Chapter Text
When Martin first met the Archivist, he was almost fooled. She looked for all the world like a sweet old lady, saving the stern expression on her face as she surveilled the area around her. The tea shop where he worked was unassuming, quaint but lively in a way that never made the little shop feel crowded. He and the woman both knew looks could be deceiving. That’s why he kept his guard up even as the old woman toddled over to the counter, ordered some lavender monstrosity that Martin hated making but was thankfully unpopular, and made her way over to a nearby table to wait.
Most people would hardly notice all the little things that gave Gertrude Robinson away. She gripped her dark wooden cane less like something she needed for support and more like a weapon. Her bright green eyes held no hint of fear even as they darted about like a cornered animal. Her hands, leathery with age but dotted with strange circular scars like cigarette burns, shook in a way that was too even. Too coordinated to be involuntary.
Indeed, most people wouldn’t spare a glance at an old woman drinking tea in a little shop, surrounded by doilies and plates framed on the wall and other such kitschy things commonly associated with the elderly. But Martin was not most people.
For a moment, their eyes met, and Martin immediately knew he was made. He was known. Gertrude Robinson, the feared and famed Archivist, knew him, knew everything about him, and what brought a thing like him to an unassuming tea shop in Chelsea. What strange machinations drew him to play pretend at being human. It was an odd feeling, somehow both comforting and deeply sinister. A strange sensation, being known.
Then the moment was over. He glanced away, his attention drawn to the opening door and the little bell that accompanied it. A tall, picturesque woman with hair the same color as a lively flame came to the counter She ordered a plain black coffee and folded herself into a chair by the window. The Archivist’s eyes moved to her, staring with the intensity of a wolf eyeing up a competitor for its meal, and Martin felt safe again as he went through the motions of finishing her drink.
“Order for Ms. Richardson,” He said politely as he set the tea down on the table next to Gertrude, relishing in her small sneer at the incorrect name. “Careful, it’s hot.”
“Robinson.” She corrected simply, eyes still fixed on the redhead. “I know this is my first time at this establishment, but I do ask you remember your customer’s names with some degree of accuracy.”
“Of course, my apologies Ms. Robinson.”
“That’s quite alright, Martin.” She lifted the tea carefully in both hands, steam fogging her glasses as she drank. Her eyes, unimpeded by the steam, flicked to his face to gauge his reaction. Whatever she saw there must have been satisfactory because she swallowed after a long moment and looked away once more.
He gave her a friendly smile that was more for the other customers. She had no need for his smiles and he knew she took no comfort from it.
“How is it?” Martin asked when she put the cup back down.
“Serviceable. The steep is excellent, but I fear three sugars is too many for a blend already so sweet as this one. And your milk is about a day away from going bad.”
“That’s…. very astute of you,” He took out a pad and took a quick note for appearance’s sake. “I’ll be sure to make note of your preferences for next time.”
“Next time? Presumptuous.” At this, she seemed to decide the redhead sitting in the window, clutching her coffee like a beloved toy, was worth her attention less than Martin. Once again, her eyes met him and filled him with the urge to tell her everything.
He imagined what she’d say. How her eyes would narrow at Annabelle’s name, or her lip would curdle as he spoke of Mother, how the gears in her dangerous mind would spin so rapidly as Martin described Mother’s brief but substantial conversations with him yearly on his birthday. In his mind’s eye, he saw Gertrude Robinson, known for her careful plans and unflappable nature, bolt out of her chair and beat him to death right here in the tea shop when he told her Mother’s design for the two of them.
“Well, you do work right across the street,” He managed with an awkward laugh, the sensation forcing him to look away or risk his tongue running away with him. “I imagine the convenience alone makes us a good draw.”
“A decent point.” She took another sip and, despite her criticisms, showed no signs of distaste.
“I think we’ll be seeing a lot of each other, Ms. Robinson,” Martin said as a nearby customer waved him down for a refill. His time with the great and terrible Archivist was at an end, it seemed. “Call it a hunch.”
II.
Martin’s mum threw him out at 10. It was just rotten luck that he jumped from one web right into another. He wasn’t foolish enough to believe himself a weaver of his own fate, no matter what Mother whispered in sickly sweet words. He knew he was just one strand in her ever-evolving design. He could be severed like any other string.
But being a disposable piece of an unknowable tapestry was far better than being one of the bugs stuck within.
“GET OUT! GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY HOUSE!” Martin nearly slammed into the door as he dashed through his home, evading his mum in her mania. She had really gone off today, throwing things and grabbing at his clothes after she came home to a burned dinner. She’d been fired, she told her son, and all she wanted was some decent food from her fucking disappointment of a child. The words were harsh, but the collision of the plate he’d made for her when she broke it over his head was way worse.
He knew running wasn’t a good idea. It was a small flat, and the chase only ever seemed to rile her up. But instincts were instincts, and he was helpless against the terror that drove him to throw open the door in his efforts to escape. The dark night outside made him hesitate, however, and he stalled in the doorway and contemplated his options.
The choice was made for him.
“I SAID OUT!” A sharp kick against his back tossed him down the small flight of stairs and onto the dirt below. He scrambled to get to his feet, wincing as he brushed dirt from his palms, and looked up at his mum through cracked lenses. There seemed to be eight of her, reflected so strangely in his broken glasses, all of whom glowered at him like he was the worst thing imaginable. He’d seen the look so many times, but now, twice quadrupled, with one hand clutching a kitchen knife and the other holding the door, it seemed so sinister.
Every time she yelled or hit or degraded, it seemed like his fault. Motivation to be better. Now, wreathed in bright light from inside and steel glinting in her hand, it felt like the fault was finally hers. Nothing was ever good enough for her. Anger and pain lived in her heart. In that moment, Martin knew love could never grow there. It was salted earth.
In a final burst of rage, she threw the knife and slammed the door with only expletives as her last words to her son. Martin tossed himself off balance to avoid it, slamming his face into the ground and driving the now-broken glasses into his left eye. He shrieked as shards dug into the sensitive flesh, gouging everything from cheek to eyelid and he clawed desperately to get as many out as he could. Still clawing, he heard footsteps once again approaching the door of his once-home and he scrambled to his feet, fearful of whatever else his mother had to throw at him for not fleeing sooner.
His feet moved without him and pulled him into the forest around the little flat complex, deeper into the dark but away from danger. He ran for a long time before he finally tripped over an arrant root and fell once more to the ground. There, Martin lay for a while. His energy was gone as the adrenaline left him, and tears took its place. In the dark and the dirt, Martin wept for a long time, flushing out his eyes and his heart in equal measure.
It was a horrible thing he knew, then. How horrid to be known and despised.
The forest floor was far from comfortable, but with the emotions coursing through him and the chaos of the day sapping his energy, he could feel the tiredness seeping into his bones. The urge to lie in the dirt and feel connected with the earth filled his head until his fingertips tingled and he dug them into the ground. Before he knew it, despite his tiredness, he was digging deeper and deeper as if he were a fox creating a burrow.
“Not your worst choice,” a soft voice with a heavy lisp and an unknown accent came from somewhere to Martin’s left in his newly created blind spot. The young boy yelped and abandoned his digging to search frantically for whoever had snuck up on him. Despite the early evening, the sky was lightening. Had he been digging all night? “Choke will treat you well if you follow her.”
"Who’s there?" Martin called, nearly giving himself whiplash as he searched frantically for the source.
“Boo.” There came a sound above his head and when Martin looked up, a girl his age was hanging from a branch. Well, hanging was probably inaccurate. She was standing upright, yet completely upside down with her shoeless feet attached to the branch, as if they were glued.
Martin tried to jump back, but found the hole was much deeper than he thought, and he tripped over the edge, once again faceplanting into the dirt.
“If you like it down there so much, I could just leave you to it.” The girl giggled as Martin pawed the earth out of his undamaged eye.
“I asked you a question earlier,” Martin said in a voice that sounded more confident than he felt. “Who are you?”
“That wasn’t your question, but I’ll bite.” The girl chuckled again as if at an inside joke and casually hopped to the ground, her body righting itself almost automatically. “My name is Annabelle. Cane, for now anyway.”
“I’m, um,” Martin suffered a brief moment of crisis as he deliberated whether this random girl was a safe person to whom he could offer his preferred name. That usually didn’t go over too well.
“Names aren’t important, don’t worry if you haven’t found the right one yet,” Annabelle waved a hand. “There’s still time. Life’s full of choices.”
“Ok,” Martin said. He winced internally at the awkward response; he never knew how to interact with people his own age.
“Speaking of which, you probably haven’t realized it, but you’re about to make a big one.” Annabelle pointed at the hole and raised an eyebrow at Martin’s dirty hands. He swallowed self-consciously and tried to shrink into himself to hide them.
“I was just- just trying to make a bed. I’m tired.”
“So you thought you’d take a literal dirt nap?”
“Well….”
“I’m sure it would be comfy, but you might want to weigh your options before committing.”
“Mum says I’m too young for commitment.” It was a sore point between them whenever Martin tried to bring up a new name, wardrobe, or even a haircut. But she was the adult, and he was a kid, so if she said he was too young to commit to a “lifestyle change” as she called it, she was probably right. She’s his mum, she knew what was best.
The image of her holding a kitchen knife and screaming came back into his head before he could push it out. Somewhere inside, he knew that her actions that night weren’t “in his best interest” as she always claimed. If he let her do what she thought was best, he could be dead.
“Mothers do tend to know best. The good ones, anyway.” Annabelle said with a small nod. “But you know yourself best, and in the end, we make our choices alone. Or at least, we feel like we do.”
“Mum certainly made a choice for me tonight,” Martin finally got his feet and started to brush the dirt from his pajamas. “I think…. I think I’m homeless now.” He didn’t know this girl from Eve, but something about her warm smile and general strangeness made the whole situation feel less like encountering a stranger in the woods at night and more like the beginning of a wild dream. He felt inclined to spill his guts to her, subconsciously secure in the knowledge that he would wake up on the forest floor in a few hours and not have to worry about the consequences of telling odd girls his life story.
“-And then I just…. Ran. Mum never lets me out of the house by myself, so I wasn’t sure what to do.” Martin finished as the sun fully rose. Annabelle nodded sagely, a habit he noticed she did quite often.
“That’s terrible, Martin,” She said. “It sounds like you’re out one mum. And one home to boot.”
“I’m too young to be homeless, I don’t think I can play the guitar well enough.”
“Don’t become a street musician just yet,” Annabelle stood up from the root she made her seat and offered a hand to help him. “I think we can do you one better.”
“We?” Martin asked. She gave him a wide toothy grin and for the first time it was light enough that he could see her fangs.
“You did say you were out a mum.”
“Actually, you said that.”
“Doesn’t make it less true.”
“Then- then yes. I’m ‘out a mum,’ if that’s how you want to phrase it.”
“That leaves just one question for you. One of those decisions I told you about earlier.”
Martin waited silently, finding no response on his tongue to the odd direction this conversation was going.
“Would you like one?” Annabelle asked. Martin frowned.
“One what?”
“One mother.”
III
The man in research was out in the alley again. Every day for nearly a year, he exited out of one of the few back doors in the Magnus Institute, stood in the same spot to lean against the brick wall of the tea shop, and smoked a cigarette. Sometimes, if he looked particularly haggard, he’d have two.
Something about the man intrigued Martin. Charmed him, even. Maybe it was his perfectly kept uniform even as he performed a rather gross habit, or the fact that he crossed the street and stood entirely in shadow just to smoke for less than a minute, like he was ashamed of a fairly common addiction. Guilt radiated off him in such waves that even those not blessed by the Mother could likely see it, yet his aura had a persistent note of petulance to match. The way he held himself could almost be mistaken for arrogance, with his hard eyes and ramrod posture, but Martin had watched him long enough to see past that initial assumption.
The tight lips, the slightly shaking hands, the over-exaggerated breathing. The man was scared, and trying quite desperately to appear otherwise, even as he hid himself from everyone’s view. Except Martin’s. While Martin play-acted through his day job, one of his little watchers kept its eight eyes on the darkened alley. At first, he was just keeping an eye on the back door of the café, making sure no one could get the jump on him. Yet as the months wore on, Martin had to admit, if only to himself, that he was much more interested in tabs on the handsome smoking stranger.
One must have their hobbies, Martin supposed.
In a way, it was lucky that Martin ‘plugged in’ so to speak when it happened. If he hadn’t been watching the alley man through the eight eyes of his spider, he might have completely missed the sudden alert from another of his agents. Startled, Martin spilled hot coffee onto his arm and used the mistake as an excuse to duck into the bathroom. The safety of the bathroom never let him down before, and he was able to reconnect to his small network of little spies. Annabelle called it his army, but Martin wasn’t as fond of the term. His relationship to the spiders wasn’t so…. Transactional, in his mind.
“Now, just what are you up to?” Martin whispered to himself as he reconnected. The wolf spider who patrolled the halls of the Magnus Institute desperately vied for his attention as she followed Magnus from his office down the stairs to the Archives. Usually, this was hardly worth noticing, much less alerting Martin so urgently. Usually, he wasn’t carrying a gun and wearing a rather annoyed expression.
He snapped back into himself with a swear and tore out of the bathroom, barely pausing to make some excuse about going to urgent care to get the burn checked out before he dashed out the back door. The smoking man startled so badly he dropped his cig, and for a moment, he and Martin met eyes. In his mind, Martin cursed Jonah Magnus that he could not even enjoy that moment before he had run past the man and down the block, heading for the manhole cover that would take him into the mysterious tunnels under the Institute.