Work Text:
There were worms at Martin's door. At his windows, trying to get through any cracks possible. He had stuffed them all with towels or any piece of fabric so they'd stay firmly out.
Still, the boredom made him even more aware of their writhing, images of their little silver bodies squirming the only thing on his mind. He'd tried to distract himself plenty of times with writing, reading his own poetry and then scribbling away at it until he'd pieced something he didn't totally hate. It was harder to look past mistakes when he was stuck 24/7 in his apartment, waiting for the moment Jane Prentiss broke down his door. He'd tried reading, too, but any books he'd had, in Polish or English didn't help him take his mind off. Didn't distract him enough.
He'd be back to watching the door intently, checking and rechecking the windows and making sure everything was in place. And, of course, rationing his cans. God, he was getting tired of canned peaches.
But he couldn't complain, not when they were keeping him alive.
Still, as the days progressed, Martin was slowly losing himself, more and more. He would barely sleep and even when he did, only an hour or two would pass before he'd jolt awake and rush to check his apartment for worms.
He hadn't hated bugs, nor worms. He found them mildly disgusting, sure, but not to this extent.
If he made it out of here, he'd never be able to look at fishing the same way. Or the soil after a rainy day.
Then... the song started.
There was, a song, in Martin's apartment.
It didn't matter which room he went to, to get as far away from the faint noise, it seemed to follow him. In the kitchen, whilst he was opening his next can of peaches, in the living room where he spent most of his time on the couch. In the bedroom that had become somewhat dusty. Hell, even in the bathroom.
The song was a melodious tune, like a calling of sorts. He'd realised that only a week into his isolation. The song was calling to him, beckoning him to allow it in.
He'd promptly covered his ears when the realisation hit. He did not want anything to do with it. With Jane Prentiss or those worms or anything at all.
But the song persisted. And, well, he couldn't keep his ears covered all the time, he didn't have noise cancelling headphones. He didn't even have his phone with him, which brought more despair. He wished desperately he hadn't dropped it when Prentiss was chasing him. He just wanted out. Out of this apartment and away from that blasted song and from Jane Prentiss and her weirdness.
Days pass and all he hears is the song.
He's started to hum to it by the second day as he tried to tidy up a bit his apartment — because truly, it was a mess and despite nobody popping in for a visit, he needed it to be clean for his own sake — and almost dropped the mug he was taking to the sink. He fumbled with it and in the end did drop it, but it got cushioned by the carpet. He heaved a sigh of relief, it was one of his favourite mugs after all, but he was horrified.
That one statement giver... oh, he couldn't remember his name. With a coffin or something similar. He'd been right. You really did tend to tune out the fear if given enough time. Put it away, in the furthest corner of your mind and go on about your day as if it's just another occurence. As if it's normal.
Nothing about this was normal.
Still, the song did not stop. And before he knew it, two weeks had passed and he was humming to it almost constantly.
Jon was starting to get pissed. More so than usual. His archival assistant, Martin — he thought bitterly, it was always Martin that so gravely disappointed him. Clumsy, idiotic, Martin — had been missing for almost an entire month now. And really, how could a stomach bug last that long?
So yeah, Jon was pissed.
Him and Sasha and Tim had had to pick up the slack. Stay overtime — although Tim always found some excuses to dodge too much work — and record more statements. It was starting to wear them down.
So, Jon had decided he had just about enough. Whether Martin wanted to or not, he would come back to work. He could have some pills and he'd be fine enough to work and they would just continue on with sorting through the mess Gertrude Robinson, his predecessor, had left behind.
After an earlier night, Jon decided he'd pop by Martin's apartment. He'd found out from Tim where the man lived and promised the other assistants he'd look into this whole ordeal and sort it out. They had wanted to visit Martin, but had not. The messages were clear and they didn't want to overstep any boundaries. In the end, they weren't that close to Martin.
Neither was Jon, but he was Martin's boss.
He had to do something.
So, here he is, ringing at the doorbell outside of Martin's building. He's freezing his arse off, even though it's well into March now. But there's still the leftover wind and chill that their winters never quite shook off until early summer. He tightens his coat around him and rings again.
There should be no reason for Martin not to answer. He said he'd been at home. So, where was he?
Just as Jon's about to ring again, the buzzer goes off and the door unlocks.
He swiftly steps inside and sighs, the warmth from inside a welcome respite.
He takes the stairs fast and is prepared to thoroughly scold Martin for this absenteeism, for how unprofessional it is, even threaten to fire him — even if he knows he won't, it's just far too much of a hassle to find a new archival assistant, even one better, these days — when he notices... something on the floor by Martin's entrance.
It's a slimy like substance, all smeared over the polished floor, leading from the door to just about a meter away.
This puzzles Jon, but he resolves himself to still speak to Martin. Some... foreign substance won't stop him.
So, he knocks. But the door's ajar and that weird substance is on the doorhandle too, dried now. He scrunches his nose in disgust and choose to just push it open with his elbow.
It's quiet, in the apartment. There's no light turned on and the only sound is... faint rustling, from the end of the hall.
"Martin? Martin! You have a lot of explaining to do, missing work and now here and... what the hell is on your door?" Jon shouts into the quiet apartment, making his way down the hall.
He stops in his track, though, when he notices the figure on the couch. It's hunched over — but truly, Martin's always hunched over, trying to fold into himself, as if that will get him out of trouble — and seemingly looking down at something. But what truly horrifies him is the faint silhouette of... something, by his face. Something small, almost like... like a tiny thing that's wriggling.
Like a worm.
And then Martin's turned to him, just as Jon's grumbling more and turns on the light.
They freeze, at the same time.
Jon can't recognize the man in front of him. Sure, he's got the same red slightly curled hair, the same glasses on, with rounded frames resting on his face — but they're severely cracked now — and those fluffy sweaters he always wears, even in the Archives. But anything else... it can't be him. His skin's ashen completely and entirely filled with... holes. Holes, upon holes, upon holes, spattered on his cheeks and down his neck, even on his hands and Jon thinks there might be more underneath his clothes. And from all of them, tiny silvery worms twitch and slither, some burrowing deeper and some falling off of him, on the floor. The floor, which has the same sticky residue as his door and entrance.
And Jon has to stop himself from vomiting, but he doesn't even have time to process it by the time Martin's on his feet and taking steps towards him.
"J-Jon," it, because this is no man, how is this Martin, croaks out. More worms come out pouring and Jon thinks he's finally lost his mind. Because this can't be reality. He can't be seeing his assistant... like this. He can't even describe properly what's going on, his head's far too light and he feels dizzy.
He chokes on a gasp and manhandles his way out of the apartment, running as far as his feeble legs allow him to. He doesn't stop to look behind, just runs and runs back to the Archives, tears streaming down his face. God... what the fuck had happened?
He can't face the guilt he feels, even as the Institute building comes into view.
Martin...