Chapter Text
It starts as it always does.
Bright white fluorescent lighting over an office floor. The scritching and scratching of a pencil, the chewing of a pen cap. The click of a tape recorder as the Head Archivist finishes a statement, a sigh evicted from his tired lungs.
Martin’s feelings towards his job are complicated at best. It can be dull and certainly tedious, but there’s a coziness to this sort of office job. A retro aesthetic that comes with old-fashioned tape recorders and ancient, yellowed paperwork. Even with the creepy chill that comes with the traumatic statements at his desk, Martin reasons that it can’t be all bad.
The statements play a big part in his unease, though.
The door to the office clicks and opens wide when Jon comes out. He looks drained of energy. Nobody comments on it, and Martin reminds himself to make him a cup of tea later on. He takes a glance, accidentally making eye contact. Martin waves, though this does not impress his boss.
A side of him shrieks, nagging at him to get himself together. The other wants to curl up at home and neatly craft up poetry, as cheesy as that is.
His thought process is delayed by a minute or two with such fantasies before he realizes Jon is standing at his desk, glaring. He startles slightly and chuckles to dissipate the tension.
“Jon! Did you uh…need something?”
“Yes.” He stands there for a moment, Martin waiting expectantly. “The follow-up on Angela in Bexley.”
“Ah,” Martin starts, already dreading the conversation. “I wasn’t able to find her.”
“You’re sure?” he pushes. Disappointment already creeps into his voice. Martin feels pressure all around him from Jon’s gaze alone.
“Yeah, I- I was there for three days, and I couldn’t find any sign of her. Though to be fair, the description you gave me wasn’t really detailed, so...”
Jon hums, as if unsurprised. Martin feels his face color significantly before he interrupts the silence. “I- I did have some nice conversations…”
A pause. “…Did you, now?”
“Uh…yeah. With some older folks. About jigsaws…pleasant ladies to chat with.”
Jon stares at him for a moment before he sighs. It’s a wicked thing, and Martin is suddenly wondering what in the world had possessed him to say that. “Get back to work, Martin.”
“Yep! I’ll- uh…get to it, then!”
Jon nods and then leaves, disappearing down the hall. Likely to Document Storage. He groans, his head flopping onto the desk.
“You alright there?” Sasha asks with a bit of a laugh.
“I’m fine…”
It starts as it always does. Another day, another statement, another struggle. Another thing for Martin Blackwood to screw up.
Still, though. It’s nice. And at least he learns Jon’s eyes are brown.
“You’ve got to learn to stick up for yourself, Martin!”
“I mean, he wasn’t really that bad today,” he argues. Martin grabs his things off the coat rack on his way out of the institute. It’s cold in London today, so Martin is wearing a scarf. It’s wool and fluffy, puffy enough to where he looks warm and stylish. Tim, the freak of nature that he is, survives only in a leather jacket and oak-colored windbreaker. Red begins to spread across his nose and ears. Martin is sure that his own do the same.
“If you have to say that, it was bad,” Sasha comments. Martin huffs.
He appreciates them both for looking out for him, he does. But it’s slightly humiliating to have your boss scrutinize your work ethic every day. “It could’ve been worse. Really, I’m fine. I’m sure he was just…annoyed.”
“Yeah, but he shouldn’t take it out on you,” Sasha sighs. Martin knows it’s true. He does. But part of him still wants to try and break past that stubbornness. Is it so weird to want to prove himself?
“I’ll figure it out,” he promises. Tim and Sasha are quick to doubt, but Martin thinks that’s okay. It’s more for himself than anything.
He breaks off with them once he gets to the tube. The commute home is never quiet, but Martin finds content in it. Listening to the sounds of life and the people it holds is endearing. An underrated part of being in the city, he believes. Sure, the wonder is dulled down by the smell of filth and cigarette smoke, but it’s there. He smiles to himself and picks out a song from his playlist. Prose and poetry flow into his head with the gentle hum of music. And for a while, all is well.
Martin Blackwood eventually gets out on his stop in Stockwell. He passes by old buildings and lively neighbourhoods. The sky is shrouded by thick white cloud, and Martin turns to ignorance to keep his peace.
He does not notice the decrease in temperature or the increasing silence.
When the fog catches his eye, it’s too late. Martin Blackwood’s name is lost to the cold.
Tim is known for his humor.
This is not something that makes up his entire character, Jon realizes, but he believes it’s a key feature nonetheless. Tim’s the one with the bright smile and crinkled eyes. He makes people laugh. He’s the one setting up pranks in a long-lasting plot surely conjured to make Jon’s hair more grey.
But this joke he’s decided to pull is…infuriating.
“It’s too early for this, Tim. I saw you leave with him yesterday.” Jon needs tea. Or a coffee, really. Something that will get him through the day and let him ignore the look on Tim’s face.
“With who?” He asks.
“Martin,” Jon repeats. “Is he out today?”
“Are you pulling a fast one on me, boss?”
No, he is not, and he’d appreciate it if Tim would understand that. Jon has no room for time-wasting games when he is taking on the impossible task of cleaning the entire archive. He has a system. It is an orderly, delicate system, and it cannot work with one of his assistants missing.
Even if that assistant is Martin.
“Whatever. I’m sure he’s just running late.”
The door to his office clicks shut. Tim shrugs and hums idly, making his way to his desk.
Martin does not, in fact, come in later.
This fact makes Jon only slightly bitter. His absence means that there will be fewer delays around the archives, at least. But Martin’s never been directly unprofessional, and disappearing without at least a text is just that.
Jon resolves that he’ll simply tell him off for it tomorrow, and that will be that. Just another slip-up.
But then Sasha starts to play along.
It causes more of a nuisance than any real worry. The three of them have known each other for a while, and Sasha could be convinced to go along with Tim’s even more idiotic pranks. But this just seemed…strange.
“Who’s Martin?” Sasha asks. It was a weird thing to insist upon. The confusion in her tone makes it the slightest bit believable. Still, Jon’s not going to fall for something just because they’ve made it more palatable for him.
“Look, I don’t care about whatever Tim’s put you up to, just please put the follow-up on his desk so that he can take care of it tomorrow.” His jaw is set and he almost snaps, wiping away the bags from his eyes. Statements were…a lot to deal with.
“I’m serious. Who is Martin?”
“Sasha, please. I’m not playing along with this here.”
Sasha, who sensed that her boss may be under a bit of stress, carefully placed the file on a desk nearby. Jon nodded in approval. There was a mix of concern and relief on her face, though he could not fathom why that may be.
He mutters something about ‘scoundrel assistants’ before starting to walk away.
“Wait,” she says quickly. Jon turns, intrigued. “Are you alright?”
“I’m quite fine, thank you,” he says with a bitter exhale. “It’d be better without you and Tim insisting on keeping up with this strange joke, but…I’m fine.”
Sasha listens to the sound of Jon’s footsteps as he leaves. Then, she furrows her brows and walls to Tim’s desk.
It is later that day when Elias calls him up for a meeting.
Jon is not inherently suspicious of this. He has only recently become Head Archivist, and Elias has been doing well in making sure he’s been getting acclimated. The concern, in his humble opinion, was unneeded. He can appreciate the thought, though.
His office is neat. Everything in it seems spotless and stoic, but not without a looming sense of authority in the air. Jon sinks into the chair opposite Elias’s, swallowing down any feelings of intimidation. He’s greeted with a polite smile, the pen in Elias’s hand softly put down as if he’d practiced the motion.
“Good afternoon, Jonathan. I hope your day has been alright?”
“As good as it can go,” he replies with a bit of a scoff. Not that he meant to give his boss an attitude, but the pranking nonsense had been getting on his nerves.
“Right. Well, I wanted to check in on the matter of your assistants?”
Jon raises a brow. “What about them?”
“I mean, I’m sure it’s been a bit difficult with only two. Especially with how often they’re coming in and out with research on cases.”
He leans back slightly, slightly offended. “Elias, I can assure you that we’ll be fine without Martin for a day.”
At this, Elias blinks. There is a moment where he stills, racking his brain. “Who, now?”
Jon blinks, shoulders tense. “Martin Blackwood. My third assistant?” He’s met with a blank, almost worried, stare. Jon huffs. “I know he’s absent, but there’s really no need for-“
“Jonathan, I haven’t a clue who you’re talking about.”
What.
“As far as I’m aware, there is no one I’ve employed by that name in the archives, or even in this institute.” Elias begins to shuffle around his things. He gives him a look as if he were fragile. “You only requested Tim and Sasha when you first became Head Archivist, and so they were transferred. You did not request anyone else. Is this ringing a bell, Jonathan?”
“I…suppose yes, but-“
Elias looks at him expectantly. Any retorts Jon has are swallowed up by the same thing that creates a tremble in his arm. Then, he grits his teeth and stands up.
“Thank you, Elias. I’ll…be headed back down to the archives now.”
“Sure, Jonathan. Do remember to get some rest. I'm aware of how...mentally taxing the job can be.”
He heads back down in a daze, a typhoon of thoughts leaving little room for comprehension.
Elias was certainly a bit…odd, but he seriously doubted that Tim could wrap him up in whatever elaborate scheme this was.
But how else could he be going along with this? Jon was never the best at reading people. Unsociable was the bare minimum of his personality. Maybe Elias was secretly just as impish, and Tim had been the first to uncover it. It would certainly be like him to try and play Jon the fool, but…
“How was your meeting with double boss?”
“Huh?” He honestly forgot Tim was in the room, but there he is. Leaning over his desk with a grin, Tim looks at him oddly. His gaze flits over him quickly in a silent assessment, and Jon suddenly considers himself silly for having any doubt of this being more than just another prank.
He exhales through his nose and collects himself.
“It went fine,” he responds. “We were just discussing the…assistance we have down here in the archives.”
“Like the supposed ‘Martin?’” Tim’s sly smirk gives an allusion to the fact that this was indeed a joke, but it is promptly wiped off by the silence he receives. “Oh.”
Jon clears his throat. “I’ll just be in my office, then.”
He doesn’t catch the look of concern Tim gives him.
And Jonathan Sims, ever the skeptic, continues to believe that it’s all a practical joke.
He smells seawater.
“Well obviously. You’re at the beach, dimwit,” he sighs, looking around. The entire place is foggy. There is nothing but desaturation and chilly humid air. Sticking out of the sand he can spot rocks and litter, but no creature alongside. He swallows the seaweed scent of the beach in every breath. Then he gazes at the sky.
His memories are sand, slipping through his fingers and falling at his feet. It takes concentration to tug onto one, and even then there's little to gain. Only wisps of images conjure in his mind. Things like warm lighting and cars, or soft staring eyes. Mirages dance and flit around the front of his staring gaze before finally floating away, leaving him here to rot.
It’s a silent sort of agony. To be gone, forgotten. To still be there, only pushed to the side. Screaming would do nothing but make his throat raw and red. Begging would fall upon the ears despondent sea. Apathy is the only logical conclusion, but even then it wouldn't matter. This is just a place. It cannot do anything more than he can.
When he looks down, the sand is pushed slightly from what looks to be a pair of working shoes. They’re leather and shiny. He wonders if he’d been on his way to work, or home from it. Did he had a community there? People to greet and smile at? To complain about long hours of dreadful paperwork with?
Did he have someone to talk to?
The thoughts die, as does the hope.
“A name,” he mutters to no one. Everyone has a name. Everything has a label. It’s hard to think in this place when the fog is thicker in your mind. But he finds a way to push, to reach his hand and squeeze it.
Everything is heavy, but he can focus. A name. He has a name.
“Martin,” he mutters. He knows it’s correct, somehow. “Martin…Blackwood.” It feels…better, having this puzzle piece about himself. He feels a bit accomplished, if only for a moment.
Then the waves wash it away.
Things are simple here. An impossible simple, yes, but it’s there. Like how this is the beach, or that the sky is pale.
Then there’s the simplest fact of them all: Martin Blackwood is alone.