small and awkward and stilted, intercepted with him assuring Jon he’ll start apartment hunting tomorrow and always seeming to end prematurely before it’s finally late enough that Martin can excuse himself and retire to his room. Well. Temporarily his.
The sheets feel stiff and cold, and the mattress is too narrow. It takes a while of tossing and turning, untucking and re-tucking bedding for Martin to finally feel at least somewhat comfortable, even in his exhausted state.
But that’s far from the worst part.
You see, a thing about old buildings is that they’re noticeably louder. Their floors creak, they settle in the evening, they often have things scurrying in the walls. The water pipes tend to be exposed, and, if your landlord isn’t an absolute pain, covered in insulation. And they’re loud. Something about water hammers malfunctioning that Martin doesn’t quite remember. But at best, it sounds like a light tapping. Knocking even sometimes. Someone banging their fists on a door when it gets bad.
Martin isn’t stupid. He knows what the noise is. He’s lived in all sorts of crummy old apartments himself. Jon did mention the building was old after all. He did say that the building made all sorts of noise, made a vague attempt at a joke about it being haunted that Martin had forcedly smiled at over his Pad Thai.
Martin doesn’t sleep.