Chapter Text
The mirror is a curious little object.
Martin runs across it while perusing a charity shop in the hopes of finding a poetry book he hasn’t already read, after finding himself up to his elbows in Keats and Wordsworth and Blake that he’s got on the shelf at home. It seems rude to search the shelves for so long and then leave without actually buying something, so he keeps looking until he finds himself scanning an aisle of trinkets and decor, and he thinks a little hopelessly, Maybe I can find something for Mum. It’s not a surprise when the majority of it is kitschy, generic stuff that might make most mothers happy, but his would mock him for it, if she agreed to see him at all.
He passes over a collection of wall art, several nondescript mugs, and a birdfeeder before his eyes land on the hand mirror. There’s nothing noticeably special about it, except that it’s obviously old, and well-made, and the flicker of motion—his own reflection—takes him aback. It’s silver, and heavier than it looks. The front looks just how Martin expects a hand mirror to look, but the back is molded into a design of two people, their palms pressed flat against each other’s. Or maybe it’s one person, reflected. There’s something written around the edges in what looks to be Old Norse.
Martin turns the mirror over again and takes a look at himself, like there might be something new he somehow missed while brushing his teeth this morning. It’s only going to remind him he ought to go for a trim. He starts.
The reflection is different.
It’s not massively different. That’s his own face in the mirror. Well. Mostly, it’s his own face in the mirror. The Martin looking back at him appears to have spent more time smiling, and his hair might actually have been combed today, and there’s a little nick of a scar beside his left eye. Martin unconsciously touches that spot beside his own eye, because he’s sure there’s never been anything there and if he’s suddenly developing new scars without actually having been wounded…he’d rather not have another statement to make.
He squeezes his eyes shut in the hopes that this reflection, just different enough to be uncanny, will shift itself back to normal.
To his surprise, it does. It was probably never different. He’s spent too much time in the Archive, is all, surrounded by the unusual, and it’s got his mind playing tricks on him.
The mirror costs fifteen pounds. Martin leaves with it wrapped up safely in brown paper.
It’s not until he’s tucked under the covers at ten in the evening that Martin pulls at the twine holding the mirror’s wrapping. He’s not sure why he brought it to bed with him. (He’s not sure why he bought it.) There’s a collection of modern poetry with him too, something he gave in and picked up later in the day, but it’s the mirror he reaches for.
He holds it up in front of his face and releases a breath he hadn’t noticed himself holding when it looks exactly the way it should.
“It’s only a mirror, Martin,” he chides himself. “Don’t be daft. Imagine what Jon would say if you went to him with this.” That’s if he said anything, and didn’t just look at Martin with the sort of expression usually reserved for subpar tea.
He begins to set the mirror aside. Then there’s a flicker of movement in the glass that certainly isn’t in his bedroom and Martin yelps. There’s somebody behind his reflection, waving their arms wildly, a red-faced woman with greying hair and enormous spectacles. Martin glances over his shoulder.
The only thing there is the headboard, because nothing else would make the remotest bit of sense.
He looks back to the mirror. The Martin in the glass has a scar again. The Martin in his bed swallows. “Nothing,” he says, his voice soft and unconvincing, “this is nothing to worry about.” The reflected mouth doesn’t move to match his, just twitches into a tired smile. “It’s not flesh worms trapping you inside your flat.”
Sure, a traitorous little voice exactly his own agrees. Plenty of other things that might kill you.
Martin forces himself to breathe, and to tilt the mirror in every possible direction, until he’s seen more of the other Martin’s surroundings than the little oval surface should show him. Of course, it should be showing him himself, his actual self, so “should” obviously doesn’t have much bearing on the situation at hand.
The other Martin is in a café, behind the counter, behind a case of pastries and sandwiches. There’s another man with him, with long blond hair tied back, wearing an apron and a dusting of flour. The place is brightly lit, sunlight streaming through windows. Martin, the other Martin, the impossible Martin, turns, and the Martin whose fingers tremble horribly around the mirror can see the rest of the premises: it’s a little café, populated by university students and the occasional obvious professor, and the visibility, the angles, they’re not really what they should be, and Martin, the logical Martin, shuts his eyes because it worked earlier and this really can’t be happening.
But when he looks again, there’s the Martin in the café, and the Martin in his bed drops the mirror onto his legs with a glum, “I only wanted some new poetry.”
It’s a stretch of seconds before he realizes there’s something else amiss. That is, the mirror is pointed straight at his ceiling, not in his hands, and he’s staring across the room at a spider on his wall…but he can still see the other Martin, calmly addressing the shouting woman while a few students look on, unimpressed. He can see the entire café.
Worse, he can hear it.
The day sure is off to some kind of start.
Martin Blackwood, owner of Cosy and the epitome of calm, wears his most patient smile. Quite the opposite of him are Michael Shelley—currently covered in flour and looking bewildered—and the woman from several shops down, who shows no sign of running out of steam for her tirade about—
“I’m sorry,” Martin interrupts, soft enough to throw her off her rhythm, “what is it you feel Michael’s done wrong?”
The woman draws herself up to her full height, almost a foot shorter than Martin, and says a crisp, “He refused to serve me.”
Martin knows how untrue that is, but he’s not going to call a business neighbor a liar directly to her face. Instead he looks at one of the university students, a regular of theirs called Melanie, who’s been watching the whole thing with her arms folded over her chest. “Did you see that happen?”
“No,” Melanie says, flat and not-yet caffeinated. “Michael told her he’d be just a moment, as he had to make my coffee. Which I don’t have yet, by the way, because waiting her turn was too much to ask, and here we are.”
It’s only the smell of cinnamon and apples that stops Martin from wincing at the not-ideally-diplomatic testimony. His café does live up to its name, welcoming and homey and calming. Melanie does not. He nods to Michael. “Take care of Melanie’s coffee, will you?” Then it’s back to the woman, who looks ready to boil over. “There, then. Michael would never refuse to serve you…” For fear of retribution if nothing else, he thinks. “But we do ask that you respect our other patrons. That said, I’ll be happy to serve you now?”
The woman’s eyes don’t actually glow red, he’s nearly sure. Martin is relieved when she turns on her heel and stalks from the café with a snapped, “Terrible way to run a business,” as his chest has been getting tighter, and he can’t stay calm forever.
“Terrible way to run a life,” says the next customer, another familiar face. Sasha, Melanie’s best friend and classmate, scans the case of sweets. “Can I have one of those apple strudels? I don’t think I’ve tried one yet.”
“They’re new,” Michael tells her, handing Melanie her coffee. “I hadn’t made them before. Hopefully they turned out all right.”
Sasha, who’s tried just about every variety of pastry Michael’s whipped up since Cosy opened, laughs. “You haven’t let me down before.” She asks Martin for her usual lemon tea and pays, before shuffling aside.
“If you’re ever thinking about a career change,” says Tim, already cheerful enough that Martin expects Melanie to start threatening him about enjoying the morning too much—again. “You might want to consider joining up with bomb disposal.”
Martin’s reaching for the blueberry muffin he knows Tim’ll be wanting with one hand, and ringing up his coffee with the other, while Michael scurries around behind him, already taking care of both drinks at once. “Why’s that?”
“Because,” Tim says, “you’re so good at defusing the situation.”
Martin snorts. The next customer in line—this one not a familiar face—laughs, and then looks ashamed of themselves when Melanie gags.
“Was that supposed to be a joke?” she asks.
“His face almost makes up for how bad his sense of humor is.” Michael hands Sasha her tea and strudel. Then he turns to retrieve Tim’s from the countertop, and whitens, evidently realizing he’s said this out loud. “Ah. I mean.”
He practically shoves Tim’s drink into his waiting hands before rushing past Martin to offer help to several groggy-eyed students.
“You know you don’t have to flirt with the customers to get paid, right?” Sasha says.
Tim grins. “Don’t discourage him.”
Martin listens to this while taking care of additional customers, switching from taking orders to retrieving food to putting together drinks as though on autopilot, but fully conscious of every move he makes. Intensely, perfectly aware of every individual second spent in his shop. Cosy has been his dream for years, one he’s saved for while working endless hours at other cafés, and bled for in the metaphorical sense if not physically (several pre-opening scrapes notwithstanding), and it thrills him constantly how perfect the reality of it is. Their location near the King’s College Strand Campus is ideal, and Michael is a model employee (not to mention one of the best pastry chefs in London), and though they’ve only been open for a month, they’ve built up a base of regulars on top of a steady stream of occasional-droppers-by and newcomers. There’s little more he could ask for.
As it has been every Monday morning, the café is full of a variety of customers. Sasha, Tim, and Melanie have all snagged a table together, which is a typical sight that never fails to warm Martin up; Sasha and Melanie, both grad students, have been friends for years, but Tim works in publishing, and hadn’t met either of them until a similarly crowded morning in the café. That friendship is the result of his busy little place. He needs to find time to interview additional help, most mornings looking like this one, but he and Michael are managing on their own so far.
During a brief lull, Martin asks Michael to restock the case, as the pastries do tend to go quickly, and he does a circuit to wipe down tables. He’s chatting with a few customers, making sure they’re enjoying their breakfasts, when the door next opens, and he glances up to see a dead-eyed, dark-circled, disheveled blond man, accompanied by another man, this one scrawny, smirking, and shaggy-haired, with a dab of paint beneath one eye.
Martin excuses himself to slip behind the counter and begin readying a coffee and a mint green tea. The disheveled blond casts a suspicious look at the case; Martin calls, “Michael, have you got the strawberry-graham scones?” and Michael comes rushing out with a new tray of pastries.
“He didn’t sleep,” the man spotted with paint says helpfully, patting his companion on the shoulder.
"I thought as much," Martin says.
The blond swats at him. “Neither did you, Gerry.”
“No, but I don’t have class in twenty minutes, do I?” Gerry pauses. "Also, I'm not a right bastard when sleep-deprived."
Martin leaves Michael to ring up the drinks while he takes over reorganizing the pastries, taking one aside to hand across the counter. “Good morning, Jon.”
The image fades. But calling it an image—that’s not really right, because Martin couldn’t just see it, he could hear it and practically feel it, and there are a few thoughts lingering in his head that he’s sure aren’t his own, quite.
(Are they his own, if that was him? But it wasn’t him, also.)
He adjusts the mirror, turns it every which way, but now it only shows his own face, the one without the scar, the one that needs to get more rest; it also shows his headboard and his ceiling, but there’s not a café reflected back at him.
There’s not another world in the glass.
It’s gone now. But Martin Blackwood, Archival Assistant, doesn’t doubt for a second that Martin Blackwood, owner of a London café called Cosy, is just as real as he is.
Notes:
Evidently I like starting fics in the land known as Between Season 1 & Season 2.
Please note that all schedule adjustments will be marked in the tags.
Chapter 2: the wrong Jon
Chapter Text
Martin peeks into the mirror while getting ready for work.
The other Martin is there against the backdrop of his café, laughing at something Martin cannot see.
He bundles the mirror into a towel and fits it into his satchel.
It’s much too early for this.
Jon hasn’t yet settled at his desk when Martin barges into his office, a wildness on his face that immediately raises Jon’s hackles. He watches Martin yank his bag open with enough force that he expects it to rip; then, in complete contrast, Martin eases some towel-wrapped object free, cradling it as though it’s an infant. “Martin,” he says, the not-inconsiderable amount of trepidation coming out knife-sharp, “what is that?”
“It’s a mirror,” Martin says, a bit feverish. He stuffs the towel back into his bag and glances into the mirror, visibly swallowing. “I bought it yesterday at a charity shop.”
“We already have mirrors in the Institute,” Jon says.
“Right, sure, but this one is.” Martin stops, and Jon can tell he’s searching his mental lexicon for a word that isn’t “spooky” or “eerie” or some other such nonsense that will have Jon throwing him out of the office. Jon still might throw him out of the office, if only to make a point. “There’s something odd about it. The reflections it shows aren’t right. I mean, they’re completely wrong. They’re not even really reflections? It’s like there’s another world in there, with another me, except the Martin in the glass doesn’t work at the Institute, he owns a café—it looked like quite a nice café, actually—and there was another you there too, I think he might have been a professor, and I didn’t know what to do, so I brought it here. It’s got to be paranormal, right? Mirrors don’t just show us other worlds, that’s…that’s not how mirrors work.”
Jon stares at him. There’s certainly enough conviction in Martin’s voice, but he said it himself: that’s not how mirrors work. Mirrors don’t show alternate worlds. There aren't alternative worlds.
It would be too early for this at three in the afternoon. As it’s eight in the morning and Martin hasn’t brought any tea along, it is genuinely too early to listen to him babbling about other Martins, other Jons, and cafés. Jon pinches the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes as though the situation will clear itself up if he stops looking at it.
It doesn’t, of course. Martin is still there with a mirror in hand, clearly expecting Jon to do something about it. As though the things he collects in his personal hours are a problem to be taken to his boss. “You had an odd dream, Martin. You work in an odd place, and it gave you an odd dream.”
“I thought it might be my imagination at first too, but it’s not,” Martin says, his voice rising in both volume and pitch. Jon winces. “There’s something weird about that thing, what it showed me wasn’t, I wasn’t even really looking at it when—just look at it, Jon! You’ll see what I mean.”
“Fine.” Jon tamps down a frisson of irritation. Several frissons. If it’ll get Martin out of his office… “Fine. Give it here.”
Martin pushes the mirror at him with such vigor it nearly falls. Jon half-wishes he’d let it crash to the floor. There would be the glass to sweep up, but it would put an immediate, definitive stop to this nonsense. Now the mirror is in his hand and unobservant as Martin may be, even he would notice Jon just—opening his hand and letting gravity take its course.
So he studies the damn mirror. It’s a beautiful piece of workmanship, and Jon is certain that whatever Martin paid for it, it wasn’t enough. He’s no expert in dating antiques, but guesses it must be at least one or two hundred years old; there are a few researchers upstairs who would be capable of pinning it down to the decade or closer, if he wanted to waste their time with it, and he really doesn’t. The design is interesting enough, two androgynous figures, possibly the same person, and the words engraved in the edges are indecipherable. The perpetually curious part of his brain wants to know what the words say, and the significance of the figures, and he might satisfy that curiosity, if not for the fact that he has much graver, more pressing concerns these days.
Jon turns the mirror over. He’d best get on with it before Martin starts talking again. The glass shows him what he expects to see: himself. Jon frowns back at his reflection. The dark circles beneath his eyes make it clear how little time he’s spent sleeping over the last few weeks; when he does sleep, it’s fitful, constantly broken by nightmares and cold sweats. His face is drawn, stressed and frustrated. His scars are—
That’s not right, he thinks.
The scars that have marred his skin since the day Jane Prentiss and her hive and their song came to call are gone. There’s no sign they ever existed on the face looking back at him, which is, ostensibly, his own. The exhaustion is there. The stress and frustration stare out of the glass. But the Jon in the mirror is unblemished, aside from a spot where he must have caught himself with a razor.
Jon’s eyes flick toward Martin, who’s chewing anxiously on his upper lip, and then back to the mirror. To his great relief and dismay, his scars are right where they’re all meant to be. He frowns. “It’s a mirror, Martin. Perhaps it’s some kind of trick mirror, but it’s certainly not anything paranormal.”
“I’m telling you,” Martin says, and Jon truly considers whether shouting at him would be worthwhile, “when I looked at it last night there was a café, and it was run by another me, along with some blond man I’ve never seen before. And you were there, and Sasha and Tim were there, and that woman—Marian? Melanie King, the one who was in here before—”
“Martin.” Jon fixes him with a peevish look. It’s the quieter option. He’s got more important things to be doing than having pointless debates with his most incompetent assistant. “Don’t you think it makes more sense for it to have been a dream?”
Martin has the gall to roll his eyes; Jon is impressed despite himself. “Of course that would make more sense, but it’s not what happened. It would also make more sense for me not to have been stalked by a demon-worm-woman-thing, but that happened. The first time I looked at the mirror, it was just a little bit off—this scar I don’t have?—and when I looked again later, it was a lot off. I work at the Magnus Institute, I don’t really care if things make sense, and Jon, you have to listen to me. Please.”
The ‘please’ gives Jon pause. “Then leave it here with me. I’ll check it again in a few hours. Now get to work.” He sets the mirror down and echoes, “Please.”
This, finally, seems to set Martin at ease. To some extent. Jon isn’t convinced “at ease” is a state of being Martin has ever fully realized, but neither has he; it’s one thing they do have in common. But Martin’s shoulders visibly loosen, and his mouth twitches into some distant relative of a smile. He says, “Thank you,” and then, “I’ll just go,” and he does.
The silence he leaves behind is a blessed relief.
Another Martin? One of him is quite enough, Jon thinks uncharitably. He casts the mirror a dark look and hides it inside his desk with no intention of looking at it again. He’ll tell Martin he has, and that there’s nothing to worry about, and to do something relaxing with his evenings. Adopt a cat. Put together a jigsaw puzzle.
Work on his bloody poetry.
It’s bad enough that Jon takes the Archive home with him; he hasn’t got the patience for Martin to come running to him with some new ghost or monster or possessed antique every other day. This mirror isn’t magic, or cursed, or otherwise supernatural, and if it were a statement Jon would, in Martin’s words, tear it to pieces before filing it neatly into the Discredited Section. If the mirror had come from Mikaele Salesa, then it might be cause for concern. As it came from an ordinary charity shop, it’s not worth worrying about.
Leitners have appeared in charity shops, a mocking little voice reminds him. You’re only dismissing this because it’s Martin. And maybe he is, but ‘because it’s Martin’ strikes him as a perfectly valid cause for skepticism.
But he was right about Prentiss. He was attacked by Prentiss.
Jon could, he supposes, ask Sasha to look into translating the characters on the back, but it’s almost certainly nothing and he’s not sure of the wisdom of indulging Martin’s little fantasy any further than he already is. He drags a stack of statements toward himself and pushes the mirror from his thoughts.
The trouble is his curiosity. Much as Jon wants it to mind its own damn business, it gets the better of him in the end. His thoughts drift time and again to his desk drawer. To the mirror he’s hidden away for ignoring. It’s just a mirror. But what if it’s not?
Glad to be alone, Jon makes a frustrated sound and wrenches open the drawer. The mirror seems to taunt him, to say, ‘I knew you’d be back.’ He drops the thing onto the desk and makes eye contact with his reflection.
“There’s nothing unusual about you,” he tells it, “and I don’t have time for you.”
It makes a strange sort of sense that his reflection doesn’t speak along with him. Ah, he thinks, as though some part of him recognized this inevitability long before the rest of him caught up. The Jon in the mirror is wrong again. The scars have gone, and his backdrop is a bookcase of reference materials pertaining to classic literature; Jon recognizes several of the spines as having been on his own shelves at one point or another.
“You’ve got to be joking.” Jon looks away and then back. Jon, the wrong Jon, sits up straighter in his chair and gives something a glare rather like the one Jon, sat in the Archive Jon, is giving the mirror. Jon says an accusatory, “You were supposed to be normal. I was only humoring Martin.”
Except, of course, that’s turned out not to be the case. Jon makes an angry sound and continues to observe—Jon, the wrong Jon, the one who doesn’t have trauma written on his face. He adjusts the angle of the mirror until, impossibly, he can see what the reflected Jon is glowering at; it appears to be some sort of essay, but Jon cannot make out the text. If he were to guess, the Jon who’s gone and ruined his day is also in an office, one that’s dimly lit by a desk lamp, and cramped not because it’s packed with years upon years of mess, but because it would be cramped even with nothing inside.
Damn.
Jon turns the mirror over to study the back more closely. Several of the characters are familiar to him, possibly Old Norse. Maybe he should find a reference text and translate it on his own. There are also minute differences between the reflected figures, though he has to squint to notice them: an odd scuff mark here, an extra glint of silver filigree there. And then he realizes, stranger than the characters or the figures, he can still see the reflection, if it can really be considered a reflection; he sees the wrong Jon, scratching red ink across the essay he’s reading, and though his own office is silent, he hears his own voice—his voice—hears the other Jon muttering to himself.
The Shakespeare papers are abysmal.
If Jonathan Sims, doctoral student-slash-teaching servant at King’s College, were at all interested in another stern lecture from Dr. Bouchard, he’d burn rather than inspect them, and present the students with the ashes. As it stands, the university would frown on that behavior, so he keeps his arson-esque urges in check. He’d allowed them to choose their own plays, in hopes that this would result in higher caliber papers; he’s succeeded only in subjecting himself to a much greater array of foolishness. Why limit them to poor essays on The Merchant of Venice (five papers), when The Merry Wives of Windsor (three, whose authors probably believed themselves to be making wholly unique choices) and Titus Andronicus (one, handed in by a sallow boy who hasn’t said a word since introducing himself on the first day of class) can also contribute to his suffering?
He’s also got plenty of Hamlet and Macbeth essays in front of him; of course he has.
“I am picturing you as cinders,” he says to one paper, before dropping his pen and leaning back so far in his chair that it threatens to fall over, which would about sum up the day he’s had. Mondays are complete rubbish, full of foundational students who fancy themselves above his lessons, with no time whatsoever for work on his own dissertation unless he forgoes sleep; he often does. There are too many papers left to mark, and if he does them now he won’t have to think about them again, but enough is enough.
Jon turns the lamp off and leaves his sorry excuse for an office.
It’s nearly eight, and sick as he is of reading assignments, he’s not in the mood to go home. Gerry’ll be there, making a colorful mess of their front room despite having a perfectly good loft and playing music much too loud, and Georgie; Jon wants, craves, needs quiet. Needs to empty his head.
His wandering of the streets borders on aimless, though he makes a point of keeping to streets he knows, streets that still have people on them. His thoughts do their own share of wandering: from his paper to his grandmother, from the students he really does try to teach to the only positive facet of his Monday, which is that little café Gerry first dragged him into a month ago, that still has a veneer of ‘new’ over it. Evidently his thoughts and his feet are of a mind; Jon finds himself in front of the café window.
There’s still light inside, and Jon sees Michael sweeping the floor. It closes in two minutes, and only bastards go into places two minutes from closing. Jon still hasn’t slept, and as Gerry pointed out, he’s a bastard when he hasn’t slept.
He goes inside.
Michael looks up from his sweeping and starts to say, “Hi, we’ve already cleaned the…” and then stops when he sees Jon. “We’re out of your scones.” This, he says apologetically.
“It’s the end of the day,” Jon says, by which he means, They’re delicious, so of course you are.
“Right. Um.” Michael seems unsure where to go from here. Jon hasn’t a clue either. He doesn’t know why he came inside, except that Cosy is a comfort to him in the mornings.
They might stand there forever, except their standstill is broken by Martin, the place’s owner, walking out of the café’s back, wiping his hands on his apron and saying, “Michael, did you lock u—oh, Jon. I didn’t realize anyone had come in.” He gazes at Jon for what feels like a long time. “You can go on home, Michael. I’ll take care of locking up.”
“Sure,” Michael says, his eyes darting to Jon and then back to Martin, “but…”
“It’s fine.” Martin smiles; Jon can’t recall having seen him do anything else. He thinks, distantly, that he should offer to turn around and leave, but there’s a wave of exhaustion towing him under, and the thought is too far away, and so he keeps on standing there. Michael leaves, and Jon is somewhat aware of exchanging polite farewells, Michael looking suitably concerned about the situation all the while.
Then it’s just Jon and Martin, standing across from each other in an otherwise empty café.
Jon says, “Does Michael think I’m going to murder you?”
Martin’s laugh is the best thing Jon has heard all day, strong and warm. “No, probably not. Michael just worries, in a general sort of way.” He leans on the counter. “What are you doing here?”
“I don’t know,” Jon confesses. “I just found myself—I can go. I should go.”
“You can stay if you want.” Martin nods toward the empty tables that have clearly been wiped down already. “I don’t mind. I’ll fix you something to drink.”
“You don’t have to do that.” Jon stays beside the door. Because he should go. Really.
“Sit down, Jon,” Martin says, and disappears into the back room before Jon can protest.
It’s sit or continue hovering awkwardly. Jon gives the door an uncertain look, but he doesn’t have the means to lock it, and he doesn’t want to leave, so he crosses the floor and takes a seat. His phone vibrates in his pocket; he ignores it, looking around the café. It’s always overfull in the mornings, which Jon knows is excellent for Martin, but also means he and Gerry have to hurry on their way, to make room for the next in line. There are a dozen tables, a shelf full of poetry books, a chalkboard proclaiming the day’s specials, and—Martin, returning with a cup of tea, which he sets in front of Jon.
“I just have a few things to finish, if you don’t mind giving me a minute.”
“What do I owe you?” Jon reaches for his wallet. Though the café isn’t the cheapest of the nearby coffee options, not nearly, he never minds the expense. His phone vibrates a second time.
“You don’t.” Martin whisks away again, this time heading for the door and locking it. That done, he collects the broom Michael left leaning on the wall and takes it into the back. Then he’s at the till, counting under his breath.
Jon doesn’t watch him, just hears him moving about, taking care of whatever tasks closing up shop entails. The tea is hot and sweet, and some of the tension leaves him with the first sip. It’s not something he would ordinarily order, but it is delicious, and somehow it’s exactly what he needs. He takes a second sip and closes his eyes. When he opens them again, Martin is across from him with a second cup of tea, and a sandwich. “I’m going to guess you haven’t eaten dinner.”
“I haven’t,” Jon says. Martin takes a drink of his tea and Jon’s eyes are drawn to the working of his throat. The sandwich is as good as the tea. He’s too kind. “You’ve a knack for establishing customer loyalty.”
“You’re a customer I like.” Martin runs a hand through his hair, which is dark and neat and wavy. Probably soft, too. “And you look like you’ve had a long day.”
Poorly written essays swim behind Jon’s eyes. “I’ve taught five classes and read too many of their papers, and they’re all awful. I don’t believe they even tried.” He sighs and has a bite of his sandwich. “Most of them want to be in my course about as much as I want to be teaching it, but they might put in as much effort as I do.” He winces. “One of them wrote that Romeo can’t be held accountable for Ophelia’s death.”
While not technically incorrect, at a certain distance and angle...well.
“Oh, dear.” Martin gives him a sympathetic look. Though Jon and Gerry always move along quickly, Martin has heard plenty of Jon’s grumbling about his teaching obligations. “None of them were any good?”
Jon considers, for a moment. “There was one,” he says slowly. “The student presented an intriguing case for Hamlet and Horatio’s relationship being more intimate than Shakespeare was able to present in the text.”
“Did they just turn in a copy of the play with a few bits highlighted?” Martin leans forward.
“That would have been clever.” Jon finishes his sandwich, and Martin watches him, and Jon feels more at ease than he has in days. Martin’s got a real gift. There’s a spate of vibrations from his phone; he carries on ignoring it. He takes another swallow of his tea, which is no longer scalding fresh, but hasn’t yet gone cold. “You could have told me to leave, Martin.”
“Yes,” Martin agrees, “I could have. We are closed.”
“But you let me stay,” Jon says, uncertain.
“You looked like you could use a friend.”
This comes as a surprise. “Are we friends?”
“Sure,” Martin says, and Jon is notoriously poor at reading people, Georgie all but announced her intentions over a loudspeaker and still had to kiss him before he worked out that she might be interested in him; all that to say, he isn’t quite sure of the expression on Martin’s face. It’s probably not romantic interest. It’s probably just that Martin is friendly, perfectly suited to running a business like Cosy. Jon has no reason to be thinking about Martin’s possible romantic interest anyhow, though Martin is certainly attractive, and— “Are you doing okay, Jon?”
“I’m just tired.” Jon forces himself to focus. “I should let you get out of here.”
“I don’t mind,” Martin says. “You can come by anytime you need a friendly face.”
“I do like your face,” Jon says, because evidently his mouth has decided to make its own choices.
Martin laughs; Jon doesn’t feel as though he’s being laughed at. “You’re not so bad yourself.”
Jon really doesn’t know what to say. He stands, too abruptly, but he can hardly unstand. “I should let you get home.”
“Okay.” Martin stands too, and collects the dishes, and it occurs to Jon he should offer to wash them. But he suddenly feels awkward, and rather alarmed about his mouth’s newfound self-determination. “I’ll see you in the morning?”
“Oh,” Jon says, nearly shocked by the reminder, as though he hasn’t been here every morning for weeks. “Yes, in the morning.”
Martin’s still smiling at him, and he’s going to do something stupid if he doesn’t leave immediately. Thankfully, Martin sets the dishes on the counter and unlocks the door. The last thing he says is, “Try to get some sleep tonight, Jon.”
“That’s not likely. I’ll let you know tomorrow.”
“I’ll be waiting,” Martin says, and Jon convinces himself to walk away.
There are an absurd number of text messages on his phone, from both Gerry and Georgie. The last reads, ‘Georgie and I have pizza. Get home and eat, you insufferable git.’ Jon rolls his eyes. He looks over his shoulder before leaving Cosy and its owner behind; he’s very nearly smiling.
In the Archive, in his office, Jon blinks away the remains of—of the world he’s just seen and heard and felt. He wants to disregard it as his imagination running away with him. Overreacting to Martin’s overreaction.
He wants to; he can’t do it.
There’s another Jonathan Sims. A Jonathan Sims who is working toward his doctorate at King’s College. A Jonathan Sims who is a regular at a café owned by another Martin Blackwood. A wrong Jonathan Sims; but it hadn’t felt wrong. It felt almost pleasant. Simpler, if it weren’t adding a new layer of complication to his already excessively complicated life.
“I hate you,” Jon informs the mirror.
By rights, the thing should go to the Institute’s Research team and then on to Artefact Storage.
Jon places it back in his drawer.
Chapter Text
As it turns out, it’s more than a bit difficult for Martin to keep his attention on his work, knowing there’s just a wall between himself and Jon and the mirror. He’s written himself a list of things that need doing, everything from digging through police reports to making phone calls, but actually doing them—he hasn’t, exactly.
He wonders if Jon has given the mirror a second go, when he’s meant to be comparing addresses.
He imagines the other Martin, busy and smiling in his café, when he should be combing through newspaper articles.
He doodles Cosy’s storefront into the margins of his notebook, when he ought to be scrutinizing dates that aren’t matching up.
He thinks he’d like to look at the mirror again.
It was nice, sort of, to see himself looking so happy. It would be nicer to have that himself, his actual self, but that’s rather out of reach.
Not thinking about the mirror is impossible.
Jon does, for a time, set himself to other tasks: he records several perfectly mundane statements, the sort that the laptop is more than happy to accept; he compiles a task list for his assistants based on a statement the laptop mangles, or a statement that mangles the laptop; and he contemplates Gertrude’s murder and whether or not his own—admittedly lackluster—investigative skills will be enough to solve it before he meets the same fate. All the while, the mirror sits in his mental periphery, that mocking little voice from before crooning that he should just…keep watching.
Just a glimpse, the voice says.
Piss off, Jon replies.
It’s his own voice; it’s more irritating than Martin’s.
The trouble arises when he realizes that the file he needs—a reference of known Leitners, when and where and with whom they’ve appeared—is in the same drawer as the mirror. He considers, as he skims a statement featuring Ex Altiora, just how badly he needs the file. “Don’t be an idiot,” he says to himself, his hand hovering beside the drawer.
It’s only natural that the back of his hand brushes the silver frame.
The living room is every bit as noisy and in disarray as Jon expected it would be. Gerry is playing something fast-paced and German, and has covered their walls and floor in canvas, and proceeded to splatter paint everywhere in a fashion that likely makes sense in his head; Jon, sat on the sofa, can’t make heads nor tails of what his friend is trying to achieve, but then, he rarely can. Art, visual art, doesn’t speak to him the way books can.
“You’re not eating,” Georgie says from the opposite end of the sofa. She’s got a slice of pizza in one hand and a pen in the other, a notebook open on her lap.
“I already told you,” Jon says, watching Gerry trace the outline of a woman’s face on top of a mess of blues and greens, “I ate.”
“You did say that, yes.” Georgie takes a bite of her pizza. “But you’re rubbish at feeding yourself, and neither of us was with you to do it, so I’m not completely convinced.”
“I’m not a child.” There’s not much use in saying it. They’ve had this conversation, the three of them, enough times that it would be comical, if it weren’t so—frustrating isn’t quite the word he’s looking for. It’s nice that they worry for him, he thinks. Most of the time. It’s good of them, and they care for him, and so on. But he’s perfectly capable of taking care of himself, no matter how much his friends think otherwise. He doesn’t need them their overbearing. “I have more interesting things to lie to you about than whether or not I’ve eaten dinner, Georgie.”
“Really? Because that was the most interesting lie you’ve ever told me,” Gerry says without turning around.
“It wasn’t.” They’ve been friends too long, and he’s not that dull.
“You can tell us if you were out ritual sacrificing one of your students.” Georgie says this far too cheerfully, and then looks as though she’s had a brilliant thought; she drops her pizza to scribble something into her notebook. “We’ll be your alibi.”
“You’ve caught me,” Jon deadpans. “I couldn’t take them anymore.”
“Go on then,” Georgie says, still writing avidly, “give us the gory details.”
“I dread to think what you’d do with them.” Gerry turns, paint dripping onto the canvas below. “Where were you?”
“Georgie said.” Jon waves at her.
Gerry gives Jon the worst sort of look, like he’s seeing him all the way through to his skeleton. Having an artist for a best friend can be alarming that way.
“Oh, all right.” Jon pretends not to notice the way Georgie perks up, or the subtle shift to Gerry’s face. Completely overbearing, the both of them. “I was at Cosy.”
Georgie’s face scrunches up. “That café you two’re obsessed with? Didn’t they close ages ago?”
Jon thinks about Martin Blackwood smiling at him in an otherwise empty café, about the way his laugh transforms his face. Which Jon does like, though he still wishes he hadn’t said it like that. So forthright. So…dim-witted. I do like your face. Honestly. He can’t have been that much a mess with Georgie; he probably was. “We’re not obsessed.”
Gerry jabs the paintbrush toward him. “Speak for yourself. Martin and Michael are culinary geniuses.”
“Fine, Gerry’s obsessed,” Jon says. A splotch of black lands just shy of his foot. “Yes, they were closed, but I was there anyway. Martin is.” He stops. They don’t need to know everything.
“Jon,” Georgie says, delighted, “have you made a new friend?”
Jon focuses on one of Gerry’s paint-spattered tattoos. It’s the first he ever got, while Jon sat beside him and pretended the needles in the room didn’t make him nervous. He doesn’t want to snap at Georgie for taking an interest in his life, and the tattoo, a lithe figure with an awkward number of limbs, has a way of working the knots out of his temper. Fond memories, calming effects. He shakes his head. He’s not annoyed with Georgie, not really, it’s everything else. Not least how dreadfully exhausted he is.
Try to get some sleep, Jon.
Georgie is clearly waiting on an answer.
“I don’t know,” he says, which isn’t entirely false, and is (at the very least) the most interesting lie he’s told them tonight. He stands. “I’m going to bed.”
Jon wrenches his hand back as though he’s been burned.
The other Georgie—he heard the wrong Jon think about her before, and now he’s seen her, and it looks like that relationship ended a fair bit more amicably than his own. They’re sharing a house. That they’re talking at all is a step ahead.
And then there’s Gerry—Jon hasn’t the faintest who he is. Martin saw more of their familiar faces. Sasha and Tim and Melanie King. But there’s a heavily-tattooed painter living with a him who isn’t him. Something about him rings a bell.
And—and—the wrong Jon’s hair hasn’t got any grey in it.
He fishes a plastic glove from a bucket of cleaning supplies left behind by whomever cleared his office of worm corpses. Without bothering to put it on properly, using it as a quick barrier between himself and the silver, he takes the mirror from the drawer and sets it back atop his desk, as out of the way as possible. Sternly and to nobody, he says, “I don’t have time for this.”
Then he fetches the file he was after to begin with.
Just a glimpse, says the voice that is his, satisfied with itself.
Martin’s day is an awfully long one. He supposes it’s probably the same length as the rest of his days, that there’s probably not a second supernatural entity interfering with his life, slowing the time. It’s unlikely there would be two at once, isn’t it? But then, you never do know. It does feel like the day is going by more slowly than usual, and like maybe it’s doing it just to spite him.
The thing is, he stops into Jon’s office once or twice on a good day. It’s just to check on him, to see if he needs anything, especially since, really, he shouldn’t even be back to work yet, it’s too soon. (Neither should Tim, they both had the worst of Prentiss—but Martin worries less about Tim.) Today he hasn’t gone in at all, despite the constant urge, because he wants to know about the mirror, and also he doesn’t.
Either Jon will have seen nothing, and maybe that means the Archive is putting a crack in Martin at last (vouch for the soundness of his mind? ha!), or Jon will have seen something, and that’ll mean…he doesn’t know what that would mean.
He’s not sure which possibility frightens him more.
“You thought about showing your pen some mercy?” Tim’s voice startles him, and only then does he realize he’s been lost in thought and gnawing on his pen. He hopes Tim hasn’t been watching long.
“Oh,” he says, “er, just a little distracted. Were you looking for something?”
“Did you have the file on case…” Tim checks a notepad. “0150419? Just checking into a few things.”
“No.” Martin wipes his pen clean as inconspicuously as he can. “I thought Jon put it away, but you can check with him.”
“Right,” Tim says, giving him a look that’s probably not as critical as it feels. “Hey, Martin, take it easy, yeah?”
“Yeah,” Martin says. “You too.”
“You know me—always do.” Tim walks away, talking to himself under his breath. Martin scans the list of what he’s meant to do today; there’s not much left to the day now, but maybe he can check off one more thing. He draws a star beside ‘call Dean Street Jazz club’ and exchanges his pen for the proper file.
There’s a strong smell of cinnamon in the air, and for a moment he thinks Sasha must have come in with a coffee run, but she’s nowhere to be seen, and neither is anything that might smell of cinnamon, and Martin just has time to think That’s odd, because the Archive always smells mostly of old paper and dreams of damp, before his vision wobbles and shifts and he’s not altogether at his desk.
Martin is exceptionally fond of people as a rule—Cosy didn’t come about solely due to his love of experimenting with teas and coffees, after all, though that had its role to play—but he’s more than happy to return to his empty flat at the end of the day. His feet ache from rushing about and there’s a mysterious new stain on his trousers and he smells so strongly of chamomile he thinks it might be infused into his fingers, and it’s been a fantastic day.
Most of his days are fantastic lately. He doesn’t miss how lucky that makes him.
His home greets him, as usual, with the smell of cinnamon. He’s home later than ordinary, but that’s all right, there’s nobody here to wait for him. Not even a pet, though lately he’s thought about adopting a cat, or maybe a budgie. The flat is quiet, several floors up in a peaceful neighborhood; he turns on the stereo, his typical choice of classical, and strains of piano populate the air to keep him all the company he needs.
Martin lingers beside the stereo while shedding his shoes, and then makes for his bathroom. He takes a hot shower, washing away the muscle soreness and the minor memories of stress. That woman from down the street, she’s something he’ll need to handle. He’ll pay her a visit tomorrow with a complimentary drink and a pastry; he’s not going to apologize for her experience, as Michael’s done nothing wrong, but he’ll make nice. She’s run her business far longer than he has his, and he has no interest in making enemies.
Nothing’s perfect.
Once he’s finished washing up and smells marginally less like he’s spent twelve hours being brewed to perfection, Martin slips into a comfortable pair of pyjamas and settles down in his favorite armchair with the newest edition of a poetry periodical he’s followed since his teenage years. He checks the time before he can get too engrossed; as he’s got to be back to Cosy at half-six, late nights are out of the question. But there’s always a little bit of time for reading. If he’s lucky, there’s also time for writing. There won’t be, tonight, but the way his evening ended…he can’t, won’t complain about that one bit.
He pages through, pausing at the submission guidelines to wonder if he’ll hear anything soon; he continues to rifle through till he comes to the poems he hasn’t read yet. The magazine would be easy to read in one sitting; he’s never done so. Poetry is a food that ought to be digested slowly, each bite savored. There’s a poem about the ocean or about fear, and another about the author’s struggle with anxiety alongside their love of theatre, and another about idyllic sunny days, authored by a homesick Australian.
The fourth, the last he has the time for tonight, waxes lyrical on the suddenness of human emotion, and just like that, there is a lump in Martin’s throat. The moment’s not lost on him, like he’s slid on an icy patch of melancholy. He closes his eyes and then he closes the periodical and turns off the stereo and goes to bed.
Martin’s not lonely, except for when he is.
Cosy is fulfilling, and Michael is worth a dozen friends on his own, and he’s incredibly, increasingly fond of his regulars (a morning without Sasha and Tim and Melanie is a desolate morning indeed), but none of that comes home with him. (That’s not entirely true, of course. The account books visit his flat regularly, and there’s no switch to stop his brain offering him new drink ideas, and it’s not as though he never has Michael over for a visit.)
He doesn’t choose to think about Jon then, but think about Jon he does. The first time Jonathan Sims and Gerard (“Gerry, please, only my mum called me Gerard”) Keay visited Cosy, it was the second day of business. Martin distinctly remembers Gerry, with his dyed-black hair and an energy about him, shoving a much dourer man toward the counter and saying, “Get him something that’ll make him more tolerable—you haven’t got a coffee IV back there, have you?” He’d fixed up a raspberry and hazelnut concoction that Jon protested wanting any part of, but the first sip had gotten him to not only stop his complaining, but actually look content, and he’d looked at Martin the way most people look at lottery winnings. That had been nice.
That had been really nice.
But it was down to the drink, not to Martin himself, and there’s no reason for him to care either way.
Martin’s not sure what to make of tonight. There was Jon, stood in his café at closing, and Martin ought to have made him leave; but Martin’s not lonely, except for when he is. Besides: ‘I just found myself—’ Jon is prickly, and Martin doesn’t mind, but tonight Jon was less so, and Martin thinks maybe he had something to do with it. A cat, or a budgie; a person hadn’t really been up for consideration.
‘I do like your face.’ Martin smiles into his pillow. That was nice too.
The first thought Martin has is, His flat looks lovely. I should give mine a good cleaning. There have obviously never been worms trying to get inside the other one. If there had, it would have been a better place to spend two weeks holed up. Not that there’s a good place for that; just, given the choice between his own flat and the other Martin’s.
That’s his first, not especially rational, thought.
His second, markedly more panicky, is, I’m not looking at the mirror. I don’t even have the mirror. Jon has the mirror.
If it can do that—if it can just break into his mind at any time, that’s—the only thing that stops him whimpering is Sasha, stood a few feet away, scanning a row of reference texts they’ve borrowed from the Institute library on a somewhat permanent basis. He cradles his head in one hand. How’s he supposed to live his life when there’s another him living another life, and the other life, the happier life, gets to nose in on his day?
Maybe there’s a way to keep it out. Maybe Jon’s looked into it. Maybe Jon’s already come up with something. Definitely there’s not a chance he’s going to focus on anything else today. It’s nearly time to go home, anyway.
Martin looks about, and there’s Tim, standing back at his own desk. “Tim,” he says, “did you speak to Jon?”
Tim “mmhmms” without looking up from the list of phone numbers he’s perusing. Martin wonders if that’s proper work, or if it’s potential partners, or if Tim is mixing business and pleasure again, and immediately feels badly for it. Tim’s good at his work, even if he’s not always the most strictly professional about it. Maybe because of it. And it’s Jon’s job to worry about that, not his. Besides, Martin—no, no, he’s not going deeper into this rabbit hole just now.
“Was he in a good mood?”
At this, Tim looks up and says, too gravely, “I don’t think he’s heard of those.”
“Good…ish?” Martin asks, and Tim shrugs, and he keeps his exasperation to himself. “Better or worse than usual?”
Tim thinks for a moment. “Worse,” he decides.
“Ah.” Fantastic. It’s not like he’s got much of a choice. He has to check in, not just on the mirror. He thanks Tim and approaches Jon’s office, rapping at the door before going in.
“Tim, I told you I don’t have—oh, Martin.” Jon looks unsurprised to see him. The mirror is facedown on the desk, and Martin swallows at the sight of it, though it doesn’t look like that’s what Jon’s been looking at, as there’s also a file folder laid out in front of him. They stare at each other for a long time, until Jon says a pointed, “What do you need, Martin?”
“Just checking if you need anything before I leave,” he says, and Jon shakes his head, and isn’t it obvious? “Or um, if you looked at the mirror again. Noticed anything like what I said.”
Jon’s next words are dredged out of him like a bloated corpse from the bottom of a lake. (That’s a horrid comparison. Martin has worked for The Magnus Institute for too long.) “There does seem to be something…out of the ordinary about it.”
“Oh!” Martin hopes he doesn’t sound too eager. “So you saw—”
Jon cuts him off. “I don’t know what I saw. It’s going to need more thorough investigation.”
“Oh,” Martin repeats. He hesitates. “Should we give it to the researchers?”
Half of him wants to take it back home with him. None of him wants to give it to the researchers. The latter is a guarantee that he’ll never interact with it again. Not that he’s positive that will make a difference at this point.
“No.” Jon looks as disgruntled by the thought as Martin feels. He hastens to add, “Not yet.”
“Should I…?” Martin waves toward the mirror, hoping that gets his question across without his asking properly.
“I’ll keep it here overnight,” Jon says.
“Don’t you think…” Martin only now thinks to look over his shoulder, pull the door shut, and lower his voice. “Don’t you think we should talk about it?”
“Yes.” Jon frowns. Martin’s not sure where it’s directed. Probably him. There is the mirror though, and maybe Jon likes that less. “I don’t think we should talk about it right now.”
Martin has just started to step forward, but he stops at this. He wants to argue. Of course they should talk about it right now. The mirror has started to invade his mind! That’s a grand reason to talk about it right now. But Jon—Jon looks incredibly tired, the dark circles under his eyes developing dark circles of their own, and pushing feels wrong. “Okay,” he says instead. “Then, um, are you sure you didn’t need anything?”
“Go home and get some rest, Martin.” This comes followed by a sigh.
“I’ll try,” Martin says with a smile he knows is at its most nervous. “Easier said than done and all, you know? You try for some sleep tonight, too.”
Jon looks away. “I will.”
Martin doesn’t believe that for a second, but he leaves the Archive, wondering the entire way home just what Jon saw in the mirror.
Jon watches Martin leave with a growing sense of consternation. Martin had come in and he’d thought, not by choice, about the wrong Jon and the wrong Martin looking at each other, followed by the errant thought that Martin (this Martin, he supposes, though thinking too hard about it makes him want to throw his hands in the air) actually wasn’t unattractive, and that thought was certainly not his own. He shoots the mirror an absolutely venomous look.
“I’m not attracted to Martin,” he tells it, fully aware that it’s not going to respond. It probably can’t even hear him. It doesn’t give him the same sense he has while recording statements, that he’s being watched and studied and dissected by some unseen force. It feels, for all intents and purposes, like any other hand mirror. It doesn’t care how he feels toward his assistant, whether it’s attraction or (more accurately) tolerance. He balances his chin on a fist and stares at it, weighing his limited options.
The Research Department is the most logical course of action, but once they’ve got their teeth into it, it’ll never enter the Archive again. He shouldn’t care, given it’s nothing more than a source of trouble and a building migraine; he does care, because against his better judgment, he wants to know more. The other, far more unwise path is to study it himself, which he doesn’t want to do. Except he does. Want to. The damned thing is like a siren.
“Damn,” he says, caught at an impasse, knowing his choice ought to be an obvious one.
It’s an hour later that the office door next opens, Jon having done little more than stare at the mirror, not sure what he’s waiting for, or if he’s waiting for anything. The newcomer says nothing until Jon looks up. Elias nods to Jon’s cluttered desk. “Working hard as usual, Jon?”
“I haven’t caught up from being out,” Jon says. It’s not a lie. The mountains of disorganized files hadn’t gotten any smaller in his absence. Without his direction, he’s rather unsure what his assistants were spending their time on. He hasn’t wanted to ask.
“Of course,” Elias says, and comes closer to study the contents of the desk. “I’m sure you’ve got plenty to do. Tell me about this mirror.”
There’s no reason not to tell the truth. No, that’s not quite right. There’s one reason: Jon doesn’t want to. “It’s nothing,” he says, dressing it up with a roll of his eyes. “Martin was concerned, but you know Martin.”
“Yes.” Elias makes a sound somewhere between interest and disapproval. “Yes, I know Martin.”
He lingers, an odd look on his face, for long enough that Jon finds himself uneasy. It could easily have been Elias who killed Gertrude; he might be considering the best way to be rid of Jon next. Jon clears his throat. “Was there something you needed?”
“I wanted to check up on you,” Elias says. “You’ve been going somewhat overboard since you returned to work. You’re still recovering, Jon.”
“So you all keep telling me.” It never ends.
Elias shakes his head. “Just don’t make it too late a night.”
“I planned to leave soon,” Jon says, though he planned no such thing.
“Yes,” Elias says again, sounding unconvinced. He strolls toward the door and glances over his shoulder. “Have a good night.”
“You as well.” Jon remains at his desk for several minutes more, his fingers wrapped around the edge of his desk. There’s not much in the way of reason for him to be here. He returns the mirror to the drawer, and makes his way home for what’s sure to be a poorly slept night. He doesn’t have any other sort, anymore.
Notes:
ps I had planned like 7 more scenes for this chapter, but then it was suddenly 4k long already? so yeah, I stopped
Chapter Text
Martin wakes at three.
It doesn’t come as a surprise. Lately it’s almost more of a shock when he sleeps through an entire night. He’s drenched in sweat, and his blanket is twisted around his legs like a fishnet, or like a spiderweb he’s thrashed against and only become more entangled in. It takes several minutes for his breathing to even out. The lamp beside his bed is on, its bulb a warm glow of comfort. He hadn’t meant to fall asleep with it on; he wonders sometimes if there is a part of him that drags him to sleep before he’s flicked it off, so he will not wake in the dark, so he will see whichever monster comes for him next, in the moments before it takes him.
“I’d rather not, if it’s all the same to you,” he says to his subconscious, and almost laughs to think that this is his life now. Waiting for the monsters. The other Martin Blackwood, the Martin Blackwood who also writes poetry and probably has a father that never left and a mother who actually loves him, the happy Martin Blackwood, he probably doesn’t have this problem. He probably sleeps soundly and with nightmares less likely to chase him with teeth courtesy of his day job, unless the customers get a bit rowdier than ordinary.
Martin fumbles for his glasses, works his legs free of his blanket and gets out of bed. Tea. He needs tea. Peppermint, maybe. But first he needs air. His bedroom window sticks in the corner, and he wrenches it open with such force he nearly tips himself over. The screen has already been taken out, the night he found Gertrude and woke trembling and crying and trying not to vomit; it lives on the floor now. He sticks his head out the window and inhales, slow and deep. It smells of fresh rain outside, and the streets are empty as far as the eye can see, and Martin’s fingers hold onto the windowsill like it will keep him grounded here in this moment of quiet, ordinary London. Grounded.
His thoughts turn again toward the mirror. How’s he supposed to stay grounded anywhere when there’s a supernatural, possibly (probably, as that’s just the world he lives in, now isn’t it?) evil mirror that can grab him at its leisure and foist him into another world, like it’s some sort of spectator sport. The new football.
There’s been nothing since he departed the Institute for the evening, which is a relief. If it took him while he crossed the street, or if it let him walk off the train platform, or… He shivers. There are lots of ways it might do him in. Even if it’s not evil.
Martin takes another breath, before he can get too caught up in another unpleasant train of thought. It’s begun to rain again, a light drizzle coming down on his head. He doesn’t mind it so much. It’s only water.
Still, he pulls back into his flat and shuts the window and goes into his kitchen.
The other Martin must wake up early, he thinks while leant on the counter waiting on the kettle to warm. Not this early. That would be stupid.
Then again, what does he know about operating a café? He’s never given thought to doing anything but whichever job will have him, whichever job will afford him the means to pay for his mother and himself; a café is a dream, a luxury, and it’s not for him.
But wouldn’t that be something? To have something to be proud of. Something that’s his like that.
“Keep on dreaming, Martin,” he says to himself, and he is dreaming, a little, and for a moment the room around him is wrong, and it is as much a surprise as waking at three.
Fifteen minutes to opening, Martin surveys the pastry case over his shoulder. He’s got a piece of chalk in one hand, the other bracing him for balance. Blackberry, lemon, and thyme muffins. Banana bread, with and without chocolate chips; he’s not sure of the point of the latter, but Michael knows what he’s doing. Zucchini bread and sticky buns. Apple turnovers. Lemon-lavender pound cake. He writes each item deliberately, pausing in between to step back and make sure the letters are straight.
“Michael,” he calls, “what hasn’t been brought out yet?”
“I have chocolate muffins.” Michael comes out of the kitchen with a full tray, which he begins to unload into the display. “And croissants. The scones haven’t finished yet, but there’s blueberry, maple oat nut, and lemon. Oh, and the strawberry-graham.” He ticks these off on his fingers as he says them, then pauses and adds, “I also made shortbread.”
“Are you sure you’re human?” Martin helps where he can, but baking is far from his specialty, and the amount Michael manages to produce each morning never fails to astound him.
Michael laughs, the way he always does. Though the business is Martin’s, the daily pastry menu is entirely up to Michael, who bakes what he’s in the mood to bake, though certain items are served daily and not written on the board; they’re always putting out more throughout the day, and it never fails to sell through. He returns to spacing out the pastry case. “Are you going to tell me about last night?”
The smile comes on without Martin’s say-so. “What about last night?” he says, finishing up the menu and wiping his hands off on a nearby wet rag. Their lunch menu, sandwiches and the like, remains the same from day to day.
“You know what about last night.”
Martin looks over the counter and through the front window, where there’s already a huddle of people waiting for their coffee. It’s like this every morning, and he really does need to bring on somebody else before they’re both run ragged, maybe two somebodies; one of them needs a day off, eventually. Jon and Gerry aren’t out there among the early arrivals, but he knows they’ll be along. “I didn’t make out with a customer after closing, if that’s what you’re wondering. Terribly unprofessional.”
Michael finishes in the display and straightens up. “You—”
“Not for lack of interest,” he tacks on.
“Martin!” Michael looks aghast.
“I’m joking, Michael.” Mostly. Sort of. He’d dreamed about it a bit. “Jon needed a quiet place to be, and I could give him that much for a little while, so I did.”
“After closing,” Michael says, and a timer sounds from the kitchen, and he gives Martin a look that indicates this conversation isn’t finished, but rushes off to take care of the scones.
Martin unlocks the door and greets the initial stream of customers, most of whom aren’t altogether awake yet, bound for early morning destinations. It’s an unremarkable start to his Tuesday. He prefers it that way. Tuesdays aren’t meant to be exciting. In between fixing drinks, he drafts a job posting.
It’s an hour after opening that a familiar dour face and a head of long dyed-black hair walk into the café. There’s somebody new with them today, a woman with brown skin and hair in tight curls. She’s laughing, and quite pretty, and has her arm linked with Jon’s, and there’s no reason for Martin to care about any of those things. (In his dream, Jon had been quite good at kissing.) He takes care of the bubbly university student he’s serving—black coffee, not what he expected of her—before sending her along to Michael. Then they’re in front of him at the counter, and he says, “Good morning Jon, Gerry, and I don’t believe we’ve met yet?” He’s pretty sure he’s smiling. His teeth are showing and everything.
“Georgie,” the woman says, her eyes drifting toward the case and growing saucer-like.
“Good morning, Georgie.” He hopes his eyes aren’t drifting, too, toward her arm in Jon’s. He wants Jon to say something. Maybe he regrets having come here last night and he’s brought along Georgie to make a point. But it was Jon who said he liked Martin’s face, and he doesn’t seem the sort to be so passive aggressive, so petty. Not that Martin knows him very well. Maybe he is the sort. “Welcome to Cosy. Let me know what you’re craving, or I can fix something I think you’ll like.”
“Right,” she says. “Are you Martin, or Michael?”
“Martin,” he says, surprised. “You’ve heard of me?”
“Only every day for the last four weeks. The way I hear it, you’re God’s gift to hot drinks.” She’s looking at him properly now, and he feels like the floor might drop out from under him, and also like that might not be such a bad thing. There’s something there that—he’s not sure if it’s good or bad. “They didn’t tell me you have maple scones.” She makes it sound like a betrayal of the worst sort. “Can I have one of those and a jasmine tea? Jon, you’re paying for me.”
“Oh, am I.” It’s the first thing Jon’s said this morning, and his voice is as dry as ever, but his lips twitch.
“I got out of bed for this,” Georgie says. “I’ve done my part.”
“You didn’t have to.” Gerry is also looking at Martin in an odd way, like he’s trying to read him, or pick him down to the bones for a painting. Is there something on his face? Did Jon go home last night and tell his friends (possibly girlfriend?) that the café owner treated him with too much familiarity last night? “We didn’t twist your arm. I’m sorry about her, Martin.”
They wouldn’t be here if Jon had a problem with last night, he thinks.
Martin rings up Georgie’s order, having no right to nor reason for the sinking feeling in his stomach. “Michael,” he calls, and relays Georgie’s request. “Gerry? Jon?”
“I’ve got her.” Gerry digs into his pocket for his wallet. “Jon can get his own. Same tea as always for me, but Michael, I’ll take whatever you’re proudest of today.”
Martin gives Gerry his total, and Michael arrives with Georgie’s scone, and Jon’s, and an apple turnover for Gerry. Georgie lets go of Jon, making a gleeful sound as she accepts her scone.
“Jon?” Martin says.
“Martin.” Jon shifts, looking suddenly uncomfortable, rubbing at his arm now where Georgie was hanging onto him. “Georgie wanted to see what all the fuss was about this place.” He pauses. “She’s a friend. Flatmate. We’re friends. I mean, we’re not…”
Gerry raises his eyebrows. “He’s not dating me either, if you weren’t sure.”
Jon says, “Shut up,” a hint of color in his cheeks.
Martin laughs to cover his relief. “Did you get any sleep last night, Jon?”
“Yes.” Jon’s looking directly at him, and opens his mouth to say something more.
“Move it along there,” someone calls, Tim, several people back in the growing line, with Sasha and Melanie. It’s playful, and a number of people laugh, Georgie among them, and Martin could kick himself for spending so long on a customer during the morning rush. “I’ve been looking forward to my espresso.”
“You’re a waste of Martin’s talents,” Sasha says. “Espresso, Tim, honestly.”
“I’m a simple man, Sasha,” he says.
“Everyone knows that,” Melanie says.
“Just surprise me,” Jon says. Martin nods, and then the transaction is finished, and Jon steps aside for the next customer, a lovely elderly woman who’s come in a number of times before, and then there’s a university boy who yawns every three words, and a middle-aged man who orders for five, and then Martin has Michael take over the till so he can set to work on actually making some of the drinks. He mentally shifts ‘hire somebody else’ to the topmost spot on his priority list.
He listens to Tim greeting Michael and placing his order, and luckily most of the drinks he’s making are on the simpler end. He hands Jon his drink, and Gerry, and the elderly woman, and carries on until he’s caught up as far as Tim and the ladies.
“Sorry I stepped on your moment there,” Tim says, accepting his usual muffin.
“My moment?” Martin is acutely aware of Jon sat across the café with Gerry, who’s not his boyfriend, and with Georgie, who’s not his girlfriend. He already knew the first; the second is more of a relief than it has any right to be.
“Tim,” Melanie says, “mind your own business for once.”
“I’d rather mind Martin’s,” Tim says, and raises his voice to add, “or I could mind Michael’s.”
There’s the immediate sound of a pen dropping onto the counter, followed by an apology.
“Tim,” Martin says, “d’you have to embarrass him? He’s the only employee I’ve got, I don’t need you getting him all out of sorts.”
Tim gives him a grin that’s not the least bit apologetic. “If you had a less cute employee, I wouldn’t have to embarrass him.”
“That’s all right,” Michael says without looking away from the customer in front of him, thankfully a regular who’s used to these antics. “I charged Sasha and Melanie’s orders to his card to make up for it.”
“I noticed.” Tim doesn’t sound upset. “You’ll have to try harder than that.”
Martin shoos the trio away and catches Jon looking at him. It feels nice, but he hasn’t got time to linger on the feeling.
The kettle is whistling.
Martin jumps, and swears, and sends a spoon clattering to the floor. He reaches for the kettle. Hopefully it hasn’t been going like this for long. The walls here aren’t especially thick, and he’d rather not hear from the neighbors.
There it is then. The mirror’s got him in its clutches and there’s nothing he can do about it. His stomach hurts. He doesn’t want tea after all. Instead he wanders to the bathroom in a daze. He turns on the water, hot as it’ll go, and strips down. The burn of the water pounding on his skin almost distracts him.
It’s not fair. He knows his own life is rubbish most of the time. He knows he’s hardly reaching for his full potential, working in the Archives underneath a man who doesn’t like him, who he likes too much, who makes his heart beat faster than any monstrous threat ever will. He knows this, and he knows more, and there’s no reason he should have to be confronted with a reality far greater than his own. It’s not fair.
Martin stays in the shower until the water runs cold, and when he gets out it’s easier to pretend he hasn’t been crying.
Jon wakes at five.
He’s spent his night tossing and turning, almost never properly asleep. He spends most of them tossing and turning, in fact. This one is no different. The trouble is the nightmares, which creep into his sleeping hours more nights than not, and he thinks that not all of them belong to him.
Jane Prentiss and her worms greeting him as he crept up from the tunnels; the tunnels themselves, pitch dark and winding and full of secrets; the body of Gertrude Robinson, frighteningly well-preserved in his imagination, carried from its unfortunate resting place; a desk caked in more blood than a person can lose and survive; the knock, knock that has haunted him since his childhood, with him all these years later, knock, knock. These nightmares are completely his own.
But there is the empty, unending stretch of graveyard; there is the skin peeling back and the scrape of metal on metal; there are the formerly sterile tables covered in blood and the limbs that have forgotten how to be limbs; these things are not his, though they have been described to him in greater detail than he cares to reflect on in his waking hours. There are other nightmares brought on by his work (trees twisted evil and spider swarm apples, ink-water caverns and spaces confined-suffocating), but they are lesser in a way he can’t well—and does not care to—define.
He cannot recall, when he jars awake, which nightmares embraced him throughout the night, whether they belonged to him or to somebody else, but he remembers watching the wrong Jonathan Sims take a seat at his desk—his desk, in the Archive—and he remembers watching Martin bring him a cup of tea; he’s not sure which Martin it was, as their smiles are the same. The alarm clock beside him is an unpleasant reminder that he’s awake an hour earlier than he needs to be. There’s no sense attempting to get back to sleep, so he fetches the book he’s been reading and settles down to learn something about the history of Spanish sailing vessels.
The learning doesn’t go as well as he hopes. He reads the same passage, about commonly sailed trade routes, a dozen times without absorbing more than a word or two at a time. His thoughts keep meandering, predictably and without so much as a by-your-leave, to the mirror in his desk drawer. He takes a moment to consider yelling into a pillow. In the end, he sets the book aside and goes to rifle through his bookcase for a fresh notebook.
He labels the top of the first page in neat handwriting: “Background Information.”
And then he begins to write. First, he puts down a thorough physical description of the mirror. Its silver frame and the matching figures touching palms on its back and the writing that bears further research. He notes where Martin bought the thing, and the date, though the charity shop is unlikely to have thorough enough records to tell them who donated it. He adds that its age is difficult to pin down, but that it must have been created a few hundred years ago. When he’s finished with this, he sets about writing what he has seen through it thus far. The differences in the wrong Jon, Jonathan Sims the graduate student. The office at King’s College and the pleasant little café called Cosy. The blond man called Michael, the other Georgie (it is difficult to think of her as wrong), the paint-spattered Gerry…the other Martin Blackwood.
The Martin Blackwood who owns a café is different from the Martin Blackwood who spent long months living in the Archive; but he is also very much like him. The easy air of confidence about him is something he’s never seen from the Martin he knows, who is awkward and stammering. Bringing Jon tea and a sandwich, being there to take care of him, that’s the same; the wrong Jon hadn’t pushed back on his Martin’s gentle caretaking, and Jon, the Jon whose life is possibly a sick joke, he can only ever push back, push away.
You looked like you could use a friend.
The other Martin is less irritating.
I do like your face.
Jon’s fist tightens around his pen. He and the wrong Jon have that much in common. Flirting is as much a foreign language as French or long-dead Aramaic, and more useless to him than either. But maybe the Jon in the mirror doesn’t find it so useless; maybe he’d like to properly flirt with the Martin who allows him to sit quietly in his closed café. He writes everything he remembers of that conversation, and then the conversation with Georgie and Gerry. It’s important to put all of it down.
Someone laughs. It’s a familiar laugh, one he’s heard before, a long time ago and also very recently, a woman’s laugh. He looks about his living room in alarm. There’s nobody there. That’s not a comfort. Other voices come to his ears then, or—into his head? It is impossible to tell. His vision blurs and tears to the side, dark and then wrong.
Walking into Cosy in the morning plays at Jon’s nerves in a way it never has before. His mouth goes dry when he steps through the door with Georgie stuck to his side. At the sight of Martin behind the counter, his stomach somersaults so powerfully it might qualify for the next Olympics. This is ridiculous. Coming here has been a source of relaxation to him since Gerry first dragged him in; it’s not supposed to make him anxious. Then he made a damn fool of himself last night.
Martin’s smiling at him anyway, looks happy to see him. He looks happy to see him every morning. Happy to see everyone every morning, that’s his work. Jon’s not special. Right now Martin’s smile is directed not just at him, but at Gerry and Georgie too. There’s something odd about the smile though, something less natural and more plastered professional. Jon’s stomach twists again.
Say something, he thinks. He’s going to think you’re daft if you just keep staring at him like that.
Before he’s put together a sentence, Martin’s greeting them, and then Georgie’s talking to Martin, who’s looking at her, and also not looking at her. Georgie says, “Jon, you’re paying for me.”
“Oh, am I.” Jon’s not surprised to hear it.
“I got out of bed for this,” she says, and Jon works out exactly where Martin’s eyes are. Locked to the space where Georgie’s arm is linked through his. It’s something he hardly notices her doing anymore; she tends to stick to him when they’re out, or to Gerry, whoever’s nearest when she first reaches out, so men will assume she’s got a boyfriend and leave her be. Jon doesn’t mind, has never minded, but now there’s Martin, and he wishes Georgie had gone for Gerry today. “I’ve done my part.”
Jon’s not really listening now. Not until Martin says his name, says it with a question at the end. He realizes Georgie’s let go of him and walked down toward the other end of the counter. Rubbing his arm isn’t a conscious thing. He says, “Martin. Georgie wanted to see what all the fuss was about this place. She’s a friend. Flatmate. We’re friends, I mean, we’re not...”
He can’t work out what’s happening behind Martin’s eyes. People aren’t as easy for him as words on a page, characters whose thoughts he can annotate and analyze and understand. Maybe he mistranslated Martin before. That would make more sense, frankly. Martin has no reason to care about his relationship with Georgie, and several reasons to think Jon is both ill-mannered and an idiot.
But.
“He’s not dating me either, if you weren’t sure,” Gerry says, and Jon settles for telling him to shut up, as opposed to suggesting he fuck off.
Then Martin laughs, and some of the tension in him loosens its grip. “Did you get any sleep last night, Jon?”
“Yes.” Not enough of it. But some. He wants to say something else; he’s not sure what it should be. He just wants to keep talking to Martin.
Then another voice in line calls out, one Jon recognizes as belonging to another man who’s here as often as Gerry and himself, usually with a pair of women he’s seen around campus, and he tries very hard not to feel a flare of irritation. They are holding up the line. He tells Martin, “Just surprise me,” and moves on as soon as his card’s charged, and stringently ignores the interested looks he’s getting from both of his friends. He takes a bite of his morning scone. Michael’s at the register now, and Martin passes him a drink, he says another quiet thanks, but that’s all they’ve time for, before Martin whirls back to work.
“Can we sit?” Georgie looks around the café, tea in one hand and scone in the other.
“We usually don’t,” Gerry says, “but we can.”
“Excellent.” She walks off, leaving it up to them to follow her, another habit Jon’s used to. She installs herself at a table by the front, where they can watch the early morning street, and they both join her there.
As soon as Jon’s taken his seat, she lowers her tea and says, “Spill it, Jonathan.”
“Pardon?” Jon takes a drink of whatever it is Martin made for him, and the familiar taste of raspberry and hazelnut reaches his tongue—the first drink Martin ever served him. He glances toward the counter. Coincidence. Martin can’t possibly remember that. It’s been weeks and they serve so many people every day, and he only had it the one time. “I just paid for it, spilling would be a waste.”
Georgie shakes her head. “You said this is where you were last night, and what was that up there?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Jon says, though he does.
“You were oddly insistent that Georgie’s a friend,” Gerry says, removing the lid from his drink and taking a sip. “Didn’t want Martin to think you’ve got a girlfriend, Jon?”
“Whose side are you on?”
Gerry grins. The streak of red on his cheek stretches out. “The side that’s most entertaining for me.”
Jon rolls his eyes. Some best friend Gerry is. “It’s nothing.”
“It didn’t sound like nothing,” Georgie says. She tears off a piece of her scone and pops it into her mouth. Once she’s finished chewing, she adds, “I think it’s sweet. He let you stay when they were closed.” Here she goes a bit sing-song. “You like him, Jon. Go on and ask him out.”
“I’m not going to—” Jon looks out the window, at a woman walking her dog. “I’ve been reliably informed that’s a terrible idea.”
“Why do you say that?”
“I don’t know how to be in a relationship,” Jon says, like he’s reciting something from a textbook. “I’m uncaring, I don’t know how to put anyone else first, and I’m too far up my own ass to properly love another human being.”
“Oh. Right.” Georgie gives him a sheepish smile. “I may have been a bit dramatic?”
Jon shrugs. “I was a bastard.”
Gerry, who’s heard the minuscule details of every row Jon and Georgie ever had, between the two of them, says, “Was?”
“I have no idea why I’m friends with you.”
“Nobody else will tolerate you,” Gerry chirps.
“Do me a favor,” Jon says, “and piss off.”
“I like this chair.”
Georgie laughs. “All right, Jon, yes, I did say all that and I meant it at the time and I will never date you again, but you’ve gotten better and I really think you should ask him out.”
Jon sighs. “Surely you have something better to do with your time than worry about my love life.”
“I really don’t,” Georgie says, unperturbed.
“You should find something.”
Georgie gives a long, “Hmmm,” and then pushes her chair out, taking her tea with her to the counter. She flags down Michael, who looks over his shoulder at Martin and calls him over before taking his place at the register.
Jon’s heart rate picks up. “What is she doing?”
“It’s Georgie,” Gerry says. “Not even I can predict her.”
“You don’t think she’s—” Georgie is smiling. Georgie is laughing. Georgie is indicating Jon, or Gerry, or both of them, and Jon has to look at his coffee. He takes a long drink. Then another. It scalds his tongue and is delicious and makes him want something he can’t put together.
Georgie arrives back at the table and announces, “I’ve got an interview at eleven.”
Gerry’s eyebrows knit together. “You what?”
“I’ve been thinking about finding a job.” She resumes her seat at the table. “You said it’s just the two of them running this place. I have generously volunteered my time.” She raises her tea cup to Jon. “And I can worry about your love life while being paid.”
“You’re too kind,” Jon says flatly.
Jon hurls his notebook across the room. It doesn’t go as far as he’d like. The pen hits the wall with a more satisfying thud.
The mirror isn’t in his hand. The mirror isn’t in his flat. The mirror isn’t in the same building. The mirror is far away, in a different part of London, in his desk at the Archive; he’s just seen through it anyway.
“What the hell,” he says, sounding far more calm than he feels, “am I supposed to do with that?”
Notes:
Thanks to everyone who's commented, subscribed, and left kudos! I appreciate all of you. This fic has...a long, long way to go, and I hope you'll stick with me through it :)
Chapter Text
Waking comes on slowly.
It always does. Every time.
Waking is rare.
It’s touch that does it, lights a spark through cold, unfeeling silver.
They don’t all call; or they do, but they are not loud enough, or they are not desperate enough, or they are not disparate enough. They are not enough, usually.
But, sometimes.
Sometimes there is enough to reach through a yawning void and find another way.
Sometimes, the mirror breathes.
Martin very nearly stays home. He hasn’t eaten breakfast, his stomach making idle threats when he dares think of anything heavier than an herbal tea. If he stays in his flat, he’ll be safe no matter when a vision comes on. His phone is in his hand, his fingers poised to type up an excuse for Jon, but…well, he’s spent more than enough time in his flat. Trapped there with his dully faded white walls and terror running a constant current through his veins, through his nerves, through his life.
He shoves his phone into his pocket and announces to whatever might be listening, “I am not being held hostage here again.”
And so what if his voice is higher and shakier than he might like? He’s said it, and that, he thinks, makes it true. He squares his shoulders and walks out into a grey London morning.
It takes long minutes of silent seething—following a full minute of unseemly cursing—for Jon to cross the room and gather up the notebook, the pen. Each step along the way is deliberate, taken alongside a sequence of thoughts that come to his mind in a more orderly fashion than he expects them.
The mirror is at the Institute. His notebook is open on the floor, the pages bent from their awkward landing. He picks it up and frowns at his notes.
I don’t need to handle the mirror in order for it to take hold. He flips the notebook shut.
It might have done the same to Martin. There’s a matter for addressing later. At his desk, with Martin across from him, no doubt giving Jon a look like he’s got all the answers. He makes a derisive sound and collects his pen.
Gertrude Robinson was murdered. It’s far from a new thought, that last one, but it’s one he can’t let go of, no matter what else the universe deigns to throw at him. The circumstances haven’t changed. (They have, of course, but not considerably enough to alter what has to be his course of action.)
Jon sits down to write out the details of his last vision; and then he goes to work.
The Magnus Institute is always quiet, the sort of place where over-loud shoes are frowned upon. Often in a quite literal sense. Often by Jon.
First thing in the morning, when few people are making their way through the halls, the building is at its quietest. It’s not yet seven when Jon enters his office, his notebook more crumpled now from having been crammed unceremoniously into his shoulder bag.
He ignores the mirror. He does so pointedly, as though it will feel his disdain through the desk and its ears will droop like a scolded puppy’s. It’s irrational, but it feels good, as irrationalities so often do. Instead of pulling the mirror free for examination, he puts himself to work. Proper work, as he’s not sure what to do about Gertrude at the moment. There’s not a reason to fear that her murderer intends to do the same to him. Not necessarily. But she was the Head Archivist; now he is the Head Archivist, and any reason to kill one Head Archivist is easily carried over to the next. The thought makes little sense even as he thinks it. There may have been plenty of reasons for somebody to want Gertrude dead that have nothing whatsoever to do with her position.
But, killed in the tunnels below the Institute.
But, killed in the line of duty. (It comes back to him often, the way Elias said that; he can’t recall, quite. Thoughtful? Resigned? Amused?)
But, killed in cold-blood. She wouldn’t have been left there if her killer felt remorse.
She was killed, and she was the Head Archivist. Jon cannot help but circle back to this point, time and again. Another irrationality, he supposes, and this one far less enjoyable. If it keeps him alive, what does it matter?
Jon pages through statements, sets one to record onto his laptop, and does his level best to focus.
You’re ignoring the problem at hand, says the voice that belongs to him.
This is the problem at hand, he argues, fully aware of the futility of a fight against himself.
The mirror, it says, he says; that’s all.
“I ought to smash the thing and be done with it,” Jon says, knowing he won’t. Curiosity’s gnawing too hard at his gut. He needs answers. Smashing it may not resolve anything, anyhow. Not with it reaching him across London. His eyes drift from the floorboards to the desk drawer and away again. He takes the notebook from his bag and skims where he left off. The wrong Jon’s most recent visit to Cosy. The wrong Jon’s pining. There’s a flicker of motion behind his eyes, and then he is somewhere else.
Tuesdays are a significant improvement over Mondays. No useless foundational students; Tuesdays are his. True, Jon does have a pile of essays yet to be marked, but he hasn't got to watch them blatantly ignore his lectures and later answer questions they’d know the answers to if they’d been listening the first time. Upon arrival in the closet that is his office, his arms weighted down with books hauled from the library (while Ms. Robinson gave him a fond, familiar smile), he considers finishing up with the marking.
Then he settles into his chair and reaches for a book that smells as old as it looks, the title on its side faded into illegibility. He selects, too, a binder already thick with research and a dozen beginnings to his dissertation, ranging from a paragraph to a handful of pages, none of them satisfactory. The book has a satisfying heft in his hands; it promises him a thorough analysis of fairy tales, nursery rhymes, old wives’ tales, and all their like throughout nineteenth century England.
Jon sinks into the text the way another man might sink into a hot bath. Books are comfortable, full of sentences he can take his time soaking in. It’s easy for him to lose track of time when he reads. It always has been; his grandmother must have found him asleep with a book fallen onto his face more mornings than not.
“I can’t tell if you’re breathing,” a voice says.
Jon jumps, the book hitting his desk with a thunk that echoes more than it ought. “Christ,” he says, scowling at Gerry between stacks of books. “How long have you been there?”
Gerry’s eyes drag up to the wall clock. His head tilts thoughtfully, hair falling over his eyes. After careful consideration he says, “About ten minutes.”
“Why didn’t you say something?” Jon’s demand is less irritable than it could be, and not at all surprised. It’s not the first time Gerry’s snuck into his office while he was too absorbed to notice the sound of the door.
“I wanted to see if you’d notice this time.” Gerry’s lips twitch. “One of these days I’m going to paint you while you’re like this. Bet I can finish the entire piece without you looking up.”
“I’m so glad my diligence amuses you.”
“Is that the word you use?”
Jon’s fingers flick absently through page corners. “Shouldn’t you be teaching? I’ve seen your syllabus. There weren’t any dates carved out to come here and harangue me.”
“Ah, but there were.” Gerry flips through the pile of Shakespeare essays, eyebrows knitting closer and closer together. “You didn’t notice because I cleverly disguised them as ‘artistic excursions.’” Here he spares a hand for air quotes. “Thought that sounded pretentious enough to throw you off my trail. I’ve got them all out looking for interesting bushes to paint.”
“Interesting bushes,” Jon echoes. He resolves to locate the copy of Gerry’s syllabus he knows is floating about his room, just for a sense of how often he ought to expect these little intrusions. It’s not that he minds; only, he would prefer to avoid the early heart attack Gerry’s trying to cause him.
“It doesn’t have to be a bush.” Gerry pulls a hand through his hair. “It has to be something they don’t think anyone else would notice. And they have to give me a page on why they chose it.”
“I’m not marking them for you,” Jon says.
“I don’t plan to mark them at all. I just want to make them think about what they’re doing.” He stretches, still holding onto an essay, and says, “Come out of your cave for lunch.”
“I like my cave.” But Jon is already pushing his chair out and marking his place in the book, searching for his keys in the disorder of his desk.
Gerry grins. “I’m thinking that little Greek place.”
Jon checks that his wallet is in his pocket and nods, and waits for Gerry to return the essay to its place before ushering him toward the door. Outside of the office—a surprisingly soundproof place, tucked into a back corner—the building is a host of activity. Other offices are open in invitation, students are gathered in clusters, bent over work or idly chatting, hovering outside of not-yet-emptied classrooms, filling the air with a low hum. Jon prefers the cloistered sanctuary of his office, but he cannot deny there’s a solace in knowing the world around him is full.
“So,” Gerry says as they navigate around a group having an energetic debate about Lovecraft’s work and unsubtle racism, “how d’you think Georgie’s doing?”
“I dread to think.” They’d parted ways after Cosy, Jon and Gerry making their way to campus while Georgie navigated to the nearest park to take advantage of the cloud-free skies until her interview…after which she’d texted them, ‘Introducing your new favorite barista’ followed by a series of coffee emoticons. Gerry replied with, ‘I think Jon’s a bit married to his favorite.’ The set of lips Georgie sent in response to that had done nothing but rile Jon’s stomach.
“If it helps,” Gerry says, “I doubt she’ll outright offer Martin your hand in marriage.”
“You never know with Georgie,” Jon says. Martin’s laugh plays in his head, the way he laughed last night, which really shouldn’t affect him the way it does; it’s only a laugh, and it’s only a smile, and he’d like to drown in it.
“Oh, hold still, I need to get a picture of this.” Gerry’s phone is already in his hand, coming up to snap a photo.
“What are you talking about?”
“The way you’re smiling, I want to show Martin.”
Jon scowls and stalks ahead toward the doors, listening to Gerry behind him, still laughing at his own joke. He slows at the sight of a well-dressed man, dark hair silvering, holding a conversation with another professor. The man spots Jon at the same time and offers him a smile, excusing himself from the conversation he’s in.
“Dr. Bouchard,” Jon says, hand raising to greet his adviser.
“Jon,” Dr. Bouchard returns. “I’m surprised to see you leaving the building this early in the day. Don’t tell me you’re giving yourself a break during the week for once.” There’s a hint of teasing in it; Dr. Bouchard is as persistent in telling him he works too hard as Gerry and Georgie.
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he says.
“I would.” A color-flecked hand comes down on Jon’s shoulder, Gerry planting himself at his side. There’s a flicker of distaste on Dr. Bouchard’s face, there and gone again so fast you might think it imagined, but he’s never liked Gerry, who’s best friends with his prize pupil, who’s not formally qualified to teach, who’s doing it anyway because he’s been a darling of the art world since age seventeen, who’s had the university principal tripping over himself to make him happy for years, who’s covered in tattoos and a permanent layer of paint. “Someone’s got to remind him the sun is out there. We were heading to lunch.”
“Don’t let me stop you,” Dr. Bouchard says, and adds in a way that might be friendly, “Try not to get paint on anything, Professor Keay.”
A lazy smile works its way across Gerry’s face. It’s all Jon can do not to sigh; Gerry takes far too much pleasure in Dr. Bouchard’s dislike. “Not to worry,” he says, “it’s all dry. Want to check for yourself?”
Dr. Bouchard’s face twitches. “That won’t be necessary. Enjoy your lunch. Jon, my office on Friday?”
“Yes, I’ll see you then,” Jon says, and watches Dr. Bouchard walk away. He waits until they’ve made it outside to release the sigh, which is also a laugh. “Why do you do that?”
Gerry shrugs, but the smirk hasn’t left his face. “Not my fault it’s so easy to get under his skin.”
The Greek restaurant is on the opposite side of the campus. It takes an age to walk there, given the way Gerry likes to stop and soak in their surroundings; he insists it’s part of his artist’s charm, and Jon agrees, though he wouldn’t dare tell him so. Jon glances at his phone during one of these interludes. Several more texts have arrived, including ‘Martin is the sweetest person I have ever met’ and ‘Jonathan Sims I’ve found your real life fairy tale.’ (These are followed by, ‘All right technically you found him first’ and ‘The point is you don’t have to bury yourself in the fictional ones!’) Jon sends, ‘Please do not ruin my life,’ and only realizes he’s also said this aloud when Gerry says, “It’ll be fine.”
“Easy for you to say.” Jon slips his phone back into his pocket. “I haven’t—”
“Dated anyone since Georgie? I know, I’ve been here the whole time, Jonny boy.” Gerry arches an eyebrow at him. “So you do like Martin.”
“Maybe. I don’t know. Probably.” Martin’s laugh is in his head again. Jon makes a hopeless gesture. “Yes.”
Jon presses the heels of his palms into his eyes. His thoughts tumble over each other, every individual point of consideration fighting its way toward the front only to be crushed beneath the tide. He forces himself to take a deep breath. To remove his hands from his face. To pick up a pen. To write his thoughts onto neat lines, into a more rigid, manageable order.
The first: the wrong Jon’s adviser, Dr. Bouchard. Dr. Elias Bouchard. No visible difference between him and The Magnus Institute’s own Elias Bouchard. The Elias who came sniffing around, asking about the mirror last night. Is it possible he knows something? There’s no reason to think so, or no more than before. Elias’ expertise in the esoteric is unparalleled, yes, but Jon has no interest in bringing the mirror to his attention after assuring him it was nothing. It will be taken from him if he does. There’s no doubt as to that. Last night may have been idle curiosity about the first new item on Jon’s desk, or he may know something of—what, inter-dimensional, voyeuristic mirrors? Either way, Jon intends to keep this artefact strictly between himself and Martin for now.
The second: time. Several pieces of it. There’s no way of telling how long these visions take in his own world. Perhaps they are instantaneous, any amount of vision spanning no more than a blink. Perhaps for every ten minutes that pass in a vision, one minute passes here. Perhaps there is no rhyme nor reason to it. He cannot simply stare at the clock and will himself to have a vision and check the time taken. Can he? He shakes the thought off for a later occasion. There’s also the matter of the passage of time on the other side of the mirror. It isn’t aligned with the passage here, that much is obvious, and there seems a lack of consistency in how far ahead the other side runs.
The other side. Hmph. There’s got to be a neater way to address the place. ‘The other side’ sounds as though he’s referring to something dead. He frowns at himself, recenters, and continues.
The third: the trigger for the visions, if there is one. It’s difficult to think, reflecting on his own state of mind prior to being overtaken by the mirror, if there was a shared thread to connect the moments. It can’t be as simple as thinking about the damned thing.
The fourth: the contents of this particular vision. This is the easiest part to write out. The part that is simply, ‘this is what happened.’ Leaving aside that he still has no idea who this Gerry is…Jon stills. Professor Keay. Gerry Keay. Jon casts his eyes about his office, but no, he hasn’t got any of the relevant files in here. He begins to stand, and freezes again at the sound of jostling from the Archive proper.
His eyes flick toward the clock. It’s time for his assistants to be arriving for the day. There’s no cause for alarm. There’s a rapping at his door.
When it opens, it’s only Tim stood in his doorway, hair disheveled in a way that Jon has begun to think is strategic, a steaming mug in one hand. “Morning, boss.” He salutes Jon with his mug. “Ready for another exciting day of monsters? There’s coffee, if you want any.”
“Thank you, Tim,” Jon says, easing back into his chair. Tim is already walking away, whistling a tune that sounds discomfitingly like ‘A-Hunting We Shall Go.’ Jon could almost laugh. Almost. He’d prefer not to go rifling around the Archive with Tim there, with Sasha and Martin likely to arrive at any moment, all of them ready to ask what he’s looking for, how they can help, Martin at his elbow telling him to go sit down, he shouldn’t be walking, his forehead creased with aggravating worry. No. It will have to wait. But still—Gerry Keay. There’s every possibility…
Jon spends the next ten minutes forcing his thoughts from the mirror. He sifts through his desk, moving the jar that is supposedly Jane Prentiss from one corner to another, straightening a collection of case files that have begun to teeter dangerously, listening to the sound of Tim shuffling about the next room. He bats away a flitting thought about Jonathan Sims, jumbled desks, and universal constants. He hears Sasha arrive, hears them talking about the wind, and stops listening.
It’s minutes, at best, before Martin says, “Jon? Is now a good time?” and pauses, and then, “Good morning, I mean,” and Jon wants to ignore him until he goes away, but that won’t solve anything. Besides: Martin will likely stand there, waiting, for as long as it takes for Jon to acknowledge him. Besides: theirs is a conversation that needs having.
So he raises his eyes. Martin looks wretched, his hair damp and his eyes rimmed with red, and he’s shivering. “Are you busy? I can come back later, if that’s better, but…”
Jon lets out a long breath. “Shut the door, Martin.”
Notes:
These scenes insist on being longer than I mean them to. Someday a date will happen. Someday.
Chapter Text
Martin already regrets not stopping to fix tea before this conversation. The thought did cross his mind as he crossed the threshold of The Magnus Institute in a rush, his smile to Rosie less than usual, painted on. But waiting, on the kettle and the steeping…he just couldn’t. Not today. Probably wouldn’t have made it downstairs without broken ceramic and puddles, anyway. It’d give him something to do with his hands, though.
As things stand, he sits across from Jon, picking thoughtlessly at the chair beneath him. It’s probably expensive. Probably an antique. Probably something Elias would tell him off for ruining.
This morning he’d thought, I have to talk to Jon, and he’d thought, I want to hold the mirror again, which was awful and ridiculous and true, and he’d thought, I should be more afraid, afraid is more sensible than sad. Sad is lengths ahead of afraid on the track, sensibility aside. Sad doesn’t stop him wanting to know more.
Now it’s just him and Jon, neither of them saying a word. The mirror sits on the desk between them, atop the rest of Jon’s work. It’s only the chair defacement stopping Martin reaching for it. Jon looks as well as Martin feels, though he’s not shaking the way Martin is, and his pallor hasn’t been anything but deathlike since he returned to work, so the cast of grey is nothing new; Martin wishes Elias had forced Jon to stay out longer, except then who would he have gone to? Not Elias, no. He doesn’t like the way Elias looks at people. Not Tim or Sasha, who he trusts, but who feel less sturdy, somehow, and that’s ridiculous as well, because sometimes—often, always—when Martin looks at Jon, he worries the Archivist is cracking, shattering, just doing it very slowly. He worries they’re all going to shatter, eventually. He worries he won’t know how to put them back together.
Tim’d probably make a Humpty Dumpty joke. The thought is nearly enough to make Martin’s lips twitch.
Jon clears his throat. “Tell me again.”
Martin blinks at him. “Sorry?”
“Before you brought the mirror to me,” Jon clarifies. “You said you found it in a charity shop, and that you saw another Martin. Tell me again. Be more specific.”
“Oh.” Martin’s eyes drop back to the mirror. “You want a statement?”
“It’s not a statement.” Jon’s voice is calmer than Martin expected. Steady. “Just tell me what you can.”
“Right.” Martin nods. “I spent part of my day in Keston—I like to visit the pond, and it was a nice day for that sort of thing—and while I was out I decided to do a little bit of shopping. I’ll have to check the name of the charity shop, it wasn’t one I’d been to before. It seemed nice though, and I thought I’d have a look around. I was hoping for poetry. I didn’t find anything I wanted, but I didn’t want to waste the stop and besides, it was just me and the clerk in the shop, so it felt awkward to leave without buying something.”
These probably aren’t the sort of details Jon was asking after. He’s rambling, he knows he is. Giving half a statement no matter. But the shaking has begun to subside. “The mirror caught my eye, and when I had a good look at it, my reflection was just a little different.”
The scar. The just-neater hair.
“I couldn’t well leave it after that. I did think about it. Tried telling myself it was my mind playing tricks, but I must have worked here too long to convince myself it wasn’t supernatural. You’d think that would have scared me off. Maybe part of me thought it would be better off here, I dunno.”
“How many times did you look?” Jon’s avoiding looking at the mirror, Martin realizes. He hasn’t spared it a glance since laying it between them. Is that intentional? Probably. Either way, it means Jon’s got his eyes locked on Martin, which makes him feel a bit scrutinized. Like Jon’s trying to poke holes in him the way he does statements. Except Jon knows the truth of this one.
“Counting that time,” Martin says, “twice. I had my second look at home, and that’s when I had my first full, erm, experience. I wasn’t looking at the mirror when that happened. I’d taken a look and seen the café. I put it down on my lap while I was trying to absorb that it was real, and I was looking at the wall, and then I was really seeing his world. It was the morning rush, and there was some horrid woman berating Michael—have you seen Michael?—and Martin was being patient with her, and that Melanie King woman was waiting on her drink. She was there with Sasha and Tim. You—er, I mean, not you—came in near the end, with another man I don’t know, someone called Gerry, and then I was back in my bedroom. Suppose I never left. But I felt like I was there. That was—oh, no, three times, I guess? I glanced before I brought it in yesterday morning, just for a second.”
The other Martin’s open smile nudges into his thoughts. He digs his fingers into the chair and goes quieter. “But I’ve seen the…the other place,” what else is he to call it? “since I left the mirror here. With you.”
There’s a flare of something in Jon’s eyes. Recognition? “How many times has that happened?”
“That’s twice so far as well.” Martin remembers the sudden smell of cinnamon, heady and not-supposed-to-be. “I was here, the first time. It wasn’t long after I gave you the mirror. The other Martin had gone home. He read some poetry and then he went to bed.” It’s so like his own routine that it aches.
“And then?” Jon prods.
Martin starts; he must have stopped talking for longer than he realized. “And then I woke up at three this morning and I saw him opening up the café with Michael. The other Jon came in with his friend later on. There was a woman, too. Georgie, I think she said.” He makes no mention of the other Jon’s haste to mention that he wasn’t dating Georgie, nor of the relief he’d gleaned from the other Martin. He hopes he’s not blushing. “So I guess that means we don’t need to have it on us to see through it.”
Jon says an unhappy, “Yes, I’ve had much the same discovery.”
“Have you?” It’s not a surprise. Well. It’s not as much of a surprise as it might otherwise be. “So…what have you seen, then? How much?”
Jon’s mouth pulls into a hard line. “Four times.”
The words come heavy, like he’d rather not be saying them. Martin wonders, with no intention of asking, if it’s more to do with him, or if it’s about the mirror. It could well be both.
“I didn’t plan to look, you know. I thought I would placate you, tell you I had and be done with it.” His mouth twitches in a way that might be amusement, might be irritation, is definitely reticent. “I thought it was nothing. I suppose that’s not how things work down here anymore.”
All of his excuses, all of his logical explanations; Prentiss still came to attack them.
“I looked,” Jon sighs. His eyes still haven’t left Martin. “The first thing I saw was a Jonathan Sims who is not me sat in an office that would better serve as a broom closet at King’s College. I saw him marking essays. I saw him leave, and I felt his exhaustion.” He pauses, considers. “That may have been mine. It’s difficult to tell. I saw him make his way to the café owned by a Martin Blackwood who was not you. They were closed. That Martin invited him to stay.”
He stops, in an incomplete way. Like he’s processing, thinking what else he’d like to say. Martin doesn’t press. He didn’t give every detail of his own; he doesn’t need every detail of Jon’s. What matters is they’re talking about it at all. He gives Jon the time he needs, and then he realizes, “Oh. That explains it.”
Jon’s brow furrows. “Explains what?”
“The other Martin,” he says, “kept thinking about ‘last night,’ and I got a bit of it, but not anything specific. You know how it is, I guess.”
“Yes,” Jon says, “I know.”
It’s a moment before he goes on.
“I put the mirror away, but I accidentally touched it again when I needed to get something from underneath it. This time the Jonathan Sims who is not me was at home, in the living room with his flatmates. Georgie, who you saw in the morning, and Gerry, who it turns out is a very messy painter.”
This, finally, summons a proper smile from Martin. Even a bit of a laugh. It’s a relief to find he can laugh at all right now. “You’d hate that.”
“He doesn’t seem to mind,” Jon says. “Not much. But he’s not me. His life is simpler.” There’s a smile on his face as well. It’s not a kind smile; it thinks little of the other Jonathan Sims. Then his shoulders dip, and he looks, if possible, more tired than before.
“I saw through it in my flat this morning, sometime after five. The same thing you saw, I believe. Jonathan Sims and his flatmates at the café. The last time,” he says, with a frustrated sound that says he knows it’s not the last time, “I was here. I hadn’t taken it from the drawer. But I saw him in his closet again, this time being pulled away by Gerry for a lunch break.” He pauses. “They’re quite good friends.”
Four times for me, Martin thinks, and four for Jon. With the mirror or without it. He should have gone to a different charity shop. He should have stayed out of Keston, found somewhere else to spend his Sunday. But he hadn’t, and there’s nothing to be done about it now. He says a weak, “Never a dull moment.”
Jon says, “Have you noticed a pattern in the times the mirror has affected you without it being on your person?”
“Not really?” Martin puzzles over this for a moment. At his desk. In his flat. “I guess I was thinking about it, but I don’t see it every time it crosses my mind, that would be—all the time.”
“Of course,” Jon says, thoughtful and dissatisfied, like he hadn’t expected Martin to present a great revelation, but was hoping for one nevertheless. “Quite right.”
Martin hesitates before asking a question of his own. “Have you seen anybody else we know?”
Jon frowns and rests his chin on the back of clasped hands. “Gertrude’s alive.”
“Oh?”
“I assume so. I arrived late to it, didn’t see her or catch a first name, but the librarian at King’s is a woman called Ms. Robinson. I doubt that’s a coincidence.”
“Unlikely,” Martin agrees. He hadn’t known Gertrude well before she passed. They crossed paths, of course, but she was about as social as Jon, not one to attend the holiday party.
“Elias,” Jon goes on, “is that Jonathan Sims’ adviser. For his dissertation. And there’s an old friend.”
“Is that Gerry or Georgie?” It’s not his business, but it’s asked before he can think better of it.
“Georgie,” Jon says, and for a moment there’s something on his face like—like the echo of affection. “We were friends in university.”
Friends. All right. Martin isn’t going to press that issue, either. That’s really not his business. “You don’t know Gerry, then?”
“I’ve never met him.” It’s the truth, Martin thinks, but possibly not the whole of it. “Do you know Michael?”
“No.” Martin shakes his head. He finds it a bit mystifying, actually. There are so many people they do know. But the person closest to his…doppelganger, counterpart, alternate reality self, whatever he might call it: the person closest to him is somebody he’s never heard of. “I don’t know him.”
Without noticing, he’s stopped picking at the chair. It occurs to him, a bit distantly, he must have calmed down somewhere along the path of their conversation. It helps, to be discussing the mirror with somebody else. With somebody who understands. With Jon. They’ll have this sorted out. And if they don’t—better unsorted and working together, isn’t it? He says, “So what do we do?”
“I don’t know if there’s much we can do.” Jon sounds displeased with his own answer. “I’ve been writing down what I see. You should do the same.”
“All right.” Martin is glad, though he doesn’t say so, Jon hasn’t suggested breaking the mirror. Adding more cracked and shattered things to the Archive. It’s impossible to say what would happen, were the mirror to break. Maybe, as they don’t need to touch it now, or it doesn’t need to touch them, its power is tethered to them and the mirror itself is unnecessary. Maybe it wouldn’t change anything. Maybe it would change everything, and they would never see through to this other, better universe ever again.
He doesn’t want to stop seeing it. Not really.
Jon speaks again. “You should try the charity shop. I doubt they’ll have kept any useful records, but there’s no harm in asking. See if you can learn anything about where it came from.”
Martin nods. Charity shops don’t often have records of their smaller donations—he’s learned that frustratingly well, working down here—but if it came from a particularly generous benefactor, or from a regular donor, or if the shop’s owner is unusually scrupulous, they might have something. “I’ll check around the library, too. See if we have anything useful about mirrors or…alternate reality?”
The look they’ll give him if he asks for that. It’s hardly the most outlandish thing they’ve heard of, but still.
“Do you suppose we should write down when we’re seeing the other place?” Martin asks. “It doesn’t match up.”
In every sense, it doesn’t match up. It’s never the same time in the other Martin and Jon’s world as in their own; and he saw their world around three in the morning, while Jon saw some of the same bits several hours later. It’s like a poorly-made jigsaw. Or two poorly-made jigsaws, trying to overlap.
“Yes,” Jon says, and Martin is sure that if Jon sounds impressed, it is only his imagination. “You’re right. Always include that. And if you notice any similarities in the times that it—takes you, write that down as well.”
He stops. Silence, again, until he says, “I think it goes without saying we keep this between us. At least for the time being. I don’t want to hand it off to the researchers just yet, and if anybody else catches wind of it…”
Ever, Martin thinks. He doesn’t want to hand it off to the researchers ever. Aloud, he says, “I won’t say anything to anybody. But I don’t think we should keep it here.”
“A safe deposit box, perhaps.” Jon’s eyes finally drop to the mirror. There’s a glint of distaste in his eyes, and something else Martin can’t place. “I’ll see to it.”
“Okay.” Martin glances at the clock. They’ve only been talking for twenty minutes, maybe thirty, which feels so little for something of this magnitude, but they have covered all there is to cover for the moment. “Suppose I’ll just go?”
Jon doesn’t reply, and Martin takes that as an answer of its own. He shifts his weight in the chair, begins to stand, and Jon says, “Does it scare you, Martin?”
Martin stops. He’s not going to tell Jon that he’s sad. That looking at the life led by the Martin through the glass reminds him how little he has in his own; that he envies it. He’s not. He says, “No…a bit? The mirror and—the things I’ve seen—none of that feels malevolent. I know that doesn’t really mean anything, it could still be evil, if a mirror can be evil, I dunno, but I’m not scared of the mirror. I am afraid of what might happen if it takes me at the wrong time. I know it’s dangerous. I’m not stupid.”
Jon looks almost surprised at him, like he hadn’t considered that as a possibility. Or like he hadn’t considered that Martin might not be scared. Martin supposes that would be fair. He usually is scared, of one thing or another. “That’s a reasonable worry. Be careful.”
“Yes,” Martin says, and then he does stand up. “I guess I’ll go see what I can find out. D’you need anything else?”
“Not at the moment.” Jon slips the mirror back into its drawer. He avoids skin contact as he does so, keeping a plastic glove between himself and the heavy silver the entire time. Martin doesn’t bother to point out that’s not going to make a difference. Jon knows, of course he does. “Don’t let your other work suffer.”
“I won’t.”
Tim and Sasha are at their desks, and murmur hellos to him as he passes. He’s standing beside his own desk, thinking on where best to start, when Tim says, “You look like hell, Martin.”
Martin looks at Tim, face scarred like Jon’s, but not his, because he left them, ran away in the dark and left them. Prentiss should have got to him too. He manages a half-hearted smile. “Thanks. Needed to hear that.”
“You really don’t look well.” Sasha studies him over an open binder. “Are you sure you shouldn’t have stayed home today?”
“I’m fine,” he insists, and at the dubious look she gives him, “I just didn’t get much sleep last night is all. I’ll have a nap over lunch if I can.”
“Try to get some rest,” she says, and her eyes flick back to whatever it is she’s reviewing.
Tim takes a long drink from his mug. “I don’t usually get much sleep either. You should try having a few long nights that are at least fun. It’d brighten you up.”
Martin laughs, and rolls his eyes, and says, “I’m going to go and make tea. Do either of you want anything?”
“Already got my coffee,” Tim says.
“I have one from my favorite café.” Sasha indicates a paper cup. “Thank you.”
Martin excuses himself.
The basement of the Institute is a dreary place. It’s clean, sure, and well-preserved enough, and looks better now than it did prior to Prentiss’s attack, after the deep-clean and bits of reconstruction, but that hasn’t made it any less ominous. The lights don’t flicker, though they seem, always, like they’re waiting for the opportune moment to start. It feels like the sort of place you come to spill your secrets; it feels like the sort of place that intends to swallow them whole down a greedy throat.
Upstairs, The Magnus Institute does little more to look welcoming, but as it’s not a basement, it pulls off refined more than creepy. The building is old, full of varnished wood and polished decor as somber as it is beautiful. Their break room-slash-kitchenette is located just down the hall from the stairwell, which turns hard to continue up, where the library sprawls and Elias keeps his office. The ground floor houses intake, researchers, and Artefact Storage, at the rear of the building.
Martin finds Hannah in the break room, a stocky, cheerful woman, nibbling absently at a piece of toast. The room smells strongly of apples and jam, a distinct reminder that Martin hasn’t eaten yet. “G’morning,” he says.
Hannah brushes a few strands of hair from her face, swallowing the toast. “So,” she says, “how’s life in the dungeon? Already itching to escape, and it’s so early.”
“Oh, it’s…chilly,” Martin says. “A bit musty. I’d suggest lighting a few scented candles, but the whole place might go up in flames at the mention of fire.”
Hannah snorts. “I don’t see how you can stand to work down there. It looked a complete mess the time I saw it.”
That would have been before they took over. The majority of the Institute’s staff avoid the Archive the way Martin avoids Artefact Storage and tight spaces: it’s good for a stop on the tour your first day, and afterwards it’s an unpleasant memory to pull out and look at when you’re reminding yourself things could always be worse.
Of course, now Martin’s seen worse, up close and personal. He still prefers the Archive, though he does his best to stay out of old document storage; he’s seen those walls plenty.
He rifles through the cupboard for his favorite mug, his name written across its bottom in neat letters. “It’s not so bad.”
Sometimes it is. But that’s not the point.
“If you say so.” Hannah takes the last bite of her toast and stands, wiping her hands off on a napkin. “Have a good day in your pit, Martin.”
“And you,” he says, “in your room that has actual windows. You’ll have to tell me what that’s like sometime.”
She laughs on her way out.
Once he’s returned to his desk, Martin sifts through his drawers for an empty notebook. The closest he comes is a spiral with several pages of poems in it, followed by nothing. It’ll do. He takes up a pen and sets to writing down what he’s seen, as Jon said. For this, he writes in detail. The smells he remembers. The thoughts, heard through a fog as they are, in a voice that is and is not his own. The people he’s seen. He writes all he can, and when he’s finished, his wrist is screaming at him, but there’s a satisfaction in having it down.
He’s not yet finished with the mirror for the day.
It’s a quick enough search online to locate the Keston charity shop where he found the mirror. Their hours indicate they’re only just opening. He decides to postpone calling them, just for a little while.
For the moment he picks a corner of the Archive and finds a disheveled mountain of statements to sort through. It’s not a surprise that they’re almost completely out of order; whether that order is chronological, alphabetical, numerical by case number, they’re not in it. He does this for a while, and then returns to his desk, glances at his list of information to look into, and dives into investigating missing persons reports in Genoa, Italy. It’s something of a comfort, that he’s able to keep his mind on his work today. Jon already thinks he’s incompetent; the last thing he needs is to be thought even more so, due to the mirror and its distractions.
The mirror does sit in the corner of his mind, of course. It’s taken up residence in the one it likes best, dusted up the floor and made itself at home. The other Martin sits there too, he imagines, in a little armchair, with his laugh and his smile and his books of poetry. Martin owns some of the same. He wonders, absently, while waiting on a report to download, if the poems are identical, or if there are changes, differences in word choice that seem minute but lend their poets a uniqueness and a different weight from those he’s read himself.
But he works around those thoughts until eleven, and then he picks up his desk phone to ring up the charity shop. He counts the rings, twisting the phone’s cord about his fingers.
One. Two. Thre—
A breathless woman’s voice answers, “Holloway’s Giving & Grace, this is Gretchen, what can I do for you?”
“Hi, I was in on Sunday, and I wanted to see if I could learn anything about an item I picked up,” Martin says, and proceeds to explain his purchase, leaving out that the purchase in question has some unusual properties.
“Oh, you’ll be looking for Caitlin,” Gretchen says. “Caitlin Holloway owns this place. If we’ve got a donation record, she’ll have it. Unfortunately she’s away on holiday, and her system is a bit beyond me. I can take a message, if you like.”
“Please,” Martin says, and leaves her the number for the Institute. He hangs up, doing his best not to be disappointed. Even if the owner were there, he wasn’t expecting the call to be a fruitful one. But it’s like Jon looking at him earlier, expecting one outcome and hoping anyway for another. Martin spends a moment frowning at his phone, his desk, anything within frowning distance, and then clucks his tongue in a determined sort of way.
The day’s young. There’s plenty more he can do.
He makes his way upstairs again, and up another floor yet, where he lets himself into the library. It’s by far the brightest and liveliest place in the Institute, which isn’t to say it’s loud. Its denizens are the sort whose shouts are little above whisper-volume, at least when they’re on their own territory. Martin’s always thought it simultaneously impressive and unnerving, even when he worked up here. He spots Hannah at a desk with Diana, whose strawberry braid appears an inch longer every time he sees her, and makes his way toward them.
Diana gives him her broad, welcoming smile. “Martin. Need help finding something today?”
“I do,” he says. “Do either of you know if we have much about mirrors?”
“Spooky, spooky mirrors. Did you know we’ve got one in Artefact Storage that shows you your worst fears coming true?” Hannah shivers. “Not my favorite thing in this building. Not my favorite thing at all.”
“I’ve never looked in it,” Martin says lightly. He’s more concerned with the one in Jon’s desk. “I’m looking to start general. Maybe go deeper after that, depending on where the rabbit hole leads me.”
“I’m sure we’ve got something.” Several keystrokes later, Diana’s standing up, her braid swishing all the way down to her waist. “Got it. Let’s go and find them, shall we?”
Diana sends him away a little while later with three texts on the history of mirrors in superstition and folklore, mirrors that have been cursed or enchanted, and mirrors that don’t mirror the way they ought. He pages through the first of them at his desk, listening to Tim flirt his way into information and Sasha complain at her computer. Mirrors, according to this author have widely been considered a good conduit for the magical, and therefore used by religious sects and practitioners of magic arts and the superstitious, for a wide variety of purposes. There’s nothing by page twelve about mirrors that show through to alternate realities, which is unfortunate.
That would have really sped things up.
Notes:
It feels weird not having any Cosy!verse scenes in this chapter, but here we are.
Chapter Text
A weighty book thuds onto Martin's desk. He startles, head ducking lower in anticipation of further incoming projectile hardcovers. When he’s sure(ish) that there aren’t going to be additional arrivals, he raises his eyes to blink at Tim, who’s looking quite pleased with himself.
It was a good throw, Martin admits privately. The book landed on an empty square without scattering the rest of his desk’s contents. He might have cried if it knocked over the collection of statements he’s taken the time to organize. “What was that for?”
“Oh, you haven’t died.” There’s another book in Tim’s hand, seemingly readied for Martin to have stuck in his reverie through the first’s crash landing. “We couldn’t tell and were beginning to place bets.”
Sasha drags a prim fingernail down a page in one of her impeccably ordered binders. “I abstained.”
“Sorry.” Martin scoots forward on his chair. “Did you need something?”
“You’ve been dead quiet all day.” Tim sets his second book aside, evidently having decided that he’s gotten Martin’s attention well enough for the moment. “I wondered if there’s something you’d like to share with the class. What’s got you so enraptured?”
Martin swaps his book out for the one Tim’s lobbed over. It’s a massive, falling apart thing, the spine half-separated from the pages and the title too far gone to read. He turns to the title page. It’s unsurprisingly a guide to London’s oldest structures. “It’s just some reading.”
“Yeah, I see that.” Tim hops out of his chair and moseys around the archival mess to swipe a book from Martin’s little pile. His face goes from curious to bemused in a second. “Mirrors, Martin? Exciting. I can see why you’re so engrossed that you haven’t said a word to either of us in hours.”
Martin checks the clock over Tim’s shoulder. “It’s been one hour, maybe.”
Tim waves this off. “Close enough.”
“It’s quite different,” Sasha says, sealing a sticky note onto her page and gently closing the binder.
“Also,” Martin says, jabbing a finger onto the book, “mirrors can’t possibly be any less interesting than the hundreds of pages you’re always reading to chase down more about Smirke.”
“Ah.” Tim flicks through the book he’s picked up. It’s one Martin hasn’t started in on yet. He’s not the fastest reader. “I’ll have you know architectural history is incredibly intriguing.”
Martin offers him the thrown, pathetic book in exchange for his own. “If that’s what you’ve got to tell yourself.”
Tim rolls his eyes. Across the room, Sasha’s standing up and brushing dust from her skirt. “I’m taking a long lunch today,” she says, pulling her purse from the bottom drawer of her desk. “Try not to burn the Archive down while I’m gone.”
“Oh, I don’t know, burning it down sounds easier than organizing the rest of it.” There’s a twinkle in Tim’s eye, which comes as a bit of a relief. He’s still a good-humored man, but Martin catches him sometimes with something darker on his face, scars from Prentiss dug beneath the surface. Martin doesn’t want to see Tim shatter.
“Not a bad point,” Martin says. His stomach gurgles. He sets a hand there, only then realizing he still hasn’t eaten an actual meal today. “And not a bad idea.” He hastens to add, “A long lunch, I mean, not burning the Archive down.”
Not that he considers that a horrid idea either.
Martin shoulders his own bag, tucking the book and his spiral notebook inside. He walks as far as the front gate with Sasha before they part ways. The weather has improved since the morning, the sun peeking out from behind the clouds to make everything less grey than it was, the wind gone from the ‘trying to abscond with your belongings’ sort and more the ‘hello, how are you doing?’ variety. He makes his way to a takeaway shop hidden in an alley, the cheapest he knows of around The Magnus Institute, where he picks up a chicken sandwich and chips before carrying on to Kensington Gardens, abuzz with activity even midday on a Tuesday.
He settles down beside a tree to block what’s left of the wind and watches a group of children kick around a football under the close supervision of a parent. The air here is fresh and tastes strongly of recently rained upon grass, but the ground has dried already, and it’s better than the Archive.
The Archive’s still got him, he thinks, taking a bite of his sandwich. Whether he’s there or not. He’s still trapped. He knows that, feels it in his chest. Free men don’t feel asphyxiated at the thought of quitting their jobs. He may not be sleeping in old document storage anymore, but he’s far from free.
Here, sat in the shade of this tree, Martin can pretend otherwise. The world’s still normal, carrying on no matter what’s happening to him and to Jon and to the people whose statements flood the Archive.
Martin takes the book from his bag. He reads while he eats, occasionally taking down a note. There’s not much he thinks is really of use. He writes pieces down anyhow; it helps him to feel as though he’s getting somewhere. His mind drifts toward other subjects he might look into: the words on the back of the mirror, theories on alternate universes, windows and glass.
A cluster of ducks waddles by him. Martin tosses several chips in their general direction, smiling as they descend upon the offering. “There you go,” he says. Two of them give him a hopeful look. He tosses another handful. It can’t be good for them, but they seem well pleased with him. They wander off when it becomes clear he’s not throwing out anything more. He watches them go with a forcibly cheerful, “Have a good day, you lot.”
His day, well—going as well as can be expected, isn’t it? The last really good one was ages ago. His eyes return to the pages, where the words are swimming, and do not stop when he blinks. He blinks again and there are no more words for him to read.
“Right, so that was a mint tea, a hazelnut latte, a frozen hot chocolate, and three of the ham and swiss. Was that all?”
Martin, edging his way out of the kitchen with a full tray balanced dangerously on his hip, glances over at Georgie. She’s taken on the till for the last hour. He might even say she’s done so with gusto, if that were the sort of thing people really said. With relish, maybe? No, not better. She’s been eager. He’s helped her with order fulfillment until now, but the lunch rush has dwindled to its end, leaving only two people in line, and Martin has snatched at the opportunity to restock the case, as it’s gone barren. Besides, he’s right here if she does need him.
He doesn’t listen for the customer’s response. His attentions turn to emptying the tray into the case. It’ll likely as not be empty again before they leave for the evening.
It’s been a busy day, but they all are.
The morning rush hadn’t left him a chance to talk to Jon about last night, much as he’d wanted to. He’d done his best not to frown when watching him leave, but Michael had helpfully tapped him on the shoulder and informed him he looked as though someone had compared his best recipes to Maxwell House instant and maybe he ought to smile for the customers. On the positive side of things, Michael also hasn’t had opportunity to corner him about the subject a second time.
At least they’ve got Georgie now. It had felt like a blessing this morning, when she asked if she might have an interview, and have it today. It felt like another when he hired her right on, and another still when he asked, “When are you available to start?” and she’d said, “Now, if you like.”
She’s taken to the work astonishingly well—she’s a quick learner, cheerful and animated with the customers, and she’s got an excellent mind for details. She hadn’t missed a beat when, fifteen minutes into her first crack at the till, a scowling businessman ordered a sandwich with half its ordinary toppings replaced by different ones. (Martin had fixed the sandwich himself, but she’d given him the list readily enough off the top of her head.) Nor had she flinched when a twitchy university student ordered an iced vanilla sweet cream including pumps of vanilla, caramel, cinnamon dolce, hazelnut, maple pecan, and toffee nut syrups, not to mention the mocha, white mocha, pumpkin sauce, and shots of espresso. Martin’s teeth threatened a dentist’s visit from the mere thought of its sugar contents when she parroted it back to him for making. Georgie’d only shrugged afterward, and said it was no worse than some of the drinks she’d tried in uni.
“But that’s so excessive,” Martin had said in a pleading sort of way.
“Yeah, I know that now, more refined palate and all.” She’d winked. “At the time I was mostly trying to stay awake.”
The point is, he may have to chide Jon and Gerry for not bringing her to him sooner. Sure, she’s still getting the hang of the register itself, but it’s a fussy machine, theirs, and memorizing some of the food and drink will take time. As she’s been employed at Cosy for approximately three hours, Martin expects her to be a pro before the week is out.
He stands, his back offering the protests of a much older man, and stops beside her at one of the blenders. “You’re all right up here?”
“Sure.” The look she gives the blender says it ought to capitulate to her demands in an immediate sense, or else. “I’ve gotten through the line. I think we might even have five spare minutes when I’m done here.”
“You’re tempting fate,” Martin says, and carries the now emptied tray into the kitchen.
Michael’s stood at one of the sinks, scrubbing his hands. Without looking up, he says, “Is Georgie doing okay?”
“Georgie is doing more than all right,” Martin says, “though I do worry she’s going to make all of our machines swear fealty to her above all others.”
Michael laughs. He shuts the water off and dries his hands. “Anything we’re in dire need of?”
“Not at the moment. I’m popping into the office, you keep on doing what you’re doing. Maybe check on Georgie if I’m more than five minutes.”
As it happens, he takes ten. His desk, systemically organized as it is, does have a tendency to steal things, like it thinks he may not notice that his scissors have gone missing for a sixth time. In the end he prints a new copy of what he needs, fully expecting the old one to pop up as soon as he has.
When he returns to the front of the café there are no customers in line, and Georgie’s watching the door like a hawk. Martin slides a thin stack of paper onto the counter in front of her. “That’s the bulk of what we keep on the menu at all times,” he says, and then somewhat apologetically, “We haven’t got anything more professional.”
“This’ll do for me,” she says, absently touching her hair.
“That’ll be our last real busy spell for the day,” Martin tells her. “We’re pretty on and off until closing, usually.” Lacking anywhere to sit back here, as there’s not often the time to do so, he leans on the wall.
They spend several minutes in companionable quiet, Georgie absorbing herself in her new guide. Eventually, Martin clears his throat. “You said this morning that you wanted to see what the fuss was. Jon and Gerry talk about the place a lot then?”
It’s pride in his business. For the most part, it is. He can’t deny the rush of pleasure at the thought of Jon talking about him outside of his own premises; but he and his café aren’t a single entity. It’s Cosy Jon talks about, or Gerry talks about. Word of mouth is great advertising, no matter who’s recommending his place. That’s it.
He knows, of course, that that’s not it, but it’s easier not to think about what else it is.
“They are here every day,” Georgie says, rubbing a page corner between her fingers. “I definitely get it now. And I’ll also be here every day. Earlier than them.” She makes a face. “The things I do.”
“I’m sorry I’ve asked you to come in so ungodly early,” Martin says.
“Nothing to apologize for. I knew the risks when I asked for the job.”
“I’m still looking to hire more help,” he tells her. “I’m not actually trying to run us all ragged.”
“I think you could do with another three or four for the busy hours. Especially as this seems to be the first not busy hour. I dunno how you and Michael were doing it on your own.” Georgie leans forward, her elbows on the counter like the guide is an exam she’s got to hide from her neighbors. “Did you come up with all of this on your own?”
“The drinks are my area.” On that note, his throat’s not at its best. He moves to fix himself a cup of tea. Mint sounds nice. “The baking is all Michael. Everything else was a combined effort.”
“Ah,” she says.
“I didn’t ask during your interview—what made you decide to ask for a job? You’d only been in here the once.”
“Oh, you know.” Georgie waves a hand at her surroundings. She makes a sound that’s on its way to a laugh. “The fuss. I’m working on several podcast projects and writing a few things, and Gerry doesn’t actually make us pay to live in his house, so money’s not much of an issue, but I’ve been needing more to do.”
“You live with them, then?”
From this angle, he sees the smile creeping up her face. “Yeah.”
“How long have you known them?”
“Not at long as they’ve known each other,” she says. “They’ve been close since primary school. I met Jon our first year in uni. We bonded over complaints about a classmate we thought was a pretentious prat. Then he introduced me to Gerry, and we bonded over conversation about Jon being a pretentious prat. I say that with all the love in the world, mind.”
Michael arrives with a tray just as Martin’s filling three cups with mint tea.
“Speaking of Jon,” Georgie says, and only now does she fully look up from the guide. “He hasn’t been the most forthcoming about last night, but I know he was here.”
“What makes you think I’m going to tell you more than he did?” Martin passes her a cup, which she raises to him before taking a drink.
“Martin hasn’t told me anything about it either,” Michael says, laced through with disappointment.
“I’ll give you his number if you tell me,” Georgie says sweetly.
Michael sets the tray atop the display with a look of great interest.
“That’s a nice offer,” Martin says mildly. “But no, thank you. I can get that myself if I want it.”
“So you’re not seeing anybody then?” Georgie peers at the tray, where there are sandwiches and salads. “I hope one of those is for me.”
Michael laughs, and turns it into a cough at the look Martin gives him. He sets one plate in front of Georgie and hands another to Martin, keeping the last for himself. “Martin hasn’t been on a date in about a year.”
“I have been a little busy starting a business,” Martin says. “It hasn’t been a small amount of work.”
“Yeah,” Michael says, “and now you have a business that’s excelling, so what’s your excuse?”
“I have a business that’s excelling and I’m still incredibly busy,” Martin points out, gesturing to the café around them. “Also, I’m not going to make Jon uncomfortable by asking him out. Goes somewhat against what I’ve named the place.”
“I don’t think that’s the effect it would have.” Michael nibbles on the corner of his sandwich.
“It’s not,” Georgie seconds. “He’s gone all moony over you, Martin.”
Martin busies himself with his meal, avoiding looking at either of them. Feeling their eyes is plenty. He says, “I’ll ask Jon out when you ask Tim for his number, Michael.”
“Tim,” Georgie says, and Martin feels her eyes snap away from him. She sounds utterly delighted. He dares to look up and finds Michael’s cheeks have colored. “That was the sort of ruggedly handsome one who wanted us to hurry it up this morning, right? Do you like him, Michael?”
“Oh,” Michael says, sounding for his part like he wants to run away. “No, that’s not—”
Martin’s book has fallen into his lap. The press of it is the first thing he feels as he comes back to himself, before he hears the pages rustling where the wind has taken hold to do some reading. The children and their football have gone.
None of this comes as a surprise.
Martin digs into his pocket for his phone. What is a surprise is that, according to the time flashing up at him, he’s not late getting back to the Institute. It hasn’t been long at all.
“Right,” he says, and gropes about the grass for his pen, which has rolled away. He pushes too hard as he writes, nearly tearing through the paper. There was more oddness about the time, he notes. It looked to be around the same time for the other Martin as it is for himself. Martin and Michael and Georgie. He takes down their words, what he clearly remembers of them. When he’s finished, he stands to dispose of his rubbish.
It must be nice, he thinks dully, the world having gone greyer again through no fault of the sky, to have a friend half as good as Michael. It must be nice to have anyone at all; he hasn’t, and isn’t sure he ever really has. But that’s not true. He is sure.
“Have a good lunch?” Tim asks when he drops back into his chair.
Martin lies easily enough. It’s the sort of lie he’s used to telling—
Everything is fine.
Jon spends the majority of his day doing his job. His thoughts do occasionally attempt to dart toward Gertrude or the mirror or Martin, but he herds them back into order with little more than a stern ‘not now.’ In the last case, a sterner ‘not at all.’
It’s three o’clock when Martin raps at his door; he recognizes the sound, has heard it often enough since returning to work. He watches the door swing open over the statement he’s been reviewing and intends to record soon, given by one Jennifer Ling. Martin steps in, balancing a tea tray on one hand. Jon’s thoughts dart, and he shoves them back into place.
“I thought you might like a drink,” Martin says by way of both greeting and explanation, neither of which are entirely necessary. It also sounds like a question.
Jon gives him a nod. “Thank you.”
He takes Martin in as he crosses the room. There’s little difference from this morning; he looks stressed, certainly, but he already had. Still. Something about him strikes Jon as off-balance. It’s in his face. He waits until Martin is at his desk, setting a cup of tea in front of him, to say, “Has it happened again?”
Martin stills like a prey animal caught in its predator’s line of sight. Jon resists a wan smile at the thought. Martin looks unsure what he’d like to be doing with his hands, and settles for squeezing them around the edges of the tray. “Yes,” he says, hardly audible. “I wrote it down. Were you still going to…”
The question trails without quite ending. Jon’s eyes flick toward his bottom drawer. He runs an irritated hand through his hair. “Yes,” he says. “I planned to leave shortly. I’ve found a place to store it.”
“Right,” Martin says. He stretches the word’s end. “Right. Good. That’s good. I’ll just leave you to that. Let me know if you need me. I’ll be, you know.” He waves a hand in the general direction of the Archive. “Lots to do.”
Then he’s heading for the door. Jon watches his departing back and says, before he’s gone from the room, “Don’t let it take you over, Martin. It’s only a mirror.”
Martin’s laugh is quick and weak. “I know. I told you I’m not afraid.”
Jon knows there’s an irony to what he’s said. Don’t let it take you over. As though he hasn’t let Gertrude’s murder do precisely that. He drinks his tea slowly, putting off the mirror for as long as he possibly can. Only when he’s drained every drop from his cup does he rifle about for a box to stow it in. He’s careful as ever not to make contact while transferring it to its new container.
He says a quick farewell to his assistants on his way out, ignoring the surprise on Tim and Sasha’s faces.
What he can’t ignore is Elias coming down the steps before he’s made it through the Institute’s front door and calling, “Jon. Where are you off to so early?”
Jon, he hears echoed in a voice that’s just the same, I’m surprised to see you leaving the building this early in the day.
Messy desks and being managed by Elias Bouchard. That’s what they’ve got in common, him and the wrong Jon. Hardly conscious of doing so, Jon pulls his bag tight against himself as Elias comes closer. “I’m not feeling my best today. I thought I would go home early.”
“Did you?” The surprise there sounds genuine enough. The pleasure as well, the smile curving Elias’ mouth and following right up on through his eyes. He doesn’t look at Jon’s bag for even a second. It’s fine. “Good. I’m glad to hear you’re taking care of yourself.”
“Everyone’s so surprised when I do,” Jon says dryly. They have that in common as well, don’t they. “I do have the capability.”
“Yes, but I’m not sure you always remember that you do,” Elias says. He touches Jon’s shoulder, his hand squeezing before he lets go. “Go home and rest. If you’d like to have tomorrow off as well, you’re welcome to it. I prefer my Head Archivist to be in top shape.”
“That won’t be necessary.” Jon takes a step toward the door. “I’ll be here bright and early.”
Elias shakes his head in a way Jon would almost call fond, if he thought fondness were something Elias felt toward anybody. It’s certainly not a thing to be directed at him. “You’re free to change your mind.”
“I won’t,” Jon says, and then, somewhat awkwardly, “I’ll see you tomorrow, Elias.”
“Or the day after, Jon,” Elias says, and moves on to speak to Rosie.
The walk to the station is uneventful. Jon keeps his thoughts focused strictly on his destination: Enfield Town Station, followed by a walk to the Sovereign Safe Deposit Box Centre, and then back home to his flat.
It’s not until he’s seated on the train that he allows himself to think of the mirror again. What is it that causes them to see through it? (If ‘seeing through it’ is quite the right way to think of it, given they don’t need to be looking at its glass at all.) Martin was correct in noting it can’t just be thinking about it; it would be more of a constant, in that case. But it isn’t. Jon frowns at the floor of the train car. Something’s got to trigger it. It can’t be random. He nearly snorts at himself.
It can’t be random. Why the hell couldn’t it be? It’s a supernatural mirror. It hasn’t got to follow rules.
Jon rubs at his eyes. When he opens them again, the train car has gone, replaced by low light and a disorderly desk and the strong smell of ancient books. He might curse, if he were aware of his own mouth.
Done.
Jon slaps his pen onto his desk and shoves the last of the remaining Shakespeare essays—every last one of them now marked within an inch of their lives in bright red ink—into a folder for ease of avoiding eye contact until he hands them back tomorrow. His students won’t be pleased. But if they wanted to be pleased, they ought to have written halfway decent papers. There are certain academic standards at work here, foundational course or not. It’s his responsibility, much as he may resent it, to prepare them for the rest of their university experience. He’s not going to do so by being merciful.
Not that he’d choose mercy in any case.
For several minutes, Jon weighs the merits of remaining here a while longer and digging into his research anew. It’s only half seven. There’s plenty of time left in the evening. But Gerry and Georgie will both lecture him if he comes home late again. But—and this is the part that compels him to pack up his bag and exit his closet into the dimly lit hall—he thinks Martin would frown at him for staying and exhausting himself.
He’s made it nearly off campus when his phone starts to buzz. The photo that comes up is Georgie, grinning at him on the beach, her hair and skin a mess of sand. It had taken weeks to fully vacuum it all out of the house afterward. He answers with, “I’m already out of the office, no need to say anything.”
“That’s good to hear and now I’m not sure you’re the real Jon,” she chirps, “but it’s not what I’m calling for.”
“What is it then?”
“I’m about finished at Cosy,” she says, a note in her voice he doesn’t trust at all. It’s quite possible, likely even, that he doesn’t trust any notes she might have at present. “Come and pick me up. I’d rather not walk home alone.”
“So call Gerry,” he says, and before she can protest, “I’ll be there soon.”
“I’ll tell Martin you’re coming,” Georgie says sweetly, and hangs up on him before he can so much as yelp at her. He stuffs his phone back into his pocket. She wouldn’t. It was a joke, before, her possibly offering him to Martin for marriage. But it is Georgie. There’s no guarantee.
He types a message to Gerry. We’ve got to find a new café.
We’re not doing that, arrives just as he reaches Cosy.
There’s a single customer remaining, seated at a table near the front, engaged in conversation with Georgie, who’s nearer to the door. And there’s Martin behind the counter, busying himself with one of the machines. Jon stands in place a moment. Watching. Then Martin turns from the machine and spots him, and waves, and he’s got to go in.
“Jon!” Georgie says, and he cannot tell if he ought to be suspicious of her or not. Almost certainly.
“Are you ready to go?” Jon asks.
“Just about.”
“Hello, Jon.” Martin’s voice is mild. It gives away even less than Georgie’s. Jon just looks at him, drinking in the smile aimed in his direction and reminding himself Martin smiles at several hundred customers the same way every day. It’s not unique to him. But there’s a certain quirk to Martin’s mouth he doesn’t recall seeing directed at Gerry, or that man Tim, or—oh, lord, Georgie’s done it, hasn’t she? She’s told him Jon’s got a crush, or she’s done worse, and now Martin thinks he’s an idiot and that’s why he’s smiling like that.
Georgie passes by close enough to nudge him, carrying dishes, and clears her throat as she goes. He realizes then he hasn’t said a word in the time it’s taken the other customer to depart, and says, “Hello.”
Oh, well done. He may as well turn around and leave now, if this is any sign of how well he’ll be functioning around Martin from here on out. Gerry can keep to Cosy; Jon will return to the less interesting Starbucks several streets over.
Martin’s mouth moves in a way that suggests he’s repressing a laugh. The effort is good of him. Jon’s sure he deserves to be laughed at about now. “Had a nice day?”
“It’s been all right. I’ve finished with the papers I was telling you about.”
“Yeah? Did they get any better as you went on?”
Jon shakes his head. “Dreadful to the last.”
“Good thing you’ve finished with them, then.”
“Yes,” Jon says intelligently.
“I’m going to fetch my purse,” Georgie announces. She waits until she’s behind Martin, just at the door to the back of the café, to give Jon a pointed look that slides to Martin and back; he pretends he hasn’t noticed.
He doesn’t say a word as Martin comes out from behind the counter. Martin’s all the way to the door, locking up to prevent any latecomers, when he says, “Martin?”
Martin looks directly at him. “Yes, Jon?” There’s something there Jon wishes he could read. If Martin were written onto a page, if he came complete with dialogue tags and a close viewpoint; but Martin is a man, not a book, and Jon is—well.
“How was Georgie today?”
It’s not disappointment that passes over Martin’s face, he’s sure. Martin shakes his head and says, “She was magnificent. I wish you’d brought her to me a month ago.”
Georgie sweeps back through the door, now with Michael in tow and her keychain collection jangling its presence known. “Hear that, Jon? I’m great at this job.”
“I didn’t doubt you for a second,” he says.
She ignores him and turns to Michael. “Are you sure you don’t need anything else before I go? I don’t mind staying, and it’s not as though Jon has anything better to do with his time.”
“Do call Gerry the next time you need somebody to walk you home.” Georgie doesn’t acknowledge him, but he gets a chuckle from Martin.
“You’re free to go,” Michael says.
“We’ll have you stay tomorrow evening,” Martin tells her, still standing beside the door. “You’ve done enough for today.”
“D’you think you’re ready for the morning rush?” Michael asks.
“The better question,” Georgie says, “would be is the morning rush ready for me?”
“Is anybody?” Jon says.
Georgie grins at him. “Nope.” She crosses the café to stand beside Jon and says, “I’ll see you two in the morning.”
“See you then,” Michael says, and gives Jon a nod before ducking into the back again.
“Good night, Georgie,” Martin says, unlocking the door again for them, and then, “See you in the morning, Jon.”
Jon forces himself to nod. “In the morning.”
Georgie drags him through the door before he can make a bigger fool of himself. It’s a warm evening, windless and dry.
They make it as far as the next corner before Georgie says, “Aren’t you going to ask me how my first day was?”
“I’m really not sure I want to,” Jon says. “You’ll tell me whether or not I want to hear it.”
“Some friend you are.” She playfully knocks his shoulder with hers. The keychains practically go on the offensive.
He heaves an exaggerated sigh. “How was your first day of work, Georgie?”
“Busy, Jon. It was busy.” She slips her arm into his as they approach a group of men around their own age. “Martin is incredibly successful and you should be so lucky as to have him support your destitute professor lifestyle.”
“Unbelievable.” The scoff isn’t entirely faked. “This is why I didn’t want to ask, the very first thing you do—”
She interrupts him with a laugh. “Actually, it’s a fun job. Martin and Michael are both very sweet, and while the customers do sometimes need a choice kick, Martin is the most calming person I’ve ever met. He’s like one of those recordings meant to soothe you to sleep.”
“He is good at that,” Jon says, and lets her go on at length about her day. She keeps up through their train ride back to Chelsea, and much of the walk home.
Eventually though—of course it was too good to last—she says, “D’you know, you were really awfully super smooth back there, the way you greeted Martin. We should all aspire to be like you around people we’re attracted to.”
“Oh, shut up,” he says, scowling more at his own lack of witty retort than at Georgie.
“Shall I tell him you like him,” she asks, “or are you going to do it yourself?”
“You haven’t already promised me to him then?”
“You’ve got such a paltry dowry,” she says, and he snorts, “I thought it best to wait until you’ve seduced him a bit.”
“I’m not actually planning to ask him out,” Jon says.
“Jonathan Sims,” Georgie says.
He makes his voice as steely as he can (very, given the students he’s dealt with throughout the years). “Georgina Barker.”
“I honestly don’t see why.” There’s frustration there now, clear as anything. Georgie he understands quite well. No dialogue tags necessary. “Yes, I said before that you were an awful boyfriend, but Jon, I didn’t mean you’re a horrid hobgoblin who should never date again and you like him!”
Leaving aside that it doesn’t matter who he likes, as most people don’t like him, Jon says, “I’m busy with my dissertation. I haven’t got the time to date anybody.” The answering laugh is disbelieving. “What? You know I’m—”
“What I know is you’re going to work yourself to the bone if Gerry and I don’t stop you,” she says. “But I’m laughing because that’s the second time today I’ve heard someone claim they’re too busy to go on a date.”
Jon pins her with a look. “What did you do, Georgie?”
“Nothing! I wanted to, you’re both hopeless, but honestly, I haven’t done anything.” They’re to their front door now, Jon letting Georgie go first. “You’ve been busy forever, and we all know you’re going to be busy forever as you’ve always got to give yourself too much to do. Let yourself enjoy life for ten minutes. Kiss a cute boy!”
“Yeah,” Gerry says from the living room, which he’s once again turned into a studio, as though he hasn’t got a dedicated room in the attic. “Kiss a cute boy, Jon.”
“I didn’t ask you,” Jon says.
“Come here and I’ll kiss you myself.” Gerry winks at him. Jon rolls his eyes. They’d kissed once, when they were fifteen, and immediately concluded that while boys certainly appealed, they were not the right boys for each other. Not romantically, in any case. “Dinner’s on the stove. I made stew.”
Georgie beats him to the kitchen and has a bowl out for him before he’s gotten there. Gerry ambles in after them, paintbrush still in hand and dripping on the floor. It’s his floor to drip on, so neither Jon nor Georgie comment.
“The thing is,” Georgie says, shoveling stew into a dish, “you’re going to be impossible to live with now. You’re painfully awkward to live with when you’re attracted to somebody. Speaking from experience on all sides here.”
Jon fetches the dinner rolls from the pantry. “I can move out, if you like.”
“Sure,” Gerry says. “Or, Jonny, you could try the easier option for once in all our lives.”
Jon says nothing to this. He imagines Martin smiling at him.
Then Georgie cuts in with, “Martin hasn’t been on a date in a year and I’ll have you know I even refrained from telling him it’s been much, much longer than that for you,” and he instead chucks a roll at her face.
The woman across from Jon is staring at him when he comes back to himself, her face going sourer by the second. Jon looks away quickly. He hopes he hasn’t been staring. He probably has been, though it’s not really staring when he hasn’t been seeing anything in front of him. Somehow he doesn’t think the woman will accept an explanation involving damnable supernatural mirrors.
He watches the doors until the train arrives to his stop.
It’s a quick enough walk to the safe deposit location he discovered with a cursory search online. The man behind the counter doesn’t ask him many questions. The information is general, and he is truthful about all of it, because there’s nothing to hide here. Nothing to hide about himself. Only from himself. From any prying eyes in the Institute.
It happens so quickly and with such ease that walking away feels odd. He’s free of the mirror, at least in a physical sense; he imagines he can still feel it in his head, latched onto a piece of his brain. But that’s just his imagination snickering at him. For a moment as he makes his way back to the station, he wonders what it would be like if that life, the wrong Jon’s life, were his own. If a knock knock hadn’t set him on this path. But this is his path in life, dark and unpleasant and maddening as it may be.
He wouldn’t be Jonathan Sims if that were his life. He would be a Jonathan Sims. But not his own. Not himself. It’s not a thing he cares to trade. He wonders what it says about him, that he has no inclination to exchange his life of monsters and horror for one of peaceful academia and normalcy.
When he arrives home, he falls immediately asleep. It’s blessedly dreamless.
Notes:
me: this chapter will be 4000 words
chapter: actually
Chapter 8: in the threshold
Chapter Text
It goes on like this for several days:
Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, shuts himself away in his office and interacts with his assistants no more than professionally necessary. He ignores the way Martin looks at him; and he ignores how often Martin looks at him, but he’d been doing that before any of this began. He ignores, as well, the flitting thoughts that he’d like to see Martin smile or hear him laugh, the way he nearly wants to look at Martin.
Those thoughts don’t belong to him.
In another world, another Jonathan Sims attempts to shut himself away in his office and is thwarted by one Georgina Barker and Gerard Keay, who keep his locked away hours to the limited side. He visits a peaceful café called Cosy, and he smiles at a Martin Blackwood with a scar on his face; and Martin Blackwood smiles back at him, and he is effulgent and brilliant with it, and the hearts of both Jonathan Sims flutter.
Jon thinks venomous thoughts toward the mirror, toward the wrong Jon, toward both Martin Blackwoods—and reaches for his notebook once or twice or three times each day.
Martin Blackwood, Archival Assistant, brings Jon tea as often as he’s allowed into the office and ignores the teasing of Timothy Stoker, the suggestive eyebrow waggling and the winks and the incredibly unsubtle thumbs-ups shot at him behind Jon’s back. He does his work, endless phone calls and wades waist-deep into police reports gristlier than he likes, and skips lunch twice out of a stomach-twisting unease; he does another layer of work atop that, throwing himself with a near-frenzied vigor into his attempts to understand what is happening to them, how the mirror is playing with their lives and if there’s a possible way for them to end its game. He reads with a new intent. He thinks, once, that maybe he doesn’t want it to end; but that’s ridiculous, he does, of course he does. He sleeps fitfully, and often with a book clutched to his chest, like he might absorb its contents through his nightmares.
In another world, another Martin Blackwood bustles about his café with a welcoming smile on his face and writes poems in his head, transferring them to paper when there’s time for it. He is pulled aside by a man called Gerry Keay, who tells him, very seriously, “She’s a real handful, Martin, don’t let her stampede around here,” and he laughs without shadows over his face; Gerry Keay thinks for a moment and adds, serious as before, “Jon’s a handful too, but he’s more likely to, hm, burrow and then you’ve got to pull him out,” and Martin busies himself with fixing a drink. He spends his days fending off pestering questions from friends the Archival Assistant cannot imagine having, and he smiles at a Jonathan Sims without any grey in his hair.
Martin feels sorry for himself. This is nothing new. He wants very much to kiss Jonathan Sims, the one who often feels farther away from him than the one through the mirror. There’s nothing new about that either.
Across London, safe and sleepy in a dark box, another consciousness is only dimly aware of any of this. But dimly is more than aware enough.
It’s nearing eleven o’clock, and Jon is the only person left in the Archive for the evening. He’s probably the only person left in the Institute, but hasn’t gone upstairs to check. It makes no difference. Nobody outside of his staff voluntarily comes downstairs. Elias, occasionally. But for all intents and purposes, Jon feels amply alone.
His investigations, such as they are, are—not all that they could be. Not investigations into the mirror; he’s left that to Martin thus far and is happy enough (though happy is not the most suitable word) to let it carry on that way. The mirror is a nuisance, and it impresses upon him thoughts that belong to a Jonathan Sims who leads an easier life, and there is no need to allow it to become more unless something changes. But it’s not the mirror he’s investigating; it’s not the mirror that has him lurking in the Institute’s shadows long after hours.
That is, invariably, the murder of Gertrude Robinson.
Jon’s no kind of detective. He hasn’t got access to the resources that might put him on the path to understanding what happened to her, why it happened in the deepest, unmarked recesses of The Magnus Institute, who did it to her; neither has he got Tim’s ability to flirt his way to information he ought not have, nor a willingness to ask Tim to make his queries for him. He doesn’t know how to stop it from happening to him next. Gertrude Robinson was an elderly woman. For whatever reason, somebody chose to put bullets through her rather than wait for nature to take its course. Gertrude Robinson was the Institute’s Head Archivist, and that is a role Jon has stepped into, and he thinks that means something, and it is possible—Jon has a sudden, visceral image of his own body slumped in that chair to go cold. He has an image of Martin finding him. He has an image of the gun in Martin’s hand.
At least these images are grounded in his own world. They’re his own. Useless fearmongering of his own making. But—
There’s been no word from the police. Or, if there has, Elias hasn’t deigned to share the information with Jon, who’s tried to seem less than rabid in asking after it. (He’s not sure he’s succeeded.) Elias would share, wouldn’t he?
If he had anything to do with it he would keep Jon in the dark and share nothing. If that were the case—should he break into Elias’ office? Jon leans back in his chair.
If only he’d been able to snag even one of the tapes they found with Gertrude, then he could—
“Then you could what, Jon?” he mutters to himself. The Archive was in chaos when his team took over its caretaking. There’s nothing to say those tapes meant anything of significance. It wouldn’t make sense to sit in the tunnels with valuable tapes. It wouldn’t make sense to leave the Archive in the conditions she cultivated over her decades-long tenure. There is nothing, among the admittedly little he knows of Gertrude, that does make sense.
He walks into the Archive itself. It’s still chaos, though it has gotten better under his team’s care. There’s a touch of satisfaction in him at that. It may take them another five years or more to truly wrestle it into submission, but they’ll get there. Assuming, of course, none of them are conspiring to shoot him.
A shape steps through the doorway and Jon instinctively takes a step back. The shape devises itself into a familiar face. Elias. He has a briefcase in hand. His suit is as immaculate as it was this morning. “Jon.”
Jon stares at him, heart thundering the hardest it has since a voice demanded he vacate the tunnels. “You startled me. I didn’t think anyone was still here.”
“It’s late, Jon.” Elias is inscrutable. There’s a certain peculiar impassiveness to him most times. In the past, Jon hasn’t found it worrisome. In the past. “Very late.”
The last he says more pointedly.
“I know that.” It comes out defensive, though he’s every right to be here. What is Elias still doing here? More importantly, why is he here? Jon’s mind rewinds through the last few days. He has seen an inordinate amount of the Institute’s Head as of late. It’s possible, even likely, that Elias is concerned for him. It’s the most sensible explanation. He tells himself to accept it, if only for the moment.
“You should go home,” Elias says.
Jon shakes his head. “I have something to wrap up.”
“And whatever it is can’t wait until a more reasonable hour?” Elias nearly smiles. “You might consider three in the morning.”
A chill runs along his spine. It’s a joke. Of course it’s a joke. The Institute was always long dark and empty when he took his trips into the tunnels. Elias cannot possibly know what he was doing. Jon forces himself to laugh. Because it’s a joke.
“You should go home, Jon,” Elias says again, his tone gently stern, like a parent scolding a child for tackling an adventure too dangerous. “Are you feeling well? You can’t be getting enough sleep, the hours you keep, and you are still recovering—”
“I’m fine,” Jon says. “You don’t have to worry over me.”
“You do make that difficult.”
Jon blinks at this, disconcerted into speechlessness. He hadn’t meant—Elias, being worried about anyone, being worried about him—
Elias looks at him still, his mouth going thin. “I’m not going to drag you out of the building, Jon, but I expect you to leave soon.”
“I will,” Jon says, and maybe he will. It depends rather on what happens next.
“Good night then,” Elias says, and then he’s gone.
Jon is, again, alone. He drops his face into a hand, rubbing at his temple. Elias is right. There’s nothing for him here at this hour. He’s hardly prepared—be it practically or mentally—for another sojourn into the tunnels. He’s stayed this late. It feels a waste to leave without doing something, however.
This is how Jon comes to approach the old document storage room. Martin hasn’t lived there in some time. There won’t be anything, but it cannot hurt to check, and then he’ll feel he’s accomplished something. And then he can make his way home to his bed.
He lingers in the threshold, looking over the thin, battered mattress with the sorriest looking pillow the world has ever known, and the mess of shelves. This part of the Archive they’ve hardly begun to touch since taking over for Gertrude, coming into the room only when they’re certain that whatever they’re looking for is inside—which is rarely, as it’s hard to be certain of anything’s location.
There’s a stab of guilt in his chest, a tiny piercing needle of it. Martin spent months living here, more terrified than the rest of them, and for longer. But that was about Prentiss, long after Gertrude’s death. One has nothing to do with the other. He cannot trust any of them, and that includes Martin. No matter the business of the mirror, no matter it makes him want to trust him. It’s not so easy as all that. The nudges of trust belong to the wrong Jon, not to him.
He takes a step forward, and stops. Old document storage is still there, but blurrier than it was. It’s not exhaustion playing at his eyesight. He only manages to take a step back. It makes no difference.
“I’m making lasagna,” Gerry says.
Jon nearly drops his phone. It’s not due to the lasagna—he hasn’t been overcome by Gerry’s dinner announcement—but part of a mad scramble to catch his folders, which have decided the time has come to make a dash for freedom. Insofar as the floor is freedom. They’d still be stuck in this office, same as he is. He snatches one at an awkward angle, half its contents sliding out, and the others in his arm, where they crinkle their unhappiness. “Not today, you little bastards,” he says.
“Jon,” Gerry says, something simultaneously orchestral and growling in his background, “I don’t know what my lasagna’s done to upset you, but there’s no call to be rude.”
“I’m not talking about the lasagna.” The phone is just barely holding on between his shoulder and his ear. He eases the folders onto his desk, wincing when additional sheets slide out of several, and corrects the phone.
“You’re going to be home to eat it, aren’t you?” It’s not the most subtle probe, but Gerry’s never are. (Nor are Georgie’s. He hasn’t got friends to whom the word subtle means anything, until the time comes to purchase Christmas or birthday gifts. It’s maddening.)
“I shouldn’t be late.” Jon leans down to gather up his work. He flips them over one at a time, sorting them appropriately for returning to their folders. The Twelve Dancing Princesses. East of the Sun and West of the Moon. Vasilisa the Fair. “I’ve got my meeting with Dr. Bouchard in”—a glance at the clock—“ten minutes. I plan to be home after that, mother.”
“Oh, good,” Gerry says, and something pops; Jon decides he’s better off not asking what that was. It’s Gerry’s house, he can pop whatever he likes. “Tell him hello from me, will you.”
“Good idea,” Jon says. “I do want him in a poor mood.”
Poorer than he’s going to be anyhow. Jon puts that aside. He’ll deal with it later. In approximately ten minutes.
Gerry snickers. “Go on, give him my love.”
“You’re an idiot,” Jon says, “and I’ll see you at home.”
Then it’s down to looking over this week’s remarkably unremarkable progress and determining what to take with him. In the end he takes little: a single binder, a recently extracted photocopy of an article that is exactly ten sentences long and lacking head- or byline, and a half-full spiral notebook. It will have to be enough, though it isn’t, not by half.
There’s an undergraduate student whose name Jon always means to remember, but never does, tending to the front desk in the English office. She glances up from her homework and immediately down again, hardly bothering to lift a directorial hand as she says, “You know where to go,” and well he does.
Jon has been to Dr. Elias Bouchard’s office far too many times to keep count since beginning university. His office is nestled into a corner, has a lovely view, and is several times the size of Jon’s; the desk, in fact, wouldn’t begin to fit inside of Jon’s measly space. It’s well-lit and the overfull bookcase ranges from classical fiction to modern poetry to literary theory, as Dr. Bouchard makes it a point to read widely. There’s a reason Jon was so eager to study under him, and has remained enthusiastic about doing so. He’s also shockingly young for his position and expertise. His eyes are on his computer when Jon arrives, but come away immediately at the clearing of his throat. He smiles, and for a second Jon’s dread subsides.
It returns in full force, of course, when he remembers how little he’s come bearing. Dr. Bouchard’s not going to be impressed.
“Come in,” Dr. Bouchard says with a wave at the same chair Jon’s been sitting in for years. It’s an attractive, well-made thing, if not especially comfortable. “How has your week been, Jon?”
“It’s fine,” Jon says. He sets his things on the desk, leaving one hand on top of them, feeling protective for reasons he cannot articulate; it’s not good work, but perhaps that in itself is a reason for it. “It’s busy, but that’s no different from usual.”
You’ve been busy forever, Georgie says in his head, and you’re going to be busy forever!
“You might consider scheduling five minutes off,” Dr. Bouchard says, and glances at his computer screen again. He’s got it turned so Jon can see what’s on it. An e-mail he sent yesterday that makes him wince. He pretends not to have noticed his own words skeleton-grinning at him.
“Gerry and Georgie tell me much the same thing,” Jon says.
Dr. Bouchard’s smile tightens for an instant and Jon can hear a prickly ‘the attentive Professor Keay’ as well as when it’s said aloud. He might kick himself for mentioning Gerry, but Dr. Bouchard says, perfectly smooth, “Then you might consider it more strongly.” He pauses. “I’m a little concerned, Jon.”
It isn’t the first time Jon’s heard that. It won’t be the last. He pretends not to know what Dr. Bouchard means. “I’ve been playing nicely with my students, they can’t have that many grudges. Not this early in the term.”
Once, in the past, he’d attempted to argue that if his students found him so boorish, he shouldn’t be obligated to teach, and everyone would be happier for it. It hadn’t gone in his favor.
“They don’t think you’re grading fairly,” Dr. Bouchard passes back to him. He pretends as well, that he doesn’t know Jon is pretending.
“What do you think?” Jon says flatly.
“One of the complainants brought their paper with them to make their case.” Dr. Bouchard’s smile turns wry. “I told them you’d been more than fair.”
That’s actually nice to hear. Not nice enough to distract him, mind, but nice all the same.
“All right,” Jon says, looking toward the computer screen, their own little signal that he’s ready to come to the plot of the matter, “then what’s the problem?”
‘You know what the problem is,’ Dr. Bouchard says on occasion. Today he rests his elbows on the desk and indicates what Jon’s brought along. “Tell me how that’s going.”
Jon says nothing. Ready, and not ready. He looks away from Dr. Bouchard, to the antique clock on the wall. It’s an awful thing that produces a haunting wailing sound when the hour strikes. Dr. Bouchard had lit up like the sun while lecturing on The Rime of the Ancient Mariner during one of Jon’s earliest courses with him; Jon’s eye had fallen upon the clock in an antique shop and it reminded him of the poem, and he’d been so desperate to impress that he’d spent more on it than he could reasonably afford. It’s hung there ever since, and though Jon has suggested several times removing the bellows to cut its wailing, Dr. Bouchard insists the heinous sound ‘gives it character.’
Gerry’s never let him hear the end of it.
“Jon,” Dr. Bouchard says after a silence.
“You know how it’s going.” The clock hasn’t got a second hand for him to follow. He begrudges it that.
“Yes,” is the frustratingly calm answer. “You sent me half a draft of your dissertation last week. And then you e-mailed me to say you were throwing it away and to pretend I’d never laid eyes on it.”
“And yet you’re talking about it.”
Again, “Jon.” Still even, patient, and maybe somewhat amused. Dr. Bouchard’s spent years being patient with him, more so than the vast majority of people. He’s become one of the few people Jon can read, to some extent. “Look at me.”
Jon does so reluctantly.
“Why did you decide to throw away your draft?” He leaves out the number. He used to include it—first, sixth, thirteenth. Maybe he’s lost track or maybe he thinks it better not to say; Jon doesn’t intend to ask which is the case.
“Because,” Jon says, “it wasn’t good enough.”
Dr. Bouchard’s eyebrows lift in a pointed way. “I thought it was excellent progress.”
Jon catches himself before he’s snapped that it doesn’t matter what he thinks. It does matter. Obviously. But it doesn’t matter in the same way, with the same significance. He repeats, “It wasn’t good enough.”
Dr. Bouchard’s smile has gone, replaced by a level, curious expression. “Why are you so consistently dissatisfied with yourself?”
“I don’t know.” Jon wants to hide from Dr. Bouchard’s fixed gaze, and the way it says, ‘I know you’ve got it in you.’ He hasn’t lost track of his drafts, whether or not Dr. Bouchard has. Truth told, Dr. Bouchard hasn’t seen every draft. Many have winked into the void of deleted files ten or thirty or sixty pages in, written in a caffeine-fueled frenzy and reviewed and expunged again in a state more literate and so bitterer. He’s long overdue, granted the university’s grace and place in its halls by dint of Dr. Bouchard and Gerry in his corner. “Every time I write something it feels wrong again.”
Dr. Bouchard sighs. “You’re one of the most intelligent students I’ve ever had the pleasure of working with, Jon,” he says, and Jon feels a swell of pride. “I want to see you do well. But you can’t keep doing this. You are eventually going to have to produce something to defend.”
The swell breaks down into smaller, lapping waves.
“I know that,” he says. He doesn’t say that his heart wouldn’t be in defending any of his supposed progress thus far. That he wouldn’t want the distinction for having done it. “I will.”
His voice is surer than the rest of him.
Dr. Bouchard nods, and Jon cannot tell if he believes him. He flips through his desk calendar. “I’ll be out of town next Friday. I’ve got a guest lecture with Oxford and intend to stay overnight. We’ll meet the week after, and I expect you to present me with a proper plan of action.”
“All right,” Jon says, unable to hide his lack of enthusiasm. A plan is all well and good, but if the work isn’t right, it doesn’t matter.
He hasn’t found what he’s looking for.
Dr. Bouchard reaches across the desk to squeeze Jon’s hand. His is warm and has a power behind it that Jon appreciates, little as it does to reassure him. “You’ll get there, Jon. You’ve just got to finish something. You can tear your next draft to pieces after you’ve finished it.”
It’s all kindness. It’s not a helpful thing.
Jon lingers in the office a few minutes more over idle chat—which, when held with Dr. Bouchard tends toward classical literature—and then he departs. He’d hoped to feel better following the meeting, though he hadn’t actually expected that to be the case. He hadn’t thought to feel so much worse.
He checks his phone: nothing from Georgie, Gerry waiting on them both to come home and shower him with lasagna-related praise. That gets a smile from him, but he has no desire to go home. Not yet. Not now. There’s a different smile on his mind. He wants to—
Yeah, kiss a cute boy, Jon.
Of course that’s what he wants.
Jon comes back with his hand caught on the door frame. The old document storage room sets itself into place before his eyes, washing away the shadows of the King’s campus and replacing them with shadows more familiar and comfortable to him. He shakes himself fully free of it, forces himself to breathe in and out and in, clearing his head.
It’s a good thing Elias wasn’t here to see that. There’d be no explaining it away; an ordinary explanation would still have Elias forcing him to visit a doctor.
He takes a final moment to himself, tucking the wrong Jon’s experience neatly into a corner for further examination at a later time, when he cares to think of dissertations that don’t belong to him and Elias Bouchards that don’t either. He has other business to attend.
In and out, and in, to settle himself where he is. In himself. And then, on.
Jon steps into the storage room again. He flicks the lights on and has a better look around. There’s little sign Martin lived here for any amount of time. The room has been cleaned—in a manner of speaking—since then. He checks the obvious places (the drawer in the table beside the bed, and the cluttered, half-empty bookcase they’ve previously sorted through for anything of significance), and a few of the less obvious places (behind the bookcase, an overstuffed filing cabinet). He finds nothing. He was always going to find nothing. There’s nothing to be found.
His hand is on the light switch again when he stops. His eyes fall back to the bed. He hasn’t checked beneath it. The floor underneath, yes, it was a natural place to check. He crosses the room in a few steps, steps with too much eagerness in them, and shoves a hand under the flimsy mattress.
It doesn’t take much rooting around to come up with a composition book. He flips through pages and pages of poetry. Rubbish.
Then a loose sheet flutters out of the book. He snatches it before it’s hit the floor and scans it, expecting another poem that’s just detached itself from the rest, understandably wanting to be rid of them. But this page is something else entirely. A letter to Martin’s mother.
Jon reads to the end. His eyes narrow.
Chapter 9: the immediate effect
Chapter Text
Come Friday evening, Martin hasn’t made any progress. At least, he doesn’t think he has. In fairness to himself, it’s difficult to quantify progress when the conundrum is a mirror that shows an alternate reality. Even as far as his job goes on a good day, it’s an especially tricky matter. It’s not like doing follow-up on a given statement, where he can make a list of what needs done, and there are facts to be checked over, police reports filed, witness testimony and witnesses themselves to be reached out to. (When they haven’t died horribly between giving their statement and Jon asking his assistants to look into it, that is.)
But there’s no list for checking off this time.
The only witnesses are himself and Jon. If either of them knew what was going on and why—well, then he wouldn’t be feverishly rifling through books fetched from the library, practically becoming a fixture in Diana’s ivory tower, staying up late not only because sleep is difficult to come by, but what if the next page has the piece of the puzzle that will give him a clear picture? He hasn’t even got the edges of it yet, and is missing the jigsaw box that’s meant to tell him what he’s working toward. All he’s got is another world bleeding through his head.
He pores over every word in every possibly relevant book, thorough as he’s ever been, and continues to take notes that are likely to be useless in the end. This research is practically a second job. Jon’s had no part in it, and Martin hasn’t asked him to. Not until now.
Martin stands in front of him with a tight-scrawled page in hand, which he foists upon him. It isn’t anything solid, just an old poem, author unknown, taken from the journal of one Anabel Munroe, aged 14, who’d copied it over from a new governess, who’d in turn heard it from a storyteller in another town.
‘Look through, look through,’ it reads, ‘and see what could be wrote. The story’s on, the story’s long, the story might be yours. Look through, look through, there’s treasure and there’s some with faces shared. Look through, look through, to see the land, to see the life, to see the wanderlings scribe.’
It continues in the same style for a number of verses, all of them equally poor, and Martin’s cleaned this copy up so Jon can read it without Ms. Munroe’s many tangents about an attractive stable boy with ‘dovelike, wistful eyes,’ her infant sister’s incessant wailing, and the latest in scandalous gossip come down from London courtesy of correspondence with her friend Lisbet. Ms. Munroe was the distracted sort in her journaling.
Jon skims the page, outwardly disinterested and making no effort to hide it, for less than thirty seconds before handing it back to Martin with a shake of his head. “It’s an old folk song,” he says, his attention already turning back to the statement in front of him. “It’s not concrete and it’s more than likely unrelated.”
“I know that.” Martin suppresses a twinge of frustration. There have been a lot of those this week, not only with Jon, but with himself and reference books and stupid mirrors he should have left well enough alone on the charity shop shelf. Not to mention other Martins and Jons who ought to keep to their own heads. He reads the song again, to ignore the way Jon’s ignoring him. “But it could be something.”
“See if you can trace it to its origin,” Jon says, already tuning him out, and Martin can hardly stand it. They’ve never been close, none of them in the Archive, leastwise him and Jon, or Jon and anybody, but it’s worse these days. Jon tries to hide that he’s avoiding them, and Martin tries not to be hurt by it; neither of them are particularly successful.
“Sure.” Martin remains beside the desk. He ought to go, Jon won’t be happy about him hovering this way, but Jon’s hardly going to be happy when he walks away, either. It’s difficult to associate ‘Jon’ and ‘happy’ these days—if it was ever easy—and that twists something in Martin’s stomach. He begins to take a step toward the door and then stops. He wrings his hands, as well as the paper in them, and says, delicately as he can manage it, “If you ever want to talk, Jon, I’m, um, around. We can talk about anything, not just work or the mirror, if you wanted to talk about—erm, Gertrude, or…anything.”
It’s a lame finish. It’s the best he’s got.
Jon’s head remains bowed over the statement. He doesn’t move. If anything he goes stiller. Martin might apologize for bringing up the subject. He might say he’s been stressed by the mirror, which wouldn’t be an untruth, and he might say he’d like a distraction, which would be, and wouldn’t be. Yes, he’d like a distraction, but it wouldn’t involve thinking on Gertrude’s murder. Stumbling across the body was plenty involvement. But Jon’s interested in the murder. Or fascinated by it, or frightened by it, though he hasn’t said so and Martin can’t think what reason there’d be for it.
“No,” Jon says, in an eventual sort of way. It hasn’t been long that they’ve hung there in silence; there’s just an eventuality to it. “Thank you, Martin.” He looks at the clock, and Martin can hear what’s coming next before it gets there. “It’s after five. You should be getting home.”
Martin says, “So should you,” pointless as it is.
“I’ll go when I’m finished here,” Jon says, and it’s all he can do not to sigh long and loud.
“Is there anything you need before I go? I can fix more tea.”
“No, thank you,” he repeats. “Go on.”
“Right,” Martin says. “I’ll see you Monday, then.”
He’ll see this Jon on Monday; he expects he’ll see another Jonathan Sims several times before the weekend’s out.
He slips from the office, pulling the door closed behind him, and stops when he sees Tim still beside his desk, idly turning the page of some book. “What’re you still here for?” he says; Tim’s usually the first of them out in the evenings. Especially on a Friday.
Tim says, “You don’t have to coddle him, you know. He’s an adult and can take care of himself.”
Martin stiffens. The tartness of his tone is somewhat at odds with the smile on his face; or maybe it’s not, the smile being the strained sort. He steps away from the door, back to his own desk, and begins to gather up his belongings, including the books he’s borrowing from the library at the moment. “Adults don’t always do what’s best for them. D’you really think Jon is taking care of himself? He wouldn’t have taken leave at all if Elias hadn’t forced him.”
Also, if Martin hadn’t ordered him out when he tried to return early anyway. It’s the only time Jon’s done as told, when it’s Martin doing the telling.
“Probably not,” Tim says, unperturbed by Martin’s manner. “But that’s not your responsibility.”
“I know that.” He does. But he wouldn’t mind if Jon were his responsibility, and he thinks Jon needs somebody to be responsible for him anyway, whether he likes it or not. Which he wouldn’t, obviously. He’d have a fit over it. “He hasn’t got to be my responsibility for me to care.”
“Sure.” Tim closes the book and gives Martin a thoughtful look. “But maybe you care too much, is what I’m saying.”
Martin begins to rearrange his bag, seeking something to do with his hands. He’s sure Tim’s caught on, and swallows, because he doesn’t think Tim’s judging him, but he does recognize pity, and he doesn’t want to be pitied. “C’mon,” he says, “let’s get out of here. I’m sure you’ve got a date tonight.”
Tim checks the time. “Meeting her for dinner. I’ve got time, if you want to grab a drink before I go.”
Martin agrees, grateful for the distraction. They take the underground to Soho, where Tim’s meant to meet his date, and duck out of the oncoming rain into the first bar they find, a place cast in incandescent light and littered with university students; Martin feels immediately out of place, but Tim orders them a round of drinks and raises his glass to anyone who looks their way. They talk, while they sit, about nothing in particular, though they steer carefully clear of work; there’s no mention of the Institute, of silver worms or dead women, or Jon. Martin considers mentioning the mirror, but they’ve decided to keep that a secret still, and besides, he doesn’t want to damp the loose smile Tim’s giving him.
“Time to go,” Tim says when they’ve been there forty minutes, something almost apologetic about it. Outside, the rain is undecided about if it’s really got the energy for this. Tim sets a hand on Martin’s shoulder and gives it a squeeze. “Try and have a good weekend, Martin.”
Then he’s off, a spring in his step.
Watching him go, Martin feels a pang of—not envy, exactly, but something similar. He ought to have something to do. If not tonight, then over the rest of the weekend. But his only plans are research, holed up in his flat, lonely and waiting to be struck again, again, again, by the other Martin Blackwood’s world. It’s pitiful how much he hasn’t got a life. Tim has dates, and Sasha a book club, and Elias…all right, it’s difficult to picture Elias with a social club, but probably even he has outings with other stuffy, somewhat frightening academics.
And then there’s Jon, who he’s sure has absolutely nothing even reminiscent of a social life, and who probably doesn’t mind it. Jon, who he should have insisted on staying with, to keep an eye on him. He hopes the Head Archivist doesn’t stay too long in his office, but it wouldn’t surprise him if he returned to work at two in the morning and found Jon still bent over the desk.
Martin points himself back in the direction of Tottenham Court Road, but wavers before he’s started off. He’s already in Soho, already out in the London evening, where everything feels so vibrant and alive, and there’s no reason for him to cut this venture off at its head. It might make him feel less pathetic, if only marginally, to stay out for a while; he doesn’t need a friend, or a boyfriend, to enjoy it with. Adults go out on their own all the time.
He casts a look down the road. There are nightclubs and restaurants, shops still open for another hour or two, at least one gay bar, and he’s not far off from the Phoenix Theatre, with the Palace Theatre a little farther off. None of them immediately draw him in, so he wanders along the street, ignoring the weight of the books slung over his shoulder, they can wait for later.
It’s several blocks down that he finds a music club indicating a folk rock group he’s never heard of performing tonight, starting soon, with inexpensive tickets still available at the door. Inside, the club is low-lit, teeming with people dressed in everything from semi-professional attire to incredibly short skirts, and it smells like a sweet smoke. It’s not his sort of place any more than the other bar, like he’s a fish jumped from one wrong pond to another; but he’s paid the cover charge, and maybe it could be his sort of place if he gives it the chance.
He excuse mes his way through the room until he finds an empty table that gives him a good view of the lower floor, and slides into one of the two chairs. There are people dancing, and a solo act on the stage already, a woman with a guitar singing about stars and rivers and trees, and Martin lets himself relax. The woman’s voice is low, almost deep, and he thinks he could fall asleep to it.
“Mind if I sit?” somebody says beside him. “You’ve snagged my favorite table.”
“Oh.” Martin starts. “I can mo—”
He stops, blinking at the person stood there. The man is tall and lanky, with long blond hair that covers his ears and nearly his eyes, and for a moment Martin thought it was Michael. But this man’s hair is a shade darker, with fewer curls, and his face is less delicate, his cheekbones rounded, and he’s got a lot of freckles.
“You don’t have to move,” the man says. He’s holding two waters, and sets both of them down. “I can go find somewhere else, if you want. The sound quality is always the best at this table, though. I’m Lee, by the way.”
Lee. It’s not Michael; his heart still pounds with the surprise of it anyway. He reminds his tongue it’s got a purpose for being in his mouth, it’s not just there to laze limply about, and supplies, “Martin. Go ahead.”
“Thanks. I brought the water to help myself into your good graces,” Lee says. His voice is light and easy, and there’s a smile on his face, currently directed at Martin, and if he was hoping to make a friend while out, the opportunity seems to have fallen into his lap. He slides a glass over to Martin, who takes a grateful drink. “I don’t think I’ve seen you in here before.”
“I’m not very memorable,” Martin says, not because he’s unattractive, but he doesn’t stand out. His face isn’t the one most people would pick from a crowd. “Do you come here often?”
It occurs to him only after it’s out of his mouth that it sounds an awful lot like a pick-up line, and not a good one. He takes another drink, now wishing it was something stronger than water, any effects of his drink with Tim since worn off, and catches Lee still smiling at him, and hopes his face isn’t coloring. This is an embarrassment.
“Yeah, work sends me over here pretty regularly to check out the new acts,” Lee says, chin jerking in the direction of the stage. He takes a pocket-sized notepad from his jacket, along with a pen. Martin’s reminded of the composition book tucked into his bag, full of what would look a fiction, and to him is somewhere between dream and nightmare. He shakes those thoughts away. “I’ve got a write-up to do on Elora’s Folly this week. Did you come to see them?”
Martin considers lying, and saying yes, that he’s interested in the local music scene. “No,” he confesses instead. “I just wanted something to do tonight that wasn’t going home and being lonely—oh, god, pretend I didn’t say that—and that’s a stupid reason to be here, isn’t it?”
Lee laughs a little, and, having never heard him laugh before, Martin cannot tell if he’s being laughed at. “I wouldn’t call it stupid. There are a lot worse things you could have decided to do with your night.”
Martin searches for something to say next, that’ll make him seem interesting. This would be easier if he were more like the other Martin. A lot of things would be easier if he were more like the other Martin. He’d know what to say to make Lee laugh, how to be charming and make a proper friend out of him. Maybe how to ask him if he’d like a drink, as long as they’re here.
The music grows muffled, and for a moment Martin thinks there’s something in his ear, or they’ve decided to protest the volume of their surroundings. He does his best to surreptitiously rub at one; the only change is new strains of piano beneath it, and humming that sounds an awful lot like his, and though Lee’s mouth is moving again it all goes right through him. Martin swallows, and tries to relax into what’s about to wash over him.
It’s not as though he can stop it.
Cosy is quiet. Music’s chiming through the speakers, but the last of the customers have gone for the evening, the lights are down, and Martin is adding up the till for the day. He eyes the empty case, glad he’s already thought to set aside a few sandwiches and Michael will have reserved a few sweets in the back, as he hasn’t taken the time to eat in several hours.
Michael and Georgie are cleaning up the kitchen; he hears Georgie laugh at something he’s said. Things have been more manageable with her hired on, and she’s only gotten better as her first week has passed, though there’s no denying they need more help. He has several interviews scheduled. As an added benefit of having Georgie on board, closing up goes more quickly and he’s had more time than usual to putter about with his poetry upon arriving home. There’s also an e-mail from a magazine waiting for him in his inbox, its subject line not indicating whether it will be positive or negative; he hasn’t persuaded himself to open it yet. He finishes counting through the till and slides the day’s cash into a dated envelope for running to the bank tomorrow.
Then he looks up and Jon is outside the front window. Martin’s heart does something clumsy. Jon’s looking at him, but he’s not waving, or doing anything to draw attention to himself, and Martin’s not sure if the man was waiting to be noticed, or waiting not to be noticed. His thoughts fly, without his willing it, to the poem about the suddenness of human emotion. He shakes that off, leaves the cash envelope safely behind the register, and crosses the café floor to let Jon in.
“Hello, Jon,” he says, tucking the breathless part of himself safely behind the no more than usually friendlier part, which is still friendlier with Jon than it is with most of his customers. Jon’s a friend, after all. “Georgie’s just helping Michael wrap up in the back—you are here for Georgie?”
There was no reason for him to ask the last part. Obviously, Jon is here for Georgie, to walk her home. But it’s out there, now. I’m not going to make Jon uncomfortable by asking him out. He’d meant it when he said it, and reminds himself of that now.
“No.” Jon shakes his head, his eyes on Martin’s face and then over his shoulder like he expects Georgie to appear at the sound of her name, and then on his face again. He sounds lost. He sounds, Martin thinks, much the same way he sounded the first time he showed up after closing, and he wonders for a moment if Jon wanders his way to him when he’s lost. But that’s a ridiculous thought to have. Even if there is a spreading warmth to it. Jon speaks slowly, and quietly, “No, I’m not here for Georgie, I’m here for…I don’t know, Martin.”
Jon makes a face as he says the last. Martin doesn’t take offense. He’s gone all moony over you, Martin. Georgie’s been dropping the odd comment about that all week long.
“Go and sit down,” Martin says, touching Jon’s shoulder briefly, just long enough to point him in the direction of a table. He thinks Jon could use some help with direction at the moment. “I’ll only be another few minutes, and then maybe you’d like to talk. Or we can just sit quietly, if you want. That’s fine too.”
It sounds not in the least charming, but he’s not going for charming; Jon doesn’t seem in a state to be charmed, flirted with. Jon nods at him and walks across the room, where he slumps into a chair. Martin returns to the business of closing up shop, sparing glances in Jon’s direction and always finding him staring outside.
Michael and Georgie step out of the back while he’s doing the last bit of sweeping, Georgie carrying a box of whatever she’s decided to make off with tonight. The woman’s a bottomless pit, and apparently Michael’s pastries are excellent fuel for late nights working on projects. Martin is developing serious concerns about the obviously unhealthy lack of sleep taking place in Gerry Keay’s house, as well how unconcerned they all are.
Georgie catches sight of Jon and stops, studying him. “I didn’t call you today, Jon. Goodness of your heart bring you in, or is it something else?”
Jon says something too quietly to make out. It sounds to Martin like, ‘I came for me.’
Georgie’s mouth goes flat and then downturns entirely, and she makes her way over to him. “Do you need an escort home tonight instead of me? I was just ready to go.”
Jon doesn’t look thrilled at the prospect of leaving; that would please Martin, if he didn’t look so painfully uncertain. He opens his mouth, but Martin swoops in first with, “I think Jon is going to stay here for a little while.”
Georgie looks back and forth between them. “Yeah,” she says, something settling into place on her face, like she’s decided Martin can be trusted with Jon, “okay.” She touches a kiss to the top of his head and tousles his hair a little, smiling when he bats her hand away and makes a grouchy sound. “I’ll tell Gerry you’re going to be late after all, and maybe we’ll save you some lasagna, if we’re feeling kind.”
“Yes, I know,” Jon says, more life to it than before.
“Right then.” Her tone goes brisk from head to toe. “Let’s go, Michael, leave these two to some alone time. D’you want to come over for lasagna?”
“Am I invited?” Michael says, surprised.
“You are now,” Georgie says. “I don’t want Jon’s chair to feel abandoned.”
“Ah, right, can’t let the furniture down,” Michael says, and gives Martin a pointed look that he ignores just as pointedly, and then it’s down to Martin and Jon in the café for the second time.
“I’m sorry about her,” Jon says, his eyes following Georgie and Michael until they’re gone from the storefront. “But thank you for…I didn’t want to go.”
Martin gives him a smile and does not say, ‘That’s all right, I didn’t want you to go either.’ He also doesn’t go to Jon immediately, though he’d like to. He says, “You’re always welcome here,” and finishes sweeping.
When he’s finished, there’s still a tightness in Jon’s face and shoulders. Martin sets to work fixing tea, an infusion of honey, caramel, and baked pear, the three scents intermingling in the air around him. He also plates up two sandwiches and slices of a simple but delicious vanilla buttercream cake. All of this he sets on a tray and carries over to Jon, who looks up at him and says, “You didn’t have to do that.”
“It’s no trouble, Jon.” Martin sets half of everything in front of him. “Another bad day?”
“Not Shakespeare essay terrible.” Jon pauses. “Not until the end of it.” Another pause. “I wanted to see—” His eyes drop to his food and Martin again thinks about lost Jons finding their way to him. “I wanted to be here. I like it.”
“That’s good. I wouldn’t stay in business long if people didn’t like it here.”
Jon makes a sound that’s almost a laugh, and Martin thinks about smoothing away the lines of worry and stress on his face. “You should have a taste of that. It’s something I just perfected, yesterday. I thought you might like to try it out.” He pauses, too. “There’s no caffeine in it. I don’t think you need that, right now.”
It’s not his job to see to Jon’s wellbeing, but the man hardly sleeps, and Martin intends to do what he can for him.
So Jon takes a long drink, a third of the cup gone before he replaces it on the table, his lips wetted, and Martin immediately wants to kiss that mouth. Jon’s lips part, his tongue darting out across the upper, which doesn’t help at all. “Is that pear?”
Martin nods, worried what he might say if he opens his mouth at this exact moment. Forget asking Jon out; he might ask him if it would be okay to suck on his lip.
“And you made this recipe yourself?”
Another nod. I wonder what you taste like.
At the moment, probably the tea.
“How do you do that?”
Martin wrenches his thoughts to more appropriate locations. He shrugs. “A lot of experimenting. A lot of poor drinks on the way. Michael’s accused me of trying to poison him a few times, and I’m not sure if that’ll be good or bad for me in the event that someone ever does poison him.” He takes a bite of his sandwich. “Are you all right, Jon?”
Jon says, “I’ve had worse nights.”
“That’s not actually reassuring,” Martin says.
“It’s just...my dissertation.” Jon rubs at his temples. “I’m not as far as I should be—I’m not anywhere, honestly. I’ve been starting over, and then doing it again, for more time than’s really acceptable. I’m lucky my adviser likes me enough to tolerate my incompetence.”
“I highly doubt you’re incompetent,” Martin says. “Tell me what you’re writing about.”
“People usually laugh.” This, accompanied by a self-deprecating smile with plenty of nerves in it.
“I won’t laugh.”
Jon sits straight up, like he’s bracing for laughter anyhow, and avoids Martin’s eye. “I’m writing about fairy tales.”
Martin tilts his head. “Why should I laugh at that?”
“Oh, you know.” Jon’s smile goes wan. “Jonathan Sims, pretentious bastard, earning a doctoral degree via children’s stories. People seem to find that amusing.”
“The realm of fairy-story is wide and deep and high and filled with many things,” Martin says without thinking, and then Jon is leaning toward him, hands on the table, and he’s glad the lights are dimmed; he doesn’t want Jon to see the hint of color that must be in his face now. He feels self-conscious, but pleased. “Tolkien, wasn’t it? I always liked that essay.”
“On Fairy Stories,” Jon says, a new note to his voice that Martin likes. “People usually tease. I’ve never had Tolkien quoted at me instead.”
“People are bastards,” Martin says, and Jon does laugh now, properly. “I’m not surprised you like fairy tales. There was bound to be something romantic about you.”
And then he shoves a bite of cake in his mouth, which is much easier than the alternative of his foot.
Jon’s staring at him. “One can scarcely improve,” he says softly, “on the formula Once upon a time. It has an immediate effect.”
In this case, the immediate effect is another rush of blood to Martin’s face.
“I haven’t gotten my Once upon a time right yet,” Jon says, and Martin’s not sure if he’s talking about his dissertation or this moment; maybe it’s both of them at once.
There are many things he hasn’t done tonight, pushing the urges aside as they’ve come over him. Now he reaches across the table to cover one of Jon’s hands with his own, emboldened when Jon doesn’t immediately recoil from his touch. “You’ll get it, Jon. I know you will.”
In his case, he does mean both of them at once.
“Martin,” Jon says, his eyes sliding from their hands to Martin’s face, his mouth twitching into a smile. “I appreciate you saying so.”
They finish out their little meal without saying much more, and when he’s gathering up their plates, Martin says, “I’m sorry it wasn’t lasagna.”
“I chose this over the lasagna,” Jon says, and looks away. Well. At least Martin’s not the only one blushing this evening.
“Gerry’s not going to hold that against me, is he?” Martin says lightly.
“Don’t worry,” Jon says, “I’ll tell him it was all my fault. Do you want me to help with anything before I leave?”
You might give me a kiss, Martin thinks. Aloud, he waves Jon off. “No, I’ve got it. It’s only a few dishes and the bins.”
He follows Jon to the door, and as he’s unlocking it again, says, “Jon, the other day, when you told me you and Georgie were friends, not—”
“That was awkward of me,” Jon says in a rush. “I don’t know what came over me.”
Martin pushes the door open. “No, I’m glad you told me.”
Jon stares at him a moment, then says, “Good night, Martin,” and takes off at a brisk walk, like he’s afraid of what he might say next.
Martin smiles after his back.
There was, he thinks, something of a Once upon a time in that.
“Hey,” Martin hears as he comes back to himself. It’s a voice he’s only just started to learn, closer to his ear and concerned now. Louder than that is a woman’s voice singing. “Martin? Are you okay?”
“Not really,” he says without thinking, and then swears at himself. That part stays in his head.
His vision returns second, the club reforming in a whorl of colors that eventually solidify into shapes, like a rubbish powerpoint transition.
“Have a drink of water,” the someone says. Lee. That’s who it is. Lee, who he’s just met. There’s a glass in his hand, already raising toward Martin’s mouth.
Martin takes it from him and chugs all of it. It’s still icy cold, freezing his teeth and setting him firmly in his own skin. He can’t have been out of it for long, but it was long enough for Lee to notice, and that’s a worry all its own. “I’m okay now. Um, thank you.”
Lee looks alarmed, presumably because he’s just sat down with a stranger who’s proceeded to—have some sort of fit, from his perspective. “Do you need a doctor?”
“I’m fine,” Martin says, squeezing the glass with both hands, which are shaking. He blinks back the threat of tears. “I want to see, ah, who was it again?”
“Elora’s Folly,” Lee says automatically. “You seemed like you weren’t here for a moment.”
You have no idea, Martin doesn’t say. He still smells Cosy, the pear and caramel in the tea, though the alcohol and sweat of pushed-together bodies are sinking in as well.
“I’m okay now,” he says. “I really am.”
Lee looks unconvinced. “Maybe just some air?”
“Maybe more water,” Martin offers, his own little compromise.
Lee slides him the other glass without hesitation, taking the first, and says, “I’m walking you home.”
Martin pauses with the glass already against his mouth. He lowers it. “I’m sorry?”
“I’m walking you home,” Lee says again, a firm set to his mouth. Around them, people are applauding, the opening act waving and preparing to leave the stage.
Martin can’t look away from Lee. “You don’t have to…I mean, you don’t even know me.”
“Your name’s Martin, you let me sit with you, and when you were looking for a way out of being lonely you came to a music club to see a band you can’t even remember the name of.” Lee runs a hand through his own hair and Martin catches a glimpse of something white in his ear. “And I’m going to walk you home.”
Chapter 10: start at the right place
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Shortly after midnight, Lee is sat on Martin’s couch.
Martin can’t fully remember the last time he had anybody aside from his landlord over to his flat. He isn’t sure what to do with himself after turning the lights on except to say, “D’you want something to drink?”
“Don’t go out of your way.” Lee glances about the room with more interest than it deserves; Martin’s living room is distinctly uninteresting. He’s got a few shelves full of poetry collections, interspersed with the occasional biography and novel, as well as several pieces of art he’s collected over the years, but they’re not the unique sort that say anything about him as a person. Mass produced landscapes might do to indicate that he’s dull. There are no family photographs.
“You’re out of your way for me,” Martin says awkwardly. “I’ll make tea.”
In the kitchen, going through motions so familiar he needn’t pay them any mind, he’s able to think. The remainder of the concert had gone smoothly, thankfully. There was nothing on the journey home, either, only the cool London night and Lee, obviously far more comfortable being out so late; and Lee, who might actually…like him? He takes a stab in the dark at how Lee will enjoy his tea, a splash of milk, and goes through his cupboards for a pack of biscuits. An experienced host he is not, but he’d like to be a good one. Even if he’s no Martin Blackwood, owner of Cosy.
Martin Blackwood, Archival Assistant, will just have to do for Lee.
When he returns to the living room, Lee is at the shelf over his television, having located his scant music collection. He’s rifling through it with an immersed concentration on his face, like he’s giving each album his full consideration. Martin can’t bring himself to clear his throat and let him know he’s there. Lee makes the occasional thoughtful sound as goes from The Decemberists to The Lumineers, and something like surprise at Sufjan Stevens; he nods at the Imagine Dragons and Of Monsters and Men, the corners of his mouth tugging up when he reaches the Britney Spears and Christina Aguilera and other assorted relics of Martin’s childhood.
It’s not until Lee sets the CDs back in place that Martin says, “I’m sure you’ve got more variety than I have.”
“I ought to,” Lee says, “but I do like your taste.” He taps …Baby One More Time with a grin that Martin finds himself shyly returning. “You chose a good night to go out. Elora’s Folly’s a lot like The Lumineers. Are those chocolate fingers?”
Martin sets the tea and biscuits on the coffee table. “You said work sent you out for concerts pretty often.”
Lee nods and steps back toward the couch. “I work at Earful Magazine. Ever heard of it?”
“No,” Martin says apologetically, though even as he says it, he’s not sure it’s true. He’s almost positive he’s heard the name before. He can’t think where. Before sitting, he arranges the table, sliding one saucer and the entire package of biscuits toward Lee. “I don’t really keep up with music—er, the music scene?—sorry.”
“Nothing wrong with that.” Lee shrugs. “I’m Earful’s submissions editor, but I’ve been going out and doing more of my own writing about London’s up and comers in the last year. Elora’s just signed, and their label sent over an early EP for a review and I liked that, so I volunteered myself for tonight’s show. Glad I did.”
Lee’s smiling at him, and Martin’s experience in the area is admittedly limited, but he thinks it’s the kind of smile you give somebody when you’ve at least considered kissing them. Which is…somewhat unbelievable. He can’t possibly be being flirted with. He doesn’t even want to be flirted with. Not by Lee. It’s not that he isn’t nice (he is, obviously), and it’s not that he isn’t attractive (his smile has given Martin wobbly knees three times tonight, and it’s a lucky thing he was sitting down for all three), and it’s not even that Martin doesn’t like him (truth told, he thought about kissing Lee too, once, when he’d caught him watching the stage, eyes lit up, fully entranced). It’s that he isn’t Jon.
“Because they were good?” Martin might kick himself. He settles for burning his mouth.
“Sure,” Lee says, “and because somebody had to be there to walk you home.”
Martin nearly chokes on his tea. All right. All right, he is being flirted with. Lee’s not Jon. But Jon doesn’t like you.
“And,” Lee allows, “because they were good. Thanks for not relegating me to a less desirable table.”
“Thanks for the company,” Martin says, which sounds much less pathetic than his earlier ‘going home and being lonely’; he winces anyway.
They eat and drink in silence for a moment. Martin wonders if he should offer to fetch more tea. If Lee intends to stay long enough for a second cup.
Then Lee says, “So, Martin, what do you do? You a poet? Something literary?” complete with a nod toward the bookcase.
Sometimes. Martin forces himself not to shudder at the thought of which books tend to pass into the Institute’s care. He’s never held a Leitner himself, but he’d seen the few in Artefact Storage and thought they ought to be destroyed, not kept on. “I write poetry,” he says, “but I work for The Magnus Institute.”
He braces for one of two responses: derision or polite bafflement. A large portion of London’s population has never heard of the institution, despite its long-standing presence in Chelsea, and the people who do know of it…well, it doesn’t often get the respect it deserves.
Lee gives him neither of these responses. He’s quiet for a moment, then gives the barest nod, almost a somber one, and says, “What’s that like?”
“It’s all right,” Martin says, which used to be truer than it is. Lee seems to be waiting for him to go on, so he does. “I work in the Archive, so it’s a lot of research and trying to get hold of people who have left statements or are mentioned in them. Our Head Archivist passed away last year,” his stomach lurches, Gertrude’s body a nightmare-snapshot, and he hopes it doesn’t show, “and she left behind a mess, so trying to get that under control has been taking a lot of time. It’s a little weird sometimes, but mostly it’s just a job. The Institute is a lot more respectable than people think it is,” he finishes, defensive.
Lee nods again. “Life’s a little weird sometimes,” and Martin’s instinct is to either roll his eyes or give a hysterical little laugh, but the way Lee says it, Martin thinks this man has a proper understanding of weird. He wonders if they’ve a statement from him somewhere. There’re only about one million left to be sorted through.
“That’s what the Institute’s there for,” Martin says, and he has the fleeting thought that if he’d never come to work at The Magnus Institute, he’d be blissfully unaware of wriggling silver worms and singing coffins and vengeful ghost spiders and awful hand mirrors.
“Are you sure you’re all right?” Lee’s got a chocolate finger in hand, but he’s not eating it, and Martin realizes he’s shaking.
“I’m fine,” Martin says. He’s hardly going to try explaining the mirror to somebody from outside the Institute. Lee would think he’s cracked. “It’s really nothing. And I had a nice time at the show, and meeting you, and—everything. Thank you for walking me home. You didn’t have to.”
He presses his lips together. Sometimes he’s just got to stop talking.
“Thank you for the tea.” Lee drains the last of it, and says, “Want to come to another show with me sometime?”
Lee isn’t Jon. Maybe that’s a good thing. He could do with somebody who’s not involved with any of this. Besides, it’s not like Lee’s really asking him out.
Not yet, he thinks, and quashes that thought. It’s late, and there’s no call to sit and analyze his feelings for Jon and any potential in his love life, and right now he just really likes the way Lee’s hair is falling over his eyes again, and he says, “Yeah.” Clears his throat, tries again. “Yes. That sounds good.”
“Yeah?” Lee extends a hand. “Here, I’ll add myself to your phone.”
He leaves, after that.
Martin glances at his phone on the way to brush his teeth. Lee Kipple. That sounds familiar too. But he sees a lot of names throughout the statements, and Lee is hardly an uncommon first name. It probably sounds like somebody else.
Weekends, in Jon’s recently developed opinion, are a deeply unpleasant experience.
He liked them well enough, before, but now they’re a thing that leaves him with far too much time to himself. Time he hasn’t the faintest idea what to do with. He hasn’t got a dissertation to work on, only a murder investigation that’s as effective as a broken down train for the time being. There’s the Institute available to him, nothing stopping him from spending another weekend in his office, except he’s not interested in hearing yet another lecture from Elias about overworking himself. It’s none of Elias’ business; that won’t stop him fixing Jon with a disapproving look.
Jon settles down with a book for as long as he can, keeping his thoughts firmly in his own head, his own fixed point. It’s not the book on Spanish sailing vessels; that one he’s already donated, unable to look at it without thinking of another Jonathan Sims. Now he reads about Ching Shih, history’s greatest pirate.
When he stands to stretch his legs and locate something for lunch, he thinks, I should call up Georgie, and freezes. That’s not his. It’s only drifting into his head due to the wrong Jon. The Jon who evidently dated his Georgina Barker as well, but came out the other side on friendly terms; there must have been less swearing, less shouting, less general unfairness on his part. For his own part, he’s been perfectly happy not speaking to her, has hardly thought about her at all, when she’s not being mentioned by ghost hunters or pushed into his face by mirrors. The bridge on this side is very well burned down to cinders and he can’t imagine rebuilding it.
Jon squeezes his eyes shut and rubs at the bridge of his nose, and mentally swings a mallet at the misplaced feeling.
Georgie isn’t his friend.
Gerry—Gerard, undoubtedly—Keay has never been his friend.
“That’s not my life,” he says into the cavernous emptiness of his flat.
And then he finds that he has to get out. He slips his laptop into his satchel and walks briskly from his flat. Perhaps London will serve to distract him. If he spends too long thinking on Georgie or Gerard or the rest, he knows what will happen. It would be nice to go a full day without being wrenched out of his surroundings.
But it doesn’t wrench, not really.
Jon goes deeper into the city than entirely necessary before settling on a spot for lunch. There’s a café called The Friendly Bean located several streets away from the King’s College Strand campus, and he pretends it doesn’t remind him of Cosy. It’s not as nice, certainly. The windows are smaller, the lighting too fluorescent, the air smells more strongly of coffee than of desserts, and the employees all look like university students. He orders a cinnamon tea and thinks upon his first sip that it doesn’t taste nearly as lovely as the pear caramel concoction that never really touched his tongue.
And then he glares at it, which is, from a strictly physical standpoint, much easier than glaring at the wrong Jon or that Martin or the mirror.
There’s nothing to do but open his laptop and attempt to find something with which to distract himself. His success is limited. He visits the What the Ghost? homepage and listens to a portion of the newest episode; Georgie’s voice, and not Georgie’s voice, says, Kiss a cute boy, Jon, and he turns the episode off sourly.
It’s not his.
He turns to the articles on the presumed murder of Mary Keay—it can hardly have been anything else, the way they found her—though he’s already gone through every one of them. This time, the photos of Gerard Keay interest him more. The face is the same, though this man looks like he’s done a great deal less smiling than the Gerry Keay who is a close friend to another Jonathan Sims. Their worlds have painted very different pictures—his mouth twitches wryly—of the same man. A darling of the art world, a university educator; the man who burned a copy of Ex Altiora, who plunged a scalpel into another man’s throat in a hospital, who was exonerated for his mother’s murder. Jon finds it difficult to reconcile the two.
Every time he looks up, Jon expects to see Martin standing behind the counter, chatting amiably with strangers, and of course Martin’s not there, he’s probably at home writing more poetry, or maybe he’s out roaming London too; he doesn’t know a thing about Martin’s personal life, and neither does he want to.
Except that Martin has been lying to him about something. He’d like dearly to know what, exactly, Martin is hiding from him. If it involves the mirror in some way. In his head there is an image of Martin with a gun in hand, pointed at Gertrude Robson, and then pointed at him, and everything about it is—incongruous, jarring, wrong. Martin wouldn’t kill an old woman, and he wouldn’t kill Jon, and Jon wouldn’t have thought Martin would lie to him, either.
Somebody laughs, a throaty one that sounds very much like Gerry Keay’s. Jon casts a wild glance about the café, a part of him expecting to find the man seated beside him even through the knowledge that this world’s Gerard Keay is dead. He tells himself it was another customer, though he knows already it wasn’t. His body goes rigid when a new smell pushes its way into his nostrils, under the sweet scents of the café and then overpowering.
The aisles of Lightning-Branch Books are cramped, threatening places that suggest they may choose to swallow the unwary book collector rather than give up their volumes. They are also, aside from Cosy and their own paint-spattered living room, Jon’s favorite place to spend his time. The bookshop feels like the sort of place where magic might lie in wait, that you might spot it there, if you only tilt your head to the right angle.
Jon was eight years old the first time he felt a tremor of magic in the world around him. There was a story he found, tucked into pages read-worn and yellowed; it begin with the words, “Once upon a time, a princess lost her way in the wood around her kingdom and came upon the silver-dew land of Fairy,” and ended with, “And so there was a piece of Fairy left in every story, for every child to lose their way.” The tale’s pages did not match the rest of the book in which he found them—A Collection of Enchantment, curated by Liza Lang—lined with greater age and printed on very different paper. Neither was the story located in the book’s table of contents. According to its own final page, it was penned not by Charles Perrault or Hans Christian Andersen or any other familiar name, its author credited with only the initials J.M.
He read the story a dozen times, transfixed by the words and how fully they carried him into the land of Fairy; when he’d lifted his head, he’d been shocked to find himself still sat cross-legged in the center of his bed, his grandmother calling him for dinner.
Then he’d set the book aside and found, upon returning to it the following morning, the story was gone. His grandmother insisted he must have dreamed it into being, and as there was no sign of it having been torn from the book, no sign it was ever there, he’d been forced to concede the point, though he’d done it unhappily and sulked for days.
But he had read it. It wasn’t a dream, nor any other figment of his imagination. The pages had been rough beneath his fingers and he’d tasted the silver-dewed air of Fairy. And so it was that Jonathan Sims’ hunt for a fairy tale among fairy tales began.
If ever there were a place he might stumble upon the story again, he’d thought the very first time he stepped through the door and was hit in the face with the scent of books aged as carefully as a fine vintage, it was Lightning-Branch Books. It is equal parts used and rare bookshop, with the more valuable pieces of the collection being stored in glass cases, while the bulk of the inventory rests on cluttered, haphazard shelves that challenge shoppers to claim their prizes without being crushed beneath the weight of whichever precarious stack they’ve pulled from.
The shop is bustling this afternoon. An older gentleman sweeps his eyes up and down the shelves in this aisle; a number of university students edge through others; a cluster of young women Jon recognizes from previous visits holds court near the front window; another old man haggles with the shop’s owner over the price of some rare volume. The store carries sound better than it logically should, and Jon has heard Gerry laugh in delight at several discoveries, as well as the old man’s offered sums, every one of which has caused him to cringe.
“Any luck with the elusive land of Fairy today?” Gerry asks, stepping into view with a worn paperback in hand, absently thumbing through its pages. His fingers are clean today, rigorously scrubbed free of paint flecks. He’d come in with his typical dried-paint fingers once, and they’d been unceremoniously ordered out. Jon glimpses the paperback’s cover; it’s a Gothic romance, one that Georgie will no doubt sink her teeth into.
“Unfortunately not,” Jon says. He’s gone through every fairy tale collection the shelves have to offer this visit, turning over their pages in search of that sliver of magic. “Again.”
Gerry makes a sympathetic sound and makes his way past the other man to reach him. He’s visited countless bookshops with Jon, scouring shelves for hours, and only complained occasionally. Gerry understands his mad need to taste the lost child spell again; Jon understands Gerry’s mad need to add vicious, flowing strokes of color to the world. This, more than anything else, is why he and Gerry Keay have remained such close friends.
Also, Gerry’s father raised him almost as much as his grandmother.
Now Gerry picks a slim volume from the shelf, a collection of ghostly tales meant to mimic the works of authors like Sheridan Le Fanu and M.R. James, Sir Edward Bulwer-Lytton; he pages through until he gets a look in his eyes that Jon recognizes.
Sure enough: “Hold this, will you,” he says, foisting the book into Jon’s already waiting hands and digging a sketchpad and pencil from his bottomless pockets. Then he’s gone into his own world for several minutes, during which Jon casts a narrow look at the page; there before him is a description of a weathered, haunted home that reads no differently from any other description of a weathered, haunted home, but for Gerry there must have been something special in it, and Jon feels a wash of warmth toward his friend.
When Gerry’s finished, he tucks his sketchpad away, looking satisfied, and takes the book back. “About ready to go to lunch then, or do you intend to keep digging?”
Jon says a rueful, “Lunch.”
“Cheer up.” Gerry pats him on the shoulder. “We can go back to Cosy.”
They’ve already gone for their breakfast. Jon had been horribly focused on Martin’s mouth. Martin had quoted On Fairy Stories at him as though it was nothing, and Martin had not laughed at him for his area of study, and Martin had called him romantic, and some of him is still there, hearing it again and again. Nobody has ever called him romantic; Georgie, in fact, had informed him three months into their relationship he hadn’t a romantic bone in his body, and he hadn’t any reason to disbelieve her.
“Jonny? You in there? You know Martin’s not actually here to see the way you’re smiling, right?” Gerry nudges him and he comes back to the present with a scowl, which Gerry meets with a laugh.
Jon stomps his way out of the aisle. The shop’s owner, a short man called Michael Crew, catches his eye, brows climbing, and waves him over. The old man has evidently concluded his business, as there’s no sign of him.
“Leaving empty-handed today?” Mike sounds unsurprised. He’s learned well that Jon is selective in his purchases. He’s got to be; graduate students, the ones who aren’t supported by wealthy parents, are hardly swimming in funds, and Jon tries not to let Gerry throw money away for him.
Speaking of: “But I’m not.” Gerry drops his pair of books onto the counter.
Mike takes one look at the books and chuckles. “Feeding Georgie’s appetites, I see,” he says, fingers dragging over the cover of the Gothic romance.
“If we don’t,” Gerry says, “she gets alarming. You wouldn’t want to live with her when she’s unsatisfied.”
Another laugh, and Mike says, “I’m glad you’re in today. Jon, I’ve got something I thought you’d like to see.”
“Oh?” Jon perks up at this.
Mike disappears into the back of the shop for a moment and returns with a thick tome cradled in both arms, its weight tugging his shirt collar down to reveal the branches of his scar, a long-limbed remnant of the lightning that nearly killed him and then became namesake to his shop. The book is clearly old; it just has that air about it, like it expects to be looked upon with respect. It is leather-bound in a fading red, and Jon wants to run his fingers along its spine. He has the thought he’d like to do the same to Martin, but he sets that one aside for later, because Mike’s placed the book in front of him.
The cover reads simply: Of Magic. Jon thinks, then, Mike is presenting him with some heirloom of the occult. He opens to the table of contents and finds the book makes a study of all things fairy story. The print is so fine he’s got to lean in to read it. There are stories here he has rarely seen printed in other books, and his eyes are hungry as Red Riding Hood’s wolf as they rove the list, seeking a story whose title he does not know, if it ever had a title, if it should be troubled to appear on this table of contents. He sees no suggestion of a J.M., but that does not mean this book won’t be useful to him. It feels, under his fingers, like it is whispering.
But.
“You had this in the back,” he says calmly. “I suppose it’s rare.”
“Very,” Mike says, careful, like any bookseller who knows he’s presenting a customer with something well likely out of their budget.
Jon gingerly closes the book and shakes his head. “I’m not going to ask. I’m sure you’ll be reasonable about it, but I’m also sure I can’t.”
Gerry eyes him as Mike returns the book to the back of the shop. “You wanted that.”
“I did.”
“Should I remind you how much you spent on that ridiculous clock for Bouchard?”
“No,” he says, “as I remember, and I’m sure that book costs more.”
“I could also remind you I—”
“No.”
Gerry rolls his eyes, and then Mike is there again to ring him up. He casts Jon a nearly apologetic look, like he feels badly for having shown Jon something so beyond his budget, and wishes them well until the next time they’re in. It won’t be long. It never is.
It’s also not a long walk from Lightning-Branch Books to Cosy; the first day they discovered the café, they’d been making their way to the bookshop. The weather is gloomy today, clouds heavy and grey and undecided on whether they want to deliver the rain that feels both promise and threat. But it’s not particularly cold, and the streets are flush with life. Cosy is as crowded as expected, with most of the tables already staked out by university students looking for anywhere to study that isn’t the library. The line extends to the door; Jon hears Martin calling out orders over the din, and Georgie snickering.
“Fancy seeing you here,” says a man in front of them, and it takes Jon a moment’s work to place his name. Tim. Another fixture in the morning rush. There’s a woman with him, dark-haired and pretty, with thin-rimmed glasses, and he thinks this one is called Sasha, though she could just as well be Melanie. “You’re usually not, are you, in the afternoons?”
Gerry’s eyebrows lift. “D’you pay that much attention to who’s here?”
“I’ve got an excellent eye for detail,” Tim says promptly.
“Also,” Sasha or Melanie says, “you’re usually in front of us and he’s always complaining that you’re monopolizing Martin and Michael.” She considers. “Especially Michael.”
“Sasha!” So, Jon had the right of her name. Tim sounds more amused than bothered, though there is a touch of color to his cheeks that wasn’t there before.
Sasha tucks her hair behind her ear with a shrug. “It’s only fair to warn them before they consider becoming friends with you.”
“You’re friends with me.”
“I know,” she says regretfully.
Gerry snorts. “Isn’t there usually one more of you?”
“Melanie’s saving us a table,” Sasha says.
“We can ask her to fetch extra chairs,” Tim says, “if you’d rather sit with us than fight off the students.”
“Before you answer this,” Sasha says, “think carefully. He’s very annoying.”
“I prefer to think of myself as charming. Generous. You might even call me chivalrous.”
“No, I wouldn’t. Would you like to hear my alternatives?”
“That’s all right,” Gerry says. “We can handle annoying, can’t we, Jon?”
“Suit yourself,” Sasha says, and flits off, presumably to find Melanie.
At the till, Georgie looks perfectly in her element, all but bouncing up and down on her feet. Jon suspects the energy is coming from a worrisome number of Michael’s pastries. “What’ll it be, my third and fourth favorite boys?”
“Hang on,” Gerry demands, “when did I stop being first?”
“Michael and Martin have outstripped you,” Georgie says. “In that order.”
“Michael is spoken for,” Tim says from a foot away, patiently awaiting his order.
“Michael would prefer to have a say in that himself,” says Michael, arriving from the back with a full tray of fresh sandwiches, along with rows of muffins and scones for restocking. “I don’t recall being spoken for.”
“I’m spoken for then.” Tim grins at him; Michael’s cheeks color.
Georgie says a crisp, “You weren’t on my list.”
“He thinks he should be on every list,” Sasha says, and it’s long-suffering, established.
“Have you seen my cheekbones?”
Through all of this, Jon says nothing. His eyes drift to Martin, away, and then back. Martin is busy making drinks, a smile fixed in place, and Jon wonders when he last looked that at ease himself. That content. It might have been last night. Would Martin look that way if Jon kissed him?
“Come on, you two,” Georgie says, with a pointed look behind them, where the queue has been and is out of hand. “Before there’s a riot, if you can.”
“Georgie,” Martin says, looking their direction; his face splits into a smile and Jon stays on his feet through willpower alone. He wants nothing more than for Martin to keep looking at him that way. But there are too many other people here, and Martin is busy.
“Surprise me, Martin,” Jon says weakly, and the way that lights Martin’s eyes makes up for the ineffectual visit to Mike’s shop. "You're good at that."
Martin doesn’t actually say anything, just turns away and sets to work. Jon lets out a breath and orders a sandwich, and hands Georgie his card. There’s no cause for the way his heart is behaving. Once Martin’s handed him his tray, he spots a student in the midst of clearing up their workspace and says, “I think I’m going to sit on my own. Dr. Bouchard expects me to have a plan for him in two weeks.”
“It’s a Sunday, Jon,” Gerry says, but it’s hardly a protest, and Jon walks away.
He doesn’t ordinarily choose to do his work in public locations. People are far too loud, and it’s a challenge to focus when he’s surrounded by them. Today, somehow, he sinks into it well, surrounded by the dull roar of voices and the sound of others typing, textbook pages being turned, laughter and conversation, Tim’s voice often rising over everything else. He takes a sip—raspberry and hazelnut sliding over his tongue—and tunes it out until it’s no more than a murmur around him.
“Jon?” a voice says. “Oh, you look busy.”
“Wait,” Jon says, because it’s Martin beside him, having already set a fresh cup of tea down. The line is shorter than before, but there’s enough of it that it seems Martin should be attending to the greater number of customers, not standing so close to Jon. He wants Martin to stay; he wonders which words he’s supposed to use to make that happen. “I haven’t paid for that.”
Probably not those ones.
The fairy tales ought to have taught me better, he thinks, feeling foolish with it.
“It’s on me,” Martin says. “As a thank you.”
Jon frowns. He’s quite sure he’s the one meant to be thanking Martin; all he’s done is show up at night to be useless. “For what?”
“Oh.” Martin shrugs. “Customer loyalty. Making my evenings more interesting.”
That’s an invitation if Jon’s ever heard one. He doesn’t know how to take it.
Then the moment’s passed by, and Martin glances away. The line’s getting long again. Jon isn’t sure how he survives these bursts of activity. He gathers up Jon’s empty first cup. “I’d best be getting back.”
Jon doesn’t want him to walk away yet. “Have you got a moment longer?”
Martin smiles at him. “Something you wanted to order?”
“No,” Jon says, and it comes out more brusquely than he means it to, and he thinks if he had wishes or a fairy godmother or some other magic, he’d use it right about now to make this moment better. “I lied last night.”
Martin’s brow furrows. It’s adorable. Kiss a cute boy, Jon. Christ, this is an embarrassment. He’s not a teenager, he’s a man nearing thirty, and he shouldn’t be enamored like this. “Your dissertation is about something disgusting, like the use of cholera and tuberculosis throughout literature, not fairy tales, I suppose?”
“No,” Jon says again, this time through a laugh, and there it is, the sense of ease Martin fills him with. A sort of Once upon a time. His own silver-dew land of Fairy. “No, I am writing about fairy tales. I wasn’t here because I wanted to be here—not that your café isn’t lovely, but I was here because I wanted to be near you, and I wanted to be near you today, and I’ve been wondering if you’d like to be near me, somewhere else, maybe with candles? Oh, hell.” He says a stream of profanities under his breath, a string of them that would have his grandmother red-faced and threatening him with a bar of soap while using the very same words.
Martin is rather obviously trying not to laugh. Jon likes what that does for his face. “Are you trying to ask me on a date, Jon?”
“I’m not doing a very good job of it.” Jon wishes he sounded less miserable, in this of all moments.
“Not really,” Martin says, cheerful as anything, “but that’s all right. Does it help at all if I promise to say yes?”
Oh, yes. That does help. Jon swallows. “Would you do me the honor of having dinner with me, Martin?”
It would be unreasonable to say Martin beams at him; but, Martin does beam at him “Had you given any thought to when?”
“Tonight?” Jon blurts out. “Or is that too soon? You’re busy with—”
“Tonight is perfect.” Martin quiets him with a hand squeezing his upper arm, so quickly he thinks he might have imagined it. “We close at six on Sundays. Come and pick me up?”
Jon’s mouth has gone dry. He says, “Yes, of course,” and hopes that it’s less a croak than it feels like.
“Then I’ll see you then,” Martin says, and Jon wants to kiss him before he walks away, but this is Martin’s business and that would be—unprofessional, at the least. He settles for watching him go, his eyes following Martin all the way to the counter, until movement in his periphery says Gerry’s slid in across from him.
“It’s about damn time,” Gerry says.
Jon might tell him to shut up. He looks down at his paper, where he’s somehow written out the better part of an outline, where the words ‘Once upon a time’ gaze back at him; he says, “It had to start at the right place.”
It takes Jon several moments more than usual to realize he’s come back to himself. The smell is nearly the same and so is the murmur of people around him. He scowls at the picture of Gerard Keay, still looking resigned on the computer screen, like being arrested for the murder of his mother was an inevitability. Perhaps it was. Perhaps he is guilty. Perhaps a thousand things.
Jon makes an irritated sound and slams the lid harder than necessary. He reaches for the notebook that he’s taken to carrying everywhere as a just in case measure. He works through what he’s just experienced, one moment at a time, making special note of the new facets; it gives him something to focus on aside from the wrong Jon’s infatuation with—
Focus, Jon.
Michael Crew. He’s seen that name before. He’d had his hands on The Bone-Turner’s Tale, and he’d been struck by lightning as a child; curious, the things that were the same, the things that were changed.
J.M. Jon taps his pen beside the initials. He has a thought or two there, as well. Nothing he can confirm, until the wrong Jon finds what it is he’s looking for, and possibly not even then, and it makes no difference in either case.
Once upon a time.
He doesn’t want to linger on how his life might have been different, had he fallen upon those words, a preoccupation with fairy tales, children’s magic.
Once upon a time.
Knock, knock, Mr. Spider.
Are their lives the result of a few changed words pushing them onto their paths? His lip curls. No, there’s more to it than that. Their worlds are fundamentally different; Jon doesn’t yet understand how, and doesn’t want to trouble himself to learn why. There’s trouble aplenty when he limits himself to the confines of this world.
Notes:
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Chapter 11: the hopeful sort
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Jon packs up his belongings and stays long enough to order a fresh drink, reminding himself all the while that Martin isn’t here, and he should be grateful for it. It occurs to him, once he’s made it outside, he hasn’t got a plan for where to go next. Surely it’s his flat or the Archive, each of them looming heavy and empty in his head, neither with an appealing sway. He has yet to decide between the two when he realizes his phone is out, in his hand.
More than that: his thumb hovers over the screen, a millimeter from pressing call.
More, too, than that: it’s Martin Blackwood on the screen.
Only the awareness he’s in a public location, surrounded by masses of people, keeps him from chucking the phone as far away from himself as he possibly can. He wouldn’t want to hit someone. They might file charges—or at least chuck it back at him. He considers shouting at it, but accusations of disturbing the peace are as enticing as the company of the Archive. Or Martin.
But I like Martin’s company, says a voice, a thought that is his, and isn’t his. Jon grits his teeth, jamming the phone into his pocket. He squeezes down on it, hoping that keeping himself conscious of it will stop him taking it out again.
“That’s not mine,” he says furiously, under his breath. “It’s yours and you can bloody well keep it to yourself.”
Jon shoulders his way through the afternoon crowds, decided without deciding on going straight home. His body protests the pace at which he moves, and any number of reminders he’s still recovering clamor about his head, Martin and Elias and Sasha and his doctors. All of that can piss right off along with everything in his head that isn’t his and shouldn’t be there.
“Nearly calling Martin—you can keep that to yourself, Jonathan Sims, fairy tales and calling Martin.” He carries on muttering to himself, if only to keep aware, in place, giving his frustration some usefulness. “That doesn’t belong to me any more than calling Georgie does. We’re not the same. I don’t want to talk to Martin at work, I certainly don’t want to talk to him on my day off, he had to find that damned mirror, didn’t he—”
“Are you all right, Mr. Sims?”
Jon stops. He forces himself to turn, almost mechanically, and finds a woman with dark skin, thick hair, and a police officer’s uniform looking at him guardedly, like she’s yet to decide how to deal with him. Disturbing the peace, indeed. It takes him a moment to place where he’s seen her before. “Constable Hussain. It’s just Jon, and yes, I’m fine, thank you.” He gives her a painful smile, which, judging from the furrowing of her brow, isn’t fooling her.
She says, “You were talking to yourself?”
“Oh. Right, I suppose I was,” he says. “I was just, ah, talking through some things, I suppose.”
“You suppose?” Her brow stays furrowed. It’s hardly a new way for people to look at him.
There’s no need for him to defend himself. “It helps to say it out loud.”
“Right, I saw the erm—tape recorder?—before.” Constable Hussain’s expression relaxes just enough for Jon to do the same. “It looked like a bit of a relic. I’m surprised it still works.”
“Most people are,” Jon says with a wry smile.
“I thought you’d have something more up-to-date.”
“I’m afraid the more up-to-date technology doesn’t always work for our purposes.”
“Oh,” she says, and with a little wiggling of fingers, “Spooky?”
“That’s the business.” Jon’s smile holds fast, given the sardonic edge to her words. “Anyhow, I apologize for this little…interruption, and also the incident at the Institute.”
Her eyes linger over his scars. There aren’t as many on his face as his torso, and he’s gotten used to it, doesn’t even wince. To his surprise, she smiles at him, a smile nearly as dry as his own. “Honestly, I’ve dealt with worse. Weirder, too. Maybe not more disgusting, I would have to think on that one.”
“Have you?” It shouldn’t surprise him as much as it does. Any number of statements have involved the filing of police reports; it follows, then, that the police must have some amount of experience in dealing with the paranormal. “You’re always welcome to come in and talk about it.” At the dubious downturn of her mouth, he adds, “In a strictly official capacity—it’s what we’re there for. I can take your statement.”
And, says a sly, compulsive thought, I can ask you about Gertrude.
“Sure,” Constable Hussain says, the look on her face suggesting she has no interest whatsoever in following up, “I’ll keep that in mind. Enjoy the rest of your weekend, Mr. Sims.”
“And you,” he says, and they go their separate ways.
It could be progress, of a sort.
Jon continues his trek home, more effectively distracted from thoughts of either Martin Blackwood.
Saturday’s gone by well enough. Martin’s spent it holed up in his flat, hardly moving from the couch except to refresh his tea, only once going far enough to check the mail. As Diana’s got him waiting on the arrival of a book that might, potentially, contain more information about the folk song, he’s been reading through a thick hardbound volume on mirrors and demonology; it’s remarkably dull, given the subject matter. Come seven in the evening, he sets the book aside and rubs his eyes. Enough is really enough for one day.
Also, he hasn’t learned anything.
All right, that’s not true. He’s learned of several demons not found in the Ars Goetia, and that there was once a Cult of Paimon out of Nottingham, of all places; Oxford or Cambridge he’d have expected, or even London itself. Probably there are several cults operating in London even now, if statements are anything to go by. He hasn’t forgotten Natalie Ennis, her church and its darkness. But that’s not really his concern just now. Yes, he’s learned things; those things haven’t been helpful, is the trouble.
“How deep am I going to have to dig,” he says, having reached a point of exhaustion at which it would be entirely unsurprising if the walls around him decided to offer an answer. They don’t, thankfully. Instead, his phone buzzes, then buzzes again, and again, and it’s not until the fourth insistent vibration of plastic on wood he realizes somebody is actually calling him, and snags it from the end table.
Lee Kipple, the screen notifies him. He can’t help being pleased. “Hello?”
“Martin, hey, how’s it going?” Lee’s background is noisy, the music behind him much heavier than Elora’s Folly. He supposes Lee must listen to a much wider array of music than he does himself. He’s never been the heavy metal sort, all that screaming. It can’t possibly be good for the vocal cords. Nor his ears.
“It’s going well, thanks, and don’t take this the wrong way, but I really hope you’re not calling to invite me to wherever you are. It doesn’t sound like my sort of thing.”
Lee laughs. That’s nice. Martin doesn’t often make people laugh. He pictures Lee at the back of a crowd in a dark club, taking in the crowd response to the musicians on stage. “No?”
“It’s not you, it’s me, and also the screaming.” Martin adjusts his hold on the phone when Lee laughs again.
“I didn’t think you’d like Evantika. But have you listened to any of those suggestions I sent you today?” There have been quite a few, Martin’s phone begging his attention far more often than usual.
“Not yet,” Martin says, making his way to the kitchen, his stomach reminding him that sometimes eating comes highly recommended. Times like now, when he isn’t feeling sick to death over some new nightmare situation. He’s only gotten a single flash from the mirror today, and it was hardly anything, just enough to catch the other Martin, the happy Martin, feeling—well, quite happy indeed, though he hadn’t gotten a complete sense of the cause. Something about that Jon, probably. It had hurt, for a moment, and also felt very nice, and he’d distracted himself from it by reacquainting himself with the finer details of Forneus; it had almost worked. “I’ve been kind of busy.”
“You can tell me if you don’t want to listen to any of it.” Lee sounds perfectly unconcerned in a way Martin doesn’t think he’s been since age ten or so. “I won’t be offended. Not everyone likes having music lobbed their way. Tell me to piss off, if you’d like.”
“I really have been busy.” Martin laughs, himself, and frees a container of instant noodles from the cupboard. Sure, he’s gotten better since Prentiss, but that doesn’t mean he’s got to be the epitome of health. “I’ll try some of it while I eat dinner, all right?”
“I expect at least two sentences of thoughts on every song.” It sounds like Lee is hoisting himself up onto something. Maybe there’s a better view involved.
“You know,” Martin says, scanning the instructions on the noodles, “we don’t all write for music magazines.”
“I know. That’s why I’m only asking two sentences, not six.” Lee pauses, possibly puts a hand over his phone, and calls out to somebody else before he says, in a teasing sort of way, “Go and read a few articles if you need some inspiration. Listen, I’ve got to go, a few of my coworkers just came in, but I might—hey, Tommy—have a show coming up that you’ll actually like, see how you feel about the songs I sent you. Text me tonight or tomorrow?”
“Oh, yeah, sure.” Martin’s not sure if he’s disappointed or not. If he should be. He won’t miss the background noise, but Lee—well, he’s very nice.
“Or you can call,” Lee says. “Or you can leave me hanging, guess that’s always an option.”
“I wouldn’t do that!” Martin says indignantly. His cheeks are probably coloring. They do tend to.
That gets him another laugh. At least somebody thinks he’s funny. “Good night, Martin.”
“G’night.” He takes the phone away from his ear and peers at it. While his noodles spend their few minutes cooking, Martin scrolls his way through the lists Lee has been sending him all day. He feels awkward, looking at his own meager responses—just thank you and even more? and :) and Again!? Sure, he’d been preoccupied with Naberius and mirror symbolism, and Lee doesn’t seem put off, but it’s a matter of etiquette, and maybe he’d have better texting form if he spent more time doing it.
That’s…probably not something to regret being a bit poor at, he muses, tearing open the flavoring packet.
When Martin eases back onto the sofa, bowl of noodles in hand, he pulls his laptop closer. It’s seen better days, was already battered when he purchased it, but it does its job just fine. He starts at the top of the list, with a song that reminds him a lot of Elora’s Folly, faster drums behind it and a far gravellier voice layered over everything else. Two sentences on each song. He huffs a laugh. Lee probably wasn’t serious, but he idly copies down a lyric that stands out, something the song makes him feel, and opens up a second tab to take Lee’s other suggestion.
Earful’s homepage is well-organized, with links for recent interviews, reviews, concert schedules throughout London—he can’t guess, at a glance, which of these might be the one Lee meant he might be interested in—generalized music news, gossip in the scene. There’s also, he notes with some amusement, an archive link for content earlier than 2013. He ought to visit an album review, but he can’t help himself. Earful’s archives are unsurprisingly better sorted than the Institute’s; it’s a low bar, after all.
A number of the articles here have the same byline, a Jennifer Ling. Like Lee Kipple and Earful Magazine, the name scratches at something in his memory without fully dislodging it. He changes the song—this one is mellow, with something of a Southern Gothic vibe to it—and reads through one of Jennifer’s articles. It doesn’t spark anything new, but he knows the name. Maybe he should take the time to revisit statements they’ve worked through recently.
He shakes his head at himself, unnecessarily violent, his neck informing him he’ll be regretting it the rest of the night. He says a stern, “No.”
It’s the weekend, and yes, he’s still got the mirror to investigate, but that aside, he hasn’t any interest in thinking about the nightmare supernatural portion of his life. He doesn’t need to bring the Archive’s monsters home with him. He already has done, once. The mirror’s not a monster—probably, maybe—just a force, like a stiff breeze. There’s no call to think of the Institute itself, the Archive, the statements, anything associated with the place…except for Jon.
Martin thinks of Jon often, which is something he’s got very much in common with the other Martin. He hasn’t got a lovely café or a friend called Michael, but he does fancy Jonathan Sims. There’s a difference there, too, however, being that the other Martin’s Jonathan Sims seems to feel mutually, and the Jonathan Sims he works for…ah.
“Suppose I’ll have to live vicariously,” he says, and makes a face. What a wretched thought that is. He can live without dating Jon, he has done this long already, hasn’t he, but watching another Martin have what he doesn’t, experiencing it through him…there’s something uncomfortable about that. But it isn’t his fault or his choice.
Martin shakes away the thought and goes on to the next song, which feels a lot like a late autumn wind. Lee is excellent at recommendations, he reflects, closing his eyes to really sink into this one. I should probably thank him for—expanding my horizons, or something like that. He imagines Lee’s smile at the praise, imagines it’ll get him some teasing. Lee’s smile is replaced by another, this one both more and less familiar, as he’s seen it a number of times already, but none of those times have really been through his own eyes—or have they, how is it that works, now’s probably not the best time for wondering, as Michael’s smile, the holding back a laugh smile, smooths into place, and the air not in his flat but in his nose anyway is scented with cinnamon and apples.
He thinks he hears himself say, “Right,” even through the other voices.
The clock on the wall, Martin is nearly certain, has turned malicious. It can’t possibly have been only a minute since he last looked. It’s twenty till closing, not much more than that before he’ll be leaving, with Jon instead of alone.
On a proper date, instead of whatever it is they’ve been doing at his café in the evenings.
It has been well over a year since his last date, and he hasn’t minded, hasn’t been looking for anybody, and he’s possibly putting more weight on this than he ought, but he likes the way Jon smiles at him, and he likes that Jon wanders his way to him when looking lost, and he really likes how Jon looked at him upon his quoting of On Fairy Stories, how Jon said, “One can scarcely improve upon the formula Once upon a time,” and he probably should have leaned across the table and kissed him, right then and there.
All this to say: Martin is very much looking forward to his date.
He hands the coffee he’s been fixing off to its customer with a smile and a nicety, and cuts another look at the clock. This time it hasn’t even been a full sixty seconds, that bastard.
“You know it doesn’t get faster if you look at it more, right?” Michael says, bent forward to free a cinnamon bun from the display. He’s not laughing, but Martin knows him well, and it’s in his voice. When the pastry’s been presented to a pony-tailed, business-suited woman, he lifts his brows. “You’re not telling me something, and I do have a guess, if you want to hear it.”
“I have a date tonight,” Martin says, his voice steady.
“This date wouldn’t happen to be with somebody I know, would it? Blond, looks like he’s slept about an hour in the last year, ‘cept he looks at you like he can’t believe you’re talking to him?”
“He does not.” Martin snorts. “That’d be the one, though.”
“He does.” Michael shakes his head in a pantomime of disappointment. “And you weren’t going to tell your best mate?”
“I was, actually, but I didn’t want that to be the only subject of the da—”
“Did I hear the word date?” Georgie appears, having abandoned the till in favor of nosing in, and Martin would tell her to get back over there, please and thank you, but the queue’s run dry. “Who’s got a date?”
“That would be Martin,” Michael says helpfully, and Martin tamps down a ‘must you?’ Georgie was always going to know. Between working here and living with Jon, obviously Georgie was going to know. Martin doesn’t even mind her knowing, he likes her plenty and it’s hardly a secret…he’d just hoped, a bit, for that part to come on after the date itself.
“Oh?” Georgie rather lights up.
Martin casts about, hoping to make some excuse to extract himself from this conversation at least until tomorrow, when he’s sure they’ll pounce on him for details, but at least then he can have prepared himself better. He doesn’t want to resign himself quite yet to Georgie’s suggestively waggling eyebrows. Customers or not, there’s plenty to be done at the end of the day. He says, “Yes,” even as he steps neatly around Michael to head for the back. “Please try to do your jobs. You’ll note that prodding me for information about my love life wasn’t in the description.”
“No,” Michael says, “it was in the third clause of the ‘we’ve been friends for ten years’ contract.”
“Odd, you’d think I would remember signing that.”
Georgie snickers.
Martin elects to wash dishes, and it isn’t long before Georgie’s calling, loud enough for him to hear over the water, “Martin, I assume your date is with my good friend Jonathan Sims? Pity if not.”
He smiles, despite himself, and shuts the water off, and waits until he’s near enough not to shout his answer. There’s a towel in his hands, preventing him dripping all over the floor. “Yes, Georgie, it is, and would you mind not yelling things like that? It’s not professional, and we are still open.” Only for another few minutes, but it’s the principle of the thing.
Georgie has the courtesy to look abashed, her smile a little more sheepish. “Sorry,” she says, her thumb jerking toward the counter. “I thought you might like to know he’s here.”
And so he is.
Jon stands near the sole remaining muffin, looking self-conscious and somewhat less rumpled than Martin’s used to seeing him, as though he made an effort to go home and change, but everything in his wardrobe decided to be a little wrinkled just to spite him. Also, his hair’s been combed. It suits him well. He’s somewhat stiff, his mouth a twitching line, and he looks between Georgie and Martin, clearly unable to decide who to address first.
Martin, who hasn’t had a chance to clean himself up, runs a hand through his own hair, which isn’t going to make a difference. He says, “Hello, Jon.”
Just like that, Jon looks a little more at ease, which is—well, that’s very nice. Martin tries not to let it go to his head. “Martin. I feel I should apologize for Georgie. Again.”
“You may as well not,” Michael pipes up. “You’ll just be doing it forever.”
“I would be offended,” Georgie says, “but you raise an excellent point.”
Jon focuses his attention on Martin. “I’ll just sit and wait until you’re ready to go?”
Michael swoops in before Martin’s got his mouth open. “Don’t worry about it. Georgie and I can handle everything here. Go and clean up, Martin.”
The look he turns on Michael now is a grateful one; Michael gives him a smile and a shrug, and says, “This is why you should have told me earlier. I’d have made you leave the last part of the day to me and Georgie, and you’d be ready to go already.”
“My mistake,” Martin says, and then to Jon, “Just give me a few minutes?”
“Of course.”
While he’s always gone directly home from Cosy at the end of the night and never needed to make use of them, Martin keeps a set of emergency clothes tucked away in his desk, where they haven’t even managed to pick up on the smell of the place. The ‘emergency’ he’s had in mind has always been a spill, not a date, but it pays to be prepared. He’s changed and gone back up front as quickly as he can.
There he finds the customers cleared out, Georgie sweeping, Michael counting up the till, and Jon with his hands in his pockets, glancing at the clock in a familiar motion that has Martin’s lips quirking. Granted, the sight of Jon does that well enough on his own. He says, coming out from behind the counter, “I’m ready to go. Do we know where we’re going?”
Jon nods. “I’ve made a reservation.”
“A reservation?” Georgie sounds delighted. “Jonathan, I’m impressed.”
Jon ignores her. “We have plenty of time. I didn’t know how long you’d need to finish closing up.”
“Isn’t it nice that he has such a good friend here?” Michael says.
Martin brings a hand to his mouth, torn between laughter and the urge to politely request that his good friend stop talking. “I think we should go. There are too many people involved in this date right now.”
“I’ve decided,” Jon says, pointedly not looking at either of the additional contributors, “the date hasn’t begun until it’s just us.”
Georgie pauses in her sweeping. “I’m just happy!” she says, and then addresses Martin specifically. “It’s nice to see Jon’s a bit less emotionally dense than he used to be. I was afraid he’d be years working his way up to asking you out, and by then you might have been taken, and it’d take him a good decade to decide he fancied somebody new, but now I don’t have to suffer through watching that, and by the way, I do expect to be on the wedding party. I’ll plan the dinner.”
“It’s just one date!” Martin says, as much reminding himself as exasperated. He immediately wishes he hadn’t said it. It sounds like he cares much less than he does. “Um.”
“You’re right,” Jon says mildly. “We might discover we hate each other.”
“Sure,” Georgie says, “and I might be next in line for the throne of Norway.”
“You’ve never given me proof of your pedigree. Martin?”
“Yes, please, let’s go.”
“Have a good night!” Michael calls, and Martin lifts a hand in farewell.
“I’ll see you at home,” Georgie says.
“Where you’ll press me for every detail, I know,” Jon says, the door closing behind them. Michael’s already there with the keys. Good man.
They’ve gone two blocks before Martin says, “I assume the date has officially started now.”
“I think so.” Jon scowls at a man in front of them, shouting into the air. Or his Bluetooth. Then he seems to realize he oughtn’t be scowling, and gives Martin an apologetic look. “I’m sorry it’s not very impressive so far.”
“You’ve got time.” Martin hurries past the man and waits for Jon to be alongside him again. “I’m sorry I smell like coffee. It’s sort of…suffused.”
“I like the way you smell.” Jon cringes. “Oh god, never mind, can we say the date didn’t begin until after I said that?”
“I’m afraid not. It’s going on the record, Professor Sims.” Martin smiles at him. “But on the subject of pre-date things, I—about back there? That didn’t come out how I meant it to, I don’t really…I am hoping for a second date, if you are.”
“You were reacting to Georgie,” Jon says, a fond weariness in it. “A second date would be lovely.”
“If we don’t discover we hate each other.”
“If we don’t discover we hate each other, yes. Also, if you don’t discover I’m not particularly charming. Sort of the antithesis to charming, honestly.”
“I’d have expected the opposite effect from the fairy tales.”
“I always liked the magic more than the romance,” Jon says, and stumbles over, “not that I disliked the happily ever afters.”
“Supposing it ever comes up,” Martin says, looking at him sidelong, “do you think you’re more the youngest daughter, warned never to look on her husband’s face, or the prince cursed to wed the troll daughter?”
Jon blinks. Martin thinks he’s surprised him again. “I like to think I’d put in the effort to go on the quest, though I’m not sure how effective I’d be.”
“That leaves me with the troll daughter then.” Martin wrinkles his nose. “You’d best hurry your way to the castle. It’s nothing against trolls, but I am gay.”
“Maybe in this version you can have a troll son.”
“Oh, well that changes everything.”
Jon laughs; Martin wants to make him do so again, immediately. They carry on much like this, light and idle, all the way to the station and on the train, until they’ve reached the restaurant. It’s much nicer than Martin anticipated, and he spares a thought to wonder if Jon should be bringing him somewhere like this on a student budget; he’ll have to snatch the check first. Jon speaks to the host, who informs them there’s a table free now, if they’d like it.
The table is inside, set back in a corner where the temperature is just this side of too cool. The tables around them are, for the most part, occupied, be it with other couples—not that they are a couple, yet—or businesspeople, dotted by the occasional family or solo diner. The lighting is low, supplemented by coconut-scented candles. Jon pulls out Martin’s chair, and he nearly comments on the charm.
A waitress has arrived before they’ve gotten comfortable to ask what they’d like to drink. Another night, Martin thinks they might ask for a bottle of wine; but it’s Sunday, Jon’s got class to teach tomorrow, and he himself has a business that hasn’t enough employees yet for him to schedule a morning off. They order a single glass each to accompany the narrow glasses of water.
“This is nice. I seem to remember something about candles,” Martin says, and admires the tinting of Jon’s cheeks in the candlelight.
“It is what I suggested,” Jon says. “You don’t think it’s too much?”
“Not at all.” He can’t remember the last time he came somewhere this lovely for a date. Never, as far as first dates go. “It’s romantic.”
“You’re the only person who’s ever described me that way. Georgie would find it incredibly amusing.”
Martin scans the menu; he tries to give it due diligence, he really does, but Jon’s the more interesting thing here, reading his own menu, the color still in his cheeks.
“You must be quite the romantic yourself,” Jon says, before Martin’s thought of anything to say. “You like poetry. Who’s your favorite?”
Being a literature student, he supposes Jon’s probably more than passingly familiar with poetry, far more knowledgeable than most. He ought to name somebody obscure. Or somebody modern, to show he’s up to date. Or, he settles with himself, somebody he simply enjoys reading. “Sorry to be a cliché,” he says, “but I’ve always liked Dickinson.”
“Dickinson was an excellent poet,” Jon says. “You might have said Keats.”
“Have you got a problem with the Odes? I’m afraid I can’t have that sort of talk.”
“The Odes are fine.” Jon’s smile is thin. “I’ve got several problems with Endymion. Most of them are first year creative writing students who think it still the height of eroticism.”
“Ah,” Martin says. The waitress returns with their wine and leaves with their orders. He has a sip—it’s an excellent, fruity thing—and gives the glass an appreciative look. “It could be even worse than Keats. They might be infatuated with Byron.”
“There are plenty of those, too,” Jon says darkly. “Forbid they branch out.”
Martin grins. “Any fans of Neruda?”
“Occasionally, though I’m not sure they’ve noticed he wrote poems aside from I Do Not Love You.”
“That’s unfortunate. Lost in the Forest could do with some love.”
“I’m partial to Come With Me, I Said, And No One Knew.” Jon drinks from his own wine, and Martin considers him. They haven’t known each other terribly long, the majority of their conversations consisting of pleasantries and a few sentences more, the morning rush urging them along; Jon is studying fairy tales, and he is tired, and he knows his Neruda, and Martin hasn’t wanted so badly to kiss a man since his partner of three years left him an empty flat and a reminder that his mother had the right of it, though he likely hadn’t meant to leave the second part. Jon catches him looking and says, “Something on your mind?”
“I was just thinking,” Martin says. “I’m glad you asked me to dinner.”
Jon appears to consider the appropriate response. Eventually he says a slow, “I was going to apologize for arriving early, when I knew you would still be closing up. But I was feeling impatient, and I’m not sorry. I should have asked you sooner. Georgie’s not incorrect about my dating…ineptitude.”
Martin indicates the restaurant around them. “I wouldn’t call this inept.”
“Consider it my belated thank you.”
“For?”
“Allowing me to sit in your closed café.”
Martin waves this off. “That’s all right, it was nice having you there. I’d prefer to consider this strictly a date, not a thank you.” He raises his glass. “As we haven’t discovered a mutual hatred, the first of many?”
Jon’s mouth twitches. He raises his own glass. “The first of many.”
“Glad we’ve got that sorted out already,” Martin says. “Now I don’t have to worry over it the rest of the night.”
The rest of the night—though it’s not the rest of the night, only dinner—is spent in deep discussion of poetry, of fairy tales, of stories about Georgie and Michael and Gerry, and enough laughter that Martin’s stomach hurts. They turn down dessert, and without properly considering it, Martin says, “Do you want to go?” and he does not mean to end the night here.
“Yes,” Jon says, “I think I do.”
Martin blames the giddiness on the wine, no matter it was only a glass and he finished it an hour ago. He takes the check, against Jon’s protests that he ‘chose the restaurant and should be responsible for paying for it,’ and they’re on their way. It’s gotten darker outside, the sun arcing its way down for the evening.
As they navigate away from the restaurant, Martin’s arms are useless, unformed lumps of clay at his sides. He reaches for Jon’s hand, sliding their fingers together. It’s nothing to be nervous about, as a grown man, but he is. “Is this all right?”
Jon’s hand shifts, and he thinks for a moment it’s to pull away; but Jon only adjusts his hold. Martin glances at him to find Jon looking at him as though he personally hung the moon in the air, and he doesn’t want to look away, but crashing into people is generally considered impolite. “It’s more than all right.”
Several minutes later, Jon says, “Martin.”
“Yes?”
“Where are we going?”
“Ah.” Somehow it hadn’t occurred to him he’d begun toward the station on autopilot. “My flat, if that’s okay? Or we can part ways. I promise not to take offense. I know we both have early mornings.”
Jon shakes his head. “Your flat sounds lovely and lacking in my housemates. Have you got any? Do you and Michael…?”
“No, no, I live alone.” Martin pauses, only now considering the implications of his invitation. “But I’m not trying to bring you home for—” Oh, now he’s really gone and made it awkward, hasn’t he. Business aside, it’s no small wonder he hasn’t been on a date in an age. “Never mind, pretend I didn’t say anything.”
“I’m afraid I can’t do that,” Jon says, and he sounds so serious that Martin looks at him in alarm, mouth already open to protest—and Jon is smiling. “It’s gone on the record, Mr. Blackwood.”
“You know,” Martin says ponderingly, “I’ve just decided Gerry was right.”
“About what?”
Martin elbows him playfully. “You’re a right bastard.”
Jon barks a laugh.
“But,” Martin says, “you’re a charming bastard.”
“Does that mean you still want me to come home with you?” Jon really should smile more often. Or maybe he shouldn’t. Martin might not have been able to fight the urge to kiss him this long if Jon regularly looked at him that way—like he can’t believe you’re talking to him—and more people might have taken an interest.
“As long as you’d like to.”
“I would.”
Martin’s flat is nearer to Cosy, and the trip back a comfortable one. As he escorts Jon several flights up, he mentally takes stock of the place. He spends too little time there for a mess to build. Opening the door and finding the switch is confirmation. Everything is neatly in its place, aside from the poetry magazine he’s halfway through; he’d left off dissecting an awfully dry poem about deserts, an intentional, stylistic choice that left him parched.
“You can sit wherever you like,” Martin says. “I’ll go ahead and fix tea.”
“You’ve done that all day,” Jon points out. “You don’t have to do it for me here, too.”
“I like to.” Martin disappears into the kitchen. It’s on the smaller end, but as he only cooks for one, the lack of counter space is no bother. He hums to himself, more than satisfied with how the night’s going. It’s not long before he’s carrying two cups back to the living room, where he finds Jon’s taken a seat on the couch and bent forward to flip through the magazine.
Jon says, without looking up, “That smells like heaven.”
“I’d think heaven for you is a library, and I hope my tea doesn’t smell like dusty pages. No offense to the dusty pages. Admittedly, not a tea flavor I’ve experimented with.” He sets the cups down carefully. It’s possible they’re on the over-full side, but one can never have too much caramel. “I prefer fruit, chocolate, those old things.”
Jon’s laugh is quickly approaching the top of the list of Martin’s favorite sounds. He looks up from the magazine. “Do you write poetry yourself? I don’t think you’ve said.”
“Oh.” Martin tugs at his collar, suddenly warm. He has a seat beside Jon, occupying his hands with picking at his trousers. “Yes, I do. I’ve had a few published.”
“I’d like to read them sometime,” Jon says, and Martin believes he may be blushing. It’s one thing for strangers to read his words; it feels like altogether another for Jon to read them. But Jon doesn’t seem to expect an answer just now. He’s ignoring the tea, his eyes at rest on Martin’s face. “Would it be all right if I kissed you?”
That one’s much easier to answer. Martin swallows. “I hoped you would.”
Jon touches his face, careful with him like he’s closer to glass than flesh and bone. He has a moment, as Jon’s thumb runs below his lip, of concerned, I hope I’m not awful for being out of practice; and then, easy as you please, Jon is kissing him. Their first kiss is but a brush of lips, like a breath asking permission again, and Martin leans into it, wanting terribly to get closer and not sure if he’s allowed.
Martin says, still close enough to feel Jon’s breath, “I’ve thought about that a lot.”
“You could have kissed me,” Jon says.
“Ah, but I fixed the tea.”
Jon huffs a laugh. “I wasn’t aware that made a difference.”
“Well, I’ve only just made it u—”
Jon kisses him again, which stops him talking. It’s not so chaste this time, a firmer press of lips and then Jon’s fingers sliding, gentle, around the back of his neck. Martin makes a pleased little sound, lets his hands rest flat on Jon’s chest and his lips fall parted in open invitation. His fingers curl when Jon’s tongue sweeps into his mouth, and then Jon’s other hand is on his side, pulling him in, and there’s really no choice but for Martin to lift onto his knees and straddle Jon’s hips.
“Too much?” he asks. All right, maybe there were other choices, but this one’s put the color back in Jon’s cheeks, and Martin likes being looked at this way.
“More comfortable,” Jon says, and that’s all the prompting Martin needs for the next kiss, dipping his own tongue into Jon’s mouth, and if he is awful courtesy of his dry spell, it’s clearly not bothering Jon, who’s kissing him back with an ardor that has him pushing still closer, and it feels like he’s been waiting for this, exactly this, since the first moment Jon shuffled into his café, only he hadn’t noticed. He’s certainly noticed now. He wonders if Jon feels the same; asking doesn’t seem worth the loss of Jon’s tongue, which is doing lovely, teasing things to the roof of his mouth.
The kisses they trade are languid, but heated, renewing and tightening Martin’s grasp on Jon’s shirt, and he makes a sound of objection when Jon pulls away and does not immediately kiss him again. Jon’s breathing has picked up, and his eyes rest on Martin’s lips, and Martin hopes that means he’s not finished with them. He has no idea of the time, only that he wants this to go on, and on, and he shifts in Jon’s lap, and possibly he should have realized before now that Jon is hard.
In his defense, he has been somewhat distracted by the exploration taking place higher up.
“Oh,” Martin breathes, his own skin flushing dark, and Jon’s opening his mouth, looking embarrassed, so he rolls his hips, and whatever Jon might have said turns into a groan; Martin’s body doesn’t need more encouragement than that. Another, torturously slow roll of his hips has Jon’s hands closing there, and Jon’s hips cant up, and Martin makes a soft sound, resting his forehead on Jon’s shoulder. He murmurs, “That’s good.”
They rock against each other easily, settling into an unhurried, almost relaxing rhythm. Martin’s breath stutters when he’s close, orgasm building slowly, and he lifts his head to press another kiss to Jon’s mouth, harder than before, just a hint of desperation behind it, and then he’s shuddering, pleasure washing over him. His hips keep moving, and it’s not long before Jon strains up against him, moans into his mouth, and sinks onto the couch.
It’s Jon who breaks the kiss, though he does it reluctantly. “I don’t usually—on a first date, I don’t…” he sounds dazed, startled by himself.
“Neither do I,” Martin says, seeing no need to remove himself from Jon’s lap just yet. He hasn’t come in his pants since his fumbling teenage years. It doesn’t bother him that he’s done so now, especially having done it—like that, and with Jon. He leans back, wanting a better look at Jon’s face. “Do you wish we hadn’t?”
Jon studies him for a long moment, like he’s a fairy tale in need of categorization. He says, “Not at all,” and leans forward, and this kiss is brief, but it says plenty.
Martin eases himself from Jon’s lap and tucks himself in beside him. He eyes the teacups. As he hasn’t any idea how long they’ve spent kissing, he imagines it’s probably cold. Not worth the risk to try it. “You can stay here tonight, if you like.”
“Martin,” Jon says, leaning his head back, which is no kind of answer, and Martin glances at him. His trousers are growing a tad uncomfortable; Jon’s likely aren’t any better. “I should have said your number, when you asked if there was something I wanted to order this afternoon.”
“Oh, god, you haven’t been listening to Tim, have you?”
“It would have been smoother.”
Martin wrinkles his nose. “It would have been awful. I liked the way you asked me.”
“The way I asked you was awful.”
“Yeah.” Martin forces himself up from the couch and collects the cups. “But it was awfully you. Are you going to stay?”
Jon rubs at his forehead. He still looks like he hasn’t fully absorbed the situation. Martin considers the merits of forgoing sleep and spending the night with his mouth on Jon’s, but responsibility and all that, he tells himself. “Are you sure it’s all right?”
Martin nods. “I’ll find you something to sleep in.”
Martin hasn’t shared a bed with another person in eons. It’s an extraordinarily easy thing, he finds, to fall asleep with his head on Jon’s chest.
The same song is playing; all that, in the span of a few moments.
Martin breathes out hard, the smell of his own flat flooding back in, the instant noodles container the strongest. He shuts his eyes, if they were open to begin with, and keeps them that way until he’s confident they’ll be doing their job once he looks around.
That really wasn’t what he’d meant when he said live vicariously. His body disagrees. Martin is mortified as sensation—his own sensation, the dry air of his flat rather than the press of Jon’s mouth, and this isn’t the time to wonder if Jon’s mouth would feel the same, if Jon’s tongue would slide into his mouth like that, if Jon would hold onto his hips—godammit—sensation returns, and he’s gone hard. He shoves the half-full noodle container away, practically knocking it over in his haste to flee to the bathroom.
He strips, turns the water as frigid as it will go, and stands beneath it without flinching. How’s he supposed to face Jon at work when he’s just listened to him moan, seen what he looks like following an orgasm?
“It wasn’t him,” he reminds himself, as it wasn’t. They’re two different men, just like he and the happy Martin are two different men, but—Martin has always been the hopeful sort. Life’s (and his mother’s) constant suggestions that he shouldn’t be have done nothing to dampen his outlook.
He and the other Martin are both attracted to Jonathan Sims, no matter the range of differences between them. And that Jon, from what he’s experienced, is not so different from the one he knows.
Martin hasn’t often let himself entertain the thought Jon might want the sorts of things he wants. It’s difficult, now, icy water ravaging his skin, to stop himself.
Notes:
(Yes, I was thinking about Hereditary while writing this chapter. I think about Hereditary a lot.)
Chapter 12: a (pleasant) preoccupation
Chapter Text
Sunday is more than half over when Martin finally persuades himself to fetch his spiral notebook and put down his latest experience with the mirror’s universe. He recalls the date in more detail than strictly necessary: the number of times they laughed, the poems and fairy tales they referenced, the way that Jon looked at a Martin who isn’t him. He finds himself chewing at his bottom lip. It wouldn’t look like this, if he and Jon went on a date. He knows it wouldn’t. They might discuss poetry, but they wouldn’t discuss fairy tales; their line of work is sort of the opposite.
Anyway, he’d never heard of ‘East of the Sun, West of the Moon’ until today, when he got creative with the search engine, looking up every variation on ‘trolls’ and ‘youngest daughter’ he thought of. And fairy tales aren’t what his—not his—Jon likes. It’s unpleasant to realize he doesn’t know, really, what Jon does like. They don’t talk about their private lives.
They don’t talk.
Still, it was a nice date. One he would have enjoyed if it belonged to him. It feels distantly magical as he writes, a bit of a fairy tale itself. Maybe the other Martin Blackwood will have his happily ever after. One of them ought to. His hand only shakes a little around the pen, but he freezes altogether when he reaches the part of the night where Martin plopped himself onto Jon’s lap without hesitating (he could never, he’s not that smooth or that brave, and Jon wouldn’t stand for it), and he can still hear the way Jon moaned, the voice just the same, and he shifts uncomfortably. He thinks Prentiss, worms, Gertrude, tunnels—before yesterday’s problem can arise again.
This part, he summarizes much more succinctly. If he and Jon ever swap notes, he doesn’t want to have written the specifics of any sex their counterparts are having, not the way Jon looked at Martin’s lips or the rhythm set by their hips. It might raise awkward questions; Jon might speak to him less than he already does, or Jon might be disgusted by him, or Jon might pity him, and he doesn’t know which possibility scares him the most.
Martin puts the notebook away quickly. He plays the best of the songs Lee sent him yesterday, and sends off a, Hey :) You want to talk? and puts the mirror out of his mind. It’s shockingly cooperative.
He goes the entire day without so much as a flicker.
Jon considers retrieving the mirror from its storage unit.
Unfortunately, that’s one thought he can’t pin on the wrong Jonathan Sims. He hasn’t got a mirror. If he had, with his fairy tale fascination, he’d likely be much more enthusiastic about it.
The thought comes to him uncalled for on Sunday evening as he stands at his stove fixing an uninspired grilled cheese. The mirror has left him in peace today and still he’s hardly been able to focus. He daren’t hope this reprieve will be a lasting thing. Relaxation is a distant memory. It already was, before the mirror, but it is even more so since.
What could it hurt? It’s the third time it has crossed his mind in as many hours. To just go and have a look, to study the words on its back, to spend a minute or two touching it, note if there’s a difference in holding it or having it far away. Would he notice the distance shortening as first the train and then his feet brought him closer? He doesn’t think he would, but that part of him that has always been too curious to know any better wheedles at him to find out. What could it hurt, Jon?
“Stop that,” he says, and is pleased when he sounds more stern than frustrated. Never mind he feels more of the latter. He flips his grilled cheese, which is nearing a satisfactory level of crispy.
What he needs is a distraction from—from all of it. Not only the mirror, but Gertrude as well. The mirror distracts him from Gertrude; Gertrude distracts him from the mirror. It’s not healthy to spend every waking hour, and indeed many of the sleeping ones, obsessing over one or the other. He would like to pretend he doesn’t obsess over the mirror. Jon tells himself any number of lies; his mind will not allow him this one. He doesn’t especially want to be distracted from Gertrude, only supposes he needs to be.
There’s got to be something reasonable for him to focus on.
He might, he supposes, reach out to Georgie. The wrong Jon dated his Georgie and has remained her friend through it, and though he suspects that one wasn’t so thoroughly a bastard as he was himself, it might not hurt to try. The idea presents itself as perfectly reasonable; Jon shies from it. His phone sits on the countertop to tempt him, and being tempted to call Georgie is significantly better than his absent-minded near calling of Martin, but—he doesn’t know where it’s come from.
Maybe it is his. He has missed her, sometimes, throughout the years.
Maybe it is not. He had not considered trying to reconnect, until the mirror.
He’s never gotten rid of her number.
Jon eats his grilled cheese and does not contact Georgie. If he’s going to talk to her, he would prefer it not be due to the impinging thoughts of a man he has never been. It wouldn’t be fair.
It would not be accurate to say the mirror stretches its muscles. It is, after all, just that: a mirror. There are no muscles for stretching.
But the mirror does stretch—awareness, consciousness, listening. There is more effort to be made for two. The mirror does not mind a bit.
It’s a good thing Jon hadn’t gotten comfortable with the mirror granting him peace. There’s a wave of it, of him, come Monday morning as he’s rolling out of bed, his feet having just touched the floor when it comes on. His own bedroom does not fade around him, the sensation of his blanket beneath his fingers, but there is a smell that would be pleasant if it belonged, and the sound of even breathing, and a contentment he doesn’t recognize.
Jon tells himself perhaps its hold is loosing. Yesterday, nothing. Now, this. He knows it’s another lie.
The Archive may not truly serve as a distraction (how can it, when this is where Gertrude died?), but it does give him something else to think about. The endless stacks to sort through have almost become a respite. He wonders idly, as he sips water and rifles through a pile of old statements, if the conditions in which Gertrude kept the Archive had anything to do with her murder. If Elias decided to pull a trigger rather than urge her gently into your more standard retirement. The thought tastes bitter and he chides himself for thinking it. There’s nothing amusing about any of this.
Movement in the doorway has him lifting his head. It’s only Tim, a curious expression on his face. “Jon,” he says, “I know you get bored, but I thought we all agreed you weren’t going to burgle museums on the weekends.”
Jon sighs. “What are you talking about?”
Tim jerks a thumb behind him. “The police are here for you. One of them who came in for, you know.”
“Ms. Hussain?” Jon begins to rise from his seat.
“Yeah.” Tim’s eyebrows lift. “Send her in, then?”
“Yes.” Jon frees the tape recorder from its place beneath a stack of paperwork that really ought to have made its way upstairs by now. Maybe today. He forages and inserts a fresh tape from the center drawer. There’s no point in trying the laptop, he can somehow feel that much. Anything she shares with him will be real, though he doesn’t know how he knows.
“Good morning, Jon,” Ms. Hussain says as she comes through the door. The expression on her face suggests she’s not fully settled herself with being here. Outsiders to the Institute often wear that sort of look.
“Good morning,” he says, sitting back in his chair. “I didn’t expect—Tim, if you wouldn’t mind closing the door—to see you in so soon.”
“I didn’t really plan to be.” She takes in his office, working her way to sitting across from him.
It’s a damn sight tidier than the rest of the Archive, but he wouldn’t describe its state as neat. On her last visit, he doubts she focused any attention here. The corpse wasn’t in his office, no matter the amount of time Gertrude spent in while it was her own. He stops himself; if he goes down that path so early in this meeting, he’ll never be able to focus on anything but asking her about Gertrude.
“I thought about what you said,” she goes on. “You won’t find an officer out there who doesn’t have some sort of strange story, but most of the time it comes down to something banal. Right up until you’re Section 31 like I am. Even then, it’s a lot of perfectly normal incidents that just look odd on the outside and someone’s gotten spooked, but—sorry, how does this whole statement thing work?”
“It’s very straightforward.” Jon adjusts the tape recorder. “You tell your story, or stories if you so choose. Ordinarily my team would do as much follow-up as we can, though I suspect that won’t be the case here. You can go ahead.”
He hits RECORD.
Ms. Hussain gives the device a dubious look, but in place of the usual scathing remarks about the quality of the Institute’s equipment, she says, “I really shouldn’t be talking about it on tape.”
“That’s entirely up to you,” he says. “You came to us.”
“I came to you,” she echoes pointedly, “at your suggestion.”
Ah. Yes, there is that. Jon leans forward, elbows on the desk. “If you’re concerned your superiors will learn you’ve given us a statement, you needn’t be,” he says, and goes on to explain the Institute’s NDA policy. It isn’t often they mark statements for internal use only—ghost stories with any need for such a high level of discretion are infrequent enough—but the policies are stringent for a reason. There are several politicians’ tapes with the label, a handful of high profile celebrities’, and the like.
Ms. Hussain doesn’t seem entirely reassured, but she moves on nonetheless.
Jon listens attentively, smothering the inclination to interject “subordinate” when she refers to Martin as his friend; he’s being excessively uncharitable, and he knows it, but they are not friends. Her explanation of Section 31…it explains rather a lot. He makes a mental note of the officers she names, certain he recognizes a name or two from statements they’ve already been through.
It’s a distinct effort, one he hopes he conceals, to mask his eagerness when the subject turns to Gertrude’s body. Even more so at her mention of the three boxes of cassettes. His heart races—if he could only access them, there might be answers—and if Ms. Hussain hasn’t yet found time to even touch them, maybe she wouldn’t turn down outside assistance. Outside assistance with experience in the supernatural.
“I would be happy to help,” he offers as casually as he can, “if you’d like someone else to listen to them. Going through material from Gertrude’s tenure is my job, after all.”
“That would be very much against policy, Jon,” she says, but there’s a cautious note instead of a hard edge.
“Of course,” he says. “I wouldn’t want you to put your job at risk.”
“No, we wouldn’t want that.” Ms. Hussain’s eyes flick toward the tape recorder. “That thing still running?”
“I turned it off a minute ago.” He forces himself to remain calm, collected, near to disinterested detachment as he can summon.
When she’s gone, having promised him nothing but having very much implied something, Jon rifles for a new tape.
“Supplemental,” he begins, keeping a close eye on the door. His thoughts drift in directions he dislikes.
Diego Molina, mystery burn victim from statement 0121102, whose throat was cut by one Gerard Keay. Jon shifts in his seat, wondering again what sort of person this Gerard was. Suspected and acquitted of having murdered his mother; having, according to one account, stabbed a scalpel through Diego Molina’s throat (for some purported greater good or possibly something to do with a cult? what was it Ms. Saraki quoted in her statement? “Better Beholding than the Lightless Flame” may bear revisiting), hunting down Leitners—painting an eye that hung in his mother’s shop. Which his mother told Dominic Swain postmortem. Several years postmortem. An artist and a killer…who was he? It’s almost disappointing that Jon will never really know.
He’s tucking the supplemental tape into its not-exactly-hidden hiding place with the other few when the smell from this morning returns.
Cinnamon, he places, and then he’s sinking into it.
For a moment, Jon does not recall where he is. The alarm going off is not his own. It’s much gentler than the jarring tones that draw him out of bed on the rare occasion he’s properly asleep when they go off. Beside him, a warm, solid body shifts and a drowsy voice mumbles nothing in particular. The alarm goes silent.
“G’morning, Jon,” Martin says through a yawn, one hand resting light, almost tentative on his chest.
Christ. I spent the night with Martin on our first date.
It isn’t that he minds. It just isn’t something he does. But he has now, and he can’t help the stab of alarm at this uncharted territory. No, he doesn’t regret it, nor a single one of the kisses exchanged, nor anything else about the evening, but he’s not the only part of this equation, and Martin may well have some regrets of his own.
Martin sits up, stretching his arms out to his sides, and drops a smile down at him.
Or, he revises, Martin may well be as content with how their evening ended as he was.
“Morning,” he says, in a voice still rough with sleep, reaching for his own phone tucked beneath the pillow. He squints blearily at the time. “It is unconscionably early.”
“You’re right.” Martin makes a face. “Did you sleep all right?”
“Yes.” Jon is surprised to realize it’s true. “That was one of the best nights I had in a while. Of sleep, I mean.”
“Only the sleep?”
Jon’s face heats. “I didn’t want to imply—”
Martin laughs. “You’re cute when you’re embarrassed.”
Jon makes a grumpy sound, which only makes Martin laugh at him again. He doesn’t really mind.
“I’ve got to get a quick shower,” Martin says, casting a regretful look at the time. “Usually I do it at night, but I was somewhat put off my routine last night.”
“Yes, ah. Sorry about that.” Jon rubs at the back of his neck. He’s not quite sure of the proper conduct when you’ve accidentally gone to bed with someone so early on, and he doesn’t want to—get it wrong, mess anything up the way he so excels at doing.
“Don’t be sorry.” Martin leans down to kiss him and to kiss him back is an automatic thing. The kiss is the lingering sort, and Jon wants very much to pull Martin down atop him and keep him in bed as long as possible; his students never listen to him anyway, they wouldn’t be horribly distraught if he canceled. It’s not a sexual urge, but he enjoys how it feels to have Martin here, so close, and it would be nice to continue basking in the glow of him. But Martin breaks the kiss and says, “You’re welcome to stay here and go back to sleep if you want. You’re always exhausted.”
“That’s the life,” Jon says. He remains tucked beneath the covers even as Martin slips his legs over the side of the bed.
“You need a break,” Martin says, crossing his bedroom to visit the closet. Jon is content to watch him. “It’s so early in the term for you to be this worn down.”
“Early in the autumn term, yes, but I was working through the summer as well.” Less time spent teaching, significantly more of it in the library; Gerry physically dragged him out on more than one occasion, Ms. Robinson shaking her head at Jon’s cursing. Plenty of helping Gerry with his charity, too.
Martin shakes his head. “That might make it worse.”
“I’m not the only one who needs a break, Mr. Blackwood.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Professor Sims.”
Martin exits the room with a smile and Jon lets his eyes fall shut again. He hasn’t got to be anywhere for several hours yet. Beneath the blanket, one of his hands sweeps out toward the place Martin so recently abdicated. Still warm. His lips curl of their own accord. It really was an excellent evening. He’d gone into it hoping Martin would still like him by the time it ended; spending the night hadn’t been within the realm of possibility, but here he is, and if the kissing is anything to go off of, Martin still very much likes him.
If Jon were the poetry writing sort, he might be inclined to write one now.
Martin returns with damp hair, looking more alive than anyone should be allowed so early in the morning. He’s half-dressed, wearing an undershirt and black slacks. Still toweling off those dark curls of his—Jon wants to run his hands through them—he says, “Were you going to go home?”
Jon peeks at his phone and winces. There are, by his most cursory estimation, approximately 60,000 combined text messages awaiting him; it’s not as much an exaggeration as it might be. It hadn’t even crossed his mind last night, what Gerry and Georgie might think when he didn’t come home; he’d been someone preoccupied with a lapful of Martin, and what a pleasant preoccupation that was. “You know, I don’t think I am. Gerry and Georgie will never let me hear the end of it.”
“If it helps, I’m going to get the same thing from Michael today,” Martin says, and sighs. “Probably tomorrow, too, and I’ll have Georgie.”
Jon waves his phone a little. “It’s already begun.”
Martin grins. “That’s what you get for living with them.”
“A choice I question every day.”
“I don’t believe you.”
Jon snorts. It decides midway through it would prefer to be a yawn. “You’re sure it’s all right for me to stay here alone?”
“Sure.” Martin drapes his towel over his shoulders. “You don’t seem the robbing me blind type. You can meet me at Cosy after you’ve woken back up and showered. Unfortunately, I cannot promise you a housemate free morning.”
“Two for the price of none,” Jon says, and shuts his eyes, attempting to get comfortable again. It’s a much greater challenge without Martin there. He listens to Martin shuffling about the room, the quiet clacking of clothes hangers and floomph of the towel dropping into a basket. Then the bed dips beside him and a gentle hand touches his chin, and Martin kisses him again.
“Tell me if I’m doing too much of that,” Martin murmurs. “I spent so much time thinking about it beforehand, I sort of can’t resist. ‘Specially as you’re in my bed.”
Jon gives in to his earlier urge, threading one hand into Martin’s hair and drawing his mouth back down.
Martin departs for Cosy several minutes later, his hair nicely tousled, and Jon is content to drift back to sleep a while.
The office comes back to him in the same slow, languid dissipation of the mirror’s world as always. Smell and sight and sound. He just stops himself from swearing, hands fisting at his sides. The very last thing he’s interested in seeing, or certainly very near the top of the list, is the wrong Jonathan Sims in bed with his Martin Blackwood. It’s not a level of intimacy he’s any interest in sharing with Martin, even one removed from him by whatever distance separates universes. (It might not be much distance at all; he’s given it a little thought as of late.)
Now he knows what it is to have Martin pressed close to him; he’s felt Martin’s mouth.
As though he’s heard his name crossing Jon’s mind, Martin chooses then to nudge the office door open. He is, predictably, carrying a tea tray.
“Morning,” he says, an odd, high note to his voice. His eyes stay fixed on the tray as he crosses the room. He’s liable to trip over something at this rate. Jon bites back an irritated remark. “I would have brought this sooner, but I didn’t want to interrupt your meeting. Did she have any news about Gertrude?”
“No.” Jon has no intention of disclosing his new role, such as it is, in Gertrude’s case. “She came to make a statement.”
“Oh?” There’s interest there, but Martin’s still not looking at him. “That sounds interesting.”
Jon makes a noncommittal sound. He watches Martin set the tea in front of him and begin to straighten up several stacks of paperwork. Martin doesn’t seem to notice his watching. “We won’t be doing any follow-up, there’s no point, but I have got addendums for several case files we’ve already been through.” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Martin.”
Martin practically jumps. He looks nervous and—good lord, is that a hint of pink in his cheeks? Is Martin blushing? He hasn’t got the time, nor the energy for this.
“Thank you for the tea, Martin.” Jon forces his voice to remain level. It’s not Martin’s fault, he reminds himself. “Is there something else you need?”
“Oh,” Martin says again, more softly. “I sort of wondered if you had seen—it’s just, the mirror? I just wondered what you’ve…seen lately.”
“I’m aware of the.” Jon gropes half-blind for the right word. “Progression.”
Their first date, and they’ve spent the night together. No. They’re nothing like each other. He and the other Jon are not the same man.
“Right. Me too.” Martin sounds a combination of bolstered and cowed by this; by Jon not shutting the conversation down immediately, by something he’s seen himself, perhaps? “I saw their date.”
Jon waits for Martin to come to the point; it takes the majority of his willpower not to snap at him to spit it out. He reaches instead for his notebook. He may as well begin noting his latest experience. He still feels Martin’s hand on his chest; the empty page laughs at him.
“I wondered,” the Martin in front of him goes on eventually, squaring his shoulders so thoroughly Jon cannot help a frisson of alarm, “if you’d like to maybe go for a coffee sometime.”
“No.” The word is out, firm and curt, before Jon has thought it. Well. It’s nice to know his mind isn’t being completely overrun by the influence of the other’s. Evidently the same cannot be said for Martin. That’s…concerning.
“Okay.” Martin is already turning to go.
Jon should let him. He really should. However, irritating and often incompetent as he finds the Martin of his own world, he doesn’t hate him, doesn’t see sense in lashing out or being cruel, and Martin is listening to the feelings of a man he is not, and retreating the way he is, Martin reminds him of a kicked puppy. He says, “Martin.”
Martin stops. If he was bolstered a minute ago, he’s not now, his shoulders hunched as though he might be able to make himself shorter.
“Martin, look at me.”
Martin turns.
Jon chooses not to interpret the look on his face, and allows himself to sound gentler in saying, “They’re not us, Martin. I’m not that Jon, and you’re not that Martin, and you’re not asking me to coffee because it’s what you want. It’s what he wants.”
“Right.” There’s a brittleness there that nearly makes Jon feel guilty. But he’s only being honest. He’s only trying to help Martin keep a firm hold on himself. “’Course I don’t want to—you know, I’ll just go, then, there’s a lot to do, and you know where to find me if you need anything.”
Jon doesn’t stop him this time. He waits for the door to click shut before releasing a long, weary breath. He shoves aside a pang of envy for the wrong Jon’s night of sleep in his Martin’s company, and sets to writing.
Chapter 13: a person can grow used to
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Martin could kick himself. He shouldn’t have said anything. Now Jon knows—what? That he’s an idiot? He’d already thought that much. Jon has never been subtle about not particularly liking him, about not having wanted him for Archival staff. And Jon is completely right.
I’m not that Jon, and you’re not that Martin.
For starters, the other Martin is better. Talented at both poetry and drinks, while he himself is serviceable at best in both regards. (All right, maybe more than serviceable where tea and coffee are concerned.) Also, the other Jon has liked his Martin from the start, as far as he can tell. Never thought less of him, not that he can blame this Jon for doing so.
“Hey,” Tim says, surveying an unreasonable mound of files they haven’t gotten around to disturbing, not least for fear it might collapse if they touch it incorrectly, much like a late-stage game of Jenga threatening to come tumbling down, “don’t let Jon get to you.”
Martin winces. Is he really as transparent as that? He’d thought he was hiding his disappointment well enough. Hiding his hurt feelings isn’t exactly new territory; he’d had plenty experience there long before Jon. “How’d you know?”
“You were just in there.” Tim hovers a hand over a collection of statements near the mound’s top, bound together with twine—really, what was Gertrude doing down here?—and before Martin can ask if he thinks this is really a good idea, he’s started to extricate it, careful, like he’s working a wild animal free of a trap. It comes loose—the mound shifts ominously—Martin braces for the imminent avalanche—and the mound steadies itself. Martin imagines he hears a sigh of relief, and Tim grins an entirely too pleased with himself grin. “And he’s Jon.”
Martin ponders this for a moment before acknowledging that, “Yeah, okay, that’s fair.”
“I know he’s been exceptionally prickly lately,” Tim continues, carrying his newly won statements away to his desk, complete with a rude, smug gesture toward the mound, “but you’re better off ignoring him.”
“I know,” Martin says, and he does know. He’s spent this long ignoring the way Jon treats him, the constant double-checking second-guessing of his work though he never does the same to Sasha or Tim. He’s asked his heart—multiple times!—if it’s sure it wouldn’t like to make better choices and it’s set itself on Jon, and that’s what really bothers him: You’re not asking me because it’s what you want.
But it is what he wants. It’s what he’s wanted since they were both just ordinary members of the research team, only he’s never had the nerve to ask, and now Jon thinks the entire reason he’s asking is the other Martin, that it’s a false crush. How’s he supposed to explain, to really make Jon believe the other Martin hasn’t felt anything for Jon he hasn’t already felt himself? Not in an emotional sense, at least. It had been nearly impossible to make eye contact today when his thoughts insisted on flitting back to Martin on Jon’s lap, the way it had felt.
The only comfort—and a cold, slim comfort it is—is that his feelings for Jon haven’t always been as desperately obvious as he sometimes worries they might be.
So, yeah, Martin knows he should ignore Jon. But it’s difficult to ignore Jon when he’s constantly having another, far more amenable Jon shown to him. He doesn’t even want that one. He wants the prickly one shut away in his office.
Well, you couldn’t have him before and you can’t have him now, so that hasn’t changed. Buck up, Martin.
He drops into his chair to weigh up whether he’d rather work on Institute business or attempt to cover some ground with the mirror. (The mirror is, technically, Institute business, he supposes.) He’s still undecided when he hears the low roar of more voices than have ever been in the Archive at once.
Figures.
“Jon’s here earlier than usual.”
Martin pretends he hasn’t heard Georgie. He’s standing at the till, ringing up a chai latte and cinnamon bread, and it’s much easier to ignore her when he has such a valid excuse as the line still stretching to the door. Georgie is presently loading up the display, as they’re already running low on Michael’s banana bread muffins today; evidently, word has spread.
Across the café, Jon sits alone at a table, drinking his raspberry and hazelnut while looking everywhere except toward the counter. Martin doesn’t take that personally; he’s almost positive it’s Georgie’s eye Jon is avoiding, not his.
There’s been no real time for conversation this morning—there never is, first thing—but it hasn’t stopped Georgie from trying.
Martin doesn’t fault her for it. If Michael spent the night on a first date he’d want to know everything as well, but he thinks it’s Jon’s place to tell her. He’s little idea how much Jon wants her to know; he’d been somewhat too distracted with kissing him this morning to ask.
“So.” Michael takes Martin’s place at the till, allowing him to sidle away to fix drinks. “How did it go last night? Good morning, what can I get for you?”
It is his place to tell Michael, and he will, but there’s Georgie, so he says a simple, “It was nice,” and carries on with the task at hand.
Georgie, having finished with the display, pushes herself straight and maneuvers around him to work on another coffee. “It must have been.”
He worries for a moment she’ll comment on Jon not coming home, but she says nothing more, only throws another pining look toward Jon’s corner. If they weren’t as overrun as they are every morning, Martin would give her permission to pop over there for a moment, just long enough to harangue him, but he genuinely cannot spare her at the moment; he’s already forgotten how they made do without her before.
“Good morning,” says Tim’s boisterous voice, “if it isn’t my favorite Cosy employee here to greet me. Be honest now, you saw me in line and made Martin move?”
Having seen the group in line himself, Martin has already fixed their drinks; regulars, particularly with regular habits, are a blessing for multiple reasons. He twists the cups in front of him till he finds the correct three.
“Have you ever considered turning it off for a morning?” Melanie’s voice follows.
“I don’t see why I’d want to do that,” Tim says.
“You’re exhausting,” Sasha says, complete with a yawn that sounds not entirely faked.
“I haven’t heard Michael complaining.”
“It’s bad form to complain in front of the customers,” Michael says, and Tim makes an affronted sound.
“You know I only have the two employees,” Martin says as he hands Sasha her tea, which she takes gratefully, and raises to him.
“I know.” Tim gives Georgie a look that might be described as apologetic if not for the devilish smile he’s still cutting toward Michael, who in turn is pretending he hasn’t caught on. “Sorry, Georgie, you’re great and all, but I’m fonder of Michael.”
“That’s all right,” Georgie says cheerfully, handing him his drink from among the trio. “I’m fonder of Michael than I am you.”
“You have excellent judgment,” Melanie says, and breaks off a piece of her newly acquired banana bread muffin to pop into her mouth. “Also, I prefer you to Michael, though his pastries have you all soundly thrashed.”
“This is all lovely,” Michael says, the color in his cheeks noticeable, “but there’s a very long queue formed here.”
“You’re not trying to get rid of me, are you?” Tim sounds exaggeratedly put-out.
Michael smiles wordlessly at him before turning to the next customer.
“You haven’t actually taken him on a date yet,” Sasha reminds him.
“Good point.” Tim raises his voice. “Michael!”
“Busy,” Michael calls cheerily. “You’ll have to go to the end of the queue and work your way back if you need me.”
Tim pouts. He says, more quietly, considering, “What do you suppose he’d do if I said I just wanted him?”
“Probably faint on the spot,” Martin says, alarmed by the thought, “so please don’t.”
“Righto.” Tim gives a decisive nod. “I’ll wait until things quiet down a bit.”
“Come on, idiot.”
“They’re a fun bunch,” Georgie observes as Melanie and Sasha drag the protesting Tim away.
“They’re certainly something,” Martin says, and returns to business. It’s easy to lose track of time when Cosy’s busy as it is, but he doesn’t think it’s long after the trio have gone to sit that Gerry arrives.
Martin happens to be looking at the door at the time. His eyes were on Jon a moment earlier, watching his fingers drum on the table, his expression pensive and far away, and he’d wondered what was on the man’s mind. Probably not him, with that sort of face. Maybe his thesis? When Gerry comes into the café, hair falling over his eyes, he scans the room, his eyes landing on Jon quick enough. A slow smirk spreads over his face, but he joins the line; Martin isn’t sure he wants to know.
It takes some time for the three of them to work their way through the legion of customers ahead of Gerry, but he does reach them, and Martin has his standard fare ready and waiting.
“Cheers, Martin,” Gerry says, the smirk still very much in place. “I hope our Jon took good care of you last night.”
Martin’s face warms.
“He won’t tell me anything,” Georgie says, only slightly petulant.
“Georgie,” Martin says pleasantly.
“Right, right, I’ll get it all from Jon later.” Georgie waves him off like he’s the one pestering her, and strolls off toward Michael.
“I suppose you’re going to push for details now,” he says to Gerry. “I’ve been facing down Georgie’s eyebrows all morning.”
“Nah, I wouldn’t dream of it.” Gerry indicates Jon. “He’ll tell me what he wants to. But I am assuming it went well. Else you left him heartbroken and he went to drink it off in a gutter somewhere, which makes it odd he’s here this morning.”
Martin laughs and feels Georgie’s eyes burning into his back like he’s betraying her in some way. “No, he was with me.”
“Good, glad to hear it.” The painter’s face, which is in fact speckled with a variety of colors at the moment, goes somberer. “Listen, Martin, about Jon? He’s a good guy, one of the best I know, or I wouldn’t have been friends with him as long as I have, but he’s not the best at…hm, how do I put this?”
“Human interaction?” Martin offers. He’s gathered as much in the time they’ve known each other so far.
“Yeah, that’s it. He tries his best,” Gerry continues, an intensity in his eyes, “but he can get standoffish and caught up in his work to the point he forgets to eat, and sometimes people call him aloof, and I don’t know if they’re completely in the wrong there, but he does try.”
“All right,” Martin says, unsure how he’s meant to be responding to any of this.
“Sorry, I’m not very good at this? It doesn’t really come up.” Gerry lets out a breath. “I hope the two of you’ll be good together. He and Georgie did go out for a bit, if they haven’t mentioned, it was years back and it ended badly. I’d like to see this one go a little better for everyone involved.”
Martin feels nearly sheepish. “I feel like I’m being sat down by a parent.”
“Yeah, well.” Gerry shrugs. “Da doesn’t live in London, and I’m the only other family he’s got left. I’m also happy to fill in for sibling, cousin, or wine aunt.” He ticks the roles off on his fingers.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Martin says. “We’re sure to have need of a wine aunt at some point, and I haven’t got one of my own.”
Just his mum, who hasn’t spoken to him in months. He’d skimmed his email hopefully this morning, after finally giving in and opening the e-mail from the poetry journal (an acceptance) and been no more disappointed than usual to find nothing from her, though he writes every week.
“All this to say,” Gerry says, helpfully tugging him from that line of thought, “I’ll still take your side when he ruins everything. I’d hate to lose access to the coffee.”
“Let’s hope that doesn’t happen.” Martin gives him a smile. It’s difficult to imagine the Jon he spent such a pleasant evening with ruining anything. “If it does, you’ll still be welcome here.”
Gerry slips away toward Jon’s table, and Martin watches him go before returning his focus to the creation of several more drinks. He doesn’t believe it for a second, that Gerry would take his side if it did come to something so ridiculous as taking sides. He’s seen them interact enough since opening up shop to know the man loves Jon very much.
Work sweeps him up then, and he fully loses track of the time again. The next thing he’s aware of is Jon stood across the counter, looking at him with another expression he can’t fully parse, but he likes the way it feels.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hey, yourself.” Jon’s got both hands stuffed into his pockets. He brings one out, something small and silver clutched in his fingers. “I’ve got to go, but I thought I should return this for now.”
Martin accepts the proffered key, tempting as it is to tell Jon he’s welcome to hold onto it a while, and slips it into his own pocket. “Good luck in class today. I hope a few of them are attentive.”
“I won’t count on it,” Jon says, and begins to step away, but hesitates. “I’ll see you later?”
“I really hope so.” Martin reaches into the display for an extra strawberry-graham scone, the sight of which brightens Jon’s face enough to keep Martin on air for the rest of the day. After handing it over, he indicates the café around them. “You know where to find me. I won’t say no to some after-hours company. We also have a delicious lunch menu, as I think you’re aware.”
Oh, he hopes that didn’t come off as too eager, or pushy.
Jon nods and throws a look over his shoulder toward Gerry, who catches him do so and taps at his wrist. He leans in a bit, his voice soft and more than a little embarrassed, “I’m not going to kiss you while you’re working, but I have been thinking of it.”
“I heard that,” Georgie sing-songs from the till.
“No you didn’t,” Jon says more loudly. “You saw my mouth moving and you’re hoping I’ll start blushing.”
“Is it working?” The customer in front of Georgie laughs.
“No.”
“Pity.”
Martin thinks he might be, himself. He tucks a wayward curl behind his ear and says, “You know what time we close, if you’d like to kiss me when I’m not working.”
Jon’s mouth curls and Martin’s stomach does goes newborn foal ungainly. He watches Jon till he’s gone from sight; how’s he meant to focus for the rest of the day now, with the promise of Jon’s lips on his own tonight? Probably he shouldn’t allow a repeat of last night, though, for sanitary, health inspectorial reasons.
He makes an entire drink on autopilot, his thoughts far away, before Michael says, “I saw that key exchange. It must have gone very well.”
“Oh, shut up.” Martin considers tossing the nearest available pastry at him, decides it not worth the loss of sale, then grins. “It really did.”
Martin is content—though content’s not really the word for it—to wait for the Archive to settle back into proper order around him. Sight is the first thing this time, the clutter of his desk, followed by the tune Tim has begun to whistle (Loch Lomond, he thinks) and Sasha muttering, and then the smell. Funny how his senses never really come back in the same order as they left. Maybe there’s something to that, or maybe it means nothing at all. Maybe none of it means anything, and the mirror’s just out to see him squirm.
This entire situation is—it’s not what he needs, it’s not helping anything. He likes it, at least parts of it, and he’s no doubts as to how healthy that is. Letting himself get absorbed in watching his counterpart’s life certainly isn’t a beneficial coping mechanism, but what else is he supposed to do.
You couldn’t have him before and you can’t have him now, he thinks again. You’ll just also have to live with…dating Jon, sort of.
It’s not going to do anything for him to sit here and reflect (oh, haha, very funny Martin, how clever) on any of this for the day, so he takes a breath and jots the experience into his notebook. At least there’s nothing too embarrassing to put down this time. When he’s finished with it, he skims his list of what else needs done. There’s no end to it.
Holloway’s Giving & Grace, the charity shop, is written in a corner with a star beside it, and it has been a while since he attempted to reach out to them. The owner is back in by now, surely? It’s worth another try, before he settles in with proper Institute business. The only reason the mirror isn’t proper Institute business, the reason it’s not gone to the researchers, is he and Jon haven’t wanted it to.
He shuffles notes around while the phone rings, searching for the page from his first call to the charity shop. Will the owner have returned or is he wasting his time? Probably wasting his time either way, but—
“Holloway’s Giving & Grace, you’ve reached Gretchen. How can I help you?”
“Hi Gretchen,” he says, “I’m not sure if you remember, but my name’s Martin, I called in once before to ask about a mirror I bought there?”
“Right, you wanted to know where it came from, didn’t you? Caitlin is—just a moment, dear,” Gretchen says, and then through a burst of static he hears her say, “Caitlin, if you’ve got time there’s a call.” A pause, and then, “Here, Martin.”
There’s the sound of the phone being handed off, and then a soft-spoken woman says, “This is Caitlin.”
Martin explains himself over again, drumming his fingers on his notes. Nothing is going to come of this, he already knows, but maybe, maybe he’ll get lucky and Caitlin Holloway will be the best record keeper they’ve ever called up for a charity shop.
Caitlin says, “You know, I do remember that mirror coming in. It was so pretty I nearly kept it myself.”
His heart leaps into his throat. “Did you?”
“Yes, but that’s not the sort of habit I’ve gotten into, running this place, you don’t stay open by keeping the inventory, and I remember it felt sort of—this might sound silly, but it felt tired, the way old items sometimes do, and I had the feeling it was looking for something I couldn’t give it. Now, let me see here…” There’s the sound of several long keystrokes and then a sympathetic, “I’m sorry, it looks like it came in as part of a miscellaneous collection. The donor didn’t leave us a name.”
Blast. “You wouldn’t remember anything about the donor, would you?” he asks, a tad desperately.
Caitlin makes a thoughtful sound. “Only that it was a man, seemed keen to be rid of the collection. Is it important?”
“No,” Martin says; he hadn’t been relying on this line of investigation, had already known better, but it really would have made his life easier. Suppose they can’t have that, just something being easy for once, anything at all going well. “I don’t know, maybe. Do you think you could call me back if you remember anything else?”
“I suppose I could,” Caitlin says, sounding reasonably baffled.
Martin rattles off the Institute’s number, and says, “Thank you for your help, Caitlin. I’ll let you get back to your day.”
She wishes him well and he returns the phone to the receiver, puffing out a breath. Well. That was completely useless.
Martin glances up at a light thumping sound, and finds Sasha scowling at her computer. “Giving you trouble again?”
“I can’t get into the database I usually use,” she says.
“Odd, how much that’s been happening lately.” Tim quirks an eyebrow. “You’re meant to be our computer genius.”
“I know that, I don’t know what the problem lately is,” Sasha complains.
“Maybe you need a new computer,” Martin suggests, and picks up his buzzing phone. The screen indicates a new message from Lee.
You’re in Chelsea, right?
He blinks. Yeah, are you?
Okay, there is one thing going well. It’s not easy, as such, given his settled in feelings for Jon and the potentially burgeoning feelings for—he does like Lee. It could go somewhere. Maybe. It’s been a long time since Martin, through his pining, has genuinely allowed himself to consider anything ‘happening’ with someone aside from Jon. And Jon’s turned him down only ten minutes ago, and it doesn’t matter what the other Jon feels for his Martin, because Jon—this Jon—is right.
They aren’t the same.
I’ll be in the area later. Lunch?
Martin doesn’t hesitate. Yes, please. Tell me where.
Over the next week, one man named Jonathan Sims pieces together a plan of action for presenting to his adviser while spending his evenings seated across Martin Blackwood in a low-lit café; Martin offers him tea and food, which hasn’t changed, and Martin offers him kisses, which has. They haven’t the time for another proper date, and it rankles him, but Martin sits on his lap and winds arms around his neck, and he doesn’t mind that at all.
Another man by the same name sees this once, twice, three times.
On the third occasion he has the fleeting thought that fairy tales tend toward threes and he puts it aside. Once, he types a message to Georgina Barker and deletes it again; twice, he looks at Martin Blackwood seated at his desk and remembers how those lips feel against his own, and he wrenches himself back into place. Jon has never had any interest in kissing Martin and it’s not changing now, and it’s not those lips he’s remembering.
He’s just coming free of watching Gerard Keay and Georgina Barker tease the other Jon about his newly budding romance when Ms. Hussain visits the Archive again. His assistants are out to lunch (Martin had looked more cheerful than usual on his way out, he couldn’t help noticing), and when she questions if he’s all right he tells her he just hasn’t gotten much sleep as of late, which isn’t a lie, and he still tastes a splash of raspberry hazelnut on his tongue when she slips him a tape.
In the same frame of time—though it’s also not the same, as the mirror veers toward ‘wildly inconsistent’ in its ability to keep them lined up—one man named Martin Blackwood jots down lines of poetry between fixing drinks and runs as many interviews as he can feasibly schedule. He considers, more than once and especially when he’s on Jon’s lap with a tongue teasing into his mouth, asking if Jon would like to come and spend the night again, but he thinks they ought to at least have one more real date before he extends that invitation.
Another man with the same face sees and does not count.
He takes up his notebook with growing resignation. He reads through the book on folk songs and it contributes little except to make him think it’s time to change tactics for a while and that Lee Kipple might like to see it. Martin sees Lee twice, for their first impromptu lunch and then a second, both spent in a pub where the shadows make him think of leaning in. They spend a lot of time texting, and Martin isn’t sure whether to classify it as friendly or flirtatious.
(He feels a spike of guilt for considering the second, only it’s himself he’s betraying, if anybody. Jon’s not interested, and being in love with him…he is that, nothing to be done about it.)
He watches the other Martin laugh with Michael Shelley and comes back to his lonely flat, not so quiet as it could be with more of Lee’s musical recommendations singing out of his laptop speakers.
Martin Blackwood and Jonathan Sims steal what time they can together; Jonathan Sims and Martin Blackwood speak no more than is professionally required.
It’s amazing, the things a person can grow used to.
Notes:
Hey word processor, you can't stop me from using inspectorial in a sentence, you're not the boss of me.
Chapter 14: looking for a paper clip
Chapter Text
Somebody has been through Jon’s desk.
That may be overstating things. The desk is hardly ransacked: the mass of paperwork sat atop it is undisturbed, Jane Prentiss’s ashes unmoved from where he left them, nothing missing as far as his notice goes—but the drawer in which he stows his supplemental recordings is ajar, and he knows he did not leave it so last night. He runs one finger along the few tapes, surrounded by a jumble of extra blank cassettes, counting over them. All present and accounted for, his own and Gertrude’s. Still, he frowns; he did not leave it this way, and so someone else has been in his desk.
It might have been completely innocent. Maybe they had need of a stapler or a paper clip or a fresh tape and his desk was the first place they thought to look. His assistants had gone home before him yesterday, but Tim arrived to the Archive first this morning, and maybe he just needed—something. Jon flounders for a decent explanation that doesn’t pull his stomach tight.
It was probably perfectly innocent.
His hand lingers over Gertrude’s tape. He hasn’t listened to it just yet, conflicted over whether or not he should do so with his assistants present. If he tells them he’s recording they’ll leave him alone well enough, but if one of them were to interrupt for any reason—
Jon sighs at himself. If one of them were to come in, he might say he found the tape somewhere in the Archive; it’s hardly out of the realm of possibility, the state of the place. There may actually be a dozen tapes belonging to the previous Head Archivist lost among the boxes and his team just hasn’t run across them yet. He hasn’t the faintest what to expect from this tape. Ms. Hussain made it clear she hadn’t listened to it herself, had no idea if it was relevant to the case or if it was just an unimportant, meaningless statement like so many they’ve got here. But Gertrude had not only taken the time to not only record the contents of this tape, she’d taken it into the tunnels with her. Assuming, of course, she did die in the tunnels, that she and the tapes weren’t moved after the fact.
Jon scrubs a hand over the beginnings of stubble he hadn’t seen to this morning after the mirror decided to abscond with him for the sake of his counterpart staring, for what felt like several hours, at the glow of his laptop screen. He’d been too busy to shave, writing down that waste of paper, pressing so hard he’d nearly torn through the page in several places.
There are too many questions he hasn’t got the answers to right now. If they had CCTV in the Archive, this would all be easier, the police may have already made an arrest, and he might be able to rest easy, knowing whatever fate met Gertrude isn’t coming for him as well.
“Jon?” Sasha says first, and raps at the door frame second. Her hair is combed neatly as ever, her shirt pressed, and he’s more conscious than before of the rumpled state of his own shirt, which he’d had every intention of putting away after doing his laundry, and it had just sort of gotten away from him.
He pretends he hasn’t been staring directly into the drawer for five minutes and gives her a smile, or his best approximation of one. “Do you need something?”
“No.” She pulls a hand through her bob. Her gaze is…intent. “Is everything all right?”
“Of course.” Jon stiffens. “Why wouldn’t it be?”
“You’ve been standing there for a while.” Sasha shrugs. “I almost wondered if you’d fallen asleep like that.”
Jon forces himself to sit, the motions purely mechanical, and slides the desk drawer shut. “Lost in thought, that’s all. Would you mind closing the door? I’ve got a lot to do and would prefer not to be disturbed. You might let Martin and Tim know.”
“Yes,” Sasha says, and lingers a moment, her eyes never leaving him until she does shut the door. How odd. Was Sasha the one rifling through his desk? Stopping by to see if he’s noticed anything amiss?
In a moment of panic, he opens the drawer a second time, counts over tapes again, and releases a breath. All there. He knew they were all there. And there’s nothing else in his desk worth locating. He frees Gertrude’s tape—he may as well get this out of the way or he’ll spend the rest of the day wondering what’s on it—and slides it into the player.
What were they looking for if not a tape?
“A paper clip, Jon,” he mutters, knowing full well they’ve an entire jarful of paper clips shared among them in the Archive proper. But there’s nothing el—he stills.
There’s nothing else here now. But the mirror was here before. Martin won’t have been looking for it here, he knows it’s in a storage unit somewhere, and maybe nobody was looking for it at all, but if it had been here, if somebody else got a hand on it and started seeing their own counterpart…that’s the last thing they’d need. It’s for the best he moved it, no matter how badly he sometimes itches to have his hands on it again.
Jon knits his fingers together and leans his forehead against them. This, anyone getting into his desk, is only a complication if he allows it to be. But he doesn’t want one of them taking an ‘extra’ tape and popping it in, recording over his investigative recordings, or worse: listening to them. He lifts his eyes and casts about the office; there aren’t the most ideal hiding places here. Stowing them in one of the many boxes of files would run the same risks as keeping them in his desk; it might be worse, in fact, as the tapes being all together in a box would be more noticeable than having them in his desk. If he took them home and something happened to him, if he wound up like Gertrude, his successor would never find them, would have to start ground—tunnels, he thinks with dark amusement—up.
His gaze comes to rest on the floor. It’ll have to be that, then. He can prise up a floorboard later, when the Archive is empty and he hasn’t got to worry about his assistants coming to investigate. For the moment he picks Gertrude’s tape from the drawer and takes a breath. No time like the present.
His finger stops on the PLAY button. The office has gone wrong about him, larger and less a disaster and much more a hallway, bright and then smelling of something that makes his stomach growl and some flowery, over-applied perfume. When his hand falls limp, the office isn’t there at all.
The building is always at its most crowded on Friday afternoons. Jon is usually too busy being locked away in his broom closet to pay it any real mind, aside from scowling at his door when study groups or students waiting outside nearby offices grow too loud to be tolerable, and he’s not pleased to be walking through it now. He’s just wrapped up his office hours for the week with a student worried over an upcoming paper; her score on the Shakespeare assignment was less than desirable, and he’s promised to help her make extensive use of the university’s tutoring resources for this assignment. Too few of his students ever bother to take advantage of his offered desk time, both a blessing and a curse; by all accounts, they prefer not to spend more time with him than necessary, and while the feeling is thoroughly mutual, putting up with him might be beneficial to their marks.
Speaking of the desirability of things—the entire reason he’s left his office, carved out time in his Friday afternoon that he should be using for research, is a short-notice lunch date with Martin. His phone had rung shortly before the period blocked out for students, and he’d have ignored any other name on the screen. It had been easy to picture Martin with the phone pressed close to his ear, looking about to make sure Georgie wasn’t eavesdropping, and Martin had said, “I’m sorry to ask so late, but do you have time to get lunch today?”
He’d looked at his own to do list and said, “Not really. Do you?”
“Not really. Meet me outside Cosy?” So we don’t get stuck inside with Michael and Georgie for twenty minutes neither of us has was left implied.
“I’ll see you at 1:30 then?” Jon had offered, and there had been a pause, Martin obviously considering if he could make the time work, and then a grateful, “I can’t wait.”
Jon knows ‘I can’t wait’ is just a figure of speech, that he’s said it a thousand times himself, both for things he was only mildly interested in doing and things he truly couldn’t wait for, and this is more of the latter. It’s ridiculous. He sees Martin every morning and often in the evenings now, though there’s never enough time, and he checks his watch as he shoves back an urge to do more literal shoving.
“Jon?” somebody says, and he wants to pretend he hasn’t heard, but the voice is directly at his elbow and also belongs to Dr. Bouchard, who he hasn’t spoken to since their last meeting, and so he gives in to looking at his adviser. “Are you in a hurry?”
“I am, actually.” Jon wants to look at his watch again, but refrains. It’s not 1:30 yet, he’s on his way somewhat early, he’s got the time to get to Cosy. “I’ve got a date.”
“Have you?” Dr. Bouchard looks surprised for a moment, and Jon might be offended if he hadn’t been chronically single for nearly the entire time they’ve known each other. Something else he can’t place passes over Dr. Bouchard’s face, and then he’s getting a smile. “I’m glad to hear you’re taking some time for yourself. I won’t keep you. But I will see you later?”
“Yes, of course.” Jon’s smile is held up primarily by willpower, along with a dusting of reference matter and Dr. Bouchard’s confidence in him.
“Good. Go on, don’t be late on my account.”
Jon leaves him there, dodging between students and professors alike on his way into the afternoon sunshine. It’s meant to rain today, and he doesn’t trust the sky not to darken and open before he’s reached his destination, but the city is still dry by the time he spots Martin leaning against his own storefront, chatting with a dark-skinned woman in a headscarf. Jon slows, and for a moment, just looks from afar.
It’s not the first time he’s done so. He used to cast furtive looks in Martin’s direction every morning, hoping to go unnoticed and hardly knowing why he was doing so. Sometimes he would look for longer, the way he does now, absorbing Martin’s smile and the way it lights his entire rounded face, the way his throat moves when he laughs, the way he drags his hand through dark, bouncy curls, and when he looks now, he finds himself unable to work through the fact that this man is his. Even if it doesn’t last, if he fucks it all up later on, Martin Blackwood will always have been his for a little while, and the fact of it boggles his mind.
Martin glances away from the woman. His eyes meet Jon’s, his smile stretching broader, and his hand lifts into the air, fingers wiggling in greeting. He calls, “What are you standing over there for?”
Admiring the view.
Jon closes the distance and says, “I didn’t want to interrupt.”
“You’re not interrupting,” Martin promises, solving Jon’s uncertainty of what to do with his hands by slotting theirs together.
“No, that would be me,” the woman says, and Jon takes the time to properly look at her. She’s an inch or so taller than he is, her hair covered by a headscarf, and her eyes a pleasant shade of hazel. He’d be remiss not to note the police uniform. “You must be Jon.”
Martin shrugs at the lifting of his eyebrows. “I might have mentioned you.”
“I asked what he was doing outside.” She takes a look over her shoulder, into Cosy. Must be waiting on somebody. “He said he had a date. I’m Basira, by the way.”
“It’s nice to meet you,” Jon says, entirely too aware of Martin’s fingers curled around his own. “Do you come here often?”
“Just discovered it this week.” Basira shakes her head and amends, “Daisy discovered it for us.”
The door opens behind them and the smell of cinnamon and apples washes into the London air. Another woman appears, several inches taller than Basira and more visibly sturdy, with red-brown hair pulled into a messy bun; she carries a cup in each hand and a paper bag under her arm. A patch of ink peeks out from beneath her collar, the bulk of it hidden so Jon can’t tell what the shape might be.
“And here she is,” Basira says, accepting one of the cups with a grateful smile.
The new woman, evidently Daisy, gives Jon a curious look. “You ready to go, Basira?”
“Sure—you two have a nice lunch.”
The pair of women walk down the street, and Jon follows their progress till they’ve rounded a corner, at which point he becomes far more interested in Martin leaning on his arm and saying, “There’s a good Indian place a few blocks down, unless you have something else in mind. I’m open to suggestions.”
“Indian’s fine,” Jon says. “It’s never a poor time for naan.”
Martin laughs a little and tugs him the opposite direction from the police officers. “How’s your day been?”
“Well, the bad part is scheduled for later.” He glances at the sky, which has decided on now to begin darkening, and regrets not having an umbrella on hand. They’ve got plenty in the flat, Gerry having a habit of coming home with a new one every time it begins to rain while he’s out without one, but Jon rarely thinks to check the weather.
“You’re scheduling your bad parts of the day now? I didn’t know that was an option, or I’d have been doing it all along.”
“I have a meeting,” he explains, and Martin allows him to gripe about just barely knowing what he’s doing until they’ve reached a hole-in-the-wall Indian restaurant.
Once they’re seated and eyeballing menus, Martin says, “Is it all right if I ask a question?
“Aside from the one you just asked?” Jon says, and Martin gives him a wry smile. He waves him on. “Ask away.”
Martin lays his menu down and looks at him thoughtfully. “Why are you doing this when it stresses you out so much? I don’t think you much enjoy teaching, so is there something else you want to do with it?”
Jon blinks at him. He nearly laughs; he thinks, on a very specific level, Martin has seen right through him. He can’t stand teaching, and his doctorate will do little for him outside of academia, but he enjoys academia itself, usually, and this path allows him to dedicate himself wholly to the search.
“I’m searching for something,” he says, resting his cheek against one fist.
He doesn’t expound, won’t say what he’s searching for. Magic. Fairy tales. The silver-dew land of Fairy. Martin hadn’t laughed at him when he revealed his area of expertise, and it’s fully possible Martin would not laugh at him for this. That Martin would understand, smile at him, tell him it’s something beautiful. But it’s possible Martin would laugh at him, and then Jon would be unable to continue this relationship, and he’s not sure he could stand that. There’s a reason he hasn’t confided in anybody aside from Gerry, not even Georgie.
“It is stressful,” he allows, “but I do think it’s worth it. The café stresses you out at times, doesn’t it?”
Martin says, “I suppose that’s fair.”
A short, cheerful woman bustles over to take their orders; true to his word, Jon settles on naan, as well as biryani, while Martin orders a plate of tandoori chicken.
“Enough of my day,” Jon says, “tell me about yours.”
Martin’s face brightens. “It’s been good. I told you I was working on bringing in more help, and I’ve had a few really good interviews. I have one more scheduled, but starting next week you’ll be seeing some new faces around.”
“Oh?” Jon smiles back at him. “So you might be able to make more time?”
“I might.” Martin leans toward him. “Is there something I’ll be needing more time for?”
“It’s possible.” Jon’s eyes are drawn to Martin’s mouth. He hasn’t had a kiss so far today; it’s not exactly the sort of thing they make time for during the morning rush. Martin is a truly excellent kisser; Jon can’t be faulted for having grown somewhat addicted, early in the relationship or not. “If somebody said they’d like to take you to dinner this weekend…”
“It might depend,” Martin says. “Could you describe them for me? Do you think they’re my type?”
“I really hope so,” Jon says, and Martin laughs, and he wants to drag him across the table, but he hasn’t got the nerve for it. “Maybe we should have skipped lunch.”
“Sorry?” Martin’s smile goes somewhat baffled.
“I didn’t mean to say that aloud.”
“Well, you have. I don’t think either of us have the time for more than lunch just now.”
Jon finds an interesting patch of table to focus his attention on. “I’d rather be kissing you than having lunch with you.”
“I think we can find time for that later.” The grin is audible.
“God, I hope so.”
He hadn’t meant to say that, either. The way Martin’s looking at him when he persuades himself to make eye contact again, he doesn’t mind that he can’t take it back. The rest of their lunch date passes pleasantly. By the time they leave, the rain has begun, just a light drizzling of it.
“Thank you for making time today,” Martin says.
“I’m trying to—” Jon drags a hand through his hair. “Georgie’s informed me I make a terrible boyfriend.”
They’re a block away from Cosy. Martin takes him by the sleeve. “Do you think it’s later yet?”
It’s Jon’s turn to say, “Sorry?” at what seems an abrupt change in topic.
Martin gives him the cheekiest grin he’s ever received from anybody not named Gerard Keay or Georgina Barker (why’s most of the cheek in his life come from people whose names begin with G? he ought to stop befriending them), sets his hands on Jon’s shoulders, and pulls him up for a kiss. Jon makes a sound of surprise, then kisses him back. The rain peppers down harder, and Jon would mind if Martin’s tongue wasn’t doing lovely things in his mouth. By the time they break apart, Jon is practically on his toes, and significantly less concerned about the night’s meeting with Dr. Bouchard.
“D’you mind,” Martin says, still holding onto Jon’s shoulders, “if I want to judge for myself whether you’re a terrible boyfriend, Professor Sims?”
“I think that would be reasonable, Mr. Blackwood.” Jon resists the urge to tug him in for another kiss. They might stand here all day, and that would attract looks, leaving aside that he has plenty to do and so does Martin. “Also, it’s been a few years, I might be better at it now.”
The sky opens completely when he leaves Martin at the door to Cosy. He supposes it would.
If being grappled by the mirror weren’t disconcerting enough on its own, leaving his office to one combination of smells and washing back into place to a different collection altogether—rain and grass and concrete—is excessively so.
Jon’s hand remains in the air over the tape player. He needs to write this down. But it was only a date. It was only the other Jonathan Sims enjoying his life. There was Ms. Hussain as well, in the same position she has in their own world, and he wonders idly if they've got a Section 31. His notebook is in the bag at his feet.
It was only a date. Some things can wait.
He presses PLAY.
Chapter Text
EDIT 9/8/19: This chapter was previously a notice of discontinuing the fic. It's obviously come back, but I'm leaving this chapter in place because I don't want to destroy the comments. The story properly continues in the following chapter.
Chapter 16: knots pull tightest
Notes:
So basically what happened here...is that I was trying very hard to create this fic's tl;dr, and it wasn't working. I considered taking the concept into novel form to finish it that way, and that also wasn't working in my head.
Turns out: the story demands to be told.
I am reviving both Through the looking glass and something rich & strange, because they won't leave me alone, which is, I suppose, a firm reminder of why I keep doing this whole writing thing.
Chapter Text
It's not a date.
Martin tells himself this repeatedly as the hours tick by on Saturday. They haven’t said the word date, so it can’t possibly be one. It doesn’t work that way. (Does it? He’s not what you’d call an expert. Hardly a novice, truth told.) He and Lee are grabbing dinner—at a pub, that’s all, just a pub the way they’ve done lunch, and those occasions haven’t been dates, either—and then heading over to another music club in Brixton, to see a group called Aurora, Auroras. Lee insists Martin will like them, and he’s probably right; Lee’s gotten good at pinning down Martin’s tastes, pays attention to what he likes and dislikes in a way that makes him feel…makes him feel…some sort of way.
It's not a date.
An open book sits on the coffee table before him, beside a half-drunk cup of tea that’s flavored with cinnamon and going cold while he bungles the simple task of reading. He’s scanned the same paragraph once, twice, eight times without taking in a word of it. Martin rubs at his temples and flips back to the book’s cover: Mirrors & Windows: The Lore of Glass by Shelby Wood, and snorts. He pushes the text away. Rubbish. Even if he were able to focus, he wouldn’t be accomplishing anything. None of the books piled in his living room or on his desk have anything useful to tell him.
He checks his phone; it’s coming up on six, when he expects Lee at his door, shaggy-haired and smiling warm enough to melt away his worries over the mirror for a few hours.
All right, the plans they’ve made do share an awful lot of traits with something you would call a date. But there’s no reason for him to get so out of sorts over it. Because if it were a date—which it isn’t, not with nobody having suggested it is—that would be fine. It would be good, great, even fantastic! The sort of thing he ought to let himself enjoy, let it be that easy, the way nothing else is.
The mirror certainly isn’t.
The mirror is complicated and impossible and it’s all bound up in his sinew and he swears he feels it there, tugging at muscles and settling in bone. It should worry him so, and it doesn’t; it worries Jon. He knows it does. Jon’s been cagier than ever since the other Martin and Jon began dating—Martin’s face warms at the memory of the other Martin, the happy, courting Martin, settled on his own Jon’s lap, their hips matching each other’s rhythm as though it were the most natural thing in the world to fall into, the heat of Jon’s body and the catch in his breath, and would this Jon sound the same? would he feel it? would his body mold so well to Martin’s? Moot questions, any of them. That Martin and Jon may be growing closer, but the fissure is only widening on this side of the glass.
It’s funny—except funny’s not really the word—it’s stupid. He’d thought, with Jon already isolating himself since Prentiss’s attack on the Institute—on the Archive, on them, she hadn’t seemed too terribly concerned with the upper levels, but probably she’d have gotten there eventually—he’d thought the mirror might bring them closer together. If only in the most marginal sense. That sharing this might let him through Jon’s shields.
Instead Jon’s added a few more shields and sour looks.
But he’s the only reason Martin’s much bothering to research anymore. Because it’s obvious Jon’s more scared of the mirror than he is himself, and if Martin can help him at all—if Martin can make something better for him—if—
It won’t change anything. It won’t turn him into Jon’s hero, or whatever it is he’s trying to be. What is he trying to be?
Better.
More deserving.
Like the other Martin.
The book he’s got is getting him nowhere awfully quickly, same as every other book he’s gathered from the library, and the way Diana and Hannah look at him each time he wanders back into their scholarly sanctum tell him burning through resources quickly. Maybe he ought to change tactics; focus harder on another facet of the thing. He gropes for a thought and comes up with alternate universes?, which sounds still ridiculous at first pass, but that’s what it is, isn’t it? They’re seeing another universe.
“Probably tell me to check out the sci-fi section at the public library,” he mumbles.
Martin clicks his pen several times. This is growing tiresome and he has a—an evening out to be getting ready for. The problem’s not going anywhere, not a time-sensitive sort, and so he abandons the effort.
“It’s not a date,” he says into the gloom of his wardrobe several minutes later, as though saying it aloud this time will make it more convincing. “It’s not a date, so it doesn’t matter what I wear.”
It sounds, at first, as though somebody has answered him from within the cramped press of his clothes, stuffed together as they are in the too-small wardrobe. Martin startles, jerking his hand back from the T-shirt he’d been absently fingering, and then he sighs. “All right, have it your way.”
And so the mirror does.
“The job’s yours, if you want it.” Martin levels his eyes on the man across from him, olive-skinned and auburn-haired, with a youthfulness about him that’ll fit right in with their university clientele. His smile twitches wry. “If you don’t mind working for somebody younger than you.”
The man—Jack Barnabas, most recently employed by the Canyon Café in Sheffield and newly moved to London—waves this concern away like so many clouds. “Never been a problem before. When do you want me to start?”
Martin spares a look at the half-written schedule in front of him. It’s no longer only his own name, and Michael’s and Georgie’s, written across every hour of every day. Now they’ve got Harriet Lee, an art student from King’s; Oliver Banks, come from a finance background and having informed Martin he was “in dire need of a career change” during the interview; and Paul McKenzie, an elderly widower looking for something to do with his time (Martin has promised him plenty of activity, and though the man seems plenty spry for his age, he intends to schedule him in the evenings till he’s got a firm idea what he can handle). Michael’s still on every morning, and Martin intends to be here more than probably need be, but there’ll be breathing room. More spare hours to spend with a particular doctoral student, supposing the doctoral student can also find the hours to spare.
“What do you say to Monday afternoon?” Martin offers. “I’ll call later on, when I’ve finished making the schedule, if that’s all right.”
Jack nods, and Martin stands, offering his hand for a quick, firm shake before escorting Jack through to the front of the café. It’s late enough in the afternoon that the lunch rush has come and gone; Georgie’s at the till offering a lesson to Harriet, who’s waifish, with dark, red-streaked hair she keeps coiled on her head, and Michael’s fixing a drink for an owlish young man who may have rolled out of bed five minutes ago.
Martin waits for Michael to hand off the drink before sidling up to him and dropping his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “You didn’t hear it from me, but it’s possible one of us actually gets a day off soon.”
“That’s a cute thought,” Michael says noncommittally. “I’ll keep my hopes in check, if it’s all the same to you.”
Martin laughs. “What you mean is you’re not going to trust anyone else to do the baking.”
“Can you blame him?” Georgie says; her multitasking skills include a mastery of eavesdropping, whatever else she’s doing. “There’s nobody else in England who could live up.”
“You’re exaggerating,” Michael says, pink dusting his cheeks.
“I know I’m new,” Harriet says, “but I don’t think she is?” The young woman’s been picking on and off at an almond cinnamon muffin since the start of her shift.
“She’s not,” Martin says cheerfully. “I’ve just got a spot of paperwork to finish if you’re all right out here without me a few more minutes?”
He waits for Michael’s wordless waving away before ducking back through the kitchen and into his office, where he checks over the schedule again. Seven of them now. That should be plenty, once everyone’s trained up. He reaches absently for his phone and notices, with a spot of warmth, he’s missed a call from Jon and has a new voicemail. May as well give that a listen while he’s occupied.
“Martin, hello,” Jon’s voice says, before a pause to clear his throat. He’s more stilted on the phone than he is in person, or he is in leaving a message, and Martin pictures him clutching his phone to his ear, free hand dragging through his hair and leaving it stuck up in all awkward directions, smoothing it down again the next moment. “I wanted to say we should go out—have a date, that is—at the next—no, never mind, I should have said when I just saw you—or when I see you later—Christ—listen, I’ll talk to you later, and please never mention this to Georgie.”
Martin stifles a laugh and decides his staff’ll be all right several minutes more. He dials Jon’s number, humming along with the Pachelbel’s Canon drifting through the speakers, and then there’s Jon’s, “Martin, I was just on my way into—” A pause, another voice, muffled and deeper than Jon’s, and Jon saying, “Yes, Dr. Bouchard, I’ll just be a moment, if that’s all right?” and then Jon is back to him, voice lowered. “I’ve got a meeting, sorry.”
“You didn’t have to answer, you know,” Martin says, doodling a flowerbed in the margins of his schedule. Maybe he ought to add a few planters to the storefront.
“Yes,” Jon says, “I did,” as though it’s irrefutable, the most obvious thing in the world, and Martin can feel the incredibly stupid, goofy smile pulling at his mouth.
“You didn’t want to let me test out my voicemail skills?” he teases.
“No need,” Jon says gruffly. “They’re bound to be better than mine.”
Martin gives himself leave to laugh. “I rather enjoyed yours.”
“Shut up.” The scowl is audible, the accompanying blush visible. “I don’t mean to rush you, but Dr. Bouchard—”
Right, of course,” Martin says. “I only called to tell you I’ve hired on enough new people that there’s potential for me to not be as disgustingly busy in the future, and maybe this weekend we can make the time?—and Jon, I know my hiring hasn’t got any bearing on your schedule, but you’re always welcome to come and do some of your work here. I hear cafés are good for that sort of thing.”
“I think I’ve heard that myself, once or twice,” Jon says, something almost rueful about it. “I’m not sure I could stand the noise all the time.”
“You can use my office,” Martin offers, before he can think the sentence out.
There’s a moment of silence on the other end of the line, the startled sort, before Jon says, “I wouldn’t want to overstep. I hate to go, but I have to, and I’ll see you tonight?”
“You know where to find me,” Martin says. For a moment he only remains at his desk, scrawling increasingly ridiculous petals. Then he thrusts to his feet and returns to the front, where the volume’s increased, a small tidal wave of customers having found their way in in his absence, including the familiar set of—
“Why’s Michael blushing?” Tim’s voice demands as Martin slips back into the room. “Who’s in here stealing my job?”
“Sorry.” Georgie shrugs in a way that indicates she’s not remotely. Her gaze slants toward Martin. “Have you got another date then?”
“I wouldn’t say that.” Martin shakes his head, waving to Sasha, Georgie, and Tim. Nothing’s been scheduled, so no, he hasn’t.
“Another?” Tim fixes him with a veritable spotlight of intense scrutiny. “You mean to tell me Martin’s finally gone on a date with that Jon bloke when I wasn’t looking?” His eyes sweep next toward Michael, who does an admirable job of pretending not to notice. “So when do I get mine?”
Michael shrugs, continuing to fix a drink. “Dunno.”
“You know,” Tim says, pursing his lips, “I’m starting to get the impression you don’t actually like me.”
“Okay.” Michael hands the cup over the counter to Sasha, who salutes him with it. “And why’s that?”
“You could have written your number on my receipt a hundred times by now! I still haven’t got it!”
“They haven’t actually been open long enough for that,” Melanie points out.
“Not the point I was making!” Tim jabs a finger toward her. “Michael knows what point I was making.”
“Do I?” Michael is smiling, but it’s faint, pained-nearing-rictus, and the newfound furrow in Tim’s brow tells Martin he’s noticed the same thing.
“Give it a rest for now, will you?” Melanie says before Tim can speak again; Tim’s shoulders sag, but he gives Michael one more half-smile and a, “See you later then,” before allowing himself to be dragged away from the counter, to their usual sunlit table. Michael doesn’t exactly watch him go, and he doesn’t exactly not.
Martin clears his throat. “Michael,” he says, “give me a hand restocking the case?”
Michael gives him a look equal parts grateful and anxious and I know what you’re doing, Martin, which he supposes is another thing that comes with the ‘we’ve been friends for ten years’ contract.
“We need more sandwiches,” Georgie calls as they go. “Oh, Harriet, d’you want to try fixing this one? It’s pretty simple—”
And then they’re out of earshot. True to his word, Martin begins filling a tray to carry back out, lest this look suspicious, and Michael follows suit. He waits a moment before saying, “So, Michael…I don’t mean to push, but why hasn’t Tim had a date yet?”
“He hasn’t asked.” Michael’s voice is thin.
“He’s done everything but,” Martin observes. “You could do the asking. Maybe he doesn’t want you to feel obligated, seeing as you’re at work.”
“I remember somebody saying they didn’t want to make a customer uncomfortable by asking them out. Who was that, again?”
Martin sighs. “All right, yeah, you’ve got me there, but—”
“He doesn’t mean it,” Michael interrupts. “Stop gaping at me, I know what you’re going to say, but he doesn’t. If he meant it he’d ask. He just likes to see me blush and he likes to flirt, and that’s fine. I don’t need…he seems like a bit of a…never mind, doesn’t matter.”
“You like him,” Martin says gently. “I’ve known you long enough to tell.”
Michael shrugs. “He makes me laugh. That’s all it is.”
“Michael.” Martin struggles with which hat he best be donning for this conversation—boss or friend? Maybe he can manage both at once. “If you want him to stop flirting, if it’s making you uncomfortable—and I saw the way you looked out there—I’m willing to have a word.” His stomach drops with a dawning realization he may have missed this until now, been so absorbed in his own newfound happiness with his business and with Jon that he’s allowed his best mate to be harassed by a pretty, charming face— “If I’d thought for a moment Tim was ever upsetting you I’d have put a stop to it. You know I won’t have you feeling that way at work, I hope.”
“No.” Michael shakes his head. “It’s not a big deal. I wouldn’t want to see him acting less…” He makes a vague gesture. “Tim.”
“All right.” It is up to Michael; Martin won’t try to persuade him otherwise. “In that case, I think it’s my responsibility to tell you?” He claps a hand onto Michael’s shoulder and gives it a squeeze. “You’re going to have to figure out what you want to do.”
Michael shrugs. “He’ll get bored, eventually.”
Martin’s not so sure about that; he refrains from saying so.
“Sandwiches!” Georgie’s head pops through the entryway. “We’re running very, very low on sandwiches, if you’re not too busy spilling your guts.”
“Be right there,” Martin promises, and they are, quick enough.
Georgie wrangles Harriet to help her go about the actual restocking, while Martin takes over fixing drinks and Michael manages the till. Martin’s fully lost himself in his task by the time he hears a soft coughing and Sasha’s voice saying, “Martin?” in a bemused, sixth time sort of way. He blinks himself free of his reverie—he’d been thinking of Jon, sat across from him at the table they gravitate towards, his thumb tracing over Martin’s knuckles, telling him what sort of research he’d gotten up to that day; and never mind it just now, because Sasha’s holding something up beside her face.
“Sorry,” Martin says. “I was just”—Lost, of a sense—“a little caught up there. Did you need something?”
“I found this in a book?” Sasha swishes the thing, a sheet of journal paper, and Martin forces himself to focus on it. “D’you know who wrote it?”
Oh. Dear.
Why’d he go and leave that somewhere it could be found?
The thing held up at Sasha’s cheek is a bit of his own poetry. ‘To whom I saw,’ he’d called it. About a figure spotted in a park, once and twice and three times. It’s short, sweet; word choices have been scratched out and rewritten, scratched out again and replaced.
“That’s mine,” he manages, and reaches for it; Tim gets there first, snagging it from Sasha’s fingertips at the same time his other hand sweeps hair away from his forehead.
“I didn’t know you wrote poetry,” Sasha says, while Tim’s eyes wander down the page.
“It’s nothing serious,” Martin says hastily. He remembers, his stomach clenching with the realization, that Tim works in publishing. That Tim is a person with no small amount of clout at his publishing house. He’s not in poetry, if memory serves, works in non-fiction, but still—Martin has never had to be present when the editors at poetry periodicals are judging his work, and Tim’s face gives nothing away, which both helps and makes him more nervous, and oh, god, now Melanie’s wandering back up to see what it is her friends have gotten so distracted with, and Martin wonders, would it be unconscionable of him to go and quietly pass away in his office? Michael can manage Cosy if he does.
Eventually, Tim speaks: “This is good, Martin.”
“Oh.” Martin’s voice is fainter than it ought to be. Melanie’s craning her neck, leaning on Tim’s arm to read over him. “Is it?”
To whom I saw once in the spring, he remembers the poem beginning. By the swing set in the rain. I wondered,
It had taken him a week to write the damn thing, and another of going away and coming back again, adjusting one word at a time until it felt the way he liked. Gnawing at his pencil the entire time. Michael liked it, and he’d sent it off to his mother, who had predictably sent nothing in return, though a woman from the nursing home had replied to tell him some of the other residents enjoyed it and she hoped he didn’t mind her sharing. (He had, a little, but the chicken was long out of the coop, so he told her he hadn’t.)
“It is,” Tim says, and the look on his face is a blend of curious and accusatory, as though Martin’s intentionally been hiding this skill set from him. “You know, I don’t work with poetry at all—”
“Yes, I know.”
“—but we are all in the same building and I’m rather good friends with a few of the poetry editors. I wouldn’t mind putting in a word, if that’s something you’d be interested in.”
Martin stares at him. “You what?”
“Only if you want me to,” Tim assures him. He offers Martin the poem and he takes it, folds it tenderly into his pocket. “But if the rest of your work—I assume you’ve written more than one poem?—is as good as that, it could be worthwhile. I understand if you’re just dabbling though.”
“I’ve had a few published,” Martin says, and Tim grins—and then that grin shifts, and Michael says, “Tropical blend and a chocolate berry frappe are up. You want me to do the frap?”
“Please.” Martin moves away, but not so far he doesn’t hear Tim, voice lowered to say, “Michael, if you ever want me to dial it back or to stop, you only have to say,”; he misses Michael’s response.
If that ’s something you’d be interested in.
Is it? He’s got his café and he’s got Jon, and the occasional printed poem, and he doesn’t need more; then, it would be something, wouldn’t it?
The knocking draws Martin back. A series of quick raps that, upon registering them, don’t sound like the first. Martin curses, and though his vision hasn’t fully come back to his flat, though Cosy lingers in his nostrils and under his fingertips, he touch-navigates his way to the living room. By the time he opens his door, he’s seeing what he ought to be. At this point: Lee, wearing a navy button-down with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, a hand currently stuck in his hair, allowing Martin an excellent view of the earplug on that side.
“Sorry,” Martin says, stopping himself stammering at the very least. “I hope you weren’t waiting long? I was sort of…” He trails off. Lee hasn’t caught him in a whatever with the mirror since the first time, and he hopes fervently it doesn’t happen again tonight. He repeats, “Sorry.”
“No need to apologize.” Lee’s mouth twitches. “Hi, by the way.”
“Hi.” Martin steps back from the door. “I’m not ready to go,” he says unnecessarily, as though his ratty lounging about trousers and T-shirt haven’t made it obvious. “I’ll only be a minute, if you don’t mind?”
“Take your time.” Lee waves away Martin’s concerns on his way into the flat and tilts his head a touch, and his smile gets that much wider. “Good choice.”
Now Martin manages to return the smile.
Then he scurries off to get ready the way he meant to, cursing at the mirror for choosing just then, when he really had things to be carrying on with. He hasn’t the time to search for the perfect outfit—as though there’s such a thing in his wardrobe and anyway it doesn’t matter because this is only an evening with a friend—and so settles on his best jeans and a flannel that’s seen better days, but he likes to think the wear at the sleeves makes it more charming.
“Ready!” he announces, catching Lee at the coffee table, evidently fascinated by one of the books he’s found there. “That’s just for work.”
“It’s Saturday,” Lee says.
“Yes,” Martin says, “well,” and nothing else, and the silence lasts one awkward beat before Lee steps away from the table, toward the door, and Martin follows.
For a moment—a long moment, out on the street where it’s still light and Martin can get a good look at Lee’s face, the slight sprinkling of freckles on his nose and the way his shirt complements the seaglass green of his eyes—Martin considers taking Lee’s hand. Not. A. Date. He stuffs his hands into his pockets, leaving Lee’s to dangle between them.
They make it a few blocks toward the tube station without speaking, and then Lee clears his throat. “Martin, I’ve got to ask you a very important question.”
“Oh?” Martin’s not sure how it is he sounds so composed when his stomach’s pulling itself into complicated knots.
“There’s a lot riding on this answer,” Lee goes on, which doesn’t help at all.
“What’s that then?”
“Do you prefer tea, coffee, or cocoa?”
Martin blinks at him. The knots, rather than loosening, sort of shimmy. “Sorry?”
“Too much for you?” Lee’s grinning now, and Martin shoves back on the urge to kiss him. It wouldn’t be fair of him.
Martin’s exhale turns into a snort of laughter. “How’s that important?”
Lee nudges him. “You’re avoiding answering.”
“Tea!” Martin huffs a little at the I knew it way Lee nods. “Cocoa’s good when it’s cold, but there’s no reason I should want it over tea, and coffee—I don’t drink it often, but it’s all right. What about you?”
“Cocoa,” Lee says instantly. “Which according to some people makes me childish.”
“I’d have gone more with sweet,” Martin says without thinking, and can’t meet Lee’s eyes, or that smile. “Any other vital questions?”
Lee keeps him occupied with a steady stream of chatter all the way to the pub and through dinner, until they reach the club for the night’s show. This one is smaller than where they met, as are the tables, which to Martin’s inexperienced eye seem the sort of setting where you might intimate to somebody you’d like to touch them, and he’d like to force himself to think of easier things, but it’s grasping at shadows like answers to statements. There’s only Jon or the mirror or Lee, who’s probably the sweetest man he’s ever met, and it shouldn’t surprise him anymore that it’s so easy to slip into conversation with him, so very straightforward to just be with him, and probably that says something about what he’s grown accustomed to receiving in life; it makes him want, again, to reach for Lee’s hand.
He doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t.
Also: Lee was right. Aurora, Auroras is just the sort of music Martin likes, and is coming to like even more. More than once he slips a surreptitious look toward Lee, finds him leaning forward, nearer the stage, and he likes that too, though he couldn’t begin to explain why.
At the end of the show, when Martin stands to applaud with the rest of the audience, he catches Lee looking at him. When the volume’s died down, Lee tugs him in by the sleeve and his mouth is awfully close to Martin’s ear. “Have a nice time?”
“Yeah,” Martin breathes, too low to be heard. Lee taps at his own ear and Martin feels the flush rising on his cheeks as he leans forward to try again. “It was excellent.”
Lee beams and there are those pesky knots again.
“C’mon.” Lee guides him through the tide of people leaving—a seemingly equal number pushing closer to the stage in hopes of meeting the band, which seems the sort of thing Lee ought to be doing, but maybe he doesn’t do interviews, or maybe he’d simply prefer to stay with Martin—eventually, they reach the open air of a comfortable September evening. In this portion of the city, unlike Martin’s neighborhood, there are still plenty of people about despite the lateness of the hour, and he doesn’t feel tired. “D’you want to find somewhere to go, or would you rather head back to yours?”
Martin tilts his head back to peer at the sky. It’s not the best view from here; not the best view from anywhere in London, really, but he can pick out a handful of stars, and when he brings his gaze back to Lee’s face, his freckles, he’s still thinking of stars and music and just of Lee, who didn’t laugh when he said he worked for the Magnus Institute, who seemed like he might properly know, and—
“Grifter’s Bone!” Martin blurts out, and claps both hands over his mouth. Lee’s face has gone shock white. Martin wishes the mortification would grab his ankles and drag him into the ground. “Oh god, I’m sorry—I—I just remembered—your name sounded so familiar and I—you were mentioned in a statement and—Lee, I didn’t mean—” He takes a step back, bumping against someone else leaving, but they’re too tipsy to notice. “I’ll see myself home, you don’t have to—”
Lee stops him. He doesn’t touch, but his hand comes nearer to Martin’s forearm, and he indicates they’d best cross the street. There are fewer people there, fewer still when they’ve walked some way down the lane, and it’s only then that Lee stops to lean against the brick of a building and says, “Jennifer.”
It’s not a question, but Martin nods anyway, and Lee’s return mimic of the same gesture is a thoughtful, knowing thing. “She should have left it alone.”
Martin joins him in leaning against the brickwork. They lean in silence for a minute, then two, three. “Good thing this wasn’t a date,” he mumbles. “I’d have just ruined it.”
“I wouldn’t go that far.” Interest lights Lee’s eyes; his skin’s still bloodless though, so Martin’s guilt isn’t going anywhere. “You just, I wasn’t expecting…” Lee blows out a long breath. “Suppose I shouldn’t be surprised, it is your Institute’s sort of thing.”
“D’you want to talk about it?”
“It wasn’t all in her—whatever Jennifer gave you?”
“It was.”
“Good,” Lee says, managing hollow and mild at once, “because I don’t.”
“Okay.”
Lee tugs at an ear and Martin can’t help following the motion, can’t help reaching himself. Lee doesn’t flinch the way he expects, just goes utterly still, so much it looks like he’s stopped breathing, and Martin lets his thumb drag over the shell of Lee’s ear, the lobe, and then up, up to the edge of the earplug. There’s blood there, ringing the plug.
“I’m sorry,” Martin says again. He’s not sure if he’s apologizing for mentioning Grifter’s Bone, or for Jennifer, or for what happened to Lee. Lee’s hand twines through his own, pulling away from his ear, and Lee squeezes, gives him a little smile from beneath that flop of blond. The knots pull their tightest in Martin’s chest.
“It’s not so bad, aside from the earplugs.” The bleeding, he doesn’t say. He hasn’t let go of Martin’s hand. Martin doesn’t want him to. “I can’t remember very much, but Jennifer—that poor old woman she…” A heavy pause. “At least I survived.”
“If you ever want to—we don’t have to, but if you do want to talk about it sometime—”
“Come to the Magnus Institute?” Lee gives him a smile he might find mocking, come from anybody else. It isn’t. Not from Lee.
“No. Not the Institute.” Martin shakes his head. “Just me. I know what it’s like.”
For once, he doesn’t think of Prentiss when the words fall out. There’s just Lee beside him, holding his hand, and it isn’t a date, but he wouldn’t mind if it were.
Chapter 17: chasing magic
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Jon had written it down, in the end. Of course he had. It needed recording, scowls aside. He’d written that one down, as well as the one that came over him in the kitchen while he wrestled with the possible meanings of Gertrude’s tape (she’d talked about the circus like it was something special, something she understood, something dangerous); and the one that dragged him under when he woke, tossing and turning, at half-two in the morning; and the one that sprung itself at him only moments before Martin arrived in his office and squinted at his computer screen, at his photos of Tim’s home, which he should have known better than to pull up during Institute hours when his assistants are so ill-trained in knocking—
He’s written them all down, is the point. Every damn vision, no matter how peevish they make him, because it’s what he said he’d do. What he suggested. That aside, committing it to paper feels necessary. Fulfills some base instinct, a need almost animal, and he can’t stop now. So he does, every instance of the wrong Jonathan Sims pining over a man he’s already got—maddening—and struggling through his life’s work—even more so. Jon wishes he would just write his goddamned thesis already; Jon wishes he would keep his thoughts to himself, so he might stop noticing Martin’s freckles and his mouth and the way the lazy wave of his hair looks perfect for sliding his own fingers through.
Now, today, Jon sits in his office and says, “Statement ends,” and presses STOP—and waits. Because if ever there were a moment for the mirror’s world to drag him, protesting, under, it seems the moment ought to be now.
The moment passes. He exhales in relief.
Ex Altiora again, but more than that: Michael—Mike—Crew. A man he’d been able to picture perfectly as he read this statement, short and pale-eyed and scarred, because he’s seen him. Spoken to him. Wended his way through shelves and disorderly stacks in his bookshop. Jon laughs, unhappy and strangled. Maybe the wrong Jon isn’t so wrong; maybe there is something of magic in Mike Crew’s bookshop.
It isn’t impossible, much as he’d like to brush it off as childhood fancy. There is magic in his own world, though magic hardly seems the appropriate word for it. Magic lends itself to children’s tales and sweetness—to the wrong Jon’s silver-dew—and the things he has experienced hardly fit into such a box. Darkness. Evil, if evil can be another word for magic, and he supposes with the malleability of language, it can.
In any case, if there is magic or evil or some dark force—Jon winces at the stupidness of the thought—here, there’s no reason it cannot be there as well. The mirror has connected them, after all; perhaps like calls to like. If that’s the case, his own world has rather gotten the short end of the stick.
Jon skims the statement of Herbert Knox once more before setting it aside for proper filing. For the sake of future cross-referencing, he makes a note that it features both Michael Crew and the now-destroyed Ex Altiora. It doesn’t pass his recollection that it was destroyed by Gerard Keay. Seems natural, somehow.
For a second, Jon’s thoughts kick free of their pen, away from his tight control. Would they have been friends, himself and Gerard Keay? If they had known each other, would they have gotten on the way their counterparts do? Would he possibly have—
“Stop that,” he snaps at himself, and goes still. He’d felt it there, a gentle tug like a child pulling one by the sleeve. Heard a low humming of voices. He says, “No. No.”
The mirror pays no mind; it knows better.
The meeting upon Dr. Bouchard’s return had gone not entirely catastrophic. Jon had managed to present him with a plan of action, and it earned him a smile; he’d wilted under it, wished he could share the man’s confidence in himself. That was several days ago; unsurprisingly, he hasn’t gotten far since then.
Today he’s sat in the spacious office again, weariness worrying at his bones. Student complaints. Pity he can’t put in complaints about them, but they’ve earned their marks and he’s not going to apologize for being fair. What’s administration expect him to do? Be gentler, so they can go on and fail in their higher level courses, when it properly matters? They’ll thank him for his harsh tendencies eventually; it has happened before.
“Ms. Waite suggested you’ve been in a better mood lately,” Dr. Bouchard says to him with a fond, knowing smile. “I think she was trying to say you’re too caught up in your personal life to grade them properly.”
“Oh?” Jon doubtless looks as mortified as he feels. “Either I’m an unyielding bastard or I’m too pleased to focus on them? That’s absurd.”
“It is,” Dr. Bouchard agrees; there’s a touch of wryness in it, and another of laughter, and it’s all a relief.
“I believe they’ll pass in the end,” Jon says without thinking. It’s how his courses tend to play out. Scores of grumbling and complaints both official and un-, followed by significantly more well-constructed arguments that don’t make him inclined to introduce his skull to the nearest brick wall, and if they’ve learned only with the intention of spiting him, at least they’ve learned; he wonders if this is why the university refuses to let him stop teaching, happy as it’d make everyone involved.
Future students, he thinks idly, might experience a wash of relief without a clue where it’s come from.
“I’m sure.” Dr. Bouchard stands, and Jon supposes he’s being excused. “Now I can say I’ve met with you, and you’ve agreed to reconsider your marking standards—you have, haven’t you?”
“Yes,” Jon agrees with feigned solemnity. He rises as well. “Of course.”
It’s exhausting, doing this dance term after term, knowing the way it ends and that it’ll begin again until he’s defended his damned thesis and gotten out.
And what comes after that, Sims? In the hall Jon rubs at a spot on his forehead in an attempt to stave off the headache he feels encircling him, like a hyena waiting for its prey to collapse before moving in for the kill, complete with obnoxious laughter. You’re an expert in fairy tales and there’s no practical place for you outside of academia, so you continue teaching.
But maybe they’ll give him a bigger office.
Jon propels himself through the door to what he’s got, already muttering to himself. Gerry’s offered bribery to get him a proper office on multiple occasions—“I can just donate a building, Jon,” he’d all but pleaded after bruising his knees on Jon’s desk again, and Jon had only looked at him, aghast, knowing full well the contents of Gerry’s bank accounts, but honestly, man—and Jon has refused, insisting he prefers to earn his space on his own merits.
Speaking of Gerry—Jon knows he hadn’t left the light burning, and finds the culprit easily enough. It’s not as though there are many places to hide here. Or any places, for that matter.
“Talking to yourself?” Gerry says from his place in Jon’s chair. “I suppose you don’t need my company, then.”
“Have I told you lately that you’re somewhat creepy?” Jon lowers his canvas bag to the floor—which is largely neat on this side of the desk, as he doesn’t need the rare office hours attendee knocking things about—and himself into the guest chair.
Gerry bobs his head less in agreement and more in a ‘thank you, thank you,’ facsimile of a neck-up bow. Then there’s a flash of white teeth and a casual, “You’ve actually been out of your office without me, Jonny. I’m impressed. Martin must be magic. Suppose that means you can stop looking for it now.”
Jon smiles, because he knows Gerry will be unbalanced by it. “I was with Dr. Bouchard, actually.”
Gerry makes a wet-cat face. “That’s so much worse. There’s nothing magic about him.” A pause. “You know what, I take that back. Probably some sort of necromancy keeping him up and about. Have you checked, has he got a heartbeat?”
“Methinks the lady doth protest too much,” Jon says mildly. “Are you sure you’re not repressing the need to fuck him, or paint on him, or whatever it is you artist-types do in bed?”
Gerry makes a gagging sound, his face shifting to full-blown horror. “You know, I was here to give you a gift, but I’m changing my mind, you don’t deserve it.”
Jon laughs, and only then do his eyes fall across the tome in front of Gerry. To be fair, there are rather a lot of books stacked and strewn across his desk, and he can hardly be faulted for failing to notice the new addition—but then, it feels different, more so in the drab confines of his office than even in Lightning-Branch Books, feels shimmery, and he thinks maybe he can be faulted after all.
Of Magic.
“Where did that come from?” he says, more calmly than he feels. There’s a tangled, writhing mass of emotions in his gut now, the primary among them being excitement and mortification that Gerry’s gone and—
“I told you,” Gerry says. “It’s a gift.” His head tilts, his eyes accusatory. “It was, anyway, I don’t know if I want to give it to you anymore.”
“You haven’t got to. Take it back.” The mortification has begun to outweigh the excitement. “I can’t accept this.”
“Sure you can.” Gerry shrugs as though it doesn’t matter. As though this book wasn’t far, far above Jon’s means—which means it’s well within Gerry’s means, but he can’t let Gerry spend so much on something so frivolous (though it doesn’t feel frivolous), not when he’s already providing Jon’s residence and most of his meals and countless intangible things lacking in price tags. “Mike gave me a good deal.”
“Mike gave you a good deal,” Jon says dubiously.
“People like me, Jonny. I’m friendly, it’s amazing what that can do for you. You should try it sometime.”
“It still must have been—”
“Exorbitantly expensive?” Gerry shrugs again, turns it into a languorous, long-limbed stretch that Jon can never help admiring from a purely aesthetic standpoint; he supposes if they traded careers, if he were the artist, he’d want to render that stretch on canvas, but it couldn’t be done justice. “I suppose it was. You ought to see your own face now, you know. I don’t think I’ve seen anybody scowl happily before.”
“Gerry,” Jon says, and loses steam. “I’d have made do without it.”
“I know.” Gerry leans forward, folding his arms together on the desk. “But Mike told me he still had it, and I wanted you to have it. Now, what do we say?”
Jon pinches the bridge of his nose. When he lets his hand fall, he can’t help a helpless smile. He doesn’t deserve Gerry, he really doesn’t. “Thank you.”
“There’s a good chap,” Gerry says cheerfully, and gets to his feet in a motion that ought to be clambering, but Gerry’s always been unreasonably graceful, might have been a dancer in another life, and heads for the door. “Pip pip and all that. I’ll leave you alone with your new lover now, might not even tell Martin you’ve begun an affair.”
Jon rolls his eyes. “Piss off.”
“I love you too.”
Then Gerry is gone, and there’s nothing for Jon to do except reach for the book. At first he only cradles it, the way new parents cradle minutes-old children. It’s heavier than he remembers, the steady old weight that some books seem to gain over the years, collecting bits of their readers, adding wisdom and becoming more. He runs his fingers along the spine, well-preserved leather, worn by age but undamaged, over the grooves of the title, all the way from top to bottom corner.
And it feels as ineffable as magic; it feels like the silver-dew land of Fairy.
Jon breathes in a short, nervous breath, like he’s afraid that too deep an inhale will chase the sensation away, like it’s a delicate thing he must treat with the utmost care.
It’s almost too much, to open the cover and run a finger along the weathered title page. The book has been cared for, but it has also lived a life, and Jon has always liked his books best that way. He lingers just inside the cover, over a fallen spot of ink and another blotch that may be tea- or coffee-stain.
Eventually, he makes it to the table of contents. He peruses it even more attentively than the first time. There’s still no sign of J.M. here, though it does feel like there ought to be. Like if Jon only held the book correctly the name would manifest there. The tales are largely familiar ones, those that have always kept him company when he might have gotten lost in the woods—the real and the metaphorical. Several, though, are new to him, curiosities like ‘Little Death Lost’ and ‘The Sunset Dance,’ ‘Crow Gate’ and ‘Ivy & Yarrow,’ and ‘The Marketplace of Night.’ He lingers over these titles, fingers running across letters that feel set into something deeper than a page; he murmurs them aloud, and on his tongue they taste of enchantment, and Jon shivers.
There is something here, in this book that Gerry’s troubled himself to acquire.
The first tale in the collection is a telling of ‘The Twelve Dancing Princesses,’ largely identical to the versions he has collected—he’s an entire binderful of them—except that the ladies dance with shadows across the lake in the princes’ stead.
Jon gropes without looking for the spectacles he rarely dons, maneuvering them open with his lips so as not to sacrifice use of his hands, and nearly stabbing himself in the eye in the process of shoving them onto his face. It’s difficult to say how long he sits there, poring over pages, before a slamming door in the hallway shatters his reverie and makes him jump.
Jon blinks several times.
According to his phone it’s nearing four. He hesitates. Time enough to keep reading—he could read late into the night, if he liked, and he hasn’t yet reached any of the new tales, might have skipped ahead to explore them, but this book bears savoring, each page whispering to be taken in its own time.
But chasing magic isn’t the only thing that drives him anymore. There’s a gentle smile in his head and a voice saying, “You know where to find me.” He rises.
Martin Blackwood is certainly easier to locate, though Jon thinks they might be a little bit the same thing.
Jon’s office returns in slivers of light and shadow and place. The tape recorder is in front of him. Isn’t in front of him. Is, again. The smell of the room breezes by him, veined with the wrong Jon’s cedar wood soap. Silence falls in a wave and is replaced by the sound of his team in the other room. He stays still at first, white-knuckling the arm of his chair.
“Dammit,” he mutters without any intent to do so. He lashes out just as thoughtlessly, sending a tower of paper and folders to his floor. He watches it happen as though from a great distance, dispassionate about the mess, more livid at the mirror. For good measure, he kicks his notebook. Again: “Dammit.”
This cannot keep happening.
This is going to keep happening.
There is nothing he can do to stop it.
The door opens and Jon flinches. It’s Martin. Of course it’s Martin, watching him from the doorway with an armful of files. “Oh,” Martin says, too much sympathy in it. Jon doesn’t want his sympathy. Still, he only watches as Martin edges through the door and nudges it shut behind him. Only watches as Martin crosses the room, sets his new batch of files down, and bends to begin gathering up the others.
Martin’s so quick to pick up Jon’s messes.
“You don’t have to do that,” Jon says.
“Was it the mirror?” Martin ignores that, his attention on the scatterings before him.
“No.” It comes out more venomously than he means. “It’s the cursed artefact Tim decided to drop in my lap. Why should you be the only one to my life more difficult.”
Martin flinches this time. Jon spares a moment to feel badly about it, then steels himself against the feeling. He has nothing to feel guilty for. Martin did this to both of them.
“I’m sorry,” Martin says, but the tone is tart bordering on withering. His hands stop moving, a sheaf of paper half-gathered. “You’ll need to forgive me for knowing there’s more bothering you than the mirror recently. I just came to drop those off.” He jerks a thumb in the direction of Jon’s desk, the new pile. “I’ll leave you alone.”
“Wait.”
Martin’s halfway back to the door when Jon says it, and he thinks Martin’s going to ignore it—supposes he would deserve that much—but then Martin turns to face him, arms folded over his chest.
“How are things progressing?” Jon asks. Martin’s brow furrows, so he adds, “With the mirror. Have you found anything?”
“I would have told you.” Martin shrugs, shifts his weight from one foot to the other and back. “I’m sort of at a standstill right now. But I don’t think it’s hurting, unless one of us gets hit by a bus.”
Jon feels his own twisting frown at this. “You don’t think it’s hurting.”
Martin shakes his head. “I mean, it’s not pleasant, is it? But we’re both doing all right.”
There’s something unspoken there, a fading to his words that Jon doubts he would have noticed before this entire business began. He shoves away the notion that it’s the other Jon’s influence, giving him a better read on Martin Blackwoods the worlds ‘round; undoubtedly it is, but this isn’t the time for examining that. Better to do so with this Martin Blackwood elsewhere.
“I suppose,” Jon says stiffly. They both know it’s not true; Jon isn’t all right, Martin’s all but come out and said as much, but he’s not going to discuss that now, either. “Very well, Martin, you can go.”
“Sure,” Martin says, and heads for the door, fitting Jon with one last dubious look before he’s gone.
So Martin’s slowed down on researching the mirror. Martin is unconcerned, when Martin is often the most frightened of them all, jumping at his own bloody shadow on especially alarming Tuesdays.
Why, then, isn’t Martin working on this? Does he want it to continue happening? Jon has the wild, irrational thought that Martin did this on purpose, caught him up with the mirror to distract him from the more significant matter of Gertrude.
Oh for heaven’s sake, Jon. The likelihood that Martin would have known where to get his hands on an object like the mirror is slim. The thought is smoke that clears away as easily as Jon waving a hand through the air.
But.
Even if Martin didn’t intentionally bring the mirror into their lives, it’s possible he chose to take advantage. To distract Jon after the fact. Martin is hiding something, after all, and Jon has no means of knowing what that something might be.
I've got to be careful how I handle him.
The thought has multiple sources. Not only whatever facet of himself Martin is hiding, be it something wholly innocuous and innocent or a thing more sinister. (Sinister—even briefly associating the word with Martin would have been laughable, before.) There’s also the matter of Martin having asked him out. His assistant is clearly more susceptible to the influence of their reflected selves, and Jon hasn’t the first idea what to do about that.
He reluctantly picks his notebook up.
It’s only as he’s making note of this newest reflection that he begins to think of books. He wants to mock the wrong Jonathan Sims’ infatuation, his determination that there is something to be made of fairy tales in his world, but he knows too much to merely dismiss that out of hand. Books are more. What is it that puts so much power into a page?
When he’s finished, he sets aside the notebook and considers his options; he collects his things to go. There’s no such place as Lightning-Branch Books in this London, and he can hardly hop off to Lion Street Books for the evening. But there is another bookshop he knows, standing empty.
Notes:
If you read this chapter and thought, "I kinda want Cosy!Gerry and Elias to sleep together now," uh. Good news.
Chapter 18: stay with me
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Standing across the street from Pinhole Books in the fading daylight, Jon is forced to admit—as seems to be the case with so many things of late—he hasn’t thought this entirely through. He glances at his watch and is startled, though given the sun’s trajectory he shouldn’t be, to find he’s been in the same place for nearly an hour.
There’s been no movement from within the former bookshop. There wouldn’t be, with Gerard and Mary gone, and the property unclaimed by anybody new. He supposes, given the history, it would be a difficult sell. Mary’s manner of death…
And so it’s done nothing but sit here, left to disrepair. Jon wonders how dusty it will have grown, without anyone to walk through and contribute their particles.
There’s no use only standing here for another hour. The accountants office and film developer to either side haven’t begun to close up for the evening, but they’re only likely to grow more suspicious if he continues to hover here as night falls more thoroughly upon the city; he probably looks as though he’s casing the place for a burglary. Is there anything within worth stealing? Any remnants from the library of Jurgen Leitner to be contained?
In the end, he crosses the street.
The brass plaque remains in place: Pinhole Books - By Appointment Only.
“Apologies, Mary,” Jon says under his breath, nearly smiling at the ghoulishness of it, “I’m afraid I haven’t got an appointment. Don’t think you’re accepting, these days.”
And he knocks.
And he holds his breath.
It’s difficult to say what it is he expects. For the door to swing open, revealing Mary Keay? She is dead, but she was dead in late 2012, too, and that didn’t stop her from meeting Dominic Swain at her doorstep. He waits a minute—two minutes—listening for any signs of life or otherwise, before determining the door isn’t going to open. Without much enthusiasm—ought to just go home, Jon—he reaches for the doorknob. It refuses to turn. Locked. Naturally.
Jon tamps down on a bolt of irritation at the door, at himself, at his mad urge to come here, as though there’s anything to be gained from visiting a dilapidating, recently haunted bookshop. He considers his next move. The best thing would be to go away, to get some rest, the way everyone keeps telling him. But he can’t stand the thought of a wasted trip.
What are you going to do, Jon, break a window? Someone might notice.
He casts a look about him. There are no easily accessible windows, anyway. Neither is there a doormat under which a key might conveniently be hidden. There is a letterbox, but he finds quickly enough that it’s empty aside from several cricket corpses. He draws a hand along the brickwork beside the door, eyes still seeking out anything that might conceal a key—
A single brick wobbles under his touch. It isn’t much effort to work it free, and he is rewarded a moment on.
“There you are,” he says, like he’d known it all along. He closes his fist over the item, startled by the solidness of that thought. Utter nonsense. He just hadn’t wanted to come away empty-handed.
He shakes his head—checks over his shoulder—and lets himself into the building.
Jon stops the moment the door’s closed. It’s pitch dark here and his eyes need a stretch to adjust. Pity he didn’t think to bring one of the torches he’d utilized when exploring the tunnels. The electric was hardly going to be left on in a several-years-empty London property. He pockets the key, exchanging it for his mobile; the light it provides is better than nothing.
The staircase in front of him is nothing much to look at, webs and their spiders and a stained carpet, a calendar stuck on the wall, left to remember November 2012 until the end of its days. He takes the stairs carefully, his feet leaving prints in the layer of dust, each step accompanied by a creak.
At the top of the stair the air is staler than below, the space significantly more occupied. It doesn’t appear any effort was ever made to relieve Pinhole Books of its stock. The room is packed with books. There are towers of them, absolute mountain ranges, and it feels a wonder that they haven’t fallen in on themselves, given way to gravity, particularly given how precariously some of them totter.
“Gerard?” he calls. Foolish, really. Gerard has passed.
Narrow paths allow a certain sort of progression through the room, and Jon allows himself to be herded by them; it is every inch the labyrinth Mr. Swain described, and in the end it brings Jon to what he assumes must be the same study. He feels a not-insignificant wash of relief, that the fishing wire and pages have been removed, or disappeared on their own, or…what? No matter, the specter of Mary has gone. The place is as empty as it should be. He allows his light to glide across the room, waiting to catch on anything especially gripping; and catch he does.
On a painting of an eye.
It is difficult to make out from this distance, in the dark, and so he picks his way across the room. Only one pile of books topple-cascading to the floor in the wake of him, spiders skittering around his feet in their panic.
The painting hangs at eye level, and the description could never have done it justice. Very detailed, Swain said; stunningly beautiful, Jon thinks now, dragging his thumb across the surface, exquisitely intricate.
Ms. Saraki’s statement wends again into his mind: Better Beholding than the Lightless Flame, Gerard had said. It feels worth reflecting upon now, as Jon studies the painting and the calligraphy beneath. Feels relevant, like it means something, though he’s at a loss as to what. He finds himself mouthing the words, easing into them; Better Beholding. He has the oddest sensation, like he’s come close to grasping something, like he might reach out and touch a place darker than secrets.
Jon tilts his head to either side, peering ever-more-carefully at the painting. His thumb drifts to the frame, the dust gathered most heavily there, and thinks it doesn’t deserve to stay here; he thinks Gerard probably didn’t deserve to stay here either, if he was anything like the Gerard seen through the glass, and he was, or this painting wouldn’t be here.
He takes a step back and looks about the room, as much as he can look about in the varying hues of grey-dark. It’s possible there is more to be found here, if only he had light to do it in. For the moment there is little more he can manage, aside from the disturbance of spiders.
It’s a simple thing to remove the painting from the wall, tuck it under his arm, and lock up after himself.
It isn’t so much later—a morning on, or two, time being a rather relative thing—that Martin finds himself seated at a table at The Lockwood Café in Soho, hands wrapped around a comfortably hot mug of cocoa. It’s a chilly morning, and he’s wearing an oversized, worn-out sweater, his eyes following Lee’s careful maneuvering around the café’s other patrons with a tray. He allows himself, here and there, to pretend they’re his own customers, though The Lockwood Café is similar to Cosy in little more than it serves coffee and tea; and Cosy’s customers aren’t his own, either.
No matter. Lee’s the thing just now.
It’s nice, having somebody ask him to meet for brunch on a Saturday; he doesn’t know the last time anybody did the like. He’s always rather wished Jon would, or maybe he could have asked Jon, and maybe if he had done before the mirror, but—he winces at the memory of Jon’s flat, firmly delivered no, and tries very hard not to think about the other Martin settling on his own Jon’s lap.
The sound of plastic thunking onto the table startles him loose. Thank god for it. Best he not fall any further down that rabbit hole.
Lee’s smiling at him. Lee’s got a lovely smile, and Martin likes the way his hair falls over his eyes.
“I hope you like cinnamon rolls,” Lee is saying. “I didn’t want to make a bolder guess.”
“Everybody likes cinnamon rolls,” Martin says.
“Tell my sister that, then.” Lee arranges the contents of the tray so they’ve each got a hot, mouthwateringly gooey roll set before them. This place was Lee’s own suggestion; Martin’s hardly familiar with Soho cafés, or many cafés at all, aside from the one that isn’t his, outside of an irrelevant, transitive property sort of way.
It’s not, though. He does know it’s not. He hasn’t the business experience, nor the business sense, and he certainly hasn’t the money.
Martin laughs at Lee’s remark, and avoids reading below the surface of it, because that’s all there is, is surface, and he shouldn’t overthink it, though overthinking is one of the few things he’s properly good at. It’s just the sort of thing people say, that. Lee’s not saying Martin ought to come and meet the family. Obviously. His stomach growls as he tears off a bit of pastry; he’d been too nervous to eat this morning, between a moment caught in the mirror and Lee’s invitation.
His first bite of the cinnamon roll practically makes him—well, the sound that comes out of him is embarrassing.
And he really should have used a fork.
He catches Lee watching him, as he hooks his thumb into his mouth to claim the excess icing; he catches Lee smiling, and knows his cheeks must be tinting pink, unruly, backstabbing traitors that they are.
“This is good.” Martin hopes it comes out more explanation than defense.
“Glad to hear it.” Lee has a drink of his own cocoa and rests his elbows on the edge of the table. He gives Martin a considering look, which isn’t usually a good thing when it comes down to it, people looking at him like that; people, that is, not Lee in particular. They don’t usually find much to like, which Martin has always supposed is fair, though he’s not bad looking—he’s just got sort of a lacking, unfinished look to him, but the way Lee’s focused, Martin can’t help think maybe he’s found something to appreciate. Lee tilts his head a smidge, just so his hair falls away from his eyes, and says, “Do you want to go out sometime?”
Martin is so caught off-guard he nearly chokes on his next bite of dough.
Lee adds, as he attempts to recover himself, “Properly, I mean. You said it wasn’t a date before, and I suppose that cleared up any wondering I might have been doing, but,” his smile is a little shy and more than a little wistful and a lot more than a little sweet, “I’d sort of hoped it was a date? If you were trying to let me down easy—”
Martin exhales painfully at this, and Lee stops. A bolder man, or a man not pining over his boss might say something like, Aren’t we already? But Martin isn’t bold, and Martin is pining over his boss, and he says, “Um.”
“You can say no, Martin,” Lee says, so gently it makes him ache. “I’ll be a bit disappointed, but I’m a big boy, I can handle disappointment.”
Oh. Lee will be disappointed. Martin is entirely used to being a disappointment, of course, but he’s never disappointed anybody that way before. He turns his head so Lee won’t see the stinging of his eyes till he’s blinked it back. It’s difficult, with Lee still talking in a rush.
“I’d like to take you out, if that’s something you’d like.”
Martin tilts his head back to peer at the scalloped ceiling, knowing he’s probably coming off as a bit of an ass, given his lack of response. “The thing is,” he begins, and stops, because he ought to look Lee in the eye for this. He does so, and tries again. “The thing is I’m not a very good person to go out with. You’re better off asking just about anyone else.”
“But I haven’t asked anyone else.” Lee’s smile hasn’t given out yet. “So if I said I want to kiss you.”
“I don’t know if I’d recommend it,” Martin says, as plainly as he can. “I’m sort of hung up on my boss, who only just tolerates me.”
“That wasn’t a no.”
“No,” Martin says, and feels utterly wretched at the way Lee’s face falls, and he scrambles to add, “No, I mean—god I’m terrible at this, I’m sorry, this is what I meant about not being very good to—I mean, I’m not saying no. I’m saying…I’m saying I don’t know what I want right now, and I don’t think that’s very fair to you?”
“So if I said I want to kiss you,” Lee repeats, “your answer would be that you don’t know.”
“I’m sorry,” Martin says pathetically, picking at the frayed edge of a sleeve. He hesitates, is always hesitating, and on second thought overthinking isn’t the only thing he’s good at, because there’s hesitation alongside. “You can, if you want. I do like you, I just…”
“Hung up on your boss, yeah.” Lee puffs out a breath that ruffles his fringe. It sounds like something making an effort to be a laugh and failing in a truly spectacular way; it makes Martin feel even worse. “No, s’all right. I think I’d rather wait until the answer’s a proper yes.”
“What if it never is?” Martin asks, because he’s got to be honest, hasn’t he? He’s been in love with Jon for a terribly long time, and while he thinks it would be lovely to be in love with Lee instead, he can’t force the issue, and can it work that way? Being in love with both, or his feelings jumping from one person to another? Maybe he ought to ask Tim—maybe he ought not ask Tim, but Tim’s sure to be more experienced than he is, even if many of those dalliances are the incredibly temporary sort, which is all well and good and Martin’s pleased for him, but it’s not what he wants.
“You don’t have to look at me like that,” Lee says. His smile is back, though it’s strained, and Martin wonders if he looks like a kicked puppy himself, if Lee’s putting on a brave face for him, when the other way around would be more appropriate. “If it never is, I’ll just have to deal with that.”
“You don’t have to be friends with me, if you don’t want to,” Martin says without thinking.
“Don’t be daft.” Lee rolls his eyes. “I may have ulterior motives, but they’re not my only motives.”
Relief floods through Martin at that. It would be all right if Lee didn’t want to see him anymore, but he doesn’t exactly enjoy being lonely, and spending time with Lee is the nicest thing he’s done in years; he wishes he’d just said yes, please kiss me, wishes he could have said that in good conscience.
“Thank you,” he says, and Lee’s mouth does something that suggests he’s perplexed and bemused.
“You don’t have to thank me, Martin.”
Martin wants to explain that he does, but it sticks in his throat. His vision stretches—and the colors of the café invert and jump and do all manner of unreasonable things, and Martin feels his mouth move, but the sound’s gone elsewhere so he hears Michael Shelley’s voice; and The Lockwood Café gives way to Cosy.
“Not to interrupt,” Michael says from the doorway, rapping belatedly at the doorframe, “but you might want to come out here.”
Martin glances up from his computer screen, where the Send icon taunts him. He’d come back here with the intention of doing inventory, but then he’d found himself typing up an email, telling himself all the while it was fine, everything was perfectly fine. His message is complete and it should be the easiest thing in the world to push it on its way. If it were so easy, he wouldn’t have spent the last minute staring at his own words (not half so eloquent as his poetry); his hands wouldn’t be shaking.
He takes the opportunity to think of something else for a moment. “What is it?”
“Georgie’s just threatened to eat a customer,” Michael says in a tone of tired, fond resignation.
Georgie has gotten bitingly sarcastic with customers any number of times since he hired her on—they’ve had several lengthy discussions about what is and isn’t appropriate, and she’d have been let go already if this was a Starbucks—but even so. Martin blinks. “Come again?”
“Chased them out, too.” Michael pantomimes waving a kitchen instrument over his head. “Thought you might want to have a word.”
“What on earth did they do? No, no,” he holds up a hand, “don’t tell me, I’ll have it from her in a minute.”
Michael vanishes from the doorway with a nod, and Martin ponders the mad, endearing creature that is Georgina Barker before his eyes drop back to his screen. Just hit send, he tells himself. Just do it.
He does it.
His chest tightens immediately. It wasn’t much, a quick message blithering to his mother about his new poem acceptance and that the café is doing well and also he’s seeing someone he likes and he hopes she’ll meet him someday; he doesn’t know if she’ll give a fig that it’s a him he’s seeing. His mother’s never said a word against his sexuality, or in favor of it, or edging into the vicinity of it. She’d have to choose to communicate with him at all, for starters.
She won’t answer this message any more than she has the others, he already knows. The nurses will read it, might even give him a ring to say congratulations, but she won’t. He hasn’t heard from her in—his mind shies from analyzing how long it’s been.
He shouldn’t care.
He really, really shouldn’t.
Not when he has Michael to be proud of him, and Georgie, and Gerry, and Jon, who was so lovely when he told him, and so he shouldn’t give a damn if his mum cares, but here he is, chasing her approval anyway. Just the way he’s always done.
Martin takes a steadying breath and makes his way to Cosy’s front, where Georgie is laughing heartily at something a customer’s just said—Emma, he thinks her name is, a small girl who frequently comes in with her mother; Michael’s fixing a drink, and Paul is handing off a cup to an elderly woman with brightly-colored hair. It smells, alongside the usual cinnamon and apples, of passion fruit and mango, courtesy of the smoothies they’ve branched into (themselves owing to Martin musing aloud within earshot of Georgie).
“Mind if I take over?” Martin steps up to the till as Georgie hands Emma’s mother her receipt.
“Ooh, I’m about to get a lecture, aren’t I?” Georgie sounds as cheerful and unruffled as ever. Fair enough. Martin’s hardly the most fear-inspiring boss, but he doesn’t want to be.
“More a question,” Martin says. There’s nobody in line and so he’s not taking over much of anything. “Why is it you threatened to eat a customer?”
“They deserved it,” Georgie sniffs.
“I’m sure they did,” Martin agrees, his eyes following the people on the street until a most familiar group appears: Melanie, Sasha, and Tim, trailed by a smirking Gerry and baffled-looking Jon. His heart beats faster and he gives it a quick mental scolding. It’s unnecessary, is the thing. They’ve got Jon. “But you can’t just—what is it they did, anyway?”
“He made a rude comment to Paul,” she says primly, “because he wasn’t moving quickly enough for them, and when I asked him to please not speak to my coworker that way, berated me for having the audacity to not shut up and know my place, and I’m not entirely sure he meant as a lowly café employee—don’t look at me that way, you know I don’t actually think that—or as a woman.” She tucks a runaway strand of hair behind her ear. “He’s lucky I didn’t chuck his cappuccino at his face. I reckon that might have been fast enough for him.”
“Ah.” Martin considers this. Paul has been a model employee and shown little sign of slowing down due to his age or any other cause; he’s also a sweet fellow, and then there’s the rest of what Georgie’s told him, and he supposes he can’t fault her. He suggests, “Maybe next time you just usher them out quietly. Or fetch me.”
“I’ll think it over,” Georgie says, though anyone would know she won’t.
Then the door is opening and Tim is barreling toward the counter—thank god there’s nobody in the way, as he’s moving a jot quickly for evasion maneuvers—and his voice carries an enthusiastic, “Martin! I have a proposition!” well across the room.
“If it’s about Michael, you’ll have to ask him. I’m only his employer.”
Tim’s pause is loudly thoughtful. “No,” he says after a moment, drawn out as though he still hasn’t quite made up his mind. “This isn’t about Michael—you look perfect today, by the way”—this he tosses in Michael’s direction—“it’s about your poetry.”
“What about my poetry?” Martin offers the rest of the group a wave, though he’d like to give them a proper hello. Jon, especially, who still looks like he’s wondering how he ended up among this group. He settles for a smile before focusing suspiciously on Tim.
“We’ve a sudden need for a poetry collection for publishing in February—some sort of scandal with a slated author, probably best I don’t share the gruesome details in public.” His tone indicates he’ll happily furnish every detail with the barest nudge in that direction. “Would you be interested in filling in?”
“Um,” Martin says intelligently.
“Yes,” Tim says, leaning toward him. “Was that a good um or a bad one?”
“That’s not how that works?” Martin looks, befuddled, at the rest of the group, trying to determine if he’s hallucinating. That isn’t how it works. He’s read up plenty on publishing poetry collections, how it’s all done, and it certainly isn’t there’s been a scandal so how about it? over the counter of one’s café.
“It could be,” Tim counters.
Martin dearly wishes somebody else would contribute, but Melanie and Sasha only look exasperated, Gerry bemused, and Jon’s eyebrows have gone up, and Martin gives him a helpless look.
“Also,” he says, “that’s in five months.”
“Yes, it is.” Tim’s nod is nothing but encouraging. “If you don’t want to, that’s all right, but I do think your work would be a spectacular replacement, and the editor—her name’s Andrea—said it would be fine for me to ask you. No need to decide right now, of course!”
“I sort of feel like there is,” Martin says, because five months is hardly a long time when you’re a casual poet who’s taken that long jotting down a paltry sum of poems in fits and starts, and are any of the ones he’s already got the sort he’d want in a collection? Would he need an overarching theme? A mood?
Tim waves this away. “Soon, yeah, not this second. Here”—he takes a card from his pocket and thrusts it into Martin’s hands, which only just recall how to take things, and a quick glance shows it to be his business card, which looks much more convincingly professional than Tim himself—“in case you decide while I’m not here, and you can give it to Michael when you’ve finished with it, and he need never admit he chose to take my number.”
“I don’t think that would be considered choosing,” Gerry says, which is hardly what Martin wanted someone else to comment on.
“It’s close enough,” Tim says.
“Is it though?” Sasha asks.
“Never mind, you lot.”
“Do you want an espresso, as long as you’re here?” Michael says, wandering up as though only vaguely interested in the proceedings. “Only I can’t decide if I should be making one.”
“Please,” Tim says, his smile brilliant. “Listen, Martin, just let me know when you decide, yeah?”
“Sure,” Martin says, his stomach twisting itself into uneasy knots. He holds a hand out for Tim’s payment. “Anything else?”
“Georgie’s choice of smoothie,” Melanie volunteers, which gets her a wicked grin.
“My usual,” Sasha says.
“You both have money,” Tim grumbles, but nods for Martin to charge it all.
“It’s more fun to spend yours,” Melanie says, and Michael snorts from the espresso machine.
“I only let you because it makes me look good,” Tim says.
It feels a small eternity before they’ve moved on, leaving Martin as alone with Jon as he can be, here.
“That was abnormally eventful,” Jon says, fingers resting on the countertop.
“Even for Tim,” Martin agrees. “Raspberry and hazelnut, Professor Sims?”
Jon gives him a smile and his knees threaten to stop functioning, absurd things that they are. “Yes, please, Mr. Blackwood,” he says, and then a curiouser, “So, Tim’s proposition.”
“Oh.” Martin pokes at the idea where it’s already turning over and over in his mind. “I don’t know? It’s a bit sudden and odd and I don’t know if I really…” He trails off, unsure where that sentence intended to end, further proving he shouldn’t do this. It’s utterly mad.
“Want to?”
“If I’m good enough,” Martin says, and Jon’s brow furrows.
“You’re magnificent,” Jon says, and Martin has to restrain himself from climbing over the counter. He sounds so sure. “You should do it, if you want to.”
“Oh,” Martin finds himself saying again, pleased. “I should—take care of your drink, is what I should do.” He raises his voice. “Georgie, take the till.”
“I’m allowed there again, am I?” she says, sidling in.
“Shut up,” he sighs, and moves away, Jon matching him on the opposite side of the counter, and he wants more than anything to hold onto the certainty of Jon calling him magnificent.
It’s strange slipping so from one café to another. As though his location’s hardly changed at all, though the smell is different; Lockwood smells of coffee and a mixture of pastries, rather than having a defined scent of its own the way Cosy has. And then it isn’t Jon across from him, but Lee he’s blinking into focus—Lee whose brow is furrowed with concern—Lee who’s standing up and coming around the table—and Martin bites his lip hard to get himself properly back here.
“Hey, hey,” Lee says gently, one of his hands coming to Martin’s face and then retracting as though not sure it’s welcome. “Don’t do that. That was—”
“Sorry.” Martin’s gaze drops. Lee looks so worried over him it’s painful, sharp as a knife in his belly. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I know that’s happened before.”
“And what is that?” Lee asks, running a hand through his own hair as though he hasn’t any other idea what to do with it, now that he’s beside Martin. “I’m really beginning to think you should see a doctor, Martin. If that’s some sort of seizure or you’re blacking out, you can’t just go on with it.”
“No,” Martin says. “No, I’m fine.”
Lee looks fairly dubious at this.
“I mean—” Martin swallows. He shouldn’t tell Lee about the mirror. He and Jon have agreed to keep it between them, and he isn’t going to betray that trust. “I’m sorry, I am sort of blacking out and I know it’s not really fine.” He pauses, wondering how best to say this. There’s probably not a best way, so he barrels on with, “I mean, do you remember the conversation we had the night we met, about life being weird sometimes?”
Lee fiddles with an earplug. “That makes me even less inclined to believe you’re okay.”
“I know,” Martin says, because it wouldn’t make him more inclined to believe it either, the things he’s read about, the things he’s seen, and he knows what happened to Lee, but the mirror isn’t—he doesn’t believe it’s like that. “But do you think a doctor would be any help?”
“Probably not,” Lee says reluctantly.
“Right, so…” Martin draws his lip back into his mouth, doesn’t miss the way Lee’s eyes follow the motion. He wishes for a moment he thought kissing Lee would be fairer to him; but it wouldn’t be, not with the way he still wants Jon, the way he hardly remembers not wanting Jon. “It’s something I’m used to, and I don’t think it’s going to hurt me, but sometimes I’m sort of…” He gestures vaguely. “Not here?”
“I did notice that.” Lee scrubs a hand over his mouth, looking conflicted. “I’m thinking I’d prefer to not leave you alone for a while.”
“We can stay here,” Martin offers, and Lee returns to his seat.
“Does this happen often, then?”
“Ish.” Martin shrugs. “It’s not the most consistent thing in the world. Haven’t figured out if there’s a pattern.”
Lee considers him. “And where are you, when you’re not here?”
Another world; a better one. Another Martin; a better—
“Is it all right if I don’t say?” He picks at his cinnamon roll. “It’s sort of…personal?”
Ha. Ha. Very funny, Martin.
“Suppose so,” Lee says, and then, “Just stay with me, all right?”
Martin summons a smile from somewhere. “I’ll do my best.”
Notes:
Some housekeeping:
1) If anyone's deeply curious about the timeline, Martin and Lee's definitely-not-a-date in chapter 15 would have taken place on September 24th, and this would be the following Saturday. I am doing my best to stick approximately to the canon timeline, for the moment.
2) I know nothing at all about the publishing process for poetry collections. Novels? Yes. Non-fiction? A bit. Poetry? Nada. But publishing in general sure doesn't work like this.
Chapter 19: distantly of enchantment
Notes:
Someday I'm gonna write a chapter the length I mean it to be. Someday.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Damn, damn, godammit.
Jon sinks into his chair, clutching his hand to his chest. Blood leaks steadily into his shirt and onto his good hand. The cut feels deeper than he’d first thought, Michael’s fingers having gone through him as though he were nothing harder than margarine. He glances down and feels dizzy, the air sucked out of him by the sight of the wound and pooling blood. The pain is a sharp, screaming thing.
He’s got to have this seen to. He’d thought, briefly, he might see to it on his own, but discarded that quick enough; the bleeding shows no sign of stopping, and he’s not as stupid as recent developments might otherwise suggest.
There is the matter of getting around his assistants. He can hardly expect them to miss him bleeding all over the place and with his luck he’ll leave a bloody breadcrumb trail for them to follow. He grits his teeth and sucks in a tight breath. There’s no other door here, no alternative way out, and there’s a dry irony in that, one he might appreciate if not for—if not for—Ms. Richardson.
“Damn,” he says emphatically, his voice shaking.
Were there a mirror in the office, he’s no doubt as to how he’d look: pale and drawn and terrified.
But there isn’t, and thank heavens for small mercies.
What there is is a first aid kit in the corner, placed there at Martin’s insistence. While it’s hardly going to get the job done, he can at least clean himself up a little bit. Enough to get out of the Archive unaccosted, if not past Rosie’s desk and into the street. He doesn’t want Martin fussing over him even more. He doesn’t want to answer questions about how it is he managed to carve his hand open in his office. There are already too many curious, borderline uneasy glances thrown his way when they think he won’t notice; of course he notices.
They aren’t as subtle as they like to believe they are.
Jon snaps open the first aid kit and frees a roll of gauze, as well as a stack of baby wipes he doesn’t believe came with the thing. They serve to clean up the blood, aside from what’s on his clothes. He winds layer upon layer of gauze around his wound, until he can no longer see the beginnings of red. Only a matter of time, he’s sure. His eyes burn.
Ms. Richardson is gone, and he’s injured, and no better off than he was before.
He shoves the kit back into its place and shrugs into his coat, which does a serviceable job of covering the bloody splotches.
He makes it as far as the door of the Archive proper before Tim says, “Are you going somewhere?”
“I’m taking a late lunch.” The lie rolls easily off his tongue. Sasha’s eyes linger on him, and for all the ease he worries he might not have been convincing. Rather an important aspect. In the end she murmurs something he can’t make out but chooses to decipher as a farewell, and lowers her gaze back to the sheaf of paper in her hands.
“Right.” Tim draws the word out, his own skepticism more blatant. “Have fun. I’ll let Martin know you’ve gone out.”
Jon nods, edging the door open. “And where is Martin?”
Tim gestures to the ceiling. “Library. He’s up there all the time lately, which you’d know if you left your office more often.”
Jon allows this comment to pass, though not without rancor. “Right. I’m glad to hear he’s being diligent.” Researching the mirror, perhaps, despite his insistence it’s not a real concern? Jon hasn’t the time for dwelling on it just now; blood hasn’t stopped leaking from his hand yet. He can feel it. “I’ll see you later.”
He makes it out of the Institute without further human interaction, aside from a quick wave to Rosie with the hand that isn’t stuffed into his pocket for hiding, and hesitates at the street before hailing a taxi. His entire hand is screaming now, and the more quickly he can have it seen to, the better.
“Chelsea and Westminster Hospital,” he tells the driver, who thankfully isn’t the chatty sort. Jon can’t take people just now.
The waiting room is, of course, full of them. He fills in the necessary forms, dots his Is and crosses his Ts, and settles in to wait, Michael’s lilting voice echoing in his head all the while.
The wanderer had a brief respite, but it ’s over now.
He’d thought his response so clever, hadn’t he? She’s gone. As though that would serve as an impediment to a thing like Michael, as though it couldn’t fetch her anywhere a door might be placed. He supposes that must be how it works, doors set where it likes. And it had laughed at him. There was nothing he could have done to help her. He knows this with the same bone-deep certainty that says he was damned from the moment his grandmother unwittingly purchased him a book from The Library of Jurgen Leitner, but it doesn’t staunch the guilt that courses through him.
He jumps when his name is called, before following a round-faced nurse who’s probably still in university—this is a teaching hospital—into an examination room. She gives his form a looking over before peering at him through bright eyes. “You cut your hand?”
Jon extends the appendage in question. “I keep a kit in my office, did what I could for myself, but I thought it might need stitches.”
The nurse begins to carefully unwrap his hand, hissing through her teeth at the sight of the wound. It seems to have stopped bleeding so heavily, at least. He’d started to worry a little there might be something poisonous to Michael’s hands, preventing any clotting. “I think you’re right, Mr.”—a cast-off glance at his forms—“Sims. Dr. Prescott will be right in and then we’ll move you over. Any other health concerns you left off your forms?”
“None.” He supposes he might describe the mirrors stolen moments as blackouts, but there’s no use mentioning those; they’ll only try to find something wrong with him that medical science cannot possibly solve.
“Right then, should only be a few minutes.”
“Thank you,” Jon says, though he doesn’t believe it. When he’s alone again, his thoughts circle back to Michael, gnaw at the encounter. If he didn’t know any better, and if the creature hadn’t felt so wrong, he might say it looked familiar. But that’s impossible. A thing like that, he would remember if he’d met it before. Even seen it at a distance before.
The doctor who enters the room appears to be in her forties or fifties, with hair pulled into a tight bun, and the first thing she says to him, complete with a severe once-over and clipped tone is, “I thought you told Nurse Kincaid you don’t have any other health concerns.”
“I don’t,” Jon says, more than a dash of indignation in it. “You are?”
“Doctor Prescott.” She closes the door behind her and pins him in place so well with a look, he feels much like a butterfly on a lepidopterist’s wall. “How many hours of sleep would you say you get every night, Mr. Sims?”
“I don’t know, enough.”
“No,” she says bluntly, almost smiling now, or actually smiling, but doing so in a distinctly unfriendly way, “you don’t.”
“I beg your pardon?” Jon frowns back at her. “I don’t believe—”
“Yourself? Good, you shouldn’t.” Yes, that is a smile. Not a good one. But a smile, according to the strictest definition. “I’ve had a long day, Mr. Sims, and I’m unable to provide you with the best care if you’re dishonest with me—I assume you came for the best care?”
“I came for stitches,” he says, and she snorts.
“At least there’s some honesty out of you. If you want me to believe you’ve been sleeping well you ought to have a chat with the circles under your eyes. Or I could have the chat with them, they’re certainly big enough. I’ll be prescribing sleeping medication along with your stitches. What lie do you want to tell me about why you need them?”
Jon stares at her.
“Well?”
“I cut myself on a monster,” he says eventually, and bites down on his tongue.
Dr. Prescott’s eyebrows raise nearly to her hairline. There’s a moment of silence before she barks a laugh. “All right,” she says. “You gave me a laugh, I’ll give you that. What did you really do?”
He supposes the truth doesn’t hurt, when it goes unbelieved. “Bread knife.”
She clucks her tongue. “Let’s get you stitched up.”
Jon’s flat is quiet. It always is. Occasionally, when he steps inside, he misses the life in his counterpart’s home.
His hand aches like nothing else. There’s a bottle of pain pills tucked into his bag, but he has no intention of touching them, nor the sleeping medication. The last thing he needs is any external influences.
“Hello, Gerard,” he mutters on his way through the living room. The painting of the eye leans against the wall; he hasn’t hung it up yet, hasn’t even decided if he intends to or not. He knows the painting isn’t Gerard, obviously, he’s not a fool, but it’s easy to think of it by his name. It is a piece of him. Something left behind. And Jon will take what he’s able. He hasn’t returned to Pinhole Books. Not yet, though he knows it will happen. Can feel the itch, because he hadn’t explored well enough the first time.
He still doesn’t know, really, what he expected—or expects, still—to find there. But something, surely. More than this.
More.
For the moment, Jon rubs at the back of his neck, closing his eyes. How best to proceed?
Michael has the potential to become a problem, if it continues to—he gropes for what exactly it’s doing—take an interest. There’s nothing he can do about that. It isn’t just Michael’s face nudging at the back of his mind, but its voice as well, but surely he would remember. A man doesn’t just forget—
The room around him transposes with another, smaller and shabbier and rapidly becoming as familiar as his living room.
Certainly, Dr. Prescott, let me tell you all about my health concerns.
Of Magic is everything Jon hadn’t dared hope it would be. He’s taken it in morsels, much as he’s starving for it. He doesn’t read it in a single sitting, doesn’t swallow it whole the first time he cracks it open, nor the second, nor even the third, though it’s the greatest temptation he’s ever faced. This book bears savoring.
He worries it might know, somehow, if he is overeager, and be less than it is.
He doesn’t think that’s really possible, of course.
Still. Just to be safe, Jon takes it slowly.
He comes to the end of the book’s telling of ‘The Snow Maiden’ and sets it down, his fingers trailing the bottom of the page. It would be so easy to keep going. Instead he reaches for his composition book, blank when he started through Of Magic and half-full now, when he’s hardly begun on the book.
At least, he thinks he’s hardly begun. It’s difficult to tell. It looks longer, sometimes, when the light’s odd. But the table of contents hasn’t changed, and though he’s flipped through any number of times, his silver-dew land of Fairy hasn’t appeared.
“Knock, knock,” comes Gerry’s voice through the woefully thin door a moment before it swings open.
“Traditionally, you’re meant to actually knock on the door before you come in,” Jon says without looking away from his notes. The recorded edition of ‘The Snow Maiden’ fulfilled all of the tale’s more traditional elements, but Father Frost was replaced with a demon-thing called Sunset.
“Traditionally, Jonny, you’re supposed to say who’s there.”
Jon sighs, though he doesn’t mean it. “Who’s there?”
“Whom d’you think?” Gerry says, not unkindly, and there’s a laugh that does not belong to Gerry Keay, and only then does Jon register that there are two sets of footsteps crossing what little there is of a floor in his office. He looks up, and there’s Gerry, and beside him—
“Martin.” Jon blinks at the sight of him, as well as the sheer incongruity of seeing him here. The office doesn’t suit him half so well as Cosy. It’s much too cramped and lacking in natural light and nobody’s ever smiled like that in here.
“Not ‘whom d’you think’ who?” Martin’s looking about the office—it doesn’t take long to cover the entire space, it can be done in a glance, really, and Jon feels himself flushing, because it’s such a mess in here and so damnably small, and then Martin’s eyes settle onto him, which doesn’t help his case.
“No.” Jon shakes his head. “Not that. You’re, er, in my office?”
It’s only half-six, so odd enough that Martin’s not still at Cosy.
“I wanted to see it.” Martin appears to suppress more of a smile at the mountain range on Jon’s desk. “I got a bit lost on my way though, never really spent much time on the King’s campus, you know, and you hadn’t actually given me your office number. Luckily Gerry found me.”
“You could have called me,” Jon says. “I’d have come and collected you.”
“I also wanted it to be a surprise,” Martin chides.
Probably for the better. Jon would have gone to find him, happily, but he’s not sure a ringing mobile would have broken him free from Of Magic’s pages. He catches Gerry’s eyes lingering on the book in question, and Gerry catches himself being caught, and tilts his head in a question. Jon hasn’t explained his search to Martin yet, and isn’t going to make mention of it now, and so he merely nods.
“Jon.” A third figure appears in the door. Dr. Bouchard takes in the more than full state of his office, which was never intended to contain more than two at a time—Martin with some curiosity, and Gerry with a visible downturn, though any stronger reaction is suppressed. “I thought I’d see if you had a moment, but you have company.” To Martin he adds, “I don’t believe I’ve seen you on campus before?”
Martin offers him his most charming smile and a hand. Well. Perhaps not his most charming smile; Jon likes to think Martin reserves that one for him. “Martin Blackwood.”
Dr. Bouchard takes the offered hand. “Pleasure. Dr. Elias Bouchard. And how is it you’re acquainted with our Jon and Professor Keay?”
“I own Cosy,” Martin says. “It’s a café, we’re still pretty new so you might not have heard of us? Jon and Gerry are in all the time.”
“Especially,” Jon says, finally rising from his chair, not that there’s space for him to go from there, “since Martin and I are—together.”
“Oh!” Dr. Bouchard’s eyes widen briefly in understanding and something that might be curiosity. “Well, Mr. Blackwood—”
“Martin’s fine,” Martin says quickly, making a face. “Jon’s mentioned you enough, and nobody calls me Mr. Blackwood except for—well, just Martin, if you don’t mind.”
“Martin,” Dr. Bouchard amends. “I’m glad you’ve gotten Jon to make time for something outside of his studies. His dedication is admirable, but he does sometimes go overboard.”
Jon pinches the bridge of his nose. He catches Gerry’s eye, and Gerry’s just leaning against the door, looking fascinated by the proceedings. Jon endeavors to express please help me with his eyes.
Martin’s rubbing at the back of his neck, looking embarrassed but pleased. “Sure. Anyway, he sees me at work all the time, so I thought I’d come by to visit, but if you need him I can come back later?”
“No, no, not at all, I can catch him another time.” Dr. Bouchard waves this off. “I’m sure your visit is more welcome than mine.”
“Quite right,” Gerry says so cheerfully Jon really wishes he wouldn’t, on second thought, and pops off the wall. “So I’m afraid Jon doesn’t have a moment, but I have if you’re desperate.” He sets a hand on Dr. Bouchard’s shoulder, paying no mind to the wrinkling of his nose as he begins to steer him from the office. “Come along then. If you’re well-behaved, I’ll buy you an ice cream.”
“I can buy my own ice cream, Professor Keay,” Dr. Bouchard says tightly.
There’s a pause, and though he’s only seeing Gerry’s back now , Jon can feel the pure, Cheshire glee in it. “That’s the rebuttal you want to go with? You’re sure? All right, darling, that’s your decision to make.”
Jon moves quickly to push his office door shut. He rests his forehead against the cool surface for a minute that really isn’t long enough; he wonders if he can will himself not to develop a migraine.
“Are they always like that?” Martin asks from behind him.
“More or less.” Jon doesn’t move yet. “Dr. Bouchard doesn’t think well of Gerry, and Gerry makes a point of crawling under his skin. He’s almost as good at that as he is painting.”
A hand lands at the small of his back, and Jon does move then, turning to face Martin, who gives him an easy smile. “So this is your second home.”
“It isn’t much,” Jon says, suddenly self-conscious at the size and state of the place. Cosy is so well put together, and Martin’s flat was as well, and here there’s not a single surface left unoccupied; even if he wanted to put things away neatly, there’s nowhere for the majority of it to go. The smell is all paper. But it is his own disorder, he supposes, and that’s more than can be said for much in the world.
Martin touches his wrist. “I think it feels like you.”
“An absolute mess?” Jon’s smile isn’t so faint as his words might suggest. “It is, at that.”
Martin laughs, says, “That’s not what I meant,” and steps away, insofar as there’s anywhere at all to step in this office. He navigates around stacks of books and binders and loose notes—eventually Ms. Robinson is going to descend from her perch in the library and come after him, the amounts he’s taken out in his own name and Gerry’s, and he thinks some of this might even have originated in Dr. Bouchard’s office. Martin peers at Jon’s packed bookcase. It’s a battered old thing, rescued from a retiring professor, a right pain in the ass to maneuver into the office, and Jon has spent every day expecting it to collapse or explode outward from the weight of all he fits onto it, but it’s held up more than capably, as though it’s proud to be here, or has as much a point to prove as he does, and anymore he cannot imagine his space without it.
“There isn’t any poetry here,” Martin observes, running a finger along an ancient spine.
“There is, if you know where to look.” Jon, knowing well where his possessions have been set for later, makes his way to Martin’s side with ease. These shelves are memorized, and he hardly needs to look to slide a thick volume from the cozy place between its siblings. He does look at the pages; he hasn’t yet managed to memorize the contents of every book in his time-curated collection, largely comprised of finds from Lightning-Branch Books and those Gertrude has removed from circulation, and of course books his grandmother purchased for him at the charity shops; very few, that is to say, have been considered new in the time he has owned them.
It’s the work of another moment, aware of Martin’s curious gaze on him the whole of it, to flip to the appropriate page and clear his throat.
“It’s all I have to bring today—
This, and my heart beside—
This, and my heart, and all the fields—
And all the meadows wide—
Be sure you count—should I forget—
Some one the sum could tell—
This, and my heart, and all the Bees
Which in the Clover dwell.”
When he lowers the book, and when he looks at Martin, and when he begins to say, “I know I don’t really have the voice for poetry—,” and when Martin interrupts him with a kiss, and when Martin’s fingers are trailing along the line of his jaw, and when the book thumps out of his hand, and when Martin pulls away—
It comes to Jon all as one long heartbeat.
“Your voice is perfect for poetry,” Martin says, breathes, rather, so close Jon feels the words as much as he hears them. “I have some news.”
“Do you?” Jon suspects he knows what he’s about to hear, but he wants to give Martin the pleasure of saying it himself; he also wants Martin to stay where he is, and to that end he grazes his lips over the corner of Martin’s mouth. Martin always tastes of tea, rarely the same variety, and Jon doesn’t believe he’ll ever tire of discovering what flavor’s on Martin’s lips; just now it’s dark chocolate and cinnamon.
“I’ve decided to accept Tim’s offer.” Martin’s voice is breathless, contained excitement, and Jon’s smile draws open.
“Then we’ve got to go out and celebrate, haven’t we?” Jon leans up this time for a proper kiss, and says, “I’m proud of you, Martin.”
Martin shrugs, as though he intends to downplay this, as though the publishing house Tim works for is a small thing, when Jon knows very well it isn’t. “I haven’t really gone about it very fairly, have I? It’s only because I know Tim already that it’s even come up—”
“And it would have come up had you decided you wanted it on your own,” Jon chides. “Tim didn’t recommend you because he likes your espressos and flirting with Michael, he recommended you because you’re an excellent poet.”
Martin kisses him again, fiercely, and Jon threads one hand through Martin’s hair to keep him closer, longer, not that Martin needs the encouragement to stay.
“Jon,” Martin says after, with so much affection in it Jon doesn’t quite know how he’ll manage.
“Where do you want to have dinner?” Jon asks, practically panting it, given the way Martin’s been kissing him, and Martin laughs.
Over dinner—Greek—they discuss Martin’s editor, a woman called Andrea Nunes, and Martin sounds absolutely giddy when he says the words “my editor,” and Jon—well.
Over dinner they have wine, and Jon catches himself staring openly at Martin while he talks about writing new poems—openly, he knows, because Martin catches him too, and then Martin looks almost shy, and Jon thinks himself painfully in love with this man. He probably ought to tell him that soon, hadn’t he?
Over dinner, Jon attempts to regain some measure of control over himself, but then Martin gives him a smile and there goes any hope of that; Jon thinks distantly of enchantment, but this is a wholly ordinary enchantment, nothing whatsoever to do with magic.
“D’you want to go back to mine?” Martin asks when the bill’s been paid—by Jon, at his own insistence, because it’s Martin they’re celebrating and he can hardly be allowed to pay for his own congratulatory dinner, for heaven’s sake—and Jon doesn’t think at all before he says, “Yes, of course.”
Martin’s flat is unchanged from Jon’s last visit, except that there are several more poetry collections spread across the coffee table. Martin peers at him and says, “D’you want tea?”
“I’m afraid my answer might offend you,” Jon says with his most apologetic smile, “but tea’s not really what I was thinking of.”
“S’all right, I was only being polite.” Martin takes him by the hand, pulls him in and murmurs, “Come here, Jon,” before dropping a kiss on his mouth that is immediately warm and wet and open, and Jon feels at once lost at sea and anchored firmly in place.
They haven’t made it more than a foot into the flat yet, and Jon hasn’t a single complaint. He gets his hand into Martin’s hair again, the fantastically soft wave of brown, and his tongue into Martin’s mouth, curling in a way he’s learned Martin likes, when Martin’s been perched warm on his lap at Cosy; Martin gets one arm ‘round his back to keep them pressed together, the other hand resting against his face. The second hand stays right there, palm warm on his cheek, when Martin breaks the kiss, chasing it with another at the highest point of his cheekbone, another along the curve, and another, and another, till he’s found his way to Jon’s jawline, tilting Jon’s head back as much as necessary for easier access, and Jon makes a hopeless sort of sound.
“Martin,” he says emphatically at the flat sweep of tongue across a patch of particularly sensitive skin.
“Yes?” Martin’s tone is light, teasing, but he’s not unaffected; the evidence is pressed full against Jon’s thigh, a fact in which Jon is thoroughly interested. Teeth skim over his skin in a way he finds very pleasant indeed, briefly distracting him from his attempt at tucking his fingers beneath Martin’s waistband. They’ve somehow ended up against the wall, the light flicked off again courtesy of Jon’s own back.
“I just wanted to suggest”—Jon gropes, useless, at Martin’s hip—“we move this somewhere more comfortable? Not that I’ve anything against your wall, you understand.”
“Anywhere particular you had in mind?” Martin kisses him again, which does make answering a challenge, but that’s all right; Jon nips, just a little, at his tongue, because Martin’s not the only one who can use teeth. This earns him a weak sound, a broken kiss, and a far messier one to the spot in front of his ear. “We can dry hump on my sofa again if you like,” Martin suggests, and the memory alone is enough to have Jon making another attempt at his mouth, but Martin isn’t finished yet, and leans out of reach. “Or I can take you to bed properly this time.”
“It’s you we’re celebrating,” Jon says again, and it would be exasperated were his voice not tinged with so much need. “What do you want?”
“What do I want?” Martin leans, unacceptably, even further away, and looks him up and down; Jon wonders how well he can really see in the dark, and in any case he’s not much to look at, and is currently wearing a sleeveless jumper that once made Georgie vow she would never speak to him again, but Georgie’s not where his thoughts ought to be, and they’re not, anymore, when Martin takes his hand and says a decisive, “Come to bed.”
Jon isn’t sure which of them leads the way—it must be Martin, he doesn’t know this flat well enough to navigate it in the dark, but he loses track with Martin pressing him into a wall and licking into his mouth, thinks he drags Martin the rest of the way. When they’ve made it to the bedroom, Martin switches the light on, and Jon is glad for it, had been thinking the same thing. He wants to see tonight.
“All right?” Martin asks, in a moment between kisses.
“More than.”
Jon steers Martin backwards till he falls, cheeks full of color and eyes bright, onto the bed. Martin props himself up on his elbows, and Jon climbs on after him, knees set to either side of Martin’s hips, and gives himself over to another kiss; the way Martin kisses him is sweet, but not at all shy, and he doesn’t imagine he’ll ever grow tired of it.
Martin’s fingertips graze the line of his jaw again while he busies himself untucking Martin’s shirt, and though his fingers are gone for the time it takes to pull the shirt over his head, they return after, coming to rest on Jon’s lips. Jon doesn’t particularly think about nipping at them, only it happens anyway, and Martin makes a sound that he likes, surprise and pleasure, and he finds himself tugging at Martin’s trousers next, muttering, “C’mon, off.”
Even with—or perhaps resulting from—Martin’s assistance in this task, there’s more fumbling than he would like. Martin keeps kissing him and he’s hardly going to complain about it, now is he, how slick and red Martin’s mouth is, and more than once Martin’s fingers find their way into his mouth and that—that’s quite the source of ideas, as it were.
Jon has known, for approximately as long as he’s known the definition of the word, that he is asexual; he’s known for almost that long that he isn’t lacking in libido, isn’t entirely without a desire to have sex, but that it requires a certain variety of, and level of, connection. With Martin, it’s all extraordinarily there.
And here Martin is beneath him, and Jon wants very much to touch him, and Martin appears to be in full agreement.
Once Martin’s clothes are off, and Jon feels the length of him with fewer layers of clothing between them, he shivers, anticipation and intent.
“This won’t do, Jon,” Martin says, his hands fisted in the front of Jon’s apparently-heinous jumper that isn’t heinous enough to stop him from wanting Jon in return. “Your turn, if you don’t mind.”
Jon makes a somewhat disagreeable sound, because he does mind, a little, because if you don’t mind means pausing—until it turns out it doesn’t, not with the way Martin goes about it. Martin tugs the jumper over Jon’s head and sets to work on his buttons, half-sat up to mouth at Jon’s neck, his collarbones; his hands run along Jon’s shoulders, his chest, and down, down, till he reaches his waistband. Short work is made of his button and zipper, and Martin pushes insistently at both layers till Jon shoves them blindly onto the floor, and then there’s a hand wrapped around his cock.
“Martin,” he breathes, or groans, into Martin’s shoulder. He searches out Martin’s free wrist, laces their fingers together and pins it that way to the bed. “Martin, hang on—”
And Martin does, his hand falling immediately away from Jon’s cock, running its way back up Jon’s side till it’s at his chin. He lifts Jon’s face, and the concern on his own is as perfectly sweet as the drinks he fixes, and entirely unnecessary. “Sorry, sorry, was that—too much? Too fast? I don’t mean to rush you. We can wait, or we don’t have t—”
“No,” Jon says hastily, nudging his hips forward a little to make the point that he’s very interested in continuing, if his erection wasn’t evidence enough; the shiver that runs through Martin is gorgeous. “I just want to look at you, because I haven’t—that is, we haven’t—” There’s a blush rising to his own cheeks now, he knows there is, and the concern’s slipping off of Martin’s face, being replaced by a grin. “You can laugh at me if you like.”
“Why would I laugh at you?” Martin kisses him, this one more languid than the previous few, but no less hungry, and it has Jon melting against him, his hips rocking slowly of their own volition. A hand finds its way into his hair and he groans. When they part, Martin says, “I think that’s very sweet. I’m nothing special, but you can…here, give me your hands.”
Jon allows the taking of his hands, allows Martin to guide them along his sides, but he can’t stay that way long, with his hips moving as they are, or this is going to be over much more quickly than he’d like. At their current rate, it’ll be weeks before they come to this again, and in many ways that suits him fine, but this encounter, this night, is one he’d like to draw out. He sits up and back, and his voice turns thick on, “I disagree.”
Martin is well worth looking at. He hasn’t had Martin’s clothes off before this, hasn’t had him in privacy enough since last they were here, and now he drinks in the sight of him like raspberry and hazelnut. Martin is absolutely beautiful naked; Martin is beautiful with his clothes on, of course, but the view is different, like studying the text of Hamlet versus watching it on stage. Both lovely in their own right, but not quite the same experience. Now Jon can see the freckles scattered all down Martin’s shoulders, the softness around his middle, some long-faded scar on his hip, and his cock…well. That part of him is thick and straining and Jon finds he wants it very much.
He looks up, intending to meet Martin’s eyes, and finds himself being looked at in the same hungry way; he thinks, as reflectively as he can manage just now, they may as well have skipped dinner entirely. All it did was slow them down in coming to this.
“I’m going to suck your cock,” he says evenly. “If that’s all right with you.”
Martin’s face turns several fascinating hues, each more scarlet than the last, and Jon watches him swallow, watches the way his cock jumps, watches every bit of him. Wants to touch every bit of him, no matter how long that might take.
“Yes,” Martin says. “Yes, please.”
“Good,” Jon says, and keeps the following kiss brief.
He works his way down from there, not pausing to lavish attention on any particular place—that particular activity will have to wait for next time, he’s a destination firmly in mind—until he’s found his way to Martin’s cock, the head shining wet and tempting. Jon ignores it for the moment in order to kiss and nip at Martin’s thighs, feathering, fleeting touches, while one of his hands wanders lower between Martin’s legs to cup his balls, stroke a thumb over the sensitive skin, and the sound Martin makes is—well, perhaps he shouldn’t suck him off at all, should just stay right here and see how long it takes to bring him to orgasm this way. But he won’t, of course, because he finds himself with as much an urge to taste as he’s ever had inside Cosy, with Martin, and it is Martin he wants to taste; he doesn’t intend to deny either of them the pleasure.
“I should warn you,” he says with a wry smile, “I’m rather out of practice.”
It isn’t often he’s wanted to suck a cock, and it’s with no small amount of surprise he’s found himself greedy for it tonight.
“I really don’t think I’ll have any complaints,” Martin says, his voice all anticipation, and Jon’s smile grows.
“Martin,” he says, soothing his tongue not quite where he means to be, and Martin makes a less coherent sound that probably means he’s listening. Jon lifts his head. “I don’t suppose you have any poetry in mind?”
“What?” Just the one, but it is a word.
“I was just thinking I’d like to hear a poem.”
Martin blinks, and then he laughs, his cheeks still stained a dark, delighted red. “You want me to recite poetry while you’re—?”
“I want you to recite poetry while I’m,” Jon agrees, his mouth hovering just over the wet head of Martin’s cock. It won’t take much for his lips to graze the way his breath already is.
Martin doesn’t say anything more, at first, and Jon thinks his request may have been a bit much, but then Martin takes a deep breath and begins,
“somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond”
and Jon takes a moment to be amused at the choice of poet, given the situation, and then lets his lips stretch full around Martin’s cock, and Martin’s breath stutters on,
“any experience, your eyes have their silence:”
as Jon takes him in. Jon doesn’t endeavor to swallow Martin completely, is neither skilled in that way nor the sort of man who’s ever seen the appeal of choking himself, and the fact that it’s Martin makes him no more inclined to do so.
“in your most frail gesture are things which—”
Jon’s worked his mouth over half the length of him, tastes salt and something close to sweet, and the weight on his tongue, the extra stretch of his jaw, the smell of Martin beneath him, it all adds up to something he might define as exquisite.
“things which enclose me,
or which—oh, oh, please—which I cannot touch because they are too near”
There’s a burst of precome at the back of his tongue, and Jon moans, himself, around him, and takes him just that much deeper. There’s yet more of Martin to take, but Jon doesn’t push himself, just swallows and licks and appreciates the way Martin sounds, the notes of pleasure and the way his words pitch and the way he stumbles over them, or pauses to remember his place.
“your slightest look easily will unclose me
though I have closed myself as, as fingers,”
Fingers skim carefully through his hair, desperate caution, and Martin sounds absolutely perfect when he whimpers, when he says, “Jon, your mouth, I—”
The slick slide, an easy combination of Jon’s saliva and Martin’s leaking, is satisfying as Jon lifts his head; the way Martin whines in response, equally so. “I don’t recall my name appearing in the poem,” he murmurs, allowing the head of Martin’s cock to graze the corner of his mouth, and up, feeling the streak it leaves along his cheek, and Martin laughs helplessly. “Go on, Martin.”
Perhaps Martin intends to say something else, but Jon takes him in again and whatever it is breaks off into something more useless. Martin’s fingers tremble against his scalp, and there’s a deep, shaking breath, and,
“you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skillfully, mysteriously) her first rose”
Jon presses his tongue flat against the head of him, and the wiggling of Martin’s hips is downright charming. He finds he could get lost in this, voice and flavor and reactions, and it doesn’t surprise him the way he might expect, not here, this way.
“or if, if—”
The air leaves Martin’s lips in a rush as Jon cups his balls once again, allows the tip of a finger to ghost over his perineum, curious to see the response. He supposes curious doesn’t really suffice, though. Intent on. The sound Martin produces doesn’t disappoint; it takes him a moment to try again, continue.
“or if your wish be to close me, I and
my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly,”
And Jon’s mouth is still at its work, a slick slide up and down Martin’s cock, chasing the taste at the tip of him before taking as much as he is able.
“as when the—Christ, Jon, that’s—when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhe—Jon, I’m going to, going to—”
And Martin breaks off entirely, then, so it’s less words leaving his mouth and more incoherence, and Jon’s perfectly fine with that. He takes the warning, coming off of Martin’s cock with a wet, sucking sound and wrapping a hand around him instead. He props himself up on one elbow so he can watch Martin’s face while he strokes once, twice, three times before he comes. It’s as satisfying as he’d imagined, and he presses a light kiss to Martin’s hip, murmuring, “There you are,” and rests his head there. “Good?”
Martin’s laugh is breathless and disbelieving. “Was it—come here.” He urges Jon back up the bed for a kiss, and then, still laughing, he curls one hand on Jon’s face, the other resting on the curve of his ass. “Yes, it was good, it was wonderful you pillock, give me a moment and I’ll return the favor.”
It’s Jon’s turn to laugh. “Did you just call me a pillock?”
“If it fits,” Martin says, and gives him a long kiss, and Jon rather falls into the whole thing, hardly aware of his own cock, still achingly hard between his legs. “I’ve never—I mean, that was new.”
“Cummings,” Jon muses. “What a choice.”
“It made sense, didn’t it?”
“You’ve a much better voice for poetry than I do.”
Martin grins at him, and then his hand’s not on Jon’s ass anymore, but wandering its way to the front and wrapping around his cock.
Jon lets his forehead fall against Martin’s. “Well,” he manages, trying not to thrust into that warm grip, “where’s the rest, then?”
“Oh, where was I?” Martin considers, his thumb teasing at the head of Jon’s length, and Jon doesn’t try to contain his moan. “The snow carefully everywhere descending, wasn’t it?”
The first sound Jon hears, his living room returning in shades around him, is his own strangled breathing. He makes it to the bathroom before he vomits.
It isn’t even that it was Martin—not exactly, though the thought of looking at him tomorrow plays hell with Jon’s mind, has him retching over the toilet bowl again, nothing left to come up—but being that close to something so intimate, that something in no way his own could leave his jaw aching as though he is the one who’s had a mouthful of—
There is something left to come up, after all.
Jon stays on his knees, painful as the cold tiling of his floor is, until he’s sure he’s finished. He hauls himself to his feet and is unsurprised by the pale sight he catches in the mirror. First Michael. Then this.
The day he’s had.
Jon leans his elbows on the counter and laughs. It isn’t funny. Absolutely nothing about any of this is funny, and yet he cannot stop himself from laughing, which only makes him think more of Michael, which might properly be the preferable of the two. He splashes water onto his face and half-stumbles his way back to the couch.
Dinner is right out.
He makes eye contact—incredible, Jonathan, truly fucking astounding comedy you’ve got there—with Gerry’s painting and waits for his breathing to steady. It won’t go away, the image of Martin in his head, cheeks bright and breaths knocked off-kilter from orgasm. He finds himself thinking just as unwillingly of Martin wandering out of old document storage without trousers, and then there’s Martin’s voice in his head, saying, “I wondered if you’d like to maybe go for a coffee sometime.”
And there’s Martin’s voice in his head, saying, “You want me to recite poetry while you’re—?”
And it’s the same damn voice, and Jon has a sudden and terrible understanding of what Martin must have been feeling that day. He wonders if Martin feels it still, if he comes out of these visions and wants…well, Jon.
But Martin has gone out for lunch more, recently. Martin has come back smiling. Martin might well have found himself a boyfriend, or a girlfriend; how’s he meant to know if Martin is gay or bisexual or—never mind any of that, Martin might well be seeing someone, is the point, and good for him if he is. It doesn’t matter to Jon.
It shouldn’t matter to Jon.
It matters to a part of him that isn’t him, entirely, and it matters to a part of him that is, and he’d be much happier if it didn’t.
Jon makes an angry sound and lays back on the sofa, letting his eyes close. A Jonathan Sims who is not him sucking off a Martin Blackwood he has never met is hardly the largest of his problems right now; neither is the looming issue of contaminating thoughts, feelings leaking their way from the other Jonathan and molding themselves onto—into—him.
But those thoughts refuse to be banished, and Jon stays half the night on his sofa, staring at the ceiling and seeing only Martin.
Notes:
My thanks to Emily Dickinson and my deepest apologies to E.E. Cummings for this desecration of a genuinely beautiful poem.
I did suggest to my wife that I could use my absolute favorite poem in the world...wife didn't like that suggestion.
Chapter 20: whether it gets worse
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
It doesn’t get better.
Whether it gets worse—
Well. Who’s to say?
Jon hasn’t met Martin’s eyes in days. He can’t.
He’d already seen him without trousers on, and unprofessionalism in the workplace he’d thought then, with a flare of irritation; but there wasn’t much professional about Martin being forced to live in the Archive to begin with, and so he’d let it slide without much fuss. In any case, it isn’t at all the same thing, Martin wandering out of the storage room in boxers and Martin fully nude and stretched out for him, his lips forming an O on snow and—
Not for me. For him.
Jon gets into the habit of wrenching his thoughts back into place. Reminding himself of the world he inhabits, which is the only one with any business mattering to him. Martin’s letter is hidden in his desk. Martin is keeping something from him. And any desire he might feel for Martin is a token of the wrong Jon.
Wrong, he thinks, and every time he turns the word over and over in his mind.
It had occurred to Jon later, much after the thought itself, that he’d had a moment of considering him other rather than wrong, and he’d snapped at Sasha when she came to him with a question while he was still busy realizing it.
It’s the wrong Jon who’s taken Martin Blackwood to bed; it’s the wrong Jon who wanted to.
But for all his knowing better, Jon catches himself thinking of kissing Martin, how wet and red his mouth would look, if his hair’s as soft as it looks, the way he might sound, breathing Jon’s name, his voice cracking over the single syllable, and of course he already knows, with a precision he despises, what that would sound like.
No, there’s been no meeting Martin’s eyes.
Martin, for his part, often thinks of kissing Lee, though he never does it. He knows he shouldn’t. But he does see Lee regularly, and Lee does have this way of smiling at him like there’s nobody else around to see it, and he can’t be blamed for the way his heart skips at the sight of it. It’s not a thing he follows through on.
For several days, Martin is overcome by the urge to read Cummings. He catches Jon watching him at it once, with a disgruntled, almost mortified, almost disgusted look on his face. “Have you read this one?” Martin ventures.
“anyone lived in a pretty how town
(with up so floating many bells down)
spring summer autumn winter
he sang his didn’t he—”
“Stop.”
Martin’s eyes widen at the sight of Jon gone sheet-white. “Don’t tell me you hate Cummings?” he says, attempting levity when probably he shouldn’t.
“I find him overrated,” Jon says curtly, and disappears into his office, muttering about recording a statement. His door slams.
Martin shuts the book, his finger tucked inside to mark his place, and stares at the door for a long time.
He does realize, over the course of several days, his current interest in the American poet isn’t something he’s come by naturally; he’s always liked E.E. Cummings well enough, but never come over with an urge to pick up a collection before now. He prefers Dickinson. For a while he wonders if the other Martin is taking inspiration for his own collection, and he’s jealous of that, of course he is, has never seen publication at all, himself—not that he’s tried, knowing full well he isn’t good enough—and his counterpart is readying himself for publication. It’s all poetry, lately, poetry and—and Jon.
Then the mirror tosses him overboard when the other Martin is wrapping a hand around his own cock and thinking about Jon’s mouth and it all slides into too much understanding.
He returns the Cummings book to the library (the ordinary one, not the Institute’s) and doesn’t try to catch Jon’s eye.
But he still thinks of kissing Jon, while the other Martin kisses his own.
The mirror, of course, thinks of kissing nobody; the mirror has other concerns. Some might call them larger concerns, or grander, but the mirror is not particularly interested in the size of matters, nor in the scale of them. It only does what it was crafted to do.
Jon shouldn’t be here. He knows that perfectly well. But he thinks if he’d had to stay one minute more suffocating in the Archive, knowing Martin was a door away at his desk and knowing the sound of Martin reciting “somewhere i have never traveled, gladly beyond,” he might have exploded. Might have strode from his office and yanked Martin into a misplaced kiss.
It hasn’t helped matters that Martin lately seems torn between fussing over him and his stitches and avoiding him entirely; he wonders, he keeps wondering, if Martin has seen the same thing as he, watched the wrong Jon suck him off. There’s a sick sense that isn’t entirely displeasure in him at the thought, but any part enjoyment, he’s sure, does not belong to him.
The important thing is he wasn’t getting anything done sat at his desk, and thought he might as well go where he could.
Should have just gone to lunch, Sims, he thinks, ambling down the street in what he hopes is a casual way.
This is a more residential area than where he’d found Pinhole Books. An area where he’s more likely to be noticed, making passes back and forth over the course of an hour, two hours, veering dangerously toward three. He’s tried to time himself subtle, and most are probably at work. But there’s sure to be the odd housewife or nanny, and he’s not, by any stretch of definition or imagination, inconspicuous. The scars on his face are memorable features should anybody want to describe the suspicious man in their neighborhood to the police.
Would I be an automatic Section 31? he wonders, almost amused.
It’s a nice area Tim lives in. Jon knows already that Tim has housemates. Two of them: a young woman and a younger man. He knows the woman works for a library and the man is in finance. He knows several more things about them too, courtesy of Tim talking away, but he also knows their relevance—or lack thereof—concerning his investigation.
What is relevant is that Tim had taken the day off, put it down as a ‘personal day’ on the request form, and Jon was—is—curious.
But there’s been no movement from the house. He doesn’t know if Tim is home or not, and he doesn’t mean to get any closer in order to find out. Someone would almost certainly report that.
And what did you expect? The thought is exasperated. To find Tim conspiring against you on his lawn? Hell, should have gone back to Pinhole if you were that desperate for—
For what?
Something.
Anything.
Anything at all to give him a push forward.
There ’s nothing for you to find here. Go back to work.
Jon does not go back to work.
He does leave the neighborhood.
Maybe he’ll come back again later, but there’s nothing he’s going to achieve in the next hour that he hasn’t in the last several of being here.
“Lunch,” he tells himself firmly. He returns to Chelsea and selects a restaurant he knows to be relatively inexpensive. More importantly, it isn’t a café. The last thing he wants is to be reminded of Martin. Either of them.
It’s only natural, he supposes, only the way his luck turns anymore, that Martin is seated within sight of the ‘please wait to be seated’ sign, across from a blond head that Jon cannot tell anything more about from the back. For a heartbeat he wonders if it might not be Michael Shelley, but he discards that out of hand.
He nearly turns right around and leaves, but Martin’s eyes land on him, and Martin waves. Jon’s smile in return is forced, pained. Then a hostess arrives, and he’s fully trapped, and though he sees the blond head turn to see what Martin’s waving at, he misses the additional features.
“Are you here to join your friend?” the hostess asks.
“We’re not friends,” Jon says, flatter than the situation perhaps necessitates, and the smile she’s paid to wear dims a fraction.
Her voice cools. “Booth or table, then?”
“Doesn’t matter.” Jon knows he’s being rude, and he knows it isn’t her doing that Martin’s here—the machinations of some higher power with a cruel sense of humor, he might think—but he doesn’t care. All he’d wanted was to get away. To have one afternoon without thinking of the wrong Jon and his wrong goddamned universe, and his own nightmare-infested world will not grant him that much.
Jon is seated—with deserved vindictiveness, he assumes—not far from Martin and his blond head. He takes a long look around the whole of the establishment, so that it can fall surreptitious on Martin’s table for a moment. It’s a man there with him, lanky and leaning forward to listen to whatever it is Martin’s saying, and something in his posture rubs Jon the wrong way.
No, he thinks sourly. That isn’t mine.
Martin glances his way. His eyebrows do the same concerned something they’ve done often since Jon’s run-in with Michael; he gave his staff the same explanation as the doctor, and Martin’s volunteered, more than once, to take care of anything he needs cut.
He might as well get this over with.
Jon stands and makes his way to Martin’s table.
“Hey, didn’t expect to see you here,” Martin says with a note of brightness Jon wonders doesn’t sound false. He looks to his companion. “This is Jon. He’s the Head Archivist at the Institute.”
Something curious flits over the blond man’s face at that, and Jon takes a second, more thorough look at him. He’s never seen him before, not in this world nor the mirror’s. His hair’s long enough to cover his ears, but for just a moment Jon catches sight of an earplug. That feels like it should be familiar, but Jon doesn’t care to piece it together at the moment.
“Pleasure,” Jon says, making an admittedly uninspired attempt at sounding like he means it. “And this is your—”
“Lee,” the man says, offering a hand the way Jon hasn’t done.
Jon gives it a look and then shows Lee his corresponding hand, which isn’t exactly fit for shaking at the moment.
Lee hisses sympathy. “What’d you do there?”
“Bread knife,” Jon supplies. The lie comes easy, as many times as he’s repeated it. Elias had looked the least convinced, something almost knowing in his eyes when Jon fed it to him.
“I keep telling him to be more careful,” Martin says, a hint of irritation in it, as though he thinks Jon wounded his hand specifically to upset him.
Lee, having dropped his hand, is studying Jon’s face now. Not in a way that makes him feel judged, but certainly with more than the idle curiosity of meeting a new person; Jon wonders what Martin’s said about him. ‘My boss is an absolute twat,’ wouldn’t be unreasonable, but it doesn’t sound terribly like Martin.
“Do you want to join us?” Lee offers.
What hasn’t been offered is an answer to the question Jon hadn’t finished asking. Is this man, presumably the reason Martin’s been leaving for lunch more frequently, a boyfriend? (Competition, whispers a loathsome voice that is his, and isn’t, and Jon squashes it as unfeelingly as an irritating fly.) There’s a warmth in the way he looks at Martin, and Martin appears more at ease than Jon has ever seen him—this him—before.
And then Martin looks at him, clearly expecting an answer; their eyes meet, and Jon feels taken entirely off-guard.
your slightest look will easily unclose me
“No,” Jon says. “No, I think I had best be getting back to work, actually.”
“What? But you haven’t—”
“I’ll see you back at the Institute.” Jon steps back from the table. “It was nice to meet you, Lee.”
Jon leaves them there, perplexed faces and Martin protesting, and doesn’t stop moving until he reaches the Institute—the Archive—his office.
your slightest look
Jon takes a breath that feels like his first since the restaurant.
will easily unclose
He’s only just landed in his chair when the world’s gone around him.
Cosy is busy.
Cosy is always busy, so it’s not a surprise.
The bigger surprise is that Jon’s getting anything done, loud as it is here. He’s been seated at the same table, the most tucked away table possible, for the better part of the afternoon, bent over papers in need of marking. When he is in his office, Of Magic pulls at him, too much a temptation, and so it’s either the library or Cosy. And the view, he thinks, glancing up to where Martin’s laughing at something Oliver said, is better at Cosy.
He brings his attention back to the assignment he’s marking—a series of essay questions on the recent Austen reading—and quirks an eyebrow. His students are showing signs of improvement. Imagine that.
“Say what you will about my demeanor,” he says under his breath. Results. He has proof of results every damned class, every damned term. The same cannot be said, unfortunately, for his own thesis. Of Magic is, without a doubt, something; that something is not a complete argument.
“Jonathan,” comes a cheerful voice, and Georgie slides into the chair across from him. She’s given him plenty of lighthearted grief since his second evening spent at Martin’s, rendering herself nearly intolerable. At the moment, however, there’s a fresh round of cocoa in her hand, and that endears her. “You’ll have to forgive me for not being your usual delivery boy. He’s a little caught up just now.”
Jon snorts and accepts the drink, pushing his empty mug toward her. “Having a good day?”
“It’s all right.” She rolls her shoulders and he hears something crack. “Did you know you smile literally every time you look at Martin?”
“Shut up, Georgie.”
“No, really, it’s adorable.” Georgie grins at him. He scowls in return. “Now that’s more a ‘Gerry talking about Dr. Bouchard’ face. Hey, d’you know any good ghost stories from King’s?”
The swerve in topic loosens his scowl into something more puzzled. “Come again?”
Georgie swipes a strawberry from his largely neglected plate. “It’s for a new project,” she explains. “Something Melanie and I were talking about. Just give it some thought, yeah? Let me know if anything comes to mind. I know ghost stories aren’t exactly your area of expertise, but it’s sort of in a similar vein, so maybe you’ve heard something.” She pauses. “Also? You’ve been at King’s forever, so…”
“So has Gerry,” Jon points out.
“Yeah, and I’ve asked him as well.” Georgie glances over her shoulder at the growing line and sighs, theatrical and unconvincing. She ought to take tips from his students, who are artists of sounding as though they’re dying while coming and going from his classes. She claps her hands onto her thighs. “Duty calls!”
Then she’s gone.
Jon watches her slip back behind the counter and nudge Oliver; and then he watches Martin hand a cup of tea off to a woman with flyaway hair. There’s an exchange Jon cannot hear before she steps away. Martin catches him watching and there’s that smile.
Before he can regather his focus, return to his marking, the door sings its opening yet again and draws his eye. The sight of Mike Crew stepping into the café takes him aback. It’s the first time Jon has seen him outside of Lightning-Branch Books, and if the incongruity of Mike in a new setting—in Cosy, of all places—weren’t enough, the lithe, color-speckled figure who follows him in is Gerry. It all takes a moment to absorb.
Evidently Mike feels similarly of Cosy, as he takes a slow look around the entire place. Jon has the absurd thought that he’s looking for something less and more than physical. The sort of thing people don’t ordinarily see.
What nonsense.
Gerry taps Mike on the shoulder and indicates the line, and Mike nods. On his own, Gerry joins the queue while Mike approaches Jon.
“Mind if I sit?”
“By all means,” Jon says, already consolidating his various piles to make room at the table. “This is a surprise. I wasn’t aware the two of you were,” he gestures broadly with one paper-filled hand, “spending time together?”
“We haven’t before today. I told him I hadn’t eaten lunch yet.” Mike indicates Gerry, who flicks two fingers at them in a casual salute. “He insisted.”
“He does that.” Jon has lived the experience more than enough times to picture it.
“He also said you’d probably be here,” Mike says, and Jon realizes Mike is eyeballing his belongings. “Of Magic been any help so far?”
“I think it has.” Jon has read his way through another handful of stories, and the book itself has remained an enigma. He says, careful and guarded, “It’s an odd book, isn’t it?”
“Those are the best kind.” Mike clasps his hands at the back of his neck. “Gerry didn’t try to haggle me down on it, just said it’d be good for you, like that was all that mattered.”
Jon feels a surge of warmth toward his friend, who’s standing in line with his hands tucked into his pockets, no longer watching them, but chatting to a university student. “That sounds like him.”
“I’ve always wondered,” Mike says, “why such an interest in fairy tales?”
Jon smiles wryly. “Would you believe one spoke to me when I was young?”
“Yeah.” There’s deliberation behind Mike’s nod, like he really does believe it. Like Jon could tell him about his disappearing silver-dew land of Fairy, same as he told Gerry, and Mike would believe that, too. “They do that.”
“And you?” Jon says, anticipation spooling in his belly. “Did a fairy tale speak to you?”
Mike studies him. His eyes are nearly colorless, and his scar peeks out from the low collar of his shirt. “Something like that,” he says. “That’s where the shop came from.”
“I see,” Jon says; he doesn’t, but thinks that maybe he should.
“If you find anything interesting in Of Magic,” Mike says, “I’d like to hear about it.”
Then he pushes his chair out and the scrape of it breaks some little magic—or maybe Jon’s only imagining that—and stands. “I’m going to see if Gerry wants any company.”
#
Jon waits while Cosy molds back into his office.
That wasn’t so bad, as the experiences have gone. Much less ridiculous heart-fluttering than usual, though it wasn’t absent entirely. More focus on the academic. As he sets it down in his notebook—where he refrained from making any record of the wrong Jon’s…previous sexual encounter, knowing he wouldn’t need it there to remember every damned second of it—he ponders Michael Crew.
Touched by lightning in both of their worlds, much as Jon has been touched by nightmares and fairy tales. The Michael Crew who’s gone on to run a bookshop, was his lightning different from the lightning that touched this Michael Crew, the one who flung himself from a cathedral tower and vanished?
Jon drags a hand through his hair, eyes squeezed shut almost with an effort, as though the answers might appear in his head if he only wants them badly enough. But that isn’t how it works.
There’s a knock at the door, and this knowledge does appear. Jon opens his eyes and calls, “Come in, Martin.”
Martin watches Jon’s back as he departs, frowning. That is to say, both of them are frowning. Jon in the midst of turning to face the other direction and go, and Martin at Jon’s retreating back. The hostess is frowning as well as Jon pushes past her, and so’s the server who would have taken his order.
The only person not frowning just now is Lee, who says, in a mystified sort of way, “So that’s the boss?”
“Hm?” Martin blinks and refocuses his attention on Lee, whose hair’s falling over his eyes so Martin can’t really read them, which might be for the best at a time like this. Bad enough to read his tone, which is thoughtful and curious and not at all envious. Martin squeezes his own knees. “Oh. Yeah, that was…”
The boss I told you I’m in love with, he doesn’t finish.
The boss who another me is dating, because his Jon more than tolerates him.
He doesn’t finish with that, either.
“That was Jon.”
“He seems…” Now Lee does frown, his brow drawn together as he searches for a word.
“Grumpy?” Martin offers, and Lee laughs, and there’s a surge of guilt. It feels sometimes like he’s leading Lee on, and that’s not at all what he means to be doing, and Lee knows, Lee knows because Martin told him, that Martin is long since gone for Jon.
“A bit, yeah.” Lee props his chin on his fist and looks at Martin with such overt kindness Martin can hardly bear it.
“The Archive is a lot,” Martin says, and sighs. Their server comes around with their bill, which Lee takes before Martin can even try to reach for it, and Martin has learned there’s no point in reminding Lee he can cover his own meal, so instead of that fool’s errand he looks to the server. “Could I do a takeout order?”
Jon could have at least hung around to do that much. But their eyes met for the first time in days and Jon’s face had come over like a deer suddenly found itself face-to-face with a salivating wolf; Martin wonders if it’s uncharitable of him to think of Jon’s reaction as running away.
When next he looks at Lee, Lee’s looking right back at him with eyebrows raised.
“What?” It comes out more defensively than he means it to.
“I didn’t say anything,” Lee says.
“No, but you’re thinking something, I’m not that oblivious.”
Lee shakes his head. “Just about you.”
Martin hasn’t got an answer to that, not really, but he reaches for Lee’s hand on the table and squeezes it in place of his own limbs, and mumbles, “Thank you for lunch.”
When Martin returns to the Institute, it’s with a takeaway bag hanging over his arm and the memories of Jon’s expression and Lee’s vying for his attention. He waves to Sasha and then raps at Jon’s door, waits for the, “Come in, Martin,” and enters.
Jon’s sat behind his desk, a pen in one hand and a notebook open in front of him, and Martin knows what that means.
“I could have been Sasha,” he says.
“No,” Jon says evenly, “you couldn’t have been. What is it?”
“You didn’t eat.” Martin holds up the bag as though to say, ‘here, look at how non-threatening I am’ before approaching; the idea he could ever be seen as threatening is a laughable one. “I brought you a sandwich and chips.”
“Thank you.” Jon watches him set the bag down, waits for his hands to be fully clear before peeking inside. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“I know,” Martin says, and he doesn’t leave.
“Is there something else?” There’s a wariness in the way Jon’s holding himself, but he isn’t avoiding Martin’s eyes anymore.
“Yeah, actually, there is.” Martin swallows. This is a mistake he’s making. “D’you want to talk about why you’ve been—”
“Why I’ve been what, Martin?” Jon interrupts him, and his voice is cold, Martin would almost say dangerous, and there’s anger brimming in his eyes.
An absolute ass. Martin stares right back at him. “Are you angry at me,” he finally says, “or the mirror?”
“Both,” Jon says, and Martin’s laugh is fit to break into a thousand pieces with a nudge.
“I can’t just solve the thing.” Martin’s hands ball into fists at his sides. “And you know that. It’s all mysteries down here,” and apprehension flashes across Jon’s face, “always has been, and this is the one you’re angry at me for not being able to fix. I didn’t tell that Martin and Jon they should become a couple, did I?”
“I don’t want that,” Jon says through grit teeth, which is so far from the point Martin was making he might laugh again if not for the anger seething up.
“Yeah, I know that, you’ve made it abundantly clear, thanks,” Martin shoots back, and Jon’s expression changes, like there’s a sour taste in his mouth, and something almost like regret, and that can’t be right; it’s hidden beneath Jon’s anger again soon enough.
“Martin, I didn’t mean—”
“No.” Martin stops him. “No, it doesn’t matter. What does matter is you’re my boss and you’ll hardly look at me lately, so d’you want to tell me what you saw?”
Jon’s lips thin. “Them,” he says. “I saw them.”
“Yeah, I know that too, it’s not helpful.”
“I watched him suck you off,” Jon says, utterly toneless, and Martin reels back and thinks, not me, but that’s as helpful as Jon’s previous vagueness. He’d gotten the after; Jon had gotten the—he gropes for something to call it—the main event. Hysteria bubbles up inside of him. “I felt it and I heard your voice. Do you know what that’s like, Martin, when it feels like your own mouth has been—”
Jon breaks off.
“No,” Martin admits dully. “Only what it’s like to feel him under me on a couch.”
Jon looks, if possible, more mortified than before. “And you still don’t think this is a priority?”
“It’s not like I think it’s fun—”
“Don’t you?” Jon snaps, and rubs at his temples. “That was unfair of me.”
“No,” Martin says, his voice cooler than his face, where there’s a flush of anger and hurt. He’s turning away, making a stiff approach to the door. “I’ll just keep researching then.” His hand’s on the knob, and Jon’s not telling him to stay.
Martin leaves the office on, “You’re welcome for lunch.”
Notes:
Thank you once again to E.E. Cummings.
Chapter 21: bound to break
Notes:
Feat.: Fun with cocktail name generators.
Chapter Text
The air in the Archive is as brittle as Martin Blackwood’s nerves.
It has been a few days since a tortured Martin Blackwood and Jonathan Sims did not shout at each other in Jon’s office; it is difficult to say which of them has spent those days more miserably.
Three days, Martin knows, and leading into four; he tries not to think about it. (But he wonders if Jon knows it, too.)
Martin has spent his three days, leading into four, prioritizing the mirror again, for all the good it has done him. It’s like he told Jon (three days ago, almost four): he can’t force this mystery to be the one he’s able to solve. He can take every semi-relevant-sounding book from the library, comb through every solitary word of them—and he is good at this—but if there is nothing for him to find, he can’t just make it be there. No more than he could for ghost spiders or dolls without jaws or the music that’s kept Lee’s ears bleeding, and bleeding, and bleeding.
At the moment he’s focused, or trying to be focused, on a newspaper article from 1928 regarding a mirror that “reflects the world most incorrectly,” but he already knows this isn’t the same sort of incorrect as their mirror. The reflections are more gaunt, more ghostly, more—Martin might smile at this, his lips might twist—spooky, than what they see in theirs.
Not that it is their mirror.
Not that he and Jon have much of anything to share between them.
Nothing that isn’t a nightmare, anyway.
For three days, for nearly four, Martin has made no effort to see Jon any more than work requires of him; for three days, for nearly four, he hasn’t very much wanted to. It’s an odd feeling, that. Sharp at odds with the ones he’s grown used to, wanting to see Jon all the time, his fool’s heart skipping at the sight of him; he’s never been able to explain it, only to label it. (If Martin is honest with himself, not wanting to see Jon is probably the more rational feeling, especially given his behavior recently; it’s best he keep his distance from sharp edges, and sharp edges are all Jon has, and Martin…shouldn’t touch, should he?)
Not much makes sense to him, anymore. He’s got to laugh at himself for that thought—if he wanted sense, he wouldn’t have come to work for the Institute. He definitely wouldn’t have asked to follow Jon to the Archive.
But he did ask, and he is here.
Maybe it’s that Martin’s nerves are as brittle as the air in the Archive.
Brittle.
Martin presses the word into his notebook; Martin wears it on his lips and behind his eyes and nestled into his lungs.
Brittle, bound to break.
His thoughts drift, as he sits with his finger come to a stop on some useless paragraph, to the other Martin Blackwood. Martin writes poetry, and Martin has a great appreciation for tea as a solution to problems of varying magnitudes, and Martin loves Jonathan Sims; these things have all gone terribly well for the other Martin, and why is it they’ve gone so poorly for him?
If he tried—really tried—could he be more like that? More confident, more effortlessly at ease, more at home in his own skin. (Brittle, Martin.) Jon might like him more, if he were like that. His own Jon (not his, don’t think of him like that, you’re only setting yourself up for heartbreak, you know you are) would be charmed as much as the other Jon is. But that Jon is different, too, and for all the ways they’re the same, Martin knows it isn’t so—
It’s different.
“Do you think Jon and that policewoman—what was her name? P.C. Hussain?—are sort of…”
Tim’s voice, distracted and pondering, slices through Martin’s jumbled thoughts. He says a wary, “Sort of what?”
“Together,” Tim suggests.
“What?” Martin’s voice jumps several octaves. A bit nonsense of it, as this is Tim, and Martin must have known where he was going with it, whether he acknowledged it to himself or not.
Tim’s eyebrows approach his hair. “Come on, I know Jon’s not really the most—charming guy, but he’s got to be someone’s type, doesn’t he?” Tim pauses before dropping his voice to add, “I thought he might be yours.”
Martin’s voice doesn’t so much drop as pale. (Bound to break, Martin.) “Why are we talking about this?”
“I’m not sure we are.” Tim frowns back at him. “This isn’t much of a conversation. Did I have it right?”
“No.” Martin shakes his head, too fast, maybe. “I don’t think Jon’s seeing anyone,” he continues, knowing even as the words leave his mouth he doesn’t know that. Can’t know it, because he and Jon have never done much sharing, aside from the one occasion, with Prentiss just outside the door. And Jon is secretive. He doesn’t talk about his personal life, certainly. Martin knows significantly more about the Jon a world away than he does the one just a closed door away.
The closed door feels like so much more of a barrier than whatever it is keeping their world separate from the one through the mirror.
“No?” Tim leans forward, jostling a stack of paperwork on his desk. “Did he say something?”
“No,” Martin says firmly. “Could we just get back to work, please?”
“Sure,” Tim says, and if he’s disappointed it doesn’t show.
The rest of the day passes slowly. After a while, Martin sets aside researching the mirror—it only has his thoughts chasing in relentless circles—and attempts to find any trace of a man called Phillip Brown, formerly employed at HMP Wakefield. He doesn’t get anywhere with that, either. A whole day of nothing achieved.
He wonders, all the while, if there are statements buried in the stacks and drawers, about the mirror; if he and Jon aren’t the first to come through the Institute having experienced the world it…what? Promises? Cuts with? If the glass has a motive, Martin can’t fathom what it might be.
This goes on, work and mirror-edges and brittleness, until half-four, when Sasha’s returned from a field trip to Artefact Storage, when Martin’s phone lights up on a message from Lee. Surprise show tonight. Want to come?
Martin doesn’t hesitate. I’d love to.
“What are you so pleased about over there?” Tim’s eyebrows are at it again, now complete with unnecessarily suggestive waggling that puts Martin in mind of the other Tim; they’re particularly similar, the two of them. “Have you got a hot date tonight?”
“Don’t be stupid,” Martin says without conviction. “It’s a friend.”
“Must be some friend.” Tim steeples his fingers beneath his chin. “You should see the way you’re smiling.”
“Yeah.” Martin shrugs. “He is.”
“Good for you,” Tim says, and it might sting less if it didn’t sound so genuine.
The final thirty minutes of the day drag the most. Sasha breezes out of the room first, and then Tim with a wink; it’s just Martin, then, Martin and a closed door and three days, soon to be four. Martin swallows and knocks before he can talk himself out of it, and Jon calls, “Come in.”
Martin doesn’t open the door far. Doesn’t want to do more than edge into the office, which he does. Jon’s more put-together than usual this evening, and that’s something of a relief; but he looks wary, and that isn’t.
“I’m going,” Martin says. “Do you need anything first?”
“No, Martin.” Jon gives him a tight, perfectly polite smile. “Thank you. Have a nice night.”
“You too.” It comes out a sigh.
Martin wonders, as he exits the Institute into a steady rain, what the point of that was. He could have just gone. Jon probably wouldn’t have noticed, or would have been relieved to find himself left alone, no Martin there to bother him, to remind him of—
Stop that.
The rain hasn’t stopped yet when Martin exits Tottenham Court Road Station, where he’s to meet Lee. There’s no sign of him when Martin arrives, so he finds an awning to stand beneath and watches the people around him. The many strangers of London, carrying on with their lives, blissfully unaware there are monsters waiting to pounce or to creep or to swallow; only, some of them probably are aware. The elderly woman with the lionshead cane? The tall, bright-eyed man whose eyes linger on Martin for a moment before he’s out of sight? The young woman with the sidecut, or the girl she’s walking hand-in-hand with? Any of them might fall prey to…something; they might survive it, and they might not. Same as Martin, brittle Martin.
“Don’t think about that,” Martin mutters to himself.
“Don’t think about what?” Lee appears beside him, and Martin starts.
“Hey,” Martin says. “Just work.”
Lee’s smile dims, only for a second, and he says, “No, we’re definitely not thinking about your line of work. Ready to go?”
Martin takes the change in subject eagerly. “Lead the way.”
The music club Lee brings him to isn’t one Martin’s been to yet—not that he’s been to many—but Lee greets the doorman by name, and they’re not asked to pay the cover charge, leading to some grumbling from the teenagers behind them that only makes Lee laugh. It’s lit up orange-gold inside, as though by fire or a dragon’s treasure hoard. Lee takes him by the hand, gentle enough he could easily slip free, but he doesn’t want to, and he’s nearly disappointed when they come to a table with an excellent view of the stage and Lee lets go.
“D’you want something to drink?” Lee offers, not yet having taken a seat, his words coming awfully close to Martin’s ear.
“What do you recommend?”
“Their bartenders are creative, but you have work in the morning, don’t you?”
“Yeah.” Bound to break, Martin. “Best just water, then.”
And for the first round, that’s all he has, and for the second, but by the time Rag & Bone & Styx (a rock trio featuring a violin, Lee’s informed him), by the time there are more hot bodies flooding the space around their table, Martin’s feeling out of sorts. He keeps thinking of Jon.
Thinking of the way Jon looks at him lately, traces of want and then distaste, and always the wariness he got tonight, as though Jon’s afraid of him.
Thinking how it would all be easier if Jon was right, if his own feelings were just the other Martin’s leaching through him, but they aren’t.
Thinking, But if Jon wanted you now, if Jon decides he wants you, that’s probably not—it wouldn’t be you.
Thinking, It’s not like I think it’s fun, and, Don’t you? and he doesn’t, and does Jon really think he does? It hurts, watching the other Martin, he’s just resigned; he just doesn’t think it’s harmful, that’s not the same as liking it. But Jon is different, and Martin doesn’t know how to convince him his own feelings aren’t just a result of the mirror, of feeling too much, and he’s certainly not going to ask Jon if that assumption means his feelings have been changing, because it doesn’t matter, because Jon said it himself: he doesn’t want that.
Christ, he needs to stop thinking.
Martin slides down from his stool and moves closer to Lee; it’s too loud here to hear across the table without shouting now. “I’m getting a drink,” he announces. “Do you want me to bring you anything?”
Lee gives him a curious look; he’s been drinking water all night as well. “And what are you getting?”
“Something with alcohol in it.” Drinking hadn’t been part of Martin’s plan for the day, and it isn’t responsible, but he doesn’t think he can be faulted for being irresponsible just once.
Lee finds his hand on the table and Martin’s sure he can feel the flush creeping up his cheeks. It’s too warm in here, that’s all. “Don’t overdo it, yeah?”
“I haven’t had anything yet,” Martin points out.
Lee squeezes his hand. “Just another water for me.”
En route to the bar, Martin catches sight of a man looking at him quizzically, and it takes him another few careful sidesteps through the crowd to realize it was the same man he saw earlier, in the rain. He looks back, but if the man was there, he’s gone now. Martin shrugs it off. Lots of people in London, most of them perfectly ordinary.
The menu reads like a foreign language: Smirking Priest Gimlet. Smoky Devil Spritz. Sparkling Magic Zombie. Molten Mary Delight. I really need to get out more, crosses his mind, followed by, I have been out more lately, thanks to Lee, haven’t I?
He’s getting the occasional glance from the bartender, a woman with messy, multicolored hair who reminds him somewhat of a sprite, and eventually he leans forward to tell her, “Dealer’s choice, but I’d like to be very drunk, very fast.”
“You got it.”
The drink she delivers to him a minute or two later—Martin spends his time watching the crowd, hoping and not hoping to see the man again—seems undersized, given his request. The bartender catches his dubious look and grins dangerously. “Deceptive, isn’t it? Swingin’ Trickster Sunset. Trust me, you’re not gonna need another one.”
Martin gives it a sniff and has to blink hard. That ought to do it. He considers asking exactly what’s in it, but he’d rather not know, and says only, “Could do with a water for my friend, too.”
Several minutes of careful navigation later, Martin returns to the table, where Lee’s sitting with his head to an angle, his eyes shut and fingers not quite drumming along with the music. Martin smiles, watching him a moment before setting the drinks down. Lee arches a brow at Martin’s.
“Hush,” Martin says, sliding back onto his stool.
Lee holds up a hand. “I didn’t say anything.”
The bartender hadn’t exaggerated.
Martin’s first sip makes his eyes water. The second about knocks him off his stool. He swallows the rest quickly as he can manage; he hasn’t recovered yet when the show ends, when Lee’s hands ease onto his shoulders and he hears Lee murmuring, “Careful there. Remind me never to trust you alone with Maddie again. Have to have a talk with her, I think.”
“I’m fine,” Martin insists, about tripping over his own foot on his way down.
“Yes,” Lee says placidly, “I can see that.”
Martin does a perfectly passable job of standing on his own, once he’s there. Then he takes a step forward and the ground definitely shifts underneath him—horribly impolite of it, that—and Lee lets out something that might be a sigh or a laugh—or their offspring? A lau—hang on, they’ve both got the same ending. Brow furrowing, Martin mutters “sigh” and “laugh” with variances on their “ghs” and Lee, who’s got an arm wrapped around his hip now—how gallant of him, how dashing, oh he is very drunk, isn’t he, well done, mission accomplished, thank you Maddie—Lee sets his lips very close to Martin’s ear, and Martin thinks he shouldn’t be so aware of anything, drunk as he is, and Lee says, “What are you mumbling about?”
“English,” Martin says with great conviction, “is stupid.”
This one is definitely a laugh. “All right, let’s get you home.”
They’ve made it into a taxi when it occurs to Martin to say, “I’m meant to work in the morning.”
“We did establish that,” Lee agrees. Martin’s tucked up against him and probably doesn’t need to be, but Lee’s warm and Martin sort of likes the way he can feel Lee’s breath on his hair right now, and there’s still an arm around his hip; it’s nice, is the point.
It seems Martin blinks a few times and they’ve reached his flat. He fumbles for his wallet and Lee pushes his hand away. “I’ve got it, it’s taken care of, come on. You have your key, don’t you?” Martin fumbles for that, too, and Lee takes it away from him.
“Lee,” Martin says once they’ve reached the safety of his own living room. (Safe now, isn’t it? No Jane Prentiss lurking outside, hasn’t felt properly safe since then, he’s always got to remind himself of it.) Lee’s out of sight, the tap running in the kitchen, and Martin falls onto the couch.
“Yeah?” Lee calls back.
Martin looks blearily at the time on his phone. It’s much earlier than it feels. He pushes himself mostly vertical and waits for Lee to reappear with a glass of water. He keeps waiting, then, for Lee to set the glass on the table, to sit down, and it feels like a brilliant idea to fit his head onto Lee’s lap; feels absolutely genius when Lee sets a tentative hand on his hair and combs through, the gentlest tugs at his scalp.
“That’s nice,” Martin mumbles, muffled, into his jeans.
“Is it?” Lee sounds cautious and a bit tired and guilt rolls through Martin like a rushing wave.
He sits up—too fast, judging from the way his living room spins around him, into a place he’s sure he’s never seen before—and stares at a now-startled Lee. “I’m sorry,” he blurts out. “That I told you no.”
How many days since then? More than three, more than four.
“D’you want to kiss me?” He’s rambling, this is rambling, but he’s too drunk to care. “If you don’t anymore that’s all right, but if you do, you can, I want you to—”
Lee’s eyes close for a moment. He’s got a funny look on his face, and this one—this one is unmistakably a sigh, and Lee shakes his head, and Martin tries to pretend that doesn’t hurt. He’s gotten good at pretending things don’t hurt, but it doesn’t work half so well now.
“Oh,” Martin says, beginning to stand up. “Yeah, okay, I—”
“Martin,” Lee says firmly, putting a hand on Martin’s to stop him. “No.”
“Yeah, you said—well I guess you didn’t say, actually, you just—”
“No,” Lee says again, and Martin jerks away from him. This was stupid. All of it was. He shouldn’t have had the drink, shouldn’t have asked, shouldn’t have been thinking so much about Jon and feeling unwanted, being unwanted, he always has been. Lee holds his hands up in front of him in a gesture of surrender. “All right, I won’t touch, but could you listen to me?”
“You dragged me home,” Martin mumbles, and he sounds miserable, and he feels guilty about that, too. “Guess I have to.”
Lee rubs a hand over his own forehead. “Right. It’s not that I don’t want to? But—”
“But you just—”
“Martin.” It’s stern now. “You’re listening, remember? I want to, god, do I want to, but you’re drunk, and I think you should have that water and then go to bed. If you still want to talk about this in the morning, you can ask me again when you’re sober. If not, we’ll pretend it never happened.”
Martin worries at his bottom lip. That’s sweet. Lee is sweet, and Lee is giving him an out.
“Okay?”
Martin isn’t sure he wants this out, but Lee’s right, he’s drunk. He nods. The water’s gone a few minutes later, lots of careful sipping, and he’s certainly steadier on his feet than when he was leaving the club. “In the morning?”
“In the morning,” Lee says. “All right if I kip on the couch?”
“You can have the bed,” Martin offers. “It’ll be better on your back.”
Lee waves this offer away. “If you’ve got extra pyjamas I could borrow, and maybe a toothbrush, that’d be good.”
“Sure.” The process of gathering those things, along with a pillow and the best blanket he owns, helps to center him, drag him further out of the grips of tipsiness. It’s an improvement. But after he says good night, after he throws himself into bed, he can’t sleep. There’s tossing and there’s turning and even though they’re going to talk about it in the morning, there’s an ache that settles in his throat. What if Lee’s not even here in the morning?
What if he said that and plans to slip away before Martin wakes up? Lee wouldn’t, he tells himself. He wouldn’t. But there’s another thought, a wincing, If Lee’s not here in the morning, serves you right. He’s made a mess of the entire damn night.
Martin pushes himself back out of bed and nearly marches, or stumbles, back into the living room. Instead he ducks into the bathroom for a very necessary shower. He’s stepping under the water when the room shifts in color around him, and he cringes.
Now, really?
Now, the mirror doesn’t murmur.
Really, it urges without urging.
Martin doesn’t hear it, of course. It hasn’t got a voice; it hasn’t got the words.
Martin knows it shouldn’t come as a surprise that he hasn’t heard from his mother.
It’s less that it’s a surprise and more that it stings anyway. There hasn’t even been a peep from the nurses this time around. Not as though his news was remarkable or anything. Doesn’t matter. He should have known better than to expect something to change. The only way things have changed since his father passed is in getting worse.
Michael, excellent friend that he is, had caught Martin staring somewhat mournfully into his own cup of tea during a lull, nudged him and said, “You’ll make the customers think our tea makes people sad. Come on, let’s go get some new scenery in.”
So they’d left Georgie, Jack, and Harriet to manage Cosy for an hour or three, and this is how Martin’s found himself examining kitchen utensils in a little Camden specialty shop. Michael’s mooning over a series of knives, and Martin hasn’t yet had the heart to point out that a collection as fine as that isn’t really a staple in their line of work. (He has made a mental note to revisit the shop come Christmastime.)
“If I had to make a guess,” Michael says, drawing his thumb along a knife’s edge, “your mum hasn’t answered you.”
“That obvious?”
“I know I’ve told you this before, but you shouldn’t worry so much about what she thinks.”
“I know,” Martin says. There’s a selection of cookie cutters in tubs on his side of the aisle, not strictly seasonal, and he pokes through one of them. “I mean logically, yeah, I know it, but there’s that little bit of me that’s always after her approval. Can’t help it.”
Michael, whose mother is a lovely, generous woman without an unkind bone in her body, and whose father introduced him to baking and who still sits down to watch The Great British Bake Off every new episode, Michael who comes by his nature honestly, says, “Yeah, just thought I’d remind you. Tell you what, if you asked Georgie I bet she’d be willing to give you some motherly approval.”
“What, as my future mother-in-law?” Martin says, and snaps his mouth shut. It was a light-hearted comment, but it does put him in mind of possibilities. Ones he has considered, when he’s testing new flavors or piecing together poetry or trying to fall asleep. The future. He hasn’t told Jon he loves him yet, but the feeling is there, dancing under his skin; it’s a miracle it doesn’t burst out of him every time he’s near the man.
Michael’s looked away from his knives now. His eyes are crinkled with smiling. “Already making wedding plans, are you?”
“I’m not.” Martin drops the kitten-shape he’s holding; it clangs lightly as it lands. “I do think Georgie might have already started an inspiration book for us. I don’t know where she finds the energy for half of it.”
“Have we considered harnessing her as a renewable resource?” Michael suggests. “We can stop paying for electric.”
Martin laughs. “I’ll look into it.”
Michael studies him, his smile at its slyest. “You’re still thinking about marrying Jon.”
He ought to have held onto the cookie cutter, for chucking at Michael. “Maybe a little.”
Michael abandons the knives, not without a look of longing, and says, “About ready for lunch? We can talk about venues, maybe flowers. I’m doing your cake obviously.”
Martin rolls his eyes. “Maybe in a year.”
“That long? Next week, I thought, at this rate.”
“Shut up.”
They exit the shop and cross the street to a Turkish restaurant they’ve frequented throughout the years, nestled between a tea shop run by an acerbic elderly woman and a fashion boutique.
Before they’ve made it into the restaurant, Michael stops, his mouth going slack with surprise. Martin follows his gaze, and there’s Tim, exiting the tea shop with a bag in hand. Tim’s face visibly brightens.
“Michael! Martin. Fancy meeting you two here. I wasn’t sure you knew you could leave Cosy.”
“Only on occasion,” Martin says, because it looks as though Michael’s struggling to recover the English language.
“Better than never,” Tim says.
“Are you having an affair with the competition?” Michael asks, his eyes on the bag at Tim’s side.
“It’s for my brother, Danny. He’ll be in town soon and he’s always liked this place’s blends, thought I’d pick something up for him,” Tim explains. “Otherwise don’t be ridiculous, Michael, you know there’s no competition.”
“Do I?” Michael says faintly; you’d never know he was teasing Martin only a minute ago.
Tim peers at him, a crease developing between his eyes. “I hope so.”
Martin’s phone chooses this moment to buzz in his pocket; it comes as a relief, as it gives him an excuse to wave himself away from a conversation he doesn’t think is his business until Michael wants it to be. Neither of them are looking at him as he steps away and gives his mobile a somewhat stupid smile. “Professor Sims,” he greets. “I wasn’t expecting to hear from you.”
“Mr. Blackwood,” Jon returns briskly, almost businesslike. “I hope I haven’t interrupted anything.”
“Not at all.” Martin glances over his shoulder. Tim’s come closer to Michael, and he looks away again. “Perfect timing, actually. Michael and I are out and we’ve just run into Tim.”
“Oh?” The briskness falls away into curiosity. “How’s that, then?”
“To be determined. I think they might be having a moment. And what can I do for you, Professor Sims?”
Jon sighs, long-weary. “Gerry’s in an art rut, which means he’s on a cooking rampage and planning quite the dinner for Saturday evening. Can you get away from Cosy for the night? Around six?”
“Oh, you might be able to persuade me,” Martin says. “I’ll have a look at the schedule when we get back, ask if anyone minds taking over.”
“Michael’s invited as well, and I’m sure we’ll have plenty if he wants to bring a plus-one?” Jon hazards, and then clears his throat. “You can stay over if you like, but only if you think you can tolerate my housemates so long.”
“I’d love to,” Martin says, which isn’t quite the same as saying I love you, but it isn’t entirely different, either.
“Right,” Jon says. “Good. Ah—there’s a student at my door, I should probably handle that. I’ll see you later, Martin?”
“You know where to find me.” Martin says it sweet, makes it a promise. You’re still thinking about marrying Jon.
Martin has been in love before now, or at least he thought he had been, but with Jon it all feels so easy. Jon is…well, he can’t imagine anybody else suggesting he recite poetry while having his cock sucked, and he can’t imagine going along with it for anybody else, but it had felt perfectly natural, if difficult to focus, Jon’s mouth being what it was. He still finds himself squirming at the thought of it. And then there’s the way Jon looks at him, the way he kisses him, the way he murmurs, “Once upon a time.”
There’s just Jon, and yes, Martin does love him.
Martin gives it another minute after hanging up before returning the way he came. Michael and Tim haven’t moved much, though Tim’s got a hand at Michael’s ear, tucking his hair behind it, and he says something Martin makes an effort not to hear. The hand falls away then, leaving Michael’s eyes wide with surprise.
“I’ll see you in the morning, yeah?” Tim says, low enough that it still isn’t meant for anybody else; Martin considerately pretends he hasn’t heard.
“Obviously,” Michael says.
“Good.” With that, Tim gives Martin a grid and a nod and a, “Thanks,” and away he goes, whistling something cheery as he crosses the street.
“So.” Martin nudges Michael toward the restaurant again. “Has he asked you out?”
“No.” Michael’s cheeks are tinged with pink. “I asked him.”
“Ah. Even better.” The smell of chicken and lamb wafts through the air as he pushes the door open. “Want to come to a dinner party, then?”
“Rub it in why don’t you?” Martin mumbles, wobbling on his feet but not crashing onto the floor of the tub. He leans his forehead against the wall, one arm braced there too. He’s unable to tell if he’s crying or if that’s just water running down his face. He takes several shallow breaths.
When he finally reaches for the soap, he’s attempting to look at the thing from a distance. Not whatever metaphysical distance it is separating their worlds (he wonders, a moment, if it’s a literal pane of glass somewhere), but the academic distance Jon uses when he’s eviscerating the statement of some hapless soul, except Martin is the hapless soul in his own case.
Still. Distance.
It had looked, for a time, as though the worlds were nearly lining up. Never perfectly, but mornings paired with mornings and Saturdays matched to Saturdays. He’s not sure what day it was just now, but it was the middle of the day while it’s—whatever time it is here. So much for lining things up.
Martin could laugh at the other Martin finding things so easy with his Jon. He would take even a tiny portion of that for himself.
I don ’t want that.
What’s Martin meant to do, wait around until he does? There’s Lee right there in his living room, tolerating Martin at the drunkest he’s been in years, and Lee is sweet, while Jon’s a bit of a bastard—he feels guilty for the thought even as it crosses his mind. It isn’t Jon’s fault, he’s under a lot of stress and the mirror hasn’t helped, he should have kept the thing to himself; Martin imagines Tim shaking his head at him, telling him to stop making excuses for Jon, and maybe Tim’s got a point. He can be there for Jon without constantly hand-waving his behavior, can’t he?
Maybe he’s got to create some distance of his own.
Martin goes back to bed, brittle brittle brittle settling beneath his eyelids.
Martin wakes to a headache he deserves and a smell suspiciously like pancakes. His alarm hasn’t gone off yet.
The pancake smell doesn’t fade as he makes his way down the hall, nor as he squints against the kitchen light to peer at Lee, standing at the stove. Sure enough, there’s a stack of pancakes waiting on a plate, along with sausages and a bowl of scrambled eggs. Sight and smell combined make Martin’s stomach growl. Lee’s phone is on the counter, music playing on a low volume. Something Martin hasn’t heard before, but it’s mellow and crooning and Martin thinks he might crumple, bound to break, beneath it.
“Hey,” he says.
Lee reaches out to stop the music before he turns, his expression guarded. Martin knows that’s his fault, and hates the knowing. “Hey.”
“You can cook.”
A nod.
“I ruin your night and you make me breakfast? Not sure that’s a fair trade.”
The corners of Lee’s mouth pull up. “You didn’t ruin my night.”
“Sort of felt like I did.”
“Nah. You could have thrown up on me.” Lee flips a pancake. “Had a boyfriend do that before. That ruined my night.”
Martin makes a face. “I made a real idiot of myself.”
“Only a little.” Lee pauses. Plates the pancake and turns the burner off. “How much do you remember?”
“Um. Most of it, I think.”
“Yeah?” Lee brushes his fringe out of his eyes. “And?”
And.
Martin doesn’t answer immediately.
Maybe he can pretend he’s like Jon. That his feelings aren’t his at all, but the other Martin’s; and maybe if he pretends long enough, pretends hard enough, he can pretend the feelings away. Pretend it into trueness.
Maybe he should try his hand at being happy. He doesn’t remember the last time he really was, because the times Jon’s smiled at him don’t count as anything more than a momentary reprieve. Even Martin knows that’s not the same thing.
Something has to break.
Martin looks Lee in the eye. “I’m not drunk now.”
“No,” Lee says, setting his spatula aside without looking away. “You’re not.”
Martin closes the distance between them and wets his lips. “Can I?”
“You’re hung up on your boss,” Lee reminds him, but he says it like a question.
“I don’t know what I am,” Martin admits, setting his hands on the counter, closing Lee in between them. “But I know I want to kiss you.”
“You ought to, then,” Lee says.
So Martin leans in, and it’s not really pretending with Lee.
Chapter 22: lands not below
Notes:
Happy birthday to me, have a chapter.
Chapter Text
It’s as simple as this: Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist for the Magnus Institute, is not in love with Martin Blackwood, and he never means to be.
That’s not for him. No matter what the wrong Jonathan Sims, doctorate in the making, has with the Martin Blackwood of his own world.
The omniscient narrator of a fairy story, he imagines in his idler, drowsier moments, might observe that there is not always choice in feeling. That it may not be so simple as he thinks. He doesn’t need the fairy story presence to tell him so.
It’s not simple: how their argument leaves Jon cold once the anger simmers itself away to nothing.
Martin’s face is a constant presence in his mind, the battling anger and hurt, and most of all the way Martin seemed rather to crumple, the way he shut down; Jon can’t help but think of it as a defense mechanism. Wherein he is the thing Martin’s defending himself from. (Or is it the feelings Martin is trying to fend off? Is there a difference?)
It isn’t only the look on Martin’s face, but his words, as well. Not the ones he would expect to linger, the “it’s not like I think it’s fun” or the “are you angry at me, or the mirror?” Those things, Jon thinks, might be the easier to grapple with.
What sticks in his head, for minutes and then for days after, is a hollow, “You’re welcome for lunch.”
It is simple, and it isn’t, and on occasion, Jon finds that he is sorry.
The sleeping medication stowed away in Jon’s cabinet mocks him.
Sleep is a difficult thing. Infrequent and short-lived.
Nightmares. Always nightmares. They are a jumble of bloodstained abandoned hospitals and equally blood-streaked operating theaters and desolate graveyards where the wind has given up on whistling; and these are the easy ones.
(Not easy. Never easy.)
These are the ones he can persuade himself are only a result of his imagination commingling with his employment. It’s natural, working in a place like the Archive, that he would have nightmares.
If it’s less natural to walk the same steps of dreamscape over and over (and over, and over, until he would know them blind); and if it’s less natural for the eyes of those he dreams about to look at him the way they do, accusing and pleading; and if it’s less natural for the nightmares to feel so defined…if Jon sets it aside, it will be all right.
But there are other nightmares, too, and they are the ones that trouble him the most.
It’s Martin he finds there:
Martin standing beside his desk or touching his face, his chin and his mouth.
Martin sprawled between his legs, trail-pressing kisses gentle up his thighs.
Martin walking alongside him in some spread of sunlight and taking his hand.
Martin murmuring poetry into his palm, their fingers twined together; sometimes it is E.E. Cummings and sometimes it is Mary Oliver and sometimes it is nothing that Jon recognizes, excepting the warmth in Martin’s eyes.
Sometimes there is more than one Martin, and it is down to him to find the right one.
Some people—most people?—he supposes, would not consider these nightmares. But when he is awake, Jon snarls into his pillow, into the air of his office when he’s drifted off there. When he is awake, he doesn’t want it, and when he’s asleep he does, and he cannot always tell which is the truth, and that, if nothing else, would turn the thing nightmare.
Drifting in and out of consciousness, he almost wonders if the nightmares aren’t nightmares at all, but dreams slip-sneaking their way through him from the wrong Jon. His own dreams would undoubtedly be nightmares where the wrong Jon is concerned. (When, after all, is the last time he had an ordinary dream? Of fetching coffee, of pets he’s never had, of adventures in libraries in which every book is entirely different from the others.) But in his nightmares there are scars on his face and body, and those belong to him.
One night, it is not Martin he finds in his sleep, and it is not a nightmare from the Institute. It is a well-lit kitchen, where he sits at a table with a holding-her-sides laughing Georgina Barker, while a paint-streaked Gerard Keay stands at the stove, stirring a pot and smirking; Jon is smiling so hard his face hurts, wiping at the tears in his eyes.
Jon wakes and stares at his ceiling, happiness chasing at his heels.
It is the day following this nightmare, bleeding back into night, that Jonathan Sims sits behind his desk when he ought to have gone home. Martin’s letter to his mother is in his hands again, and he is coming to terms with the realization he is lonely. It isn’t a pleasant realization, sliding like sticky-slow sap beneath his skin.
Jon supposes it must have been there for a while, waiting for him to notice. He blames the wrong Jon, and he blames Martin. Not for the existence of his loneliness, but certainly for the way it sits in him.
Things have been—fraught in the Archive, and Jon knows the tension hung thick in the air each day is his own doing. He might not mind, but watching the wrong Jon live his life, experiencing that life and himself lacking anybody to confide in has been…bringing things into focus. Martin might have been receptive if Jon hadn’t made such an ass of himself.
Would have been, not might. Jon knows it as well as he knows he doesn’t deserve it, whether or not he wants it; he can’t tell if he does want it. That’s why he’s got the letter tight in his fingers.
He and Martin have been painfully, sharp-edged polite to each other since their fight. Haven’t spoken about anything aside from work. Jon hasn’t apologized, because it would mean bringing up the mirror, and the last thing he wants is to cue another blowup. He prefers their current state of tiptoeing around each other like an unknown Leitner.
But it was Martin who drove Jon’s loneliness home, who’s been working it into him bit by bit.
It’s the happiness that’s done it.
Martin has been happier recently. It’s a good thing, obviously. They haven’t talked about it, but Jon does hear them talking, knows Martin has been spending increasing amounts of time with his Lee. They might be a couple and they might not be, he doesn’t consider it his own business, and for the same reason he has forced himself not to go looking for who Lee might be. (Besides, he hadn’t gotten the man’s second name, and it’s hardly an uncommon first.)
It’s good that Martin is happy. If not for the mirror, Jon wouldn’t be giving it a second thought. He wouldn’t be thinking he’s made a hash of things. There’s nothing to make a hash of. He hasn’t got a reason to care, to wonder if Martin would be happy like that with him.
Jon had caught that thought and pinned it into place for proper lecturing.
And today Martin had left the Archive with a smile on his face and a spring in his step, his phone at his ear, and he’d laughed; and something inside Jon had caved in like he’d taken a blow from a hammer.
Jon is perfectly alone, and he has made it so.
Now, sitting with the letter, he tells himself it doesn’t matter. Tells himself he has more to worry about. Tells himself if he were to develop feelings for Martin Blackwood, it couldn’t possibly be the one he works with; they’re speaking less than they ever have, and if he’s sharing in the wrong Jon’s feelings, well: those feelings are for a different Martin.
Now, sitting with the letter, Jon thinks about Gerard and Georgie, and wishes he had them, too.
Georgie isn ’t completely out of the question.
He scrubs one hand over his face and wrenches his thoughts in another direction. This isn’t the time.
And when is? The voice in his head sounds frustratingly like Martin’s. (He couldn’t say which one with any certainty.) But it’s never the time for self-pity. Besides, the sort of things he has to talk about, murder and an unnatural mirror, aren’t anything he wants to drag Georgie into.
He supposes there is Basira, but he doesn’t know when she might come through again, having missed him before.
He almost wishes Michael would appear again.
At least he can assume neither of them shot Gertrude. Michael, he suspects, would have been more creative about dispatching her, and Basira would have disposed of the evidence; that these thoughts are even occurring to him probably says something awful concerning his state of mind.
Would it be easier without the influence of the mirror? Certainly he would still be alone, but he wouldn’t be so damned conscious of it against a much more pleasant backdrop.
“What’s that you’re reading?”
Jon starts, but doesn’t jump, at the sound of Elias’ voice. He lifts his eyes, wondering exactly how long Elias has been standing in his doorway, how he set himself there so silently. His satchel and coat sit at his feet. The look on Elias’ face isn’t quite impassiveness and isn’t quite curiosity.
“It’s nothing,” Jon says, folding the letter slow and deliberate and unworried, and returning it to his drawer. “Nothing important, that is. I didn’t realize you were still here. Is there something you need?”
Elias gives a minute shake of his head, the barest hint of a smile. “I thought I’d check in. How is your hand doing?”
“It’s healing.”
“Good,” Elias says. “Good. And how are things with your team?”
Jon frowns at this. “Has there been another complaint?”
Elias’ smile turns wry. “Should I be expecting one?”
“No,” Jon says; it comes out more tersely than he means. Honestly, he doesn’t know. He’s doing his best with them. He really is. But his best isn’t much when he doesn’t trust them.
“Good,” Elias says again, and steps deeper into the office. Jon tenses, but Elias only sits in the chair opposite him and studies him. “Are you doing all right, Jon?”
“Perfectly.”
Elias gives him a pointed look. “You’ve been staying late again.”
“Only on occasion.” It’s only that he’s been losing track of time. Forgetting he intends to go home, to silence and a painting and waiting and fruitlessness. “There’s always so much to do around here.”
“Yes, I know there is.” Elias gives him an almost searching look, and Jon wonders if he’s satisfied with what he sees. If he’s doing well as the Head Archivist, by what metric he’s being measured. If he’s what the head of the Magnus Institute wanted him to be. He wonders, too, what Elias does when he’s not here. It’s difficult to picture him outside of the Institute, and it occurs to Jon that he knows very little about his employer’s life. “I think you should go home, Jon. Just go home.”
“I will,” Jon says, and doesn’t.
What Jon does following Elias’ departure, rather than return to his flat, is make his way through the shadowed night to what was Pinhole Books. He knows there is something to be found there, even if he hasn’t the first idea what that something is going to be. Gerard’s painting was a good find if not a useful one, but he wonders if there might not be something more Gerard Keay sequestered away before he left. Before he died.
Maybe there will be some clue as to what Gerard did with the remainder of his time in the world, aside from—possibly, there’s no way for him to confirm it—rescuing travelers in Genoa. But rescuing them from what? And how could he have known something intended to take her?
Would it have been an intentional thing? The terrors that lurk in the corners and at the edges of the world, waiting to catch the unwary, do they have intent, or is it all a great lot of poor luck and unfortunate choices?
Jon hasn’t the first idea how he’s meant to work any of this out.
Still. Pinhole Books. If there’s anywhere he’s likely to find evidence of Gerard Keay’s activities and what knowledge he had—not to mention his mother’s knowledge, she’d been the one eager to see Leitner’s volume when Dominic Swain brought it around—it is in their disrepaired bookshop.
Jon doesn’t waste his time dithering about on the front step tonight. It’s late, and people will question it, and possibly they’ll question his entry no matter what, but he can’t do anything about that, and if he gets inside quickly he’s less likely to be describable. Nobody will see his scars in the dark, from a distance. Besides: he has the key now and so he might well look like he belongs. If he’s lucky, any neighbors who spot him will think somebody’s finally decided to buy the place and has chosen an odd time to come round for a look.
Perfectly innocent.
Jon stops inside the door, fumbling with the lock behind him. He’s come more prepared this time, tucked one of the heavy-duty torches from his tunnel exploration into his bag, and he pulls it free, clicks it on.
The landing is unchanged from his previous visit, and so is the labyrinth of books. Jon swings the beam of light ahead of him and makes a face at the sheer number of spiders about. Maybe spider traps, next time. Something for the dust as well. (Is he already planning a next time?)
Jon follows the path of books to the study he visited before. There are no other paintings hung on the walls, only the massive collection of texts. It would take him as long to sift through them as it will the mass of statements in the Archive. He doesn’t have that kind of time to spend here, nor the energy for it.
Surely, he thinks as he’s studying the cover of the nearest book, some history of the Greater London area, there are other rooms in this place. It was a home as well as a business. There must be a living room, a kitchen, bedrooms.
Jon inhales, expecting a great wafting of dust and mildew and spiders, if spiders are a thing one can taste in the air when there’s enough of a concentration of them—Martin would know, if he wanted to ask—and instead tastes raspberry and hazelnut pouring over his tongue. There’s nothing for it but to press his mouth into a line and steady himself on the nearest tower of books.
Jon has a long drink of his raspberry and hazelnut before setting it carefully aside, where he can be certain it won’t get knocked over by a misplaced elbow or a shifted stack of unmarked assignments. His attention settles on Of Magic. When last he read, he reached the end of a version of ‘Princess Miranda and Prince Hero’ in which the lovely young queen bested the king of the Underground realm on her own. The next story ought to be ‘The Last Dream of the Old Oak,’ and then he will come to a new story at last: ‘Little Death Lost.’
But the title that greets him is ‘From the Heights.’
Jon frowns. Has he misremembered? He pages through his notebook and there, written neatly ahead of time, is indeed ‘The Last Dream of the Old Oak’ in preparation for today’s reading.
The story that faces him is the wrong one, and more than that, he doesn’t recall seeing it in the table of contents. He might turn back through the pages in order to check, but fears that should he let this one out of his sight, it will vanish on him just like Fairy.
This is it: this is magic.
A thrill runs through him at the thought, and he begins to read.
‘From the Heights’ reads more like an epic poem than it does any fairy tale Jon has ever shaken hands with, and it does not start at the beginning.
There is a girl with a braid and a scowl and a daydream tending sheep at the edge of the cliff and wondering what it might be to fall the thousand feet into the ocean.
There is a mountain approaching, or so it seems, the ground shaking with every step the thing in the distance takes; the girl, who is unnamed and never identified except for the constant factors of her braid and scowl and daydream and wondering, has grown remarkably adept at sleeping through the tremors.
There are battle preparations, or attempts at such, but the mountain comes ever-closer ever-larger ever-vaster; the girl does not panic, does not leave the cliff even in the dark of night, sometimes allowing her legs to dangle over the edge while her fingers grasp thick wool.
There is an end that is panic and despair and shouting; the girl stands away from the cliff, apart from the people she has known all her life while they throw themselves over the edge and break on rocks and surf.
There is a monster or a mountain that comes upon the girl, the only surviving resident of the town, and she cranes her neck to look up and up and up into limitless height, and the mountain stops; the girl curtsies, whispers untranscribed words into the wind, plucks a flower and pats her sheep.
The girl steps neatly over the edge of the cliff and lands not below, but in endlessness; there are only sheep left on the cliff.
Jon sits perfectly still, disquiet a stone lodged somewhere in his gut. It is magic, and it feels nothing like the story penned by J.M. and so easily dream-slipped-into by his younger self. It is a darker thing, and Jon doesn’t like the feeling of it nearly as much as the fairy story he’s chased for year after year.
Still, he keeps his eyes on the page, on the girl and her sheep. There remains every chance that for all the difference in sensation, ‘From the Heights’ will behave just as his silver-dew land of Fairy. He reaches for his mobile and photographs the page he’s open to—noting, with distant curiosity, that ‘The Last Dream of the Old Oak’ begins on the next—and then turns back, meticulously recording every word until he has returned to the beginning.
He stares at the title.
It feels almost familiar. Like he’s read the tale before. But he hasn’t. He knows he hasn’t.
Jon picks up his drink and, not caring it’s gone cold while he was otherwise occupied, takes a long drink. His hands are trembling. He drains his cup, and he shuts the book, and he phones Martin.
It’s nearing one, and Martin is undoubtedly busy, but he answers just before Jon can disconnect the call. “Jon?”
“Martin,” is all he says.
“Everything all right?” Martin asks, his tone more attentive now, and it eases his disquiet, just.
“I’m not really sure,” Jon says. “Something odd just happened with a book, and I’m trying to convince myself it hasn’t.”
This isn’t how he wants to tell Martin about his search for magic. Not with his stumbling upon something that feels significantly worse. He shakes his head though Martin cannot see him. No. Not like this. Martin will think he’s talking nonsense.
“Odd how?” The volume in Martin’s background lessens, and Jon imagines him stepping into his office and closing the door behind him. “Do you want to come by Cosy?”
“I think I might do.” Jon rubs at his forehead. The story’s title and all of its words are gone beneath the cover, but he feels it prickling at his skin anyway; he feels a little as though he’s falling. “It might be a while, though. I’m going to run by Lightning-Branch Books first.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” Martin promises.
“Thank you,” Jon says. “I’m sure I’m being silly, but—”
“I’m sure you’re not,” Martin says mildly; he really has the most soothing voice. Or maybe that’s only Jon’s perception of it, but does it matter? The tenor of Martin’s words slips through him and he relaxes into it, and that’s what he needs. “I’ll see you in a while, then?”
“Yes,” Jon says.
Once he’s put his phone away, Jon takes a moment to collect himself, watching Of Magic as though it’s a dog that’s bitten him and clearly means to bite again. That’s ridiculous. The book has done nothing but fascinate him since Mike first offered it over, and even this—he is curious. The table of contents presented him with stories he hasn’t heard of, but this is different. Unlikely to be material for his dissertation, but undoubtedly something new for him to marvel over. (His dissertation is, after all, hardly his primary concern when there is magic about.)
After another moment’s hesitation and waffling, Jon slides the book gingerly into his bag, as though it’s made of delicate-spun-sugar and not old leather and paper, and departs the King’s campus.
Lightning-Branch Books is, as far as the little shop goes, terribly busy. Mike is at the till, chatting with a tall man who looks as though there’s a firm amount of muscle beneath his clothing; he’s older, perhaps a little older than Dr. Bouchard, his hair a fading blond and just a touch curly, and he talks with animated, exuberant gestures. There’s a woman there too, stocky and Asian and wearing a suspicious frown, though she’s much quieter, so Jon doesn’t notice her at first.
Jon doesn’t want to interrupt, so he finds a yellowing paperback and occupies himself with it; it’s hardly his sort of book, a romance full of heaving bosoms and a historical England populated by so many lords and dukes and barons you cannot throw a stone without hitting one of them. He supposes Gerry might like to read it, so he may as well leave with the thing.
He hovers with it for several minutes, his eyebrows rising higher and higher, before Mike notices him standing there and says, “That seems a change of pace for you.”
“It was the first thing I picked up,” Jon admits, thrusting it toward him. “I will take it though, when I go. If you have a few minutes, I’d like to talk to you about Of Magic.”
Curiosity lights Mike’s eyes, but his tone is pleasant as ever on, “Sure. Just let me finish up here.”
“Take your time.”
Jon reads another handful of pages, invested, despite himself, in the troubles of one Lady Ella Ashbray, and then Mike says, “Peter, d’you mind taking care of the till while I talk to Jon? I’d ask Jude, but I think she might scare off my customers.”
“Not a problem,” the man—Peter—says amiably.
Mike waves Jon behind the counter and leads him through to a back room piled with stock enough to replenish the shopfront several times over. “Sorry I haven’t got tea or anything to offer you,” he says, pulling out a chair and clearing it of hardcovers before seating himself on the edge on the two available inches of desk. “What did you want to talk about? Something new in the book?”
Jon laughs a dry laugh, because that’s it exactly. “I found a story that wasn’t there before.”
Mike leans forward at this. “Show me.”
And Jon does mean to, but when he opens Of Magic to the relevant page, the tale has gone. Good thing he’d planned for that. He switches to his mobile—and curses aloud. “Sorry,” he mutters to Mike’s snort of laughter. The photographs he’d taken—and checked over, to be safe—have gone corrupt. The one that does deign to open for him is static like an old television screen.
“D’you want to just tell me what it was about?” Mike says, evidently not put off by the entirely disappeared story, that for all he knows Jon may have hallucinated.
It hasn’t gone from his memory, at least. Jon repeats the story as best he can; Mike’s expression remains neutral throughout.
“And now it’s gone.” Jon scowls—at Of Magic, at his phone, in a general regard.
“Fancy that,” Mike says after.
“You don’t sound very surprised.” Jon’s eyes narrow. “Do you know anything about it?”
“Not particularly.” Mike shrugs, and there’s a distance in the motion that makes Jon think that’s not the entire truth. “I know there’s something unusual about that book, and I know you’re right to be looking for magic, and I’m wondering what else you might find, with enough time. I was thinking of giving you something else when you finish with it, if you’d be interested.”
And Jon, without entirely knowing what it is he’s agreeing to, but knowing it’s something he wants, says, “Yes.”
It was a poor decision, reaching for the books for something to lean on. They’re all in piles as precarious as Jon’s sense of safety and as he shudders his way back into Pinhole Books, the one he chose topples, taking him along with it. He comes down hard on several spines and surrounded by a thick cloud of dust, sending him into a coughing fit. By the time that’s through he’s focused again on his own world.
Mostly. Mostly focused. The story that appeared in the wrong Jon’s book—it was a story he knew himself, if not exactly, and it was no kind of fairy tale. (All right, it might fit in well enough with the Grimms, but it certainly wasn’t what the wrong Jon was looking for. That nearly makes his lips twist into a smile.) Jon glances about as though Ex Altiora might conveniently appear in front of him, no matter Gerard Keay burned the volume rather than bringing it to his mother. Five thousand pounds to turn it to ash.
Jon could curse him for it.
If the story itself was familiar to that world’s Michael Crew, as it would be to his own world’s, Jon couldn’t tell. There was no flicker of recognition on his face, but he’s hardly an expert in reading people.
Dammit. What is all of this?
Jon levers himself up from the collapse of books—the stack he knocked down appears to have caused something of a domino effect, and he mutters an apology to the undoubtedly panicking spider populace, to whom this must seem a natural disaster, but he’s sure they’ll manage. The sky is falling.
The joke falls flat to his own mind, wipes away any semblance of a smile.
Another room. He wants to be in another room.
He locates his torch, which has rolled away, and brushes a spider from his hand, and turns a slow circle. There’s the entryway he came through, and then there’s another door, recessed, with another brass plaque, this one reading ‘Staff Only.’ It seems a cold way to lead to one’s domicile, but if Jon were to make a wager, he would put his money on Mary Keay being something of a cold woman.
The abandoned home is in little better condition than the shop, and just as untouched by outside forces. It isn’t a large place, not with half the property given over to the business; neither is it very homey. Jon scouts it quickly, finding two bedrooms, a bathroom, the kitchen, and something that would have some nerve calling itself a living room.
Jon picks his way back to the first of the bedrooms. Based on the moth-infested clothing hung in the wardrobe, he ascertains this must be Gerard’s. There’s nothing that looks anything like the description in Andrea Nunis’ statement, all of it much more in line with the goth style Jon has been given to imagine Gerard in; none of it is covered in paint, which makes Jon ache in a way he chooses not to examine. He spends little time in the wardrobe; examining a dead man’s clothes feels improper, too much an invasion.
Oh, and breaking into his home in order to dredge up his secrets isn’t?
Jon swats the thought away. It’s not the sort he needs to be having right now, when he’s trying to find something that might help him with this entire mess.
He investigates Gerard’s bookcase next. It’s a mishmash of books on art and books on the occult; Jon opens these and finds them annotated most—colorfully, most of the comments ultimately useless, calling the authors rude words. Nothing doing there.
Jon leans on the wall to think; it’s a significantly more stable choice than his last.
“If I were Gerard Keay’s journal,” he muses aloud, knowing he might only be looking for something like a journal, anything in which Gerard might have written something practical, “where would I be?”
Neither the stale air nor the moths answer him.
Jon drags the beam of his flashlight slowly about the room. He stops on the closet, frowning at the door he left hanging open, an idea wedging itself into place in his mind. He thinks it might belong to the wrong Jon, meaning it’ll likely be useless to him, but he can’t help the energy that takes over at the thought—
He sets the torch at the end of the bed so it shines into the closet, and sets to removing the clothing. His hands are covered in several layers of grime by the time he’s finished, and there are near a dozen moths loose in the room with him, fluttering soft wings against his face, and the closet is left empty.
Jon gives the space a long, hard look. Then he steps inside and nudges the bottom left corner with the tip of his brogue.
The wood there shifts, and Jon smiles.
Chapter 23: possible to reach
Chapter Text
Jon finds Gerard Keay tucked away in a secret compartment in his closet.
Not his body of course; that would be grotesque. But the wall gives way under the pressure of his foot, swinging inward, and it doesn’t pass his notice—nor his sense of humor—that he’s found a secret door. Did Mary know about it, or was this secret Gerard’s alone? The door catches on something, refusing to open more than five or six inches, so Jon goes to his knees without a thought for what might be getting on his trousers. There’s no good way to arrange the torch for this; he settles for fumbling in the dark until his fingers have located a cardboard corner. He maneuvers what he assumes is a box backwards to create the room necessary for opening the door and pulling it free.
It is a box. Not a large one, and it would be entirely unassuming if he hadn’t found it hidden in such a way. It’s not taped, only tucked closed, so Jon pulls the flaps loose and finds it full of what looks, to his untrained eye, like a life. The sort of things a teenager might tuck away in order to keep them from his prying mother. Was Mary Keay the prying sort? Jon doesn’t, truth told, know much about her, except that she founded this shop and it died with her, and that she sent her only son chasing after volumes bearing the signature of Jurgen Leitner even subsequent to her death; maybe sometimes Gerard went chasing after such volumes on his own in order to please her.
Something of a different picture, the Gerard seeking out “Leitner’s pages” when he crossed paths with Harold Silvana and the Gerard burning Ex Altiora. Which of them is nearer to the Gerard who would later kill Diego Molina?
There are so many things Jon hasn’t yet understood, and maybe Gerard Keay could have helped him understand a portion of them, and maybe he would feel less alone then; but that hardly matters now.
Jon drags the box across the room; it’s a miracle the thing doesn’t fall apart with every touch. He gives the bed a distasteful look and prods at it with his foot before determining it’ll have to do and fetching his torch.
The first thing he removes from the box is a sketchbook. It brings to mind not the Gerard Keay of this world at any stage of his life, but the Gerard through the mirror, at least at first. It does feel, he must admit, like an invasion of privacy, flipping the thing open; he very much doubts, however, the dead man will care what’s done with his belongings. No other family, nobody to leave the property to, Jonathan Sims, total stranger and best friend, is the nearest thing Gerard Keay has. The thought brings a grim smile to his face. This place must have fallen into the hands of the bank, and what have they done with it? Allowed it, in turn, to fall into disrepair. Unlikely anyone would want to purchase the place, given its grisly history, but it feels somehow inexcusable, that this is what it’s become.
Jon looks up from the sketchbook, at the dusty bookshelves and the rumpled, faded bedspread he’s sat upon. They might have made an effort to clean the place up. Not that it should matter to him. Not that it does matter to him. His only care for this place is what it might do for him, and it would do nothing at all, he supposes, if the bank had indeed gone to the trouble of coming in and clearing it out.
He returns his attention to the sketchbook. There’s a drawing of a bird—a lark, he thinks—nested high in a tree in the middle of a sprawling, vibrant forest. It’s peaceful, not at all what he might expect from the goth boy he’s read about. It’s almost like something out of a fairy story.
He cringes away from the thought and turns another page, and goes utterly still—
There before him is a drawing of Cosy. Every detail of the café has been rendered exactly correct. All at once it’s too much.
Jon shuts the sketchbook. He sets it aside and leaves the room, only just remembering to bring his torch, because it’s too much, of course it is; but he doesn’t leave Pinhole Books.
He doesn’t know what it is he’s doing now, if he’s ever known what he came to search for beyond some amorphous use of the word answers, but he finds his way back to the second bedroom, the one that must have belonged to Mary Keay herself.
He halts on its threshold as though expecting some unseen force to catch him here; he nearly does expect to find Mary, bald and bloodied, perched like a vulture on the bed, waiting for him with a sneering grin. But the bedroom is empty. Ridiculously so. The neatest room in the house by sheer virtue of having nothing in it aside from a bed and a bureau. He does check the drawers, but every one of them is empty excepting garments, and in one case a mouse that has nestled, apparently quite comfortably, into a fading cornflower blouse.
Jon leaves that room, too.
In the presumed living room there is a small sofa, a table, and a reading lamp that he doesn’t bother with trying to turn on. He examines the furniture and the handful of falling-apart paperbacks, and turns a slow circle around the room. It’s not a very sensibly put together place, in his opinion; he doubts very much anything about Mary Keay was ever sensible. Not in your more traditional sense.
This isn’t all of it. You’re missing something. He frowns hard at the room.
This shop, this house, if drawn with somewhat different lines, would be familiar to him. He presses his tongue against the back of his teeth, drawing in a sharp breath. Not to him, but to the wrong Jon. Never mind it’s in Morden in one London and Chelsea in the other, this, Pinhole Books, is the home he shares with the living Gerard Keay, with a glowing Georgina Barker whose friendship he’s retained.
Where haven ’t you been, Jon?
It comes to him in a vision of paint-splatter: Gerard—Gerry’s loft space, where he does a great deal of his work. It might not exist here, the layout being so different. He hasn’t found a stairwell that would take him there. Hasn’t found much of anything. Except—
Jon returns to Gerard’s bedroom. There’s a little voice whispering as he does that he knows exactly what he came here for, if only he would look it in the eye; he ignores it, as much as he ignores the moths and the webs and the overwhelming taste of stale as he feels once more for the back of the closet.
Hardly a wall, is it?
He presses his shoulder into it, just shoves until the secret little door gives way, and there it is: he’d come up the stairs upon entering Pinhole Books proper, and here is its mirror.
He swings his torch down into the darkness. There are only a few stairs before a landing, where the stairs turn to continue, and there’s no use standing about wondering what might be down there.
The stairs creak as he takes them. He stills on the landing, expecting to disturb something, but there are only spiders. He wishes there were fewer of those. Almost wishes he’d asked Martin along; Martin likes the wretched things.
And how would that have gone, Jon? ‘Martin, sorry to bother you so late, I know I’ve been an absolute prick lately, but would you mind joining me on a bit of trespassing? No, we wouldn’t be breaking in, I’ve got a key, you know.’ Bloody ridiculous. Martin’s likely at home, asleep, like a normal person. Or possibly with that Lee of his. Jon wrinkles his nose, both at the thought and at the smell as he takes another step down.
Not just a secret compartment. A secret room. “Feels a bit Scooby-Doo if you ask me,” he says to the spiders.
It’s even darker here, but the beam of his torch lights his path well enough. Another spider skitters over his shoe and he tamps down on a frustrated sigh. He doesn’t want to breathe here more than absolutely necessary.
‘What might be down there,’ as it happens, is a narrow space that doesn’t compare at all to the wide, arcing room another world’s Gerard Keay has created for himself. But that place is, as he’s already thought, a home, and he suspects this property never really earned itself the word. He doesn’t envision Mary Keay as the motherly type. Probably it’s a miracle her Gerard didn’t grow up to become a proper serial killer.
Jon smiles wryly into the dark; he supposes he can’t know that, can he. Diego Molina, after all.
The cramped space is full of boxes. Jon spares a moment to wonder if Mary ever bothered to dispose of anything, and then another to wonder what exactly Gerard was doing with the property he came into following his mother’s demise and his own exoneration.
The first box he examines has the word Eric written in a neat, albeit shaky hand. He pulls it from the pile and coughs through a thick plume of dust. Delightful. This box is taped quite shut, so Jon cuts through with his keys in order to tear it open. On top he finds what appears to be—most unexpectedly—a baby book.
Jon frowns mistrustfully at it. He examines the covers, both inside and out, nearly expecting to find a declaration that it came from the body of Jurgen Leitner; but it’s only a baby book, it only says Gerard Keay, born 16 July, 1986, and Jon sets it down, his chest tight with something he can’t identify.
He takes the Eric box with him back to Gerard’s bedroom, where he sits with his head in his grimy hands.
There’s so much here. It’ll take ages to sift through all of it, and who’s to say any of it will matter?
These boxes are a start, he supposes. And there was the drawing of Cosy.
The sketchbook is in his hands again moments later—after he’s wiped them off as best he can on the bedspread.
The content changes as he turns the pages, no longer peaceful scenes, and no further signs of the world through the mirror. Here there are shadows and things that feel much larger than the pages upon which they’re drawn and a narrow crevasse that leaves him surprised his chest hasn’t caved in, his lungs haven’t collapsed upon themselves, and when he turns that page he draws in a gasping breath.
And then there are the eyes.
Hundreds of them, at a guess. They adorn the corners and the small spaces that would otherwise be gaps. They’re drawn onto people, where there are people; they’re drawn onto nothing, where there is nothing. Stylistically they’re all quite different, some of them jagged and others flowing, but every one of them feels like Gerard Keay. (It’s a ridiculous thought. He doesn’t know what Gerard Keay might have felt like in this world. But he can’t quite shrug it off.) None are half so intense as the one he’s taken for his flat, but there are so many of them.
He also has the mad sense every single one of them can see him, is looking right back.
He wonders at their significance. Eyes. Seeing and being seen. The uncanny, discomfiting sensation that something is watching him in the Archive, always when he reads a genuine statement, and often when he is not. (More and more often, anymore.) Better Beholding than the Lightless Flame. Watching his nightmares repeat themselves over and over and over until he needn’t sleep to know them.
Jon closes his own eyes. He wonders if it would be possible to reach, though he doesn’t know what for; he wonders if he wants to.
Multiverse theory.
Staring at the Wikipedia page, Martin would like to call it ridiculous. He’ll go and ask after what books he can soon enough, but for the moment he’s staring at the text on his screen, trying to convince himself it isn’t a worthless pursuit. There’s only so much he can do with mirrors and reflections and glass, and it is another universe they’re dealing with here. He’s thought it before, hasn’t he? Might as well broaden his horizons, fling himself properly over the edge.
But has it got to feel so…pop culture? Jon’ll give him another of those withering-sub-par-tea looks.
Martin closes out of the window and rubs at his eyes, wishing more than anything they had an actual window down here. Has the Archive got to be in the basement? Don’t worry, the Archive staff don’t need vitamin D, they’ll be perfectly all right.
Just another hour, Martin. Then you can go. He looks forward to going. He’s seeing Lee tonight and it is a date, the classic dinner and a movie, and after that he doesn’t know. Lee’s told him he’s welcome to come over, to spend the night; he’d done it so easily, no pressure at all, no implicit suggesting in it, and Martin has a change of clothes in his bag to be on the safe side, but he hasn’t really decided yet.
Just focus for another hour.
Sitting at his desk isn’t the easiest way to stay focused though, so Martin stands and goes instead to Jon’s office. He hesitates at the door, which is only mostly closed. Things have been tense, still. Of course they have. There’s only so much they have to say to each other, with Jon acting like Martin might be carrying something highly contagious, and Martin doesn’t know what to do about that, but he’s decided to stop worrying over it so much.
(Not altogether, of course. Martin isn’t sure he knows how not to worry over Jonathan Sims, whether this one or the other. The other Martin, he’s decided, is somewhat luckier in that regard as well, having no idea there’s more than one Jonathan Sims for fretting over, and his Jon requires significantly less fretting, anyway. But that Martin hasn’t got Lee, has he; come to think of it, there hasn’t been any sign of a Lee Kipple through the mirror, and it only occurs to Martin now, to wonder what he might be up to. If they’ll cross paths someday in the future.)
“Are you planning to stand out there all night, Martin?” Jon’s voice calls, and that’s it, then.
“Jon,” Martin says, stepping fully into the office and finding Jon with his hands folded together, chin resting atop them, studying a book. He shuts the door behind him. “Have you got a moment?”
“I’ve just spent several of them waiting for you to come in. I suppose I have another.” Jon sounds, bafflingly, almost friendly. Still, Martin doesn’t miss the telltale signs of wariness: the way Jon’s eyes narrow a moment, the way his shoulders tense before going back down like he’s reminded himself he’s not meant to have his hackles up with his staff. But, Martin thinks, it sounds like he’s trying; it’s a step in the right direction. “What is it?”
“I’m trying to look into a few things—”
“Yes, that is what we do here.” There’s a wry twist to Jon’s lips, like Martin’s made a joke he’s not privy to himself.
Martin blinks, then laughs uncertainly. “Sure. About the mirror, though?” There’s that tensing of shoulders again. “I thought it might be helpful if I could have another look at it. I didn’t take any pictures when we still had it, and I want to see if I can work out the writing? Would you mind telling me where you stored it, so I can go and have a look?”
Also, though he doesn’t say it, he’s been wanting his hands on it again.
Jon’s face is difficult to read, then. There’d been the beginnings of a smile—a terse one, but a smile nonetheless—and now there’s distance, but also something Martin would, if pressed on the subject, describe as a gleam of interest in his eyes.
“I was thinking about that myself,” he says. “We can go together, if that’s all right.”
“Oh,” is all Martin can think to say. Not much thinking to it, actually. Last he knew Jon could hardly stand to be in the same room with him for more than five minutes, but he’s not going to say that. If Jon is trying, he doesn’t want to call attention to it and scare him off the idea.
“I have some time today,” Jon offers when he doesn’t follow the ‘oh’ with any sort of actual sentence, and Martin shakes his head.
“I’ve got plans after work.”
Jon leans back in his chair. “With Lee?”
“Yes,” Martin says, and he has no reason at all to be defensive, but it comes out like that anyway, and Jon’s face slips again into a wan-but-present smile. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be,” Jon says, and Martin has the same thought he’d had about himself: brittle, bound to break. He doesn’t know what breaking might look like for Jon. Then the man speaks again, his voice gone gruff and his eyes gone anywhere aside from Martin’s face. “I’m glad you’ve found something to do with yourself besides hover over me. He seemed—nice.”
You didn’t really talk to him, Martin nearly blurts out, his neck feeling warm and prickly. What he says instead is, “He is.” Then, come over with a need to steer the conversation back toward ground that might not be safer, but at least feels it: “So, the mirror?”
Jon waves a noncommittal hand. “Another time.”
“Right.” At least they’ve not ended up shouting at each other today; they weren’t shouting last time, either, but they may as well have been, the way it felt. “I’ll see you, then. There’s a while till I leave, let me know if you need anything?”
The offer is a cautious one. Hovering, Jon said. He supposes that’s not inaccurate. He had gotten a bit…call it overbearing.
“I will,” Jon says. “Have a good night, Martin.”
“You too.”
The remainder of his hour passes neither quickly nor slowly, just at its own pace; he does dash up to the library to ask Hannah to dig up what she can, and though her eyebrow quirks and she says, “What are you working on down there?” this is the Magnus Institute and she’s kind enough not to laugh at him, and he’ll take what he can get.
Lee is already waiting when he arrives at Hackney, jotting a note into his mobile, but he grins when he spots Martin, who grins right back at him. They’ve done a frankly embarrassing amount of grinning at each other lately; Martin wouldn’t have it any other way.
“Hey,” Lee says, pulling the headphones from his head and offering them over. “Give this a quick listen, I think you’ll like it.”
There’s a bit of a tangling mishap with the cord, and they’re weighty things, Lee’s headphones, and Martin doesn’t think at all before he says, “This would be easier with an earbud,” and then he could absolutely kick himself for it. He’d forgive Lee in an instant if he did kick him for it. “I’m sorry,” he says, dripping mortification, “I wasn’t thinking.”
A cloud passes over Lee’s face, but it’s gone again in a moment. He finds Martin’s headphones-free hand. “It’s fine. I’ve gotten worse than that.”
“That doesn’t make me feel better,” Martin protests. “I should know better—I do know better—”
“You’re cute when you’re embarrassed,” Lee interrupts.
“Oh.” There’s a beat before he ventures, “Only then?”
“No,” Lee says, and kisses him, fingertips trailing over his palm. There’s always something like that when they’re kissing, Lee’s fingers finding some place to rest, whether it’s Martin’s cheek or wrist or in his hair.
Only after Martin has listened to the song, an upbeat whirlwind of drums and guitar and tambourine with tragic lyrics as company, do they carry on to dinner at a little bistro. The film they see is nothing spectacular, a comedy whose jokes land about a third of the time, but it’s the first time Martin has been out to a movie in an age, and Lee holds his hand through the entire thing, and that does enhance the experience.
“So,” Lee says as the credits roll, brushing hair out of his eyes, “d’you want to come over?”
There’s no more pressure in the question than there was in the first invitation. Lee’s thumb is running up and down his own, and Martin’s heart is sitting his throat, which probably isn’t the healthiest place for it to be, but far be it from Martin to tell his internal organs how to live their (his?) lives.
“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I’d like that.”
And then Lee’s smiling at him again, and Martin isn’t sure how he ever turned this man down to begin with, hung up on his boss or not.
Lee lives in Notting Hill, on the second floor of a sprawling building that looks about the same age as the Institute. “My parents bought the flat,” Lee explains as they take the stairs up, “and then they retired to Newcastle upon Tyne, but I meant to stay in London, so they left it to me.”
“That was generous of them,” Martin says, unable to imagine anything like it for himself; not even for the other Martin.
Lee’s smile turns wry. “You can call me spoiled, Martin, I won’t be offended by the truth.”
“I wasn’t thinking that.” It isn’t a lie. Lee might well be a bit spoiled, but he’s also lucky to have parents who give a damn. “My mum is sort of…she’d never do anything like that? If we’d kept the house,” because they used to have one, Martin remembers it, the wide living room and the mint green of his bedroom walls and the back garden where he sometimes crawled on his belly to get right up close to every spider he could find, “I think she’d have sold it to anyone else out of spite.”
He regrets the words as soon as they’re out. That’s a horrible thing to say.
Even if it is true.
“Your mother,” Lee says slowly, stopping and peering at him in the well-lit hallway. “You haven’t told me much about her.”
Martin winces. “She’s not really a nice conversation topic?”
Lee shakes his head. “I want to hear about the not-nice parts of your life as well as the nice ones, you know.”
“Suppose that’s good,” Martin says. “I haven’t really got many nice ones aside from you.”
Lee’s face does something complicated, and then he presses a kiss to Martin’s hairline. “If you want to talk about her—”
“Maybe later,” Martin says hastily. “Got to be nosy in your flat first, haven’t I?”
“Oh, have you?” Lee laughs, and the sound is a tension-breaking relief. They continue up the staircase and down to the far end of the hall. Lee digs for his keys. “Sorry to say I’m not hiding anything interesting up here.”
“I’ll be the judge of that.”
Lee gestures him inside first, and there are only furniture shapes until a light’s been flicked on. The door opens into the living room, which looks much the way Martin would have expected it to: CDs everywhere, and a not-insignificant number of vinyl records; there are posters for quite a few bands, as well as a corkboard with fliers tacked up announcing a wide variety of shows. Martin spots one for Elora’s Folly and catches himself smiling.
“You in the mood to listen to anything in particular while you do your snooping?” Lee asks, one arm slipping loose around Martin’s waist, and Martin leans into it, loves the easy ways Lee’s touched him since that morning in his kitchen. It had been a good first kiss, as far as those things go; there hasn’t been a bad one yet.
“Surprise me,” Martin says, delivering a kiss to Lee’s cheek before crossing the room. He leaves his bag beside the couch and then continues on his way to peruse the expansive CD collection.
On a bookshelf below, he finds a binder and taps it. “What’s this?”
“Those are my articles.” There’s folk music playing now, and Lee appears at his side to slide the binder from its place. He flips it open. “Mum started it for me when I was in secondary school. I’ve kept it going for her. I take it with me whenever I go and visit.”
“Can I read them?”
“If you like.” Lee makes a face. “The early ones are rubbish, but I won’t stop you.”
“S’all right, my poetry’s all rubbish.” Martin snags the binder for himself and wanders with it back to the couch, where he plops down, and Lee beside him, and the arm around his shoulder is perfectly natural.
“When do I get to read this supposedly rubbish poetry?”
“Dunno, never?”
“Now that’s not fair at all.”
“You wouldn’t want to.”
“I think I would.”
Martin turns a page, smiling at a review of Lee’s school’s musical production. “Maybe. Buy me another Swingin’ Trickster Sunset and I’ll probably show you anything you like.”
Lee snorts. “Not really what I had in mind.”
Martin stops and lifts his eyes from the binder to meet Lee’s instead. His heart’s beating perfectly normally—because you’re comfortable with him, idiot—and he feels like he ought to, well—he says, “I’m sorry.”
Lee’s eyebrows draw together. “Sorry for what?”
“I don’t really know what I’m doing, is all.” Martin sets the binder aside and shifts to face Lee properly. “I haven’t really dated anybody in,” a moment, there, to consider what he really counts as dating before he continues with, “ever, maybe? I’m probably not very good at it, and I know I can get weird about a lot of things, and I don’t share much, and you deserve sharing, so if there’s anything you want to know about—just about anything, you can go ahead and ask. There are probably a few answers I can’t give, but most things, I think, I want you to know.”
Lee gives him a long look, like he’s considering Martin for his next article, and says, “You’re very sweet, Martin,” before kissing him. One of Lee’s hands seeks out the pulse point at his wrist, while the other comes up to cup his cheek. It’s a long kiss, but not one that asks for much, and when Lee pulls away, Martin is trembling.
“I like the way you kiss me,” he says.
“That’s good.” Lee smiles. “I like the way you kiss me too.”
So Martin does it again, pulls a bit at Lee’s shoulder until the man slides into his lap, and that’s an excellent place for him. The exchange of kisses grows more heated, hands fluttering all over the place, and Martin blushes a bit when he drops his mouth to Lee’s neck. “This all right?”
“Yeah,” Lee says, shifting closer in a way Martin finds very encouraging indeed.
Martin pulls Lee’s hair properly out of the way and presses his lips to Lee’s jaw. He doesn’t have the most experience with this, but Lee makes a soft sound, so he trails downward, till he’s at the base of Lee’s throat. Lee’s fingers card through his hair, and every so often he hears a murmured, “Martin,” and he likes that, too.
When he pulls back to meet Lee’s eyes he finds his boyfriend gone a lovely shade of pink, and he’s just leaning in to kiss him again, just wondering if Lee might like to do more than kiss tonight, when he catches a flicker of movement over Lee’s shoulder. His heart sinks as he recognizes the shape of Georgina Barker.
No, he thinks desperately. No, not now, let me stay—
It almost feels, for just a moment, as though the mirror might let go, like it’s reconsidering, even hesitating.
And then it drags him under.
Chapter 24: except that I wanted to
Chapter Text
Georgie’s just made it through the door with a salute, off to help Gerry with anything last minute, when Martin turns, one foot in the kitchen, to say, “Oh, and make sure you—”
“Triple-check the faucet, sometimes it lies about being completely shut off, we know, Martin,” Jack says, his smile bemused, but edging its way toward harassed. Fair enough. Martin’s only given them the same reminders a dozen times, and they weren’t necessary the first time he said them, never mind the additional twelve.
Martin opens his mouth, though he hasn’t decided whether it’s for another reminder or an apology, when he’s interrupted again, this time by Oliver asking, “Are you feeling all right?”
“Why shouldn’t I be?” Martin says, both posing his own question to himself and gracelessly avoiding an embarrassing untruth. Truthfully, his stomach is twisting itself into uncalled for knots no matter how many times he’s politely requested it stop that, please. There’s no reason for him to be nervous about the dinner party; he knows everyone who will be there.
It’s just—and this is completely stupid—it’s the first time he’ll be in Jon’s home. Georgie, Gerry’s, and Jon’s, sure, but most importantly it’s Jon’s, and Martin is being allowed in, and that feels like it holds some significance.
Jack sets a hand on his shoulder and says, with more patience than Martin probably deserves at this point, “I closed up at the Canyon plenty of times. We’ll be fine. I’ll call you if there are any problems.”
“I know.” Martin musters a smile, owing primarily to Jack pretending he doesn’t know what’s really got Martin so discombobulated. He rubs at the back of his neck and repeats, “I know.”
He’s forced to step aside as Michael emerges from the back, where he’s been preparing the remainder of the display food for the evening. It’s only an hour and a half Cosy’ll be open without them, unlikely they’ll run out of anything, and Oliver and Jack can make do if it does come up.
The door opens on a group of students. Martin recognizes them enough to wave and call a, “Hello,” as they’ve been holding study groups here the last few Saturday afternoons. In the wake of the pack is Jon, who’s no more dressed up than usual, and neither will Martin be; it isn’t fancy, this dinner tonight, just a group of friends called together by Gerry’s painter’s block. But Martin has heard nothing but enthusiasm about Gerry’s cooking—including somewhat orgasmic sounds from Georgie, multipurposed as descriptors—so there’s that to look forward to.
There are polite greetings given to Jack and Oliver, who are already busying themselves with the students, before Jon’s attention settles onto Martin. “Are you ready?”
“Yes,” Oliver says, coming through with a plate of coffee cake, “he is, don’t listen if he says otherwise.”
Jon’s eyebrows go up a smidge; Martin rolls his eyes and says, “Nearly.”
“Right,” Jon says, and glances at Michael, who’s straightening up from finishing in the display, lots of creative maneuvering about each other taking place behind the counter just now. “Michael, are you coming along with us?”
“No, I’ll meet you at yours,” Michael says, scanning the area, his forehead wrinkling. “I’ve got to meet Tim. He said he’d be down the street.”
Martin considers the possibilities of what might be ‘down the street’ and comes up short of an answer. He shakes his head and touches Jon’s wrist. “Give me a few minutes? I brought a change of clothes.” Jon nods and finds a chair to wait in while Martin slips into the back.
It really is nothing fancy, just a fresh sweater and slacks that won’t carry the scent of Cosy along with them; there’s more than enough of that clinging to Martin himself.
“Shall we?” Jon says when he returns, his eyes taking Martin in, his lips twitching into a smile that makes Martin want very much to swoop in and kiss him, damn professionalism right off to hell; he doesn’t, though.
“I think so.” Martin begins to turn, one final time, toward Oliver and Jack, only to be met with a shooing gesture from Oliver and a, “We’re fine, Martin, go have a good night,” from Jack.
They part ways with Michael at the door, going one direction toward the station while Michael navigates in the other, still looking mystified.
“How’s that going?” Jon asks with a vague nod toward Michael’s back, before it’s gone into the evening crowds.
“Pretty well, as far as he’s told me. Nothing has really changed about them at Cosy.”
“Tim flirts, Michael blushes?”
Martin laughs. “That’s about it, yeah. Michael flirts back a bit more. Tonight’ll be my first time seeing them together outside of work.” He nudges Jon as they walk. “Speaking of, is there anything in particular I should know before dinner?”
“Don’t ask how the painting is going,” Jon says immediately.
He almost laughs again, but the look on Jon’s face quiets him, turns the reaction into one of eyebrows meandering toward his hairline. “Right, no painting.” He reaches for his mobile and types the same warning to Michael. “So it isn’t going well, then?”
“I think it is.” Jon shrugs. “Gerry disagrees, and I’d rather not rile him.”
“I’ll keep that in mind. Anything else?”
Jon considers for a moment. Eventually he says, “Georgie has it in her head that we’re going to play charades tonight.”
“I’m not bad at charades,” Martin says mildly, and Jon releases a long-suffering sigh.
“She’s very competitive. Never play her at Scrabble.”
“Good thing I draw the line at Scrabble.”
There’s a huff of laughter before Jon says, “Is there anything I should know before dinner?”
“Sorry?” Martin blinks over at him.
“I passed Georgie on my way,” Jon says, giving him a careful look. “She said you’re a bit—”
“Of an unmitigated disaster?” Martin’s suggestion comes through a sigh.
“Not quite what she said.” Jon finds his hand for holding. “Everything is all right?”
“Only some unjustified nerves.” Jon’s expression presses in the direction of concern, and Martin quickly shakes his head. “It’s nothing, honestly. I’m being silly.”
“You can tell me if anything is the matter,” Jon says. “I want you to.”
“I know.” Martin squeezes his hand. I should say the same to you. Things had gotten a bit foggy the other day after Jon’s somewhat alarming call, Jon later telling him it was nothing but an overactive imagination and too much time spent with fairy tales, and for all Martin’s prodding, he hadn’t changed his answer. “I’m looking forward to this, I promise.”
Jon accepts his answer with only a little more murmuring of assurances.
When they arrive at the house occupied by Jonathan Sims, Georgina Barker, and Gerard Keay, Martin has to stop to take a long look at it. It sits on a terrace end, with coloring that would be more at home in Notting Hill than Chelsea, or possibly somewhere nearer San Francisco; Martin doesn’t know what else he would have expected from a home belonging to Gerry. Mostly it’s a shade of blue, the trim done in purple, the occasional speckling of grey throughout both. The rooftop is shingled in the same colors, with the additions of black and white. It stands four stories high, and while there’s no front garden, two trees hang over the stone fence that cordons the house off from the street. A sign hung at the front reads ‘memento mori’ and bears a smattering of black birds in trees.
“What’s that for?” Martin asks.
“This was a bookshop before Gerry inherited it from his mother.” Jon brushes a thumb over the lettering, and his next words are wryer. “He thought it’d be funnier to redo the sign than to lose it altogether.”
It’s difficult to imagine the house as a shop, it’s so immense, and the neighborhood skews more residential than business. Martin has a moment of inadequacy, imagining the amount of wealth Gerry must come from, but he’s not doing too poorly for himself, and in any case he knows Gerry doesn’t care. Hardly looks or acts the part of a wealthy young man.
“Interesting look to it,” he says.
“Oh, wait’ll you see the inside,” Jon says, with equal touches humor and warning.
“Why wait?” Martin takes Jon’s elbow, kicks away another rush of nerves, and allows himself to be led inside.
The smell sets his mouth to watering immediately. Chicken, he places, and pasta sauce, and excellent amounts of garlic. It all pervades the air; he hopes they’ll be sitting down soon. “Maybe I should hire Gerry to expand our menu,” he says.
Georgie appears in the entryway, her arms full of books, and says, “What will you hire Jon for, then? You can have one of three, but two out of three would just be silly.”
“Jon can tell stories,” Martin says promptly, and Georgie grins at him.
“Knew you found a good one,” she says to Jon. “Keep him, or I’ll have him for myself.”
“You have Melanie,” Jon points out.
“That I do.” Georgie’s voice is written through with satisfaction. “She and Sasha have been here ten minutes. They’re out back, if you want to join them, Martin. Jon, come and help in the kitchen?”
The question mark at the end seems more an afterthought than real intention.
“In a minute,” Jon says, and Georgie rolls her eyes with all the fondness in the world before exiting again.
“She said come and help in the kitchen,” Martin observes when she’s gone, “but she was holding about twenty books. We’re not being fed those, are we?”
“Extracurricular art project.” Jon shakes his head. “Though I don’t doubt Gerry could make a book taste good if he put his mind to it.”
“A man of many talents,” Martin murmurs, and then feels a need to clarify, “Art project of Gerry’s, or of Georgie’s?”
“Georgie’s.” Jon’s smile is sheepish. “Gerry lets us live here free and all. He’s basically a modern day art patron, except I’m not an artist and he is. His mum did leave him some money, but this is almost entirely down to his art.”
Martin finally takes in what ‘this’ really refers to. The house around him. The walls are painted in a forest scene, a stag so alive it might nuzzle back at his hand when Martin presses his fingers to the wall, light filtering through the trees just where it ought; there’s a tarp laid across much of the floor, and a drying, incomplete painting Martin thinks is a man, but it might just as well be another tree, or possibly a flock of birds. The ceilings are rather high, and the staircase spiraling up would be more at home in a wizard’s tower than a Chelsea home.
“Wow,” is all he manages.
“Wow is Gerry all over. Come on, I’d best show you to the garden before I get a telling off.” Jon offers his elbow once again and leads Martin down a long hallway, past the kitchen, where Gerry’s donning an apron and the scents are even stronger, and Martin spares a moment to wave.
The garden is lovely, the leaves working through their color change and the remaining flowers mostly purples and blues; he can only imagine what this looks like at its full height of bloom in the spring months. He looks forward to seeing it then, assuming he and Jon are still together, and he can’t think of any reason they shouldn’t be. He suppresses the urge to lean in and kiss the man—time enough for that later—because, as promised, they find Sasha and Melanie there, along with a long table draped in purple cloth and decorated with meticulously folded and painted paper stars. There are place settings and neatly printed menus and all.
He greets the ladies, who he’s never spent any time with outside of his business, while Jon disappears back into the house.
It isn’t long until Michael arrives, side-by-side with Tim, a flower stuck behind his ear and his cheeks pink. Tim’s smiling so broadly Martin wonders a little if it hurts. Most importantly, Michael looks happy.
Only several minutes after that, the residents of the house arrive in a procession, with Gerry at the head and Jon bringing up the rear. Their arms are full of dishes, and though the entire table begins to rise, offers of help on their lips, hands already outstretching, Gerry says, “Nope, you lot have done your part in showing up.”
“I didn’t know you were interested in dinner parties,” Tim remarks, examining his menu, then cocking an eyebrow at the dishes.
“Cooking helps me think,” Gerry says.
“Oh,” Georgie says in a tone of polite inquisitiveness, “is that what you’ve been doing? I thought you were busy swearing at yourself. And us, sometimes. And your pasta sauce, which does deserve better.”
There’s laughter all around, with the exception of Gerry, who gives her a silent smile and flips her off before making his way back inside. Georgie rolls her eyes and follows, and there are more dishes a minute later; it’s another round and a half of deliveries before everyone’s been served.
With his first bite, Martin finds an understanding of Georgie’s noises, though he still considers them unnecessary.
“This is some house,” Sasha says as she slices off a bite of her chicken. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“I did a lot of remodeling before moving in.” Gerry’s at work on a piece of his garlic bread. “Mum liked her spaces more closed. I kept the built-in bookshelves, though, those were always good.”
“Where’s your father?” Martin asks, too curious to do otherwise.
“Oh, Da lives in Somerset. You’ll all meet him if—oh, hang on.” Gerry drops his garlic bread and somehow manages to make dashing look more like sauntering as he returns to the house. When he reappears, it’s with a handful of envelopes, which he waves about before passing them to his guests. “Art showing. But I’d like if you’d all come to the opening night.”
“Sure,” Tim says with a smile. “No big deal. Only a personal invitation to the art opening of England’s hottest painter.”
Gerry winks at him. “In more ways than one, yeah?”
“Please don’t help his ego,” Georgie says.
Martin smooths down the edges of his envelope, and glances at Jon, who’s looking right back at him. “D’you want to go together?”
“Obviously.” Jon sets his own invitation aside carefully, as out of harm’s way as it can be, given the multitude of dishes.
“Are you going to bring anybody?” Melanie’s question is posed to Gerry, complete with a broad sweep of her fork. “We mostly come in pairs, and I intend to bring Sasha along with Georgie and I.”
If Sasha has an issue with not being asked her say, she doesn’t say so.
“I might,” Gerry says. “You’ll all have to come and see, won’t you?”
“Are you going to show up with Dr. Bouchard on your arm?” Jon says, and Martin nearly chokes on a swallow of wine; across the table, Georgie forgoes the ‘nearly’ part.
Gerry makes a thoughtful sound. “He wishes.”
Jon snorts.
There’s a while more of easy conversation, leaving Martin to occasionally probe at the question of why he’d bothered to get so nervous. Michael’s the one who finally says, his eyes resting on the back of the house, “Not to work backwards in the night, but your house is really—would it be all right to have a look around?”
“The first two floors, feel free.” Gerry gives the place a smile, himself. “Bedroom doors are closed, if you don’t mind staying out of them.”
“Not at all.”
There seems to be a collective agreement to rise, and Tim says to Michael, “Maybe we can find a secret door if we really put our minds to it.”
“We do have one of those,” Georgie says.
“Really?” Martin can’t help sounding astonished, which he thinks is better than the way Tim’s jaw has literally dropped.
“I’ll show you later,” Jon promises.
“Hardly a secret door if you two are going around showing and telling everyone, is it?” Gerry sighs as though this is primary school stuff; then, show and tell is that.
“Ah, right.” Jon gives him a feigned look of apology. “Martin, I suppose you’ll have to wander the house in the night to find it on your own. I can give you a guttering candle, if you want.”
“I always knew I’d have to become a Gothic heroine someday,” Martin says, trying to sound just as wistful as the role entails, “but I haven’t brought my billowing white gown with me. I didn’t realize I’d need it tonight.”
Georgie says, “You can borrow mine.”
“Oh, excellent.”
“Dessert will be ready in,” Gerry considers his wristwatch, “give me twenty minutes. Reconvene then? Jon, Georgie, stick around and help me get these dishes in.”
Still no personal tour, then. Martin finds himself accompanying Melanie and Sasha, not wanting to follow Michael and Tim. His company is likely the last thing they need.
“I didn’t know a place could sprawl like this in Chelsea,” Melanie says, running her fingers over a grandfather clock in a room that seems to be entirely for display purposes, though the arrangement is all haphazard.
Martin considers a Doctor Who reference, but fact is, Gerry’s house looks just as big from the outside as in, so he lets the opportunity pass by; it’s low-hanging fruit, anyway. Instead he investigates a series of photographs, mostly featuring scorpions, until it’s time to resettle for dessert, after which there is an unfortunate round of charades, during which Martin is forced to pantomime writing a letter of complaint.
Eventually, though, most everyone leaves, aside from Melanie and Martin, and Gerry waves away offers of help washing up, insisting it soothes him, which makes Georgie roll her eyes. What matters to Martin is the way Jon says, “Come upstairs?”
“Nothing I’d like more,” Martin says, and up they go.
Jon’s bedroom is what Martin would expect, and it isn’t. There are books all over the place, many packed into some of those built-in bookshelves Gerry mentioned, along with a scattering of papers. The furniture looks like it was lovingly collected from antique shops, and one wall is painted with a crumbling, snowy castle scene, the words ‘into the ever after’ done in lettering that manages to look sweeping and slapdash and whimsical at once, and Martin cocks his head at that.
“I let Gerry have free rein there,” Jon says.
“I was only thinking this fits my new Gothic heroine destiny.” He touches a cliff edge. “I suppose this is where I’d run away during the night.”
“I hope you don’t mean to run away.” Jon’s arms wind around his middle, and Martin leans his head back, utterly relaxed against him.
“Do you want me to stay the night, then?”
“I hoped you might. There’s plenty of room.”
“I did notice that.” Martin turns in Jon’s arms and seeks out his hands to slide their fingers together. “I haven’t got pyjamas though. D’you think Georgie’ll mind if I sleep in that billowing gown she’s lending me?”
“She’d be insulted if you didn’t.”
“That’s a relief,” Martin says, and draws away to sit on the edge of the bed. He runs a hand along the comforter, a soft thing that hasn’t decided if it prefers to be blue or grey, and is embroidered with little flowers. “I like your room.”
“Good. I’m glad to hear it.” Jon appears genuinely so as he leans down to kiss the corner of Martin’s mouth. It’s early yet, but there isn’t much Martin thinks he’d rather do for the rest of the night than lounge in bed with Jon, so he urges his boyfriend atop him, and it’s only a little bit of rearranging until they’re in a better position.
They’ve been kissing a while, Jon’s knees pressed into the mattress between Martin’s legs, when Jon pulls back; it takes Martin a moment to place the pinched expression on his face for the nervousness it is.
“What’s the matter?” he asks, running his hands easily over Jon’s shoulders.
“I was thinking,” Jon says, running a hand through his own hair, “I probably should have mentioned before, but the moment never seemed quite right for it. I’m asexual.”
Martin doesn’t care at all for the sense that Jon is afraid for his answer, but can’t fault him for that, society being as it is; he’ll just have to put that to rest. “Okay,” he says, and touches his fingertips to Jon’s lips, and finds them kissed. “That’s not a problem for me.”
“It has been for some people.” The tension that had begun to hunch Jon’s shoulders is easing away again. “Not Georgie, I mean, she never—but I’ve had negative reactions.”
Martin pushes at Jon’s shoulders, his chest, until the man is where he wants him, wrapped up in his arms. “I hope I haven’t made you feel pressured.” He hesitates. “What we’ve done—”
“Is good.” Jon furnishes him with a dry smile. “I assure you I didn’t suck your cock for any reason except that I wanted to, and I’m sure I’ll want to again, Mr. Blackwood, but not tonight.”
“Good thing, Professor Sims.” Martin gives him a slow, lingering kiss, keeps up until Jon feels melted against him. “I’ve got to come up with another poem before then.”
“Pun intended?”
“Always.” Martin gives him a considering look. “What does asexual mean for you? I know it varies.”
Jon hums a little. “I like sex. I’m not always,” he pinches the bridge of his nose, “pardon the phrasing, I’m not always up for it, but I like seeing what I can do to you. That’s more interesting to me than getting off myself.” Martin shivers a little, and Jon smiles at him. “I could kiss you forever, and cuddling is good, this, what we’re doing right now.”
“It’s very good,” Martin agrees. There’s a pause that isn’t awkward or strained or anything else unpleasant, before he says, “How about that secret door, then?”
“I’ll never hear the end of it from Gerry if I show it to you.”
“Then I’ll find it myself, and you can say encouraging things.” Martin grins at him. “Have you got a candle?”
Martin’s head swims as he comes back to himself. To Lee’s couch, a flat that isn’t the most familiar yet, but a man who feels solid. His fingers curl, wanting to anchor him in place. Like if he holds on tight enough there won’t be anything to worry about. Doesn’t matter he can still see the vague shape of Georgie, his eyes working out what is and what isn’t.
“Martin,” Lee says, and that draws Martin’s attention to Lee’s face. He’s still in Martin’s lap, a few hours being a few seconds; his brow is creased with worry, and Martin feels horrible once he places it. There are bits of the other Jon’s bedroom floating about him, a desk in the corner of his eye, his own laughter in his ears, though he couldn’t feel less like laughing. He shuts his eyes and breathes in.
Here and now and with Lee, that’s all he wants.
“There goes the mood, I suppose,” he says dully.
Lee cups Martin’s face in his hands and searches his face. “Are you okay?”
“I’m…” Martin realizes, as he begins to answer, he doesn’t know if he’s okay or not. He was fantastic before the mirror went and got its sharp-glass edges in him just then, and now there’s a tight pain in his chest, because all he wants is a nice night with his boyfriend and he can’t have that much. Wouldn’t even feel right to say he’s better now, because he’s not. “You’re going to ask me about it.”
“Can you blame me?” Lee slides off his lap then, but only goes as far as beside him.
“No.” Lee’s been plenty patient with him already, with his non-answers in music clubs and cafés.
And Lee does ask, his fringe falling into his eyes, “Where’d you go, Martin? You weren’t here. Your eyes were somewhere else, and I know you couldn’t hear me.”
There’s a long moment of silence. Martin reaches for Lee’s hand, plays with his fingers, and tries to decide what he’s allowed to say. “I want to tell you, but I promised.”
“Promised who?”
“Jon.” Martin sighs. The hand that’s not tangled up with Lee’s rubs at his forehead. “Jon and I—there’s a thing that’s—”
“Complicated?” There’s an edge to the word. Martin doesn’t think it’s anger so much as caution, though there is some anger in it. Your kind of complicated? Lee has and hasn’t said.
“Yeah, I think I mentioned before.” Martin swallows and forces himself to meet Lee’s gaze, frightened of it as he is. “I’m sorry. I wanted something else from tonight, but I—”
“Come here,” Lee interrupts, already pulling Martin toward himself. They come to rest with Martin stretched out atop Lee, a hand stroking up and down his back, and it’s the most natural thing in the world to kiss him. When Lee speaks again, it’s careful. “I’m not going to lie, okay? I’m not thrilled that you have some sort of promise with your boss—”
“It’s not anything like that.” Martin needs Lee to understand that, to know he’s in this, completely.
“I know, I know it isn’t, but the sort of secrets in your Institute are…” He trails off, and Martin can only think of Jennifer’s statement, Lee’s encounter with the unnatural, and he’d be a fool not to understand Lee’s concern. Not to mention a jackass. “I don’t think this can be anything good, can it?”
“Hard to tell.” Martin rests his forehead on Lee’s shoulder. “It hasn’t felt especially dangerous, except for the part where I can’t do anything to stop it. I really didn’t want it to happen just now. I never want it to happen when I’m with you.”
“Do you want it to happen other times, whatever it is?” Lee asks.
“Not really,” Martin says. “But especially not when I’m trying to have a good round of kissing. Listen, I’ll—maybe not right away, I don’t know, things are weird right now, weirder than usual I mean, Jon’s been—never mind that—I’ll see about talking to Jon if I can catch him in a good mood, and then maybe I can tell you—just trust me for a little while?”
“Of course I do.” Lee says this like it’s the most basic thing in the world, and Martin hadn’t known how it would feel to hear that, and he’s quiet, maybe a little bit stunned, and then he shifts so he can have his mouth on Lee’s again.
“Thank you,” he says after, with Lee’s fingers on his back, his shirt hiked up. He’s holding himself up with one palm spread beside Lee’s head. “D’you want to talk about something else? Anything. I could tell you about when I had to live in the Institute for a while, if you want that sort of story.”
“Not tonight. I’m worried about you enough as it is.” Lee looks horribly solemn, but after a moment, his mouth quirks, and even if it’s just for Martin’s benefit, seeing it helps. “I kind of want to hear about this ‘something else’ you wanted from tonight. I’m very curious, Martin.”
Martin swats at his chest. “Be nice.”
“Is it not something nice you wanted?” Lee’s tone is all innocence.
“Shut up,” Martin says. “If you use the word naughty, I’m going home.”
“No, you’re not.” Lee gives one firm tug and Martin loses any leverage he might have had, has no way to move, unless he wants to roll off the couch. “I’m keeping you here, where I can see you.”
“If you insist.” Martin’s mouth has landed just below Lee’s ear, which he finds convenient. “Does ‘here’ extend to your bedroom? I was sort of thinking of putting my hand down your trousers, if the night’s not completely ruined.”
Martin knows, as Lee leads him down the hall, that absolutely nothing has been resolved, but he can make do with this for a little while.
Chapter 25: interlude: with possible dragons
Notes:
Sometimes you've just gotta get experimental as heck.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Once upon a time, there was a mirror.
There are fairy tales and there are ghost stories.
Of course, you might point out, there are more categories for narratives than that. There are romances and adventures and sometimes stories have space ships in them, or dusty towns and horses; and sometimes stories have a dash of everything. You would be right, in making this point. But in this story of mirrors and darknesses and worlds and men called Martin Blackwood and Jonathan Sims, you’ll pardon me for asking that you focus on but two.
You will, after all, have noticed that this story has any number of romances, whether or not I draw your attention to them here.
And so, to carry on, to save questions for later: there are fairy tales, and there are ghost stories, and once upon a time there was a mirror.
The mirror wonders, as much as it has ever wondered anything, which of the two it comes from, and to which it belongs; it wonders if the answers can be different, or if it is entirely beholden to one. It has never truly understood the difference between fairy tales and ghost stories; else it finds the world around it does not understand.
Once upon a time.
The mirror likes the phrase.
How is it ghost stories begin?
On dark and stormy nights, in foggy graveyards, across moonlit paths, sailing drowned-ghost seas, entering rotting castles and falling-apart mansions.
There is no uniform beginning to ghost stories, and so the mirror prefers the fairy tales. But there are fairy tales, and there are ghost stories (do you understand? that I do not mean for reading?), and perhaps whether a story is one or the other depends on the point of view.
Once upon a time, there was a mirror; the mirror spent most of its time in deep sleep, as dragons slumber in their hoards.
Of rotting castles
Sat in his studio, covered up to his elbows in paint, Gerry Keay feels rather like a ghost story.
It’s the sort of thing his mother would have said. Especially near the end when all she ever did was ramble about blood and madness and other horrible things. Small wonder nobody was doing their book shopping at Pinhole Books at that point, when there was a perfectly good Waterstones, whose clerks never asked if you were aware of the eyes or did you know the dark has claws before helping you find the newest mystery with the little old ladies and their knitting needles or—whatever.
Gerry keeps his eyes on the ceiling, high above. If he turns to the left there’ll be the fire-engulfed man he’s painted. It appeared on autopilot. He doesn’t like the way it makes him feel, like a damned unhappy ghost story.
No art show for this one.
The upcoming show is already decided, of course, has been for weeks, and that’s likely as not the cause of his block. The guest room’s all made up for his dad to stay in for a few days and he’s due to have a handful of interviews and now he’s painting…well.
It’s the middle of the afternoon, and Gerry is the only person home in what used to be his mother’s house. He wonders what she would make of the thing he’s painting.
She felt like a ghost story before she ever hanged herself from that tree in Kensington Gardens.
Gerry reaches for his mobile. The paint on his hands is dry enough, beginning to crack. He skims through the log until he finds Lightning-Branch Books. There’s an irony here, though he hasn’t entirely put it together yet.
Mike answers on the second ring. “Lightning-Branch Books.”
“Mike,” Gerry says, all affability. “This is Gerry.”
There’s a beat of startled quiet and then an awkward, “I was just thinking of you.”
“Were you?” Gerry tilts his head. Catches a sliver of red-black-orange, of the most lifelike flames he’s ever painted; such a shame they’re wasted on this.
“Just surprised you haven’t come to take me to lunch again.”
“Do you want me to? You didn’t seem particularly enthused last time.”
Mike hadn’t said no, when Gerry demanded he come along to Cosy, but there was a certain dearth of enthusiasm. Gerry means to do it again in any case; he likes the way Mike looks at him, like a curious object in an antique shop, a puzzled crease often on his brow. But lunch isn’t the subject of the day.
“I didn’t mind.” Another pause, as though Mike is waiting for something, and then, “You’ve called my bookshop. Do you need a book?”
Gerry laughs. “No. No—maybe, hard to say. You had that book for Jon. Have anything for haunted painters? I’ll pay whatever you like for it.” (He hadn’t haggled much for that ‘good deal’ Mike gave him on Of Magic, and is sure Jon knew as much even as he was saying it. There’s already more money in his bank account than he’ll ever need, no matter how much he flings at his friends and art institutions and scholarships and whatever else.)
Mike says something that might be, “Dinner,” or might be any other word in the English language, or possibly a different language altogether. Gerry’s pretty sure Mike speaks a handful, at least one of them dead and disused. “You’re a haunted painter now, Gerry?”
“Think so.” Gerry closes his eyes; he can practically feel the flames burning-hot on his skin. “I painted something pretty horrible.”
He describes the painting in excruciating detail and when he’s finished Mike is quiet for so long he thinks maybe the call’s disconnected.
“Mike?”
“You should destroy it,” Mike says matter-of-factly. “Right now.”
Gerry does as told without asking questions. He doesn’t burn it. Something feels wrong about burning it. Dangerous. Like the painting might like that, or something else might, and isn’t that a nonsense thought. He paints over the canvas in white before tearing it from the wall and—drowning it, for want of a better word. When he’s finished, he chucks it in the bin.
Mike stays on the line throughout, brushing him off when he asks if there aren’t customers he should be paying attention to with a steadfast, “This is more important.”
And though he isn’t there, Mike feels like a calming presence, and Gerry doesn’t ask again.
“Tell me a story,” he says instead, and Mike launches into some Hungarian legend.
Once upon a time, there was a mirror; and the mirror did possess a hoard, though there was neither silver nor gold nor treasure.
Of midnight-hour
Elias Bouchard, Head of The Magnus Institute, stands beside the window in his office, looking out over the eveningscape. It’s late, so very late, and the Institute around him is empty, aside from Jon, still toiling away below. Driving himself mad, trying to piece together who killed Gertrude Robinson, no doubt.
Hardly your greatest concern, Jon.
Elias rolls his shoulders and sets his fingers on the windowsill. There’s something odd about Jon of late, more than the burgeoning paranoia, and more even than his encounter with the Distortion. (Neither of those are, in the grand scheme of things, worth considering very odd.) This oddness developed after the paranoia, before the Distortion came to call, and there is the same sort of oddness where Martin is concerned. There are things in each head that are not right, and Elias cannot do more than snatch at them.
(The thing that is not Sasha James is hardly a concern, though he does keep a watch on it. To see if it’s only playing at some irrelevant game, or if it should be dealt with.)
Elias Bouchard is well-versed in ghost stories. He has been for a very, very long time. He examines his hands. Not those of a young man, but younger than the hands far below, which belong to him as much as these. He was not always Elias Bouchard. (He still is not Elias Bouchard.) He traces a vein while his thoughts trace Jon’s behavior, and Martin’s, and the sensation in the Archive that does not belong, but lingers around his Archivist and the assistant.
“What am I to do with you, Jonathan,” he says aloud, and it isn’t really a question. There are plans in motion.
It would be a terrible shame if something were to impede on Jon’s progress when he’s doing so well. But if this is another power, and there is little else Elias imagines it could be, it may be for the best.
It might touch Jon the way he needs to be touched.
Elias considers that thought; he considers several other things, as well, and in the end he decides, as he has always been wont to do, to continue watching. He’s so well-practiced.
In the meantime, he departs his office, discarding the idea of stopping in and telling Jon to go home. Let him have his fun. There’s no harm in it, and if it makes him a better Archivist in the end…all the better.
Once upon a time, there was a mirror; the mirror’s hoard was people, in a sense. It was not a particularly large hoard, but the mirror treasured it nonetheless.
Of vine-grown castles, of fairies
Michael Crew, proprietor of Lightning-Branch Books, sits in the dying light of afternoon turning to dusk, beneath a tree that reminds him very much of the scar on his chest. It probably shouldn’t be his favorite tree, given that, but it’s a beautiful old thing, and it’s not the tree’s fault he was struck by lightning as a child. He pats the bark absently.
His eyes are on the sky.
He’s quite sure it’s talking to him; he’s even more sure than that he doesn’t want to listen to the low whisper or hum or whatever it is.
Mike lifts a hand and studies his fingers against the backdrop of blue-grey. “It’s like that, is it,” he says, more to himself than anything; the sky isn’t worth talking to. His phone buzzes in his pocket and he reaches for it with his other hand. Not Gerry Keay this time. Too bad; he likes the man’s voice, and the way there’s paint on him, no matter what. He’s always liked Gerry, and Jon, and Georgie, and it makes him uneasy, whatever this is, that something seems to be reaching for them the way it is for him.
Providing Jon with Of Magic probably hasn’t helped. It’s difficult to say, this early.
His phone’s still ringing. He considers the screen a moment before sliding his thumb across. “Evening, Adelard. Something I can do for you?”
“Something is stirring,” comes the rough voice of Adelard Decker. A longtime acquaintance. Mike wouldn’t call him a friend, not like he would Peter or Jude or Annabelle.
“We had noticed,” Mike says politely. “I think it’s more than one something, myself. You might want to come back to London. We might have to do something of our own sooner rather than later.”
He doesn’t need to see Adelard to know what sort of grumpy expression is shifting his features. Well-earned for once. It’s not likely this is anything good.
“So much for the precautions being permanent,” Adelard grumbles. “What are we supposed to do?”
Mike makes a noncommittal sound. The sky growls in his head, like it doesn’t appreciate being ignored, and Mike raises his eyebrows as though to say, Do you mind? I’m on the phone. Aloud he says, “I don’t know yet. I’m checking into a few things. I think something has changed, but it seems to me like we’re just going to have to wait a while longer.”
“Wait.” Adelard sounds disgruntled, but there’s nothing unusual about that.
“Don’t ask me what we’re waiting for, Adelard, you won’t like my answer.” Mike thinks of a girl stepping off a cliff.
Adelard makes a recalcitrant sort of sound and mutters a farewell; he’s gone before Mike’s returned it. He keeps his phone in hand and looks away from the sky with a polite, “I’m afraid I’m not interested, and there’s not enough of you to persuade me otherwise.”
Not yet, he does not say, because it would sound too much like fear, and Mike knows better than that. The scar on his chest prickles.
The mirror has an excellent memory.
It remembers being forged (is that the word? are mirrors forged? the mirror likes to think so, it sounds nice, being forged), remembers the silver being poured and then wrought into place, remembers words being spoken.
It does not, though it would never admit this, recall the words themselves. They may have been Latin or they may have been Sanskrit or Aramaic or something older and deader and it hardly matters. The words were not necessary. The intent was.
The mirror remembers being slipped into the world, into a woman’s bedroom, where she lay with it in her bed while she combed her hair, and it remembers that she saw her own face cracked and torn and bloodied. It does not remember how long ago this might have been; time is difficult, when one is most often asleep, and when one is a mirror.
It remembers passing hands and hands and hands (minds and minds and minds) (worlds and worlds and worlds) (as we are all the main character in our own world, except in the rarest of cases), and then it does not remember, for a time, until there was a man with a horrible sneer, and the mirror slept, slept and woke, woke and changed.
The mirror is changing, still, as we ponder fairy tales and ghost stories.
Of foggy graveyards
Georgina Barker, host of the “What the Ghost?” podcast, wakes from a strange dream. Jon was there—she hasn’t spoken to him in years, but he was there—and another man, one she’s never met before, with long hair dyed black and paint dried in his hair. The paint held the colors of fire and she would almost think she knows him. But she doesn’t. His name escapes her, once she’s awake. Something with a G.
She shrugs the dream off easily enough. Everyone has dreams.
She supposes she’s just been thinking of Jon, here and there, since Melanie called following her visit to The Magnus Institute, absolutely fuming. Georgie’d nearly laughed. Jon always was good at pissing people off, and there’s something to knowing some things never change.
She’d thought of giving him a call, chiding him and asking how he was doing these days; then she’d thought better of that.
But the dream floats back through her mind as she stands at her stove, wrapped in a fuzzy robe, waiting for the kettle to do its work.
They’d been at a kitchen table. Eating omelets. And Gerry, the other man’s name was Gerry. Georgie can’t see why that might matter; she’s never known a Gerry.
The kettle shrills to let her know it’s ready, if she’d please pay it the attention it’s due. Georgie mutters something vulgar and removes the kettle from the burner, rifling through her cupboard for the lavender, and gives the tea time to steep.
There’s laughter clear in her head, her own and Jon’s and the stranger called Gerry’s. She sucks her bottom lip into her mouth. It was only a dream, and even the scary dreams are usually easy to wave away like so much smoke. (Her mouth quirks at that. Her subconscious tries so hard sometimes, all the ghost stories she includes in her days. Poor thing.) There was nothing scary about this dream. On the contrary, it was warm like her robe, soothing like the tea, and she realizes with a start, that what she’s feeling is a pang of yearning. Homesickness for whatever it was she held in the dream.
“That’s silly of you,” she says under her breath. But it sticks with her throughout the day, its fingers dug hard into some place in her head.
Her next dream is standard fare, running late to a job she doesn’t have, and that helps to put the other one out of her mind. To turn it into an amusing anecdote for the next time she sees Melanie. (At least, that’s what Georgie tells herself.)
Once upon a time, there was a mirror; the mirror was fond of dragons.
Of gingerbread houses
Michael Shelley stands in a kitchen that does not belong to him, an array of mixing bowls and whisks and ingredients laid out in front of him, lately pulled from cupboards and drawers. “You’re sure you don’t mind?” he asks, threading anxious fingers through his hair, and it isn’t the first time, nor the second, nor even the third.
Tim shakes his head, dark hair a ridiculous cloud about his head, standing there in a T-shirt and boxers; the T-shirt’s only due to Michael chiding him about kitchen sanitation. He’d gone to bed in just the boxers. The look he gives Michael manages to be thoughtful and rakish at once. “Do I mind my baking wizard boyfriend going to work in my kitchen? Let me think—ah, done thinking, can’t say I do.”
“Am I your boyfriend?” Michael cants his head. They haven’t really talked about that yet.
“I bloody well hope so.” Tim’s on him in a moment, catches him in an enthusiastic kiss, and Michael foregoes kitchen sanitation in the interest of rucking Tim’s shirt up, where he can lay a palm against his stomach. It won’t kill him to wash his hands again.
“Right,” Michael says when they part, “but it is two in the morning.”
Tim waves this away. “It’s fine. If it’ll help you feel better, I don’t care.”
Michael gives him a little smile. “That’s sweet.”
“That’s me,” Tim says. “Sweet all over.” He drops his mouth to Michael’s ear. “Want to check?”
Michael rolls his eyes, but he laughs, too, and steps away to scrub his hands clean. His options are limited by what Tim’s got in his pantry, but it looks like he’ll be able to do decent sugar cookies, and possibly oatmeal.
“You are all right?” Tim asks over the sound of the water.
“Yeah, I’m all right. It was just a dream.” An unnerving thing, full of doors and corridors and a voice that was his and wasn’t his, and a ringing laugh that was the same, and he hadn’t wanted to close his eyes again. Instead he’d begun crawling out of bed and Tim, proving the lightest sleeper ever born, had caught him and asked what was the matter, and here they are now.
Stress baking in the wee hours.
But it was just a dream. “Thank you for—” He pauses, drying his hands and fiddling with measuring spoons and shaking a bottle of vanilla extract to check there’s enough, all before finishing his sentence. “Not laughing at me.”
“There’s nothing funny about bad dreams.” Tim nestles his chin onto Michael’s shoulder.
Michael turns his face to kiss his apparent boyfriend’s cheek, then nudges him off with a, “Hands, Tim.”
Once upon a time, there was a mirror; and you must understand that mirrors are not given to understanding things. Mirrors are fanciful creatures which like to pretend they are serious. (Sometimes, they like to pretend they are dragons.)
Of moonlit paths
Georgina Barker, of dubious professional title and not really wanting for one, loves to sit in the garden in the earliest hours of dawn. Even in the dead of winter, when London is at its coldest, she’ll sit on the bench she’d taken such care in restoring and watch the branches—whether they’re vibrant summer green or gone to glittering pale with frost. They’re in the in-between right now, the leaves changing color before it’s time to fall, some of them already come to rest on the garden floor. She’s not opening at Cosy this morning, so she lingers.
The back door opens, and she doesn’t look as someone comes outside to join her. Not even when they sit down, leaving less than an inch between. She just leans over, rests her cheek against Gerry’s shoulder, and says, “Do you remember my friend Alex?”
“That’s the one who moved to Edinburgh, yeah?” Gerry stretches his long legs out in front of them.
Georgie makes a sound of assent. “I had a dream about her. Back in school.”
“You’re the one in this house who’s not there anymore,” Gerry says, amused.
“I thought the same thing when I woke up.” Georgie shuts her eyes and it’s so clear. The teaching room, everyone lying on the floor. The woman. “I should give Alex a call, I think. It’s been a while since I talked to her.”
“You could go and visit,” Gerry suggests, and Georgie wraps both her arms around one of his. She doesn’t know what the hell she’d do without either of her boys. “Take Melanie, make it a nice holiday. Martin’d give you the time off.”
“I know he would.” It’s not a bad idea. She breathes in the clean smell of Gerry’s aftershave—though he hardly grows anything worth shaving off—and smiles, because otherwise she’s come over feeling like she might cry, and that’s silly, isn’t it? “Do you know, I woke up afraid she was dead. Almost called her right there. I don’t know where that came from.”
But she does, because she can still hear it.
Gerry’s quiet for a moment. Then he says, “Have you felt anything else like that lately?”
Georgie blinks, sitting up straight to look at his face for the first time this morning. It’s carefully neutral. “Anything like what?”
“Anything.” Gerry makes a noncommittal gesture. “Oh, I dunno. Tell you what, pretend I didn’t say anything. I’ve been spending too much time with Mike lately, probably. Says a lot of weird things, that one. It’s been rubbing off on me.”
“I didn’t know you’d been spending any time with Mike.” Georgie latches onto the part of it that makes sense, because if she latches onto any other part, she’s afraid she’ll—she’s afraid. Over nothing but a dream. Stupid.
Gerry shrugs. “Only sometimes.”
“You had better tell me all about ‘sometimes’ right now, Gerard Keay.”
“Nah,” Gerry says, his eyes shutting and a smile on his lips. “I’ll tell you about Monet, if you like.”
Georgie settles for Monet; it’s better than her dreams.
Once upon a time, there was a mirror; there was glass and silver and breathing, and there were other things that might have been called the mirror’s siblings. But we will come to those later.
Of carrion, of crows
Lee Kipple, submissions editor for Earful Magazine, sits at his desk, worrying a pencil between his teeth and listening through the newest pile that’s been sent over. The office is relatively empty, though Tommy is over at his desk with some tedious but necessary filing, and Alicia is on the phone with somebody.
It’s probably not accurate to say Lee is listening to anything at the moment. His attention is elsewhere. On ghost stories and Martin Blackwood and the ways they’re bound up together. He’d wanted so much to never touch this sort of thing again after his run-in with Grifter’s Bone, never mind what happened with Jennifer doggedly latching onto it when she should have just let it go. There have—had, and none of them recent—been a few moments when he’s considered calling things off.
But if he was going to do that, he should have done when Martin told him where he works. Would have done. Because he’s not going to break up with Martin. He likes him too much. So he supposes if things go horribly wrong somewhere along the line, if something else does him in, he’ll only have himself to blame for it.
Lee brings a hand to his chest, always aware of the scars beneath his shirt; he’d kept his clothes on when they went to bed together, and Martin hadn’t pushed, only said, “When you’re ready,” so earnestly it hurt. There hadn’t been much choice but to kiss him, then, and Martin had been shy in touching him, but not unsure of himself.
It doesn’t bother him really, that Martin’s got some sort of secret with his boss. Doesn’t matter it’s a boss Martin had or has feelings for, when Lee’s the one who gets to hold his hand and kiss him and see that smile of his. (Martin has an excellent smile. Lee slips his mobile from his pocket and texts him so.) What bothers him is not knowing, not really knowing, despite Martin’s attempts at reassurance, that whatever this secret is isn’t going to hurt the man he’s—
What brought that on? comes a reply, followed quickly by, So do you, you know, and he can hear Martin’s voice with all of it.
Lee smiles at his phone. Yeah. The man he’s going to be in love with, if he’s not already. Not much way around that.
I was just thinking of you. He takes a quick selfie and sends it along with the message.
I’ll see you in a bit? There’s his picture of Martin, looking adorably awkward.
Obviously.
The world of ghost stories and Grifter’s Bone and Martin Blackwood it is.
The mirror has noticed the difference in this waking. The changing. But I have told you—and you have remembered, haven’t you?—that mirrors are not given to understanding.
The mirror feels the difference in the two men who have drawn it into foggy consciousness (and perhaps the fog means this is a ghost story), but it has no inkling what it might mean. Mirrors so rarely have inklings at all.
But there are fairy tales and there are ghost stories; and maybe the mirror is changing because we speak of them.
Notes:
I also fell into a Witcher hole, if anyone's into that 🤷
Chapter 26: like in a fairy tale
Notes:
This chapter was supposed to be up checks calendar 200 years ago, but wow was it not cooperating. Sorry for the delay!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Martin could have left the Archive ten minutes ago.
Frankly, Martin should have left the Archive ten minutes ago, and if he doesn’t leave within the next ten he’s going to make himself late to dinner with Lee. They’re staying in tonight, their plans set on Lee’s couch with a movie or music or possibly a board game, but it’s dinner with Lee all the same. They’re supposed to be fixing pizzas together; Lee’s already sent him a photo of the trappings laid out on his kitchen table. There’s no good reason for him to still be sat at his desk, except that Jon’s still at his, and Martin hoped to tell Lee about the mirror tonight.
The trouble, of course, (of course), is Jon’s been in a rotten mood today.
More than that, Martin doesn’t know what’s put him there: whether it’s anything he’s done himself (isn’t it always?), or something to do with Tim, who’d been scowling on his way out of Jon’s office earlier in the afternoon, or something else entirely. In any case, imagining the look on Jon’s face should he say, “By the way, I’d like to tell my boyfriend about this entire mess,” is enough to make him wince, and sure, Jon was calm, reasonable, very nearly pleasant the last time they discussed the mirror, but probably he should wait, bring it all up another day, when Jon might be feeling more accommodating.
But that might be ages from now, and besides, there’s his research to consider.
He’s carried on looking into multiverse theory, wishing all the while it wasn’t so very pop cultured these days. He certainly can’t say, “Well, Jon, it’s all over those comic books.” That doesn’t change that he does need to tell Jon about it, keep him up to speed on the situation. Jon might be able to point him in some sort of direction; knowing they’re dealing with some divergent universe doesn’t get him all that far, in actuality. Doesn’t tell him what’s really different between the two or if the other universe has magic like their own (and that’s if it is magic, but what else can it be?) or if there are only the two or tens (or hundreds, or thousands, or hundreds of thousands) more or why they’re connected to this one if there are more or how to put a stop to their crossing paths with it.
It doesn’t tell him anything important.
Martin sits still for another full minute, hoping Jon might just come out of his office and make it much easier to have a word with him, but his sitting’s in vain and he can’t stay here all night. He’ll leave the issue of telling Lee aside for at least one more night; he’ll talk to Jon about his research, that’s it, and then he’ll go and have a lovely evening with Lee. It’s as straightforward as that.
So he stands, brushes his hands down his shirt like that might help the wrinkles, and raps at the door, waiting for a wearied, “Yes?” before stepping inside.
He’s lost count of how many moments they’ve had like this one, Jon peering at Martin across the room, that wariness evident in tense eyes and tenser fingers. “Martin,” Jon says, and there’s something of being startled in it, like he’d expected someone else—Elias, maybe? “I didn’t know you were still here.”
“I’m leaving in a minute. I just wanted to talk about the mirror.” Martin eases the door closed. It doesn’t matter, there’s nobody else left to hear them, but it feels wrong to leave it open even a crack, like he’ll be letting it out into the air of the Archive; but this office is the Archive as well, and Jon is its Head Archivist, and Martin its Archival Assistant. He crosses the room at Jon’s nod of not-exactly-welcome and sits across from him. The dark circles under those eyes have only gotten worse, and despite himself, despite coming in with a plan, Martin says, “Have you been sleeping?”
“Not often. Not for long.” Jon’s fingers drum absent on the desk. “It’s not so easy since Prentiss, and when I do sleep—never mind.” There’s an odd look on Jon’s face, and an unhappy one, like he’s just caught himself with his own hand in the cookie jar. “What do you need? You said something about the mirror?”
Martin hesitates. He shouldn’t say anything else, should keep his nose out the way Tim does, the way Tim’s told him to, the way he’s told himself to and has done of late, because Jon’s not his responsibility, Jon wouldn’t want to be his responsibility, and none of that stops him from saying, “I really think you should talk to someone, Jon.”
“To you?” Jon asks, with a disdain nearing scornful.
Martin looks away, stung. “I meant someone professional.” He pauses, shifts in his chair, and meets Jon’s eyes again. “Would it be so bad? She hurt us both, Jon. It wasn’t just you.”
Jon looks at him for an uncomfortably long time; it’s all he can do not to look away, not to squirm under that penetrating gaze. “I’m sorry,” Jon says eventually. “That was tactless of me. I shouldn’t have taken my mood out on you. I’ll look into contacting a counselor.” He won’t, it’s there in his tone, but Martin just presses his lips together. He’s said more than enough already. “You did want to talk about the mirror?”
“Right.” Martin lets out a breath. He welcomes the shift in topic. Stupid. It was stupid to say anything. Lee would frown at him calling himself that, but Lee’s not here. “I’ve been reading about multiverse theory lately.” Martin cringes as he proceeds with, “Comes up a lot in science fiction and the like, and I know that’s not really the sort of thing you—I think it’s relevant to us, is all. I just don’t know where to go from here. I thought maybe you’d have some sort of suggestion.”
“I think,” Jon says after another long while, and at least he’s not looking at Martin the way you might look at a bug in a jar, the way Elias does, “it might be time to go and have a look at the mirror soon. We’ll have to arrange an afternoon.” He rubs at his temples and Martin’s eyes catch on the hint of grey in his hair. “Are any of the files we’re working on at the moment the sort that might send you out of the Institute to follow up?”
“Dunno off the top of my head. I’ll have a look tomorrow. I’d hang around and do it tonight, but I’ve got plans.” He glances at the clock on the wall and stands. “Suppose I’ll go and ask Diana if she can help me with any books about, erm, other universes. Thanks for this, I’d best go. Try and get some sleep tonight, Jon, you don’t look well.”
“Martin,” Jon calls when he’s nearly to the door, and he turns back ‘round.
“Yeah?” Martin prompts, when Jon doesn’t say anything.
Jon shakes his head and says, “Never mind. It’s nothing,” and Martin departs the Institute, fully unsettled.
Jon waits for Martin to leave, and then returns to Pinhole Books; it’s becoming a habit.
He lingers at the Institute when his staff have gone, racking his brain for anything he might be missing where Gertrude was concerned, pouring his thoughts into tapes to hide beneath the floorboards, and undoubtedly he’s missing cascading numbers of things; and then he leaves, and goes not home to his own flat, but to the abandoned bookshop. Spiders aside, it’s not as though anybody else is using the property. Jon wouldn’t say he’s exactly made himself at home there, but he’s created something of a—sanctuary isn’t the right word either, but a base, perhaps, a hideaway.
Like a child on an adventure, he’s found a place where the grown-ups cannot touch him. A child on misadventure, he thinks with a dark humor as he takes long steps down the dark hallway. There’s no electricity here, but he knows his way well enough in the dark now.
It’s difficult to say what draws him back here again and again. He’s been sifting his way through the boxes, and to that end cleaned up Gerard’s bedroom as well as he’s been able. There’s not much he can do about the worn mattress, but he’s removed the dust-coated bedspread and threadbare sheets, replaced them with a quilt from his grandmother’s house.
Now he sits on the edge of the bed, perusing a box of photographs. There are quite a few of what he can only assume is Gerard Keay, from infancy through his toddler years, from no hair at all to a sort of rusted auburn. Jon lingers over many of them, knowing full well they aren’t relevant to what he’s searching for. Studying a man he never really knew isn’t helping matters; it’s what that man knew that he needs, himself, to know. A page flutters out from between pages as he turns the next, ‘butterfly houses’ written in a child’s crayon-wax scrawl alongside a matching drawing of exactly that. Butterfly homes made in large mushrooms and tree stumps. Jon’s chest goes tight.
When Martin told him to talk to somebody, he certainly hadn’t meant Jon ought to go off and attempt a connection with a dead man; but here he is.
And Martin…Martin. Jon hadn’t meant to snap at him, and he’d almost asked, after he had done, if Martin would come somewhere with him, come here with him, but Martin had plans, undoubtedly with his Lee; Jon hadn’t wanted to know if those plans were romantic in nature, and he had wanted badly to know.
But he doesn’t need to know a damn thing more about Martin Blackwood’s life, not either of them.
Georgie’s voice plays in his head from a long, long time ago. Could you not be an asshole for five seconds, Jonathan?
He’d deserved it then, and deserves the echo of it as well. It wasn’t Martin’s fault he was in a rubbish mood.
So Tim had made what was likely—inevitably—a perfectly innocuous comment regarding Basira, and Jon had, perhaps—inevitably—reacted rashly, snappishly. So what. Jon ought to have handled it better.
Jon ought to be handling a number of things better.
Now he sighs and sets the album aside and scoots backwards, settles in with his back to the wall. He rests his head there as well, lets his eyes fall shut. Reaching for a dead man isn’t handling things well.
Would reaching for his dreams be any better?
Jon imagines the walls here looking at him. He weighs the nightmares he carries in him every night, his and not his, silver worms and gravestones and dirt walls and apples.
Jon doesn’t know what he’s doing in any of this.
But that hasn’t stopped him this far.
So, with his eyes still shut, Jon places himself in a sterile medical theater. He’s been there enough in his sleeping hours that it isn’t difficult to feel the chill of the air, like the cold-sharp steel of a sanitized scalpel against his skin. The way he sees it now is not identical to his nightmares, the metal tables and beating hearts thereupon shifted just so, but the bearded figure of Dr. Elliott remains stark in the center, and the apple is red as blood in his hands.
Dr. Elliott is looking at him; Dr. Elliott is always looking at him, always pleading, but Jon cannot hear him this time, because Jon is not asleep, until the moment he is, or might be. The line between waking and sleep is not one he feels himself cross. His awareness is unchanged.
He has brought himself here.
Jon observes the sobbing Dr. Elliott with growing unease. “I’m sorry,” he says, because it is all he can think to say, and he is sorry, though he doesn’t know what for. Blood spreads across the floor, seeps between the cracks in the tiles, and Jon repeats himself. “I’m sorry.”
Whether or not this Dr. Elliott hears him, he doesn’t know; whether or not this is the same Dr. Elliott he has regularly observed in his dreams is equally unknowable.
But this Dr. Elliott still fails to scream, and when Jon knows—knows, immutably, because he has seen this before—the surgeon means to throw the apple, and that he will fail, he steps forward and shouts, “No, don’t!” and Dr. Elliott’s eyes go wide in a way they never have.
The mirror stirs.
There is something happening.
The Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute is not the only one who can reach.
Jon’s smell slips first. (His eyes, after all, are closed.) He breathes in a scent too fresh to belong in this sanitized, steel-and-blood room, or in the failing property in which he sits.
In the moment before he is wrenched to the side, he feels the change.
Martin is in the kitchen with Lee, laughing at something Lee’s said, when he hears a different laugh. Jon’s laugh. He says an emphatic, “Shit,” and braces his elbows against the counter; he loses the mingling scents of garlic and peppers and basil all at once.
The evening is comfortably cool, and Jon’s hand is tucked loosely into Martin’s. Martin’s thumb is tracing lackadaisical non-shapes into his palm while they wait here. The sun’s gone well down, and there’s not much light here, around the side of the building.
“You’ve been awfully vague about what we’re doing at The British Museum after nine o’clock,” Martin says, breaking the long quiet that has, until now, gone uninterrupted aside from the occasional insect or rifling of wind. “Is there some sort of event?”
“Yes,” Jon says, and considers this answer. “Well, no.”
Martin’s forehead crinkles.
“Well,” Jon tries again, “not yet.”
Martin laughs, his thumb stilling. “What on earth does that mean?”
“It means,” Gerry’s voice says as the shape of him rounds the corner, only a foot or two away, “it’s not open to the public yet, but we’ve got special access. Or I have, anyway.”
“Not really you,” Jon says, bemused. “I wondered when you meant to…” He trails off as another, more compact shape comes into sight. “Mike. Gerry didn’t mention you were coming. I don’t think you and Martin have been properly introduced.”
Mike gives Martin a bit of a nod; the look on his face is, as it so often has been, so enigmatic as to be indecipherable, and Jon has to stuff the thought of Of Magic and skies and sheep into the back of his mind. “Gerry thought I’d be interested in the exhibit,” Mike offers, “and I didn’t think I’d manage to get him out of my shop till I agreed.”
“That sounds right.” Jon manages to keep his tone bland, but gives Gerry a look, which Gerry artfully evades.
“Georgie and Melanie were meant to be coming, but Melanie’s not feeling well, so Georgie’s made off with some of the soup we had frozen. So it’ll just be us.” Gerry meanders further along the building and raps at the closed delivery doors.
“Jon hasn’t told me what it is,” Martin says cheerfully, tugging Jon along after Gerry, while Mike walks somewhere along beside them.
“Oh.” Gerry waves this off. “Then I won’t, either. You’ll see in a minute, anyway.”
“You might find it dull,” Jon says, somewhere between apologetic and anxious. He doesn’t know that the exhibit they’re getting an early look at is really something Martin will be interested in, but he does hope.
“S’all right.” Martin shrugs. “But I doubt I will. I’ve never seen the museum when it’s closed before. Have you?”
“A time or two.” Jon indicates Gerry. “He can be a right pain, but he is good for this sort of thing.”
“I always knew you were just using me,” Gerry drawls, and raps again, and this time there’s the sound of a lock working and the door opens to reveal a man taller than any of them, with dark skin and trimmed curls, and his usual tentative smile.
“Mr. Keay,” the man says, not opening the door more than halfway or moving aside. “It’s nice to see you.”
“Come on, don’t do that,” Gerry snorts. “How many times have I got to tell you, Seb, just call me Gerry.”
“At least one more,” comes the reply, before the man’s eyes light on Jon. “Evening, Mr. Sims.” He scans the pair of newcomers. “Ah, hello there. I’m Sebastian Adekoya. And you are?”
“Martin Blackwood.” Martin waves a hello.
“Michael Crew,” Mike says, and Sebastian blinks.
“You’re a book collector, aren’t you?”
Jon blinks himself, at that. He didn’t realize Mike’s name was the recognizable sort.
“I am,” Mike agrees. “And a bookseller.”
“I think we’ve lost more than a handful of books to your pockets,” Sebastian says.
“Guilty, I’m sure,” Mike says unapologetically.
“Enough of that,” Gerry says. “You can discuss your paper warfare inside, unless you want to stand here with the door open all night.”
“Right!” Sebastian collects himself and steps back to allow them entry. Jon’s been in this back room a number of times, and it’s always been dark, crowded with shelves of neatly packed and labeled items for exhibits that are coming or going, or that are spending their time in storage for a while. When the door’s locked again, he says, “Everyone follow me,” and leads the way through the labyrinth with all the confidence in the world.
The British Museum is different at night, completely empty of patrons, occupied only by security and the occasional additional employee unable to pull themselves from their work. Tonight, they pass only one lonely security guard, humming what sounds like ‘Careless Whisper,’ who pays them no mind at all. Sebastian escorts them up the east stairs and through several galleries of ancient artefacts, and Martin pauses to admire the Lewis chessmen; Jon’s always had a fondness for them as well.
“How do you and Gerry know him?” Martin asks as they walk.
“He’s done a lot of work with—”
“Here we are,” Sebastian announces, cutting off Jon’s answer. He gives Martin an apologetic smile, mouths ‘just a minute,’ and turns his attention to Sebastian. They’ve come to a set of double-doors, leading to a pair of galleries that most recently housed a collection of master-crafted clocks and watches, the most remarkable of the lot coming from Germany and flaunting a castle and dragon that appeared on the hour. Sebastian gives Gerry a pointed look. “I shouldn’t have to say this, but don’t touch anything.” He turns to open the doors, but his muttered, “Especially if your fingers have been dipped in charcoal,” is perfectly audible.
“I’ll have you know I’ve washed them quite thoroughly,” Gerry says, and moseys on ahead, bringing Mike along with him.
Sebastian’s watching Gerry’s back suspiciously still, and Jon says a reassuring, “Eric will have his head off if he touches anything, you know that.”
“Eric will have to beat me to it,” Sebastian says, and his tone is quite serious, but he’s smiling. “Go on, then. We only finished arranging things half an hour ago.”
The lights are brighter in this gallery, but still not fully at their daytime levels. The walls are lined not with the ordinary artefacts or artwork, but with podiums spaced five feet apart, each topped by a book; some are open and others closed, but all are unmistakably old.
“Who’s Eric?” Martin asks.
“He is.” Jon nods across the room to a freckled man with a disheveled head of auburn just beginning to shift its way, reluctant and stubborn, toward grey, chatting with Gerry and Mike over one of the texts. “Come on. I’ll introduce you.”
Eric’s the first of the trio to glance their way, and he positively beams; Gerry says something to Mike, whose mouth tugs up at one corner. “Jon,” Eric says, enveloping him in a hug as soon as he’s within arm’s reach, as though they haven’t already seen each other today. When he releases him, he says, “And this must be Martin?”
Martin looks startled, that his name is known by this stranger. “Sorry, have we met?”
“No, no.” Eric waves off the suggestion. “Between my sons and Georgie, your name has come up plenty.”
“Martin,” Jon says, to rescue Martin from the confusion overtaking his face, “this is Eric Delano, Gerry’s father—”
“And his.” Eric gives him a stern look, and Jon rubs awkwardly at the back of his head.
“Yes, erm—and mine.”
“Oh.” Martin still looks politely perplexed, but he only says, “Very pleased to meet you. I’m fond of your sons.”
“Plural.” Eric nods, evidently perfectly satisfied. “Good. Jon tells me you own a café?”
“I do, yes, Cosy. You should come in, as long as you’re here. And what’s brought you to town?” Martin asks, with all the same warmth and genuine interest that makes him so good at his work.
“This has.” Eric indicates the room; Gerry and Mike have stepped away, and Sebastian is hovering behind them with a mistrustful expression on his face. Gerry’s hands are tucked into his pockets, far away from the displays. “I work in book restoration. I was asked to see to this collection before it came for a brief stay here. I won’t be staying in London long, but I wanted to deliver the books in person, and help Sebastian arrange everything. I was able to meet Mr. Leitner earlier, as well.”
“Leitner?” The name catches Jon’s attention, though he can’t place where he’s heard it before. Maybe Dr. Bouchard has mentioned it.
“Jurgen Leitner. This is his collection.” Eric strokes the glass case nearest them, giving the book an affectionate little smile, rather like the ones he bestows upon Gerry and Jon. “Some of them had seen much better days, but I managed to put them to rights, and as long as they’re not, say, left to rot in somebody’s storm cellar…”
“Had they been?” Martin asks.
“Several of them.” Eric’s face sours for a moment. “Before Mr. Leitner came into possession of them, of course.” His face clears, and the smile is back. “So, as long as I am in London, we should all have dinner.” It’s not so much an invitation nor suggestion as it is an order, and Jon doesn’t bother arguing with it; Eric is as good as his father. “I’ll tell Georgie to bring that Melanie she’s seeing, and if Gerry wants to bring Mike—hm, no, Gerry is bringing Mike.”
Jon and Martin both laugh, and then Eric says, “That’s enough out of me. Go and have a look around, the pair of you.”
Jon doesn’t need to be told twice. He takes Martin’s hand again and draws him on through the displays. Many of the books aren’t in English, but Jon feels like he ought to be able to read them, somehow. He lingers a moment extra over a text bound in wine-purple leather, and titled in Cyrillic; according to the information on the display, it’s a collection of songs passed on during the mid-fifteenth century. There’s another, he cannot tell what the binding is, but he imagines for a moment he feels a rush of heat as he studies it.
“If that’s Gerry’s father,” Martin says when they’ve moved on some way, “and his second name’s Delano, why’s Gerry’s name—”
“Keay was his mother’s surname,” Jon interrupts. Eric Delano may well be the nearest thing he’s got to a father, given the early passing of his own, but Mary Keay was never anything like a mother to him. She was hardly a mother to Gerry. “He grew up with Eric after they separated, but Mary had always insisted he have her family name, and Eric was a bit too…hm, enraptured? I suppose, even after divorcing her, so he never had it changed. Gerry’d have done it himself, but he doesn’t want to upset his dad.”
“Your dad,” Martin says thoughtfully. “Do you think of him that way?”
“I have to, don’t I?” Jon shrugs. “He never gave me a choice in the matter.”
“You’re lucky to have him.” Martin’s eyes are on the book in front of them, some illuminated manuscript, but his voice is somewhere else altogether. “Both of you.”
“I know we are.” Jon squeezes Martin’s hand. They haven’t spoken much about their parents at all, not either of them, but Jon hasn’t missed the way Martin’s voice goes careful when he does refer to his mother, nor that he hasn’t mentioned his father at all; he hasn’t pressed, because he’s not eager to share for himself, and Martin will tell him when he’s ready.
They cross paths with Gerry and Mike coming in the opposite direction as they’re passing through the second gallery full of books, Sebastian having given up following the pair in favor of chatting with Eric. Mike’s got an odd sort of expression on his face, like he’s only half-present, listening to something more interesting happening elsewhere.
“Gerry,” Jon says, “could I borrow you for a moment?”
“It’ll cost you a golden shoe,” Gerry says, and Jon snorts before leading him away enough that they won’t be overheard. “What is it, Jonny? Something on your mind?”
“Mike,” Jon says.
Gerry cocks an eyebrow. “What about him?”
“You didn’t say anything,” Jon says, not accusatory, but perhaps a little petulant; they’ve always told each other everything.
“I don’t kiss and tell,” Gerry says primly.
“Yes, you do.” Jon rolls his eyes before his brows draw together. “Have you kissed him?”
“No,” Gerry says, his eyes lingering on the little cluster that has become Martin, Mike, Eric, and Sebastian, all. “Not yet.”
Jon takes a moment to consider this. “Then let me give you some advice somebody once gave me.” He sets a hand on Gerry’s shoulder and says, solemn as he can manage, “Kiss a cute boy, Gerry,” and Gerry’s laugh is strong enough to draw a glance from Eric.
“That’s good advice, probably should do.”
And they return to their party.
Jon and Martin remain another hour or so, Jon poring over titles and origins and typing notes into his mobile for anything he might want to refer to later on. He considers pulling Mike aside as well, but decides against it, giving Eric a hug of farewell and a, “I’ll see you tomorrow,” before departing for Martin’s flat.
“Sorry about the mess,” Martin says when they arrive there and the lights have been flicked on to reveal the mess in question. “I’ve been trying to get things sorted and mostly making them worse instead.”
“You’ve seen my office.” Jon surveys the living room, the overfull coffee table and the notebooks abandoned on the couch, the cup of pens and the one evidently waiting patiently to be filled with tea. “This is tidy in comparison.”
“Don’t take this the wrong way,” Martin says, taking his hand and leading him across the floor—which is in perfectly suitable shape, unlike Jon’s office—to sit on the couch, “but I’d rather not be measuring cleanliness by your office.”
“No, that’s fair. Are you looking for something?”
Martin’s leaned forward and begun paging through one of the notebooks. “Yeah,” he says without looking. He sets the notebook aside with a dissatisfied sound and goes on to the next. Jon is perfectly content to wait; the flat might be more cluttered than ordinary, but it smells fresh and clean as ever, and besides, he doesn’t mind the excuse to watch Martin’s profile, to examine the little changes to his expression.
“Aha,” Martin says after several minutes of thumbing through pages, an experience Jon is thoroughly familiar with, right down to the note of triumph in his voice, “there it is.”
“There what is?” Jon leans forward alongside him.
Martin sits back a smidge, angling himself so he’s tucked beneath Jon’s arm; Jon’s hand finds a place to rest on Martin’s thigh. “I wrote this one for you,” he says, and Jon’s chest does something that can’t possibly be healthy. He can see Martin’s letters, words crossed off and replaced, a clean copy in place beneath.
Jon says, “Would you read it to me?”
“I meant for you to read it yourself.” Martin hesitates and then begins, his voice light and steady. The poem talks about the spread of shadows on a café floor, and raspberry and hazelnut splashes across a tongue, and all the romantic things about exhausted doctoral students, and Jon thinks it the loveliest thing he’s ever heard.
“Martin,” he says, an ache in his chest, one hand coming up to cup Martin’s face and turn him, fingers on his jaw, “do you know I’m terribly in love with you?”
“Oh.” Martin’s breath sounds caught in his throat, and his eyes are wide. Jon’s other hand takes Martin’s wrist, and he kisses along his knuckles. “I hoped you might be. I wanted to tell you, but I wanted it to be like in a fairy tale, so I—”
“It’s already all the fairy tale I need. Here, come here.” He tugs until Martin climbs onto his lap. “Besides, no murderous stepmothers in this fairy tale, nor evil witches, and I think I prefer that. Would you tell me?”
There’s a shy smile on Martin’s face when he sets his fingers beneath Jon’s eyes, his thumbs at Jon’s chin, and says, “I love you, Jonathan Sims,” and kisses him, and Jon is lost to all of it.
Notes:
Bear with me, folks. I'm still working hard to update this regularly, but I'm also working on like 4 other fics plus a book.
(PS, Everyone stay safe!)
Chapter 27: ghosts that are not there
Notes:
I absolutely did not mean to put this on hiatus for a year. It was supposed to be a few weeks, and then, well, 2020 happened. I am very much hoping to avoid any more extended breaks in the writing of this fic (which either way is going to take me at least another three years, I have a lot of plans)!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The stale-spider air comes back first. Its taste saturates Jon’s tongue, only a hint of the wrong Martin Blackwood’s peach-light kiss left behind. A lingering thing he will taste for hours after this. When he is trying to sleep, and afraid of what sleep might bring with it, that hint of peach will still be there.
Next comes the sound of his own breathing, steadier than he might expect given the circumstance. There is no other sound in Pinhole Books. The spiders are too small for the skittering of their legs to be audible. With eyesight comes the glow of his mobile and the shapes of Gerard’s bedroom furniture.
Jon’s head aches in a dull, undedicated sort of way. But that does not matter, and neither does the taste of peach in his mouth. Because what he just did—and Jon does not understand what it is that he’s done—was working.
The Dr. Lionel Elliott in his head reacted to him. He exerted change on the—he thought—immutable nightmare terrain dwelling in his psyche before the mirror overtook him. Were the two occurrences related? Jon has no way of answering that question. He does not yet know what prompts the mirror, if it can be a reactionary thing. That could well have been coincidence. Jon mistrusts the idea of coincidence. It is too easy a thing to hold coincidence responsible. For the moment he will assume the mirror was responding to his own efforts.
Which does raise the question of why the mirror should give a damn. If that’s the right way to think of it.
And his efforts were to what? To get a firm hold on his own mind. To stop being steered by whatever thing steers him over and on throughout the same (the same, so completely the same) dreamscape; the same people, the same actions, every time he sees them, always begging him aloud or with their eyes to make it stop. Like he has any power over the thing. But it is all in his head, and only in his head, because for it to be otherwise would not make sense.
Surely if Ms. Herne were seeing him in her dreams the way he sees her in his, she would call the Institute with another ridiculous complaint. Jon wonders if Elias would scold him again for antagonizing someone connected to the Lukas family.
He checks the time on his phone. It is not too late at night, and he does not want to go home, so he picks himself up and resumes picking his way through Eric’s box. It occurs to him, with Gerard Keay’s baby book again in his hands, that he is being sentimental over people that have nothing to do with him. People that never will, as there is no befriending ghosts; he does not believe these ghosts are here anymore, if they ever were. Mary’s presence does not automatically mean Gerard’s or Eric’s.
Among photographs of an infant Gerard Keay, there are several featuring his parents. Never both of them together, mind.
But he does find Mary Keay: a beautiful woman with a smile that reminds Jon strongly of knives and arsenic and hanged men, and Jon ponders whether she was already plotting to turn her child into the man that would later arrive at Dominic Swain’s door and pay five thousand pounds to burn Ex Altiora and cut Diego Molina’s throat in a hospital without batting an eye.
And he does find Eric Delano (the same name come to him courtesy of the wrong Jon), with his auburn hair and all a father’s love on his beaming face over the baby boy swaddled in his arms, and Jon finds himself choking up. He pushes the baby book away. His eyes burn and there is a sob caught in his throat before he can stop it happening.
These are feelings that do not, that cannot belong to him, pertaining to this man. This man who could have been a father to him as well, given the chance for it. Which is utter rot. But knowing the feelings are nonsense does not prevent them from flowering inside of him and bearing fruit.
He thrusts himself away from the bed, leaving the baby book behind, and stumbles his way into the living room like a man five drinks deep.
This is not a space he’s put any effort into thus far, and he does not associate it with aught but a sense of foreboding and gloom and constriction. He sits on the couch. Several inches separate him from a dark stain that could be anything. Jon hopes it is not blood. He hopes it does not belong to Eric.
Then he laughs, and the sound is all the more hysterical for the empty-of-life space around him. It echoes more than it should in a room occupied by furniture.
Jon scrubs both hands over his face. He leaves them there, back bowed, elbows on his knees, his body shaking. He needs to focus on the important things, but it is so difficult to tell what the important things are. Seeking out Pinhole Books was a mistake. What was he thinking, breaking into the place? Thinking never played into it, only feeling, only the longing for a connection, the absence of which rends him open now that he is aware of it. It does not stop rending him open, fresh and raw in a way no other wound has ever been.
He stays hunched on the couch for a long time. He endeavors to make his mind blank and succeeds only in conjuring the image of Eric Delano in a hideous Christmas jumper, one arm each around laughing teenaged versions of Gerard Keay and Jonathan Sims, themselves in equally horrid, coordinated jumpers; fake antlers adorn Gerard’s head. Jon wipes at his eyes and finds them wet.
Eventually, he does leave Pinhole Books. He swears he will never return, but the key is still in his pocket, and he knows even as he swears it that he is lying to himself and to Pinhole Books and the ghosts that are not there; he cannot stay away from the place. He feels an irony in this thought, but he cannot place it, and shakes the idea away long before he reaches his own flat. His shower is short, just enough to wash away the spider dust.
The wrong Martin Blackwood’s voice (rather, his tone, because the voice is no different) follows Jon down to sleep with, “I love you, Jonathan Sims,” and when he sinks into sleep the nightmare that greets him is a burning building, a voice muttering “cleansing fire” into air choked with heat and smoke; Police Constable Basira Hussain is talking with another officer, one oddly fuzzy around the edges, but her eyes never leave him as he circles the semidark terrain, until he finds the yellow door that will lead him to the next place.
He steps through, exchanging fire for fractals.
Martin is greeted first by the sight of Lee’s hand on his own. There’s a bowl of shredded mozzarella and another full of pepperonis and it takes a minute for him to be aware of more than this. The smell of pizza sauce. The sound of Lee’s voice on, “Martin, are you all right? Are you back with me now? Martin?” and the concern in it melts into the music they’ve got playing in the background like an additional chord.
The last thing he becomes aware of are the tears gathered in his eyes.
Martin, do you know I ’m terribly in love with you?
He cannot imagine the Jonathan Sims of this world saying those words at all, never mind doing it so easily. Not even to him, specifically. He cannot imagine the Jonathan Sims he knows, the Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, telling another person he loves them, and it breaks his heart.
“I’m here,” he says to Lee, and reaches for him. More than anything he wants to prove it to himself. To feel the solidness of his boyfriend. To know that he is here. They sink to the kitchen floor together and Martin focuses on Lee’s bare toes against the tile. “I’m sorry, I’m here.”
“What are you sorry for?” Lee asks, and Martin presses his forehead against Lee’s shoulder. Breathes in the smell of him, the almond cherry soap. Lee’s arms go around him. Their position isn’t remotely comfortable, but Martin doesn’t think he has it in him to move.
“I’m sorry we can’t have a normal date without me—going away. I want to be here. With you. That’s all I want.” And it felt different this time. More forceful and also somewhat surprised, like the mirror was dusting itself off for something and pleased to be doing so; like it was catching a naughty child breaking rules. Martin’s never been told the rules. “Dammit.”
The tears in his eyes aren’t only for Jonathan Sims now, and he blinks them back as rapidly as he can.
“It’s not your fault,” Lee says, because he’s too dear, but even so Martin hears the undercurrent of frustration. He cannot expect Lee to keep waiting and waiting on him, and there is no guarantee it will ever be the right moment to talk to Jon about it. Isn’t there some saying about forgiveness versus permission?
Martin takes a deep breath. Before he can talk himself out of it, he says, “I’m going to tell you,” like a proclamation.
“I thought you hadn’t—”
“I haven’t talked to Jon, but he’s not easy to talk to and it’s not fair to you, any of this.”
“Okay,” Lee says, a little puzzled now. “If that’s what you want. If you’re sure.”
“I am,” Martin says stubbornly.
They rearrange, still on the floor, their backs to the cupboards, one of Lee’s hands caught in Martin’s and the other arm across his shoulders. Martin runs through his time with the mirror, trying to decide where best to start. He doesn’t need to worry about Lee not taking him seriously, at least. Supposes that’s one benefit to dating a man who knows the world is full of darker things. Not that the mirror is dark, exactly; the world through its glass is a bubbling brightness and it conspires to break him into tiny little pieces.
He begins, eventually, where it all began, same as the story he told to Jon that first day. The charity shop and the first glimpse, until he didn’t need the mirror anymore to see what it had to show. All the things he’s watched in the world of the other Martin: his perfect little life with his café and his burgeoning romance with another Jonathan Sims, all of it until there is nothing more to tell.
The kitchen feels incredibly quiet when his story reaches its end, even though there’s still music playing in the background. Martin doesn’t press Lee to say anything; there’s still an arm around him, and he would call Lee’s quiet thoughtful more than anything else.
“That sounds very confusing,” Lee says after a while, “and not easy to deal with on your own.”
Martin nearly protests that he hasn’t been on his own. He’s had Jon to share it with. But he knows before he’s begun any protest would be a lie. Jon is going through the same thing, and Jon is going through lots of other things, and he is not sharing any of it with Martin. No more than is necessary, at least.
“Yeah,” he says instead, “it’s been…difficult. But I don’t blame Jon. He’s been under a lot of pressure since…” Martin blows out a breath. “I mentioned our last Head Archivist passed away, didn’t I? I sort of…downplayed that a bit?”
They’d only just met. He hadn’t wanted to get into it. Now he does, because he’s already spilling his guts all over Lee and his kitchen floor, might as well get it all out at once. So Martin talks about Jane Prentiss and his four bloody months living in old document storage and finding Gertrude’s body; it comes out more calmly than he thought it would.
Lee looks at him, open-mouthed, a bit paler now. “I didn’t realize—I knew your Institute was—you’ve really been through the wringer, haven’t you, Martin?”
“It wasn’t like this in research,” Martin says. “That’s the Archive, I guess.”
“Have you thought about quitting? There’s got to be a better job out there.”
“Mm. Thought about it, but I’ve never been able to actually do it. I think I’d worry if I left them.”
Lee presses a kiss to the side of his head, fingers drifting through his hair. “They should all quit too,” he says, and Martin laughs, because he’s right. It surprised him that Tim bothered to come back after everything.
He can’t help a layer of guilt over confiding all this in Lee. But he’s the one who found the damn mirror and he’s the one doing all the work on it while Jon obsesses over Gertrude and has pictures of Tim’s house and confronts them about the trapdoor (as though any of them would want to use it) and Martin cannot be blamed for needing someone to share the burden, and Lee is someone he cares about. Isn’t that what a relationship is supposed to be? Sharing the burden?
“It’s not so bad,” he says, and then clarifies, “The mirror, I mean, the Archive depends on the day, but the mirror doesn’t hurt.” Except for the times it does, like when he’s listening to another Jonathan Sims tell another Martin Blackwood he loves him with all the certainty in the world, and feeling the other Martin Blackwood’s heart leap. “Not like what happened to you. It’s nothing I can’t live with.”
“For how long?” Lee asks, catching Martin’s face in one hand and studying him. Maybe he expects to find something in Martin’s eyes. Martin’s face warms as Lee looks at him, and he does not think at all before tipping his chin forward and kissing Lee without any semblance of control.
Lee kisses him back with equal fervor, his mouth warm and open, and the kitchen floor probably isn’t the best place for this. It’s not comfortable and it’s not sanitary, and Martin doesn’t think either of them care one bit. He gets his own hands on Lee’s face and kisses him harder. They’re meant to be having dinner, but that’s not what he’s hungry for anymore. Forget the pizza. He just wants Lee’s mouth and his hands, which have found their way into Martin’s hair now; he just wants Lee.
Martin isn’t sure which of them pulls them off the floor and toward the bedroom, in unspoken agreement to leave their meal for later. All he knows is Lee crowding him against the wall and catching his mouth again. His own hands have found Lee’s ass to drag him closer, their groins pressing together, and shit, shit, Martin is hard and so is Lee, and they’ve done a bit of touching here and there, but they haven’t really had each other’s clothes off, and Martin wants—if Lee wants—
His own self-consciousness comes mostly from his lacking experience and his overwhelming averageness, that he’s tall and a bit round and a lot awkward in his own skin; Lee’s, he knows from Jennifer’s statement and a little bit from the look on Lee’s face the last time they were together and doing anything like this, comes from his scars. He hadn’t found it too odd that Lee was willing to show them to Jennifer but has so far shied away from showing them to him. It’s more personal, showing something like that to a romantic partner; there’s no risk of rejection with a ghost story-hounding coworker. But he’s not going to put any pressure on.
Lee is very good at kissing, and Martin’s happy to be kissed for just as long as he cares to do it. He gives as good as he gets, right up until the moment Lee pulls back and stops him from following, resting his forehead against Martin’s. They stand that way for a minute, breaths mingling between them, until Lee says, “Could I take your shirt off?”
Martin’s mouth is too slick from kissing to actually go dry, but he has the sense of it anyway. He settles for licking his lips a little and nodding in a way he hopes is more encouraging than terrified. Lee’s gotten his hands under Martin’s shirt before, and also he has eyeballs, he knows Martin is—
“Perfect,” Lee says, when he’s hauled Martin’s shirt up over his head and dropped it on the floor. Martin laughs a little, nervous and unconvinced, and also the wall is chilly against his back, he thinks he’d rather be in bed, only Lee’s kissing him again, his hands keeping Martin’s pinned (gently) to the wall. When Lee draws back, he’s smiling—good god, he has a lovely smile. “You’re perfect.”
“Pull the other one,” Martin tells him, and that smile drops a little, even though he’d tried his best to make it sound playful.
“I’m not joking,” he says with absolute sincerity. Martin would almost call it conviction.
“You don’t have to—I mean, I know I’m not the most—I’m nothing special, really—”
“You’re exactly what I want.” Lee releases his hold on Martin’s hands in favor of framing his face and sucking Martin’s bottom lip between his teeth. Martin makes a weak, surrendering little noise, and then he pushes Lee away, because they need to be in bed five minutes ago.
He pulls Lee over him, wanting to feel the weight and shape of him there, and they kiss that way for a while, Lee’s hands fully mapping out the landscape of Martin’s chest. Lee’s the one to pull away and go a little lower, pressing kisses over Martin’s chest, all gentleness, and Martin knows what he’s trying to say, but there’s hearing and there’s believing, and the believing’s a lot more difficult.
“You get goosebumps when I,” Lee murmurs, his breath soft on Martin’s belly, his hair hanging down in a way Martin finds unreasonably attractive, and Lee’s right: gooseflesh rises all along his arm, and Lee’s fingers follow the trail of it. “I love the way you look right now.”
Well, there’s love and you in the same sentence, and for a moment, just a moment, Martin is hearing Jonathan Sims’ voice. That moment is all it takes for him to stiffen, and for Lee to notice, and ask, “Is something wrong?”
“No.” Martin shakes his head like that might sell the lie no matter how unconvincing his tone. Lee spreads one palm wide on his stomach and gives him a look that’s mostly concern, and Martin says, “I was thinking about—right now. I want right now. I want you to keep me here. Please, keep me here?”
Lee considers this, then says, “I’ll see what I can do,” with a smile that thrills Martin all the way down to his toes. He was an idiot, wasn’t he, to ever consider not dating this man? Lee comes back up for another kiss, the sort that makes Martin warm all over. He wants to do the same to Lee.
“Can I,” Martin asks, his fingers at the hem of Lee’s band t-shirt, and he can see it, the way Lee tenses up. A box cutter, the statement said. Or ‘likely’ a box cutter, and that Lee couldn’t remember what happened to him. Martin thinks that might be better. He can’t imagine how much it must have hurt. His other hand goes to Lee’s face, and he gives him what he hopes is an earnest look. “If you don’t want me to, it’s all right. You don’t have to be ready. But I thought maybe?”
Lee inhales shakily. “It’s not attractive.”
“Part of you though, isn’t it? And you’re awfully attractive.” God, he hopes that came out as reassuring as he meant it. It’s difficult to tell. But Lee’s smiling at him, even if the smile is an uncertain one.
“Okay,” Lee says, more blood in his cheeks now.
“Let me?” Martin begins to lift, and Lee gives him a nod. It’s a simple thing, and not at all a simple thing, to take Lee’s shirt over his head; instinct says to toss it, but Martin catches himself. Better to keep it close, in case Lee changes his mind and wants it back. Making him uncomfortable in bed—or anywhere—is the last thing Martin wants.
And there they are. A serious of vicious marks over Lee’s collarbones and a little lower. Jagged, awful things. Martin rests his fingertips against a few of them and Lee lets out a breath, still shaking. Martin says, “I’m sorry this happened to you. I’m so sorry.”
“I don’t remember much after they started to play,” Lee says with an unconvincing air of nonchalance. “It’s not so bad. I mean, being covered in blood and not knowing where it came from wasn’t great, but whatever happened is…hazy. I don’t have to live with it.”
“You live with this though.” Martin brushes the backs of his fingers over Lee’s ear. It’s not easy to tell, at most angles, that the plugs are caked with blood. Martin’s never seen him without them. He doesn’t think Lee goes without them for more than a few moments, not even to shower. “It doesn’t hurt, does it?”
“No.” Lee shakes his head a little, but mostly he turns his face into Martin’s palm. “Sometimes, a little, like people whose bones get achy when it rains, but it’s…fine.” He grimaces. “Not fine. You know what I mean.”
Martin makes a little “mm” of agreement or acknowledgment, and then says, “I’m ruining the mood again, aren’t I?”
“If by ruining the mood you mean making me not want to touch you, no, you’re definitely not doing that.”
“Oh yeah?” Bright relief washes through him. Martin’s not an expert in these matters, but he’s relatively sure bringing up your boyfriend’s past horribly traumatic experiences in the middle of things isn’t the way to go. But he wants to make Lee feel good about himself, the way Lee was doing to him. For him.
“You’re always so surprised you haven’t put me off.” Lee’s doing this sideways, sort of half-smiling thing, amused and wry and kissable.
“Yeah, well, I’m pretty good at putting people off.” Martin runs his thumb beneath Lee’s eye, then uses the leverage he’s got to pull Lee down and kiss him. “Does it bother you if I touch…” He runs a cautious hand along the scarring, one that looks like it must have been especially angry. It always leaves its mark, the stuff in the shadows.
“It doesn’t bother me,” Lee says.
“Could you lay down?”
“I thought I was.”
“Next to me,” Martin says, and Lee allows himself to be positioned on his back so Martin can climb onto him. It makes Martin immediately hyper-aware of himself, being here, being on top, but Lee seems pleased enough to have him there. His fingers curl around Martin’s back. He doesn’t protest when Martin presses kisses to his scars, though he does catch his breath and offer Martin an, “It’s all right, nobody’s ever—it’s all right, Martin.”
Martin has always thought of sex as an urgent thing, all grasping hands and burning needful heat. The grasping hands part is right enough, and it’s not without heat and need entwined, but he’s not in any hurry here, and neither does Lee seem to be. He doesn’t know how long they take with just the kissing, just hands stroking through hair and over faces and down sides; it never feels like ‘just’ anything. It’s a long time before either of them have their trousers off.
There’s a thrill that comes with Lee’s cock brushing against his own, both of them hard. It’s different this way. They’ve brought each other off, but that was with clothes mostly on, still learning boundaries, and they are still learning boundaries, but those boundaries might be shifting. Maybe boundaries is the wrong word. Comfort levels? Are those different things? Anyway, it’s different with no fabric in the way. When Martin can reach down and take both of them in hand and feel Lee’s stuttered breath on his shoulder.
He learns that Lee leaks more precome than he does himself.
He learns it’s stupidly good when Lee’s hand joins his own and shows him just the way Lee likes to be touched.
He learns the sound of Lee’s voice breaking apart on his name is one he’ll be replaying for a long, long time.
Martin is the first to come all over their hands. Lee follows him over the edge a few slow, firm pumps later, and Martin wants to remember the feelings of Lee’s cock spasming and Lee’s breathing against his skin for the rest of his life. It’s absolute nonsense of his brain to think he wants this feeling, this warmth and Lee for the rest of his life, when they’ve only been together a little while, but the thought wafts along nonetheless.
They lay there a little while longer, Martin’s clean hand stroking absently through Lee’s hair, come cooling on their skin, until finally Lee says, “Do you think we should have dinner?” and Martin laughs into his chest.
When they’ve both cleaned up and are back in the kitchen, finally sliding their abandoned pizza into the oven, Lee gives Martin a smile that’s not entirely fair. “Here with me?”
“Completely,” Martin assures him; it feels the truest it ever has.
Elsewhere (and a little bit of elsewhen, these things being unstable) another Martin Blackwood has a moment, the sort for blinking and missing, of wakefulness in the dead of night, in which he thinks he is very far away from everything he knows. Then he hears Jon’s sleep-steady breathing. He nestles closer to him and is asleep again in a moment.
By morning, he will not remember.
The mirror settles down, feeling quite content with itself.
Notes:
If you waited out the hiatus or if you’re new here, thank you either way! Please note that schedule changes will always be noted in the tags!!
Also, the Cosyverse Gerry/Elias I mentioned approximately a million years ago? The first chapter is up, and it’ll be updating weekly as of February 14th.
Chapter 28: any other unsettling dream
Notes:
Tags have been updated to include additional pairings (but not all of them that are in store ;) )
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Martin Blackwood (a Martin Blackwood) wakes in Lee Kipple’s arms. It was late when they went back to bed, and they’d fallen asleep naked, and Martin remembers feeling perfectly at ease. It was a novel sort of sensation. One he was unused to, but would like to get better at.
He’d been dreaming, he thinks, of the other Martin. It’s not the same feeling as slipping into him like another skin that fits him too well and not at all. It was only a dream. He’d been a customer at Cosy. His order has slipped through his fingers like so many missing details of a statement. The other Martin was laughing at something Georgie’d said. Martin wonders if the Georgina Barker of this world is as funny as that one. Jon would know, but he can’t bring himself to ask.
Martin rolls over to squint, eyes thick with sleep, at the glowing digits on Lee’s alarm clock. They inform him he has a little time left before he needs to get up and shower and drag himself in for another day of…whatever his life is. So he turns back over and squirms himself closer to Lee, who it turns out is awake and looking at him. Martin’s cheeks heat. “Good morning,” he says.
“Pretty good,” Lee agrees. “Go anywhere last night?”
Martin shakes his head. “I dreamed of it, but I was here. I was me. Martin Blackwood, Archival Assistant.”
“Martin Blackwood,” Lee says with a thoughtful correctiveness, “Lee Kipple’s boyfriend.”
“You’re right, that’s much better.”
“Want to talk about it?”
“Not much to talk about,” Martin says, very aware of his own nakedness, and also of Lee’s. It’s not a sexual sort of awareness. More…comfortable? Martin has not thought of being naked with another person as a thing that can be this easy. He’s always been self-conscious, hyperaware of his own perceived flaws. It doesn’t escape him, either, that Lee had been more comfortable disrobing the second time too. He likes that. “I was at the café, but I was me and he was him.”
Lee hums a little. “I like it when you’re you.”
Martin wants to tell him just how cheesy that is; instead he says, “I think I like waking up to you,” for a change of subject. Additionally, it’s true. Not waking up alone is nice, and waking up with Lee in touching distance is nicer.
“You think?” Lee teases. “What have I got to do to make you sure then?”
“You could try kissing me.”
“Oh, could I?” Lee sounds like he’s giving this very serious consideration, and then there is his mouth, soft and sweet, and Martin has a fleeting temptation to beg off ill so he can spend the entire day with Lee. Only Lee’s got work as well. And Martin would feel guilty over abandoning everyone. But they do linger in bed a little longer than is reasonable. Martin’s not sure which of them finally pulls away away.
There’s an uncommon lightness to his step when he departs Lee’s flat.
Jonathan Sims (one of the Jonathan Sims) wakes alone in his flat. There is no sound aside from his own steady breathing. He stares up at the dull white of his ceiling. He’d been dreaming…he’d been dreaming quite a few things. The things he has come to expect. This time, in his sleep, he had not changed anything.
Helen Richardson ran, and ran, and ran her way through corridors until her feet surrendered and she fell onto a plush black rug, surrounded by paintings of a fractal thing.
Dr. Elliott threw his apple.
Failed, horribly, to throw his apple, while Jon wished to close his eyes against it.
Jon had not tried to change anything. It had felt correct to watch, as well as feeling sickeningly wrong. He cannot help the sense that this is in some way his own fault. He wonders anew if they are aware of him there. Possibly he could ask Basira, the next time he sees her, but she might think him mad. Madder. He wonders, too, supposing they are aware, what happens if he is asleep and they are not, or they are asleep and he is not. What happens when he is having nightmares of his own? He still does, sometimes, though more and more his sleeping hours are occupied with the rest. Do the other versions of these people—because he assumes there are other versions—dream the same things?
It isn’t a pleasant series of thought, so Jon turns his face away from it the way he cannot in the dreams. There’s physical therapy today. He thinks he ought to have finished with it by now. His walking is fine. Mostly fine. The limp is probably never going to fade entirely, just like the scars, but he doesn’t have to sit down constantly anymore, and his fingers work the way they’re meant to after Prentiss’ flesh hive got halfway to ruining his nerves. It’s not likely he’ll ever be a world-class pianist, but that was hardly on the horizon with or without worms.
Still, the professionals, such as they are, have insisted he needs another session or two yet to make sure everything is ‘really at its best, love,’ and the idea of it nearly makes him laugh darkly into his hands.
Nothing about him is at its best and Jon does not believe it ever has been. Not since long before Prentiss.
Knock, knock.
In any case, it means he need not go to the Institute this morning. It’ll be later in the afternoon that he has to worry about the looks his assistants will give him. It’s been worse since he spoke to them about the disturbed trapdoor. He’d been perfectly calm about it.
Well, he’d been calm-adjacent.
He hadn’t been an absolute prick.
Tim has begun to avoid him the most, which to Jon’s mind does not help his cause. Sasha has been…evasive, though not in a way he can truly fault. She has caught him at her desk, caught him staring more times than the rest of them have, like she knows when he’s doing it.
Martin is the only one who has not truly taken to avoiding him, but it does not always feel that way. To the contrary: Martin has been paying less attention to him, far fewer of his random check-ins throughout the day, and it has begun to feel a little bit like neglect. Which is absurd, of course, Jon wanted less of Martin’s pestering.
He might wonder less about Martin were it not for that letter. You could talk to him about it. There’s probably a perfectly good explanation.
Jon banishes the thought and heaves himself out of bed for a shower.
Elsewhere, in another London that is more different than most know (though there are a handful who do), a second Jonathan Sims and Martin Blackwood wake together. It is early, Martin’s alarm an irritating thing, and Martin shuts it off with an unhappy sound. He and Jon have been tangled together, half their clothes abandoned on the floor before they crawled beneath the covers and spent such a long time kissing that Martin expects to find his mouth still purple-red when he reaches the bathroom mirror.
Unfortunately, this Martin is unable to linger in bed for leisurely morning kisses. Still, he stays as long as he can conceivably justify to himself, nestled warm against Jon, his Jon. He has a fleeting thought that there is another Jon who is not his, a Jon with…scars on his face? and with scars in other places too; he pushes this thought away like any other unsettling dream.
When he finally stumbles out of bed it’s with reluctance.
Jon watches Martin go with a sleepy, soppy smile on his face, thinking all the while of warm jumpers in cold weather. That’s the way Martin makes him feel. Like a den he can cozy up inside while the worst of winter passes by outside. His Martin. And Jon imagines or remembers, it feels like remembering but it can only be imagining, a Martin that is not his, a Martin that is always, always afraid and sometimes Jon is the thing he is afraid of; Jon does not ever want Martin to be afraid of him. He dismisses the thought as an unpleasant illusion in some fairy tale.
Soon enough, Martin departs for Cosy, and Jon falls back into dozing, and both of them have completely forgotten their morning wisps of Jons and Martins who do not belong to each other.
Physical therapy proves to be as exhausting an endeavor as ever. By the time he’s finished for the morning, Jon is convinced that his therapist—who is not impressed by the additional injury to his hand—is determined to prove to him that he’s not good as new by way of making him collapse from his exercises.
“I think just one more,” she tells him, perfectly cheerful, as though he isn’t drenched in sweat, and he wonders if she might be a monster.
Rather than returning directly to the Institute to face down his subordinates (or to specifically not face them down, as it were), Jon takes a break at a coffee shop along the way. It’s a cute enough place, he supposes, run by a woman of Middle Eastern descent who he judges to be in her late sixties. There aren’t many people eating in just now, though the entire back corner is occupied by a group of university students, quizzing each other—not quietly—on molecular breakdowns and other such chemistry matters; there’s also a youngish Black man, Jon’s age if not a little older, nursing a cup across the room. The latter is angled in such a way that it is not obvious he is watching the university students. Jon catches him at it only because the man strikes him as familiar, like someone he ought to know, and so in turn he begins to watch the man. He seems particularly fascinated by a reedy young man with enormous glasses.
Then the man catches Jon looking. His forehead creases and he gives Jon the sort of look you might give an unexpected and unwanted bit of news. Jon, fully aware he’s been caught, stands and hastens toward the door. The other man is rising too.
Jon bursts through the door and in the general direction of the Institute. The door does not manage to close behind him; he hears the footsteps following him out, and then the voice calling, “Hey, come back, aren’t you—” before the rest of the words are lost to the bustle of London. The voice, too, has a known quality to it, but Jon does not turn to look, and the man does not seem to follow him.
It bothers him all the way back to the Institute. It’s only as he’s passing into the Archive he realizes he left his almost-full cup of tea behind at the coffee shop.
There he finds Tim combing through records from the 1960s, Martin (according to a note left on his desk) gone up to the library, and Sasha grumbling at her computer while pulling her hair into a messy bun.
“Everything all right?” he asks her. “It’s not broken again, is it?”
“It hasn’t stopped being broken,” she grouses, one hand floundering in the air like she means to do something with it. Telekinetically summon a stapler and use it to beat her uncooperative technology, possibly. “I don’t know what the problem is.”
“I’ll remind Elias,” he says, making an effort to keep the curiosity from his voice. He does not know if he’s succeeded, not with the odd look she passes him; but they’ve all been giving him those of late, so it could be no more than that.
Michael’s comments have come back to him here and there since its…visit. Do you even know they’re lying to you? he—it?—asked him, the tone all polite amusement, like it was enjoying watching him…do whatever he’s doing. There are plenty of lies being told to him, but now he considers it might have meant Sasha’s lies in particular. He had just been talking to her, after all.
Michael could have been clearer. He supposes that might go against its nature. Not that he understands its nature particularly well, or—he tries not to scowl—at all. That thing is just another mystery, and frankly, it’s the least of his present concerns.
Worry about that later. For now, he has got some plans in mind for the rest of the afternoon. Martin steps into the office, his arms full of books and his face screwed up in don’t drop them concentration; Jon is mildly impressed that he made it down from the library without scattering them all around.
“Good timing,” Jon says, and Martin blinks at him.
“Erm—hi? Is it?”
“I’m going to record. Have you lot got your final notes on statement number 0081103? Gregory Prior,” he clarifies, at Tim’s unhappy ‘this system is just as stupid as it always has been’ furrowing of eyebrows.
“Right,” Tim says, and pokes about his desk a bit before brandishing a folder out in Jon’s general direction, like he doesn’t want to come too close lest he find himself infected with Jon’s particular brand of mania. Jon cannot bring himself to be irritated by it, only a little disheartened.
Sasha and Martin offer up their notes as well, Martin’s face heating as he does. Jon chooses not to think overmuch on any of the possible causes for that, if Martin has seen something more in the mirror, or—what Jon saw himself last night, when the mirror lashed out in response to his own efforts. He tries not to think that he might love Martin, if he allowed himself to reach that point, because he doesn’t know this Martin and it isn’t the same sort of thing at all.
He sequesters himself in his office and is at once grateful for the solitude.
After a quick review of the statement notes put together by his assistants—which effectively explain the change in Martin’s color, and Jon is relieved to know it wasn’t about…anything else, even as he makes a note to expect a complaint from Nicola Loredo, if there hasn’t been one already—Jon rustles up a fresh tape and begins to read.
When he’s finished, Jon finds himself musing on Tim. His…personal relations, with the young man and woman at the police records office. It’s really none of his concern, so long as Tim doesn’t embroil the Archive in any messy situations. Again. But his thoughts are pulled, uncompromising, to a different Tim.
The Tim from the wrong universe strikes him as incredibly similar to this one, right down to his choice of career path (that one having stuck to it) and his flirtatious manner. Except in that case, he’s just got the one boyfriend. At least as far as Jon is aware. He does seem utterly infatuated with Michael Shelley. Jon wonders, chewing pensively at his thumbnail, if it would play out that way in their own world, if there was a Michael Shelley in their sphere for him to want.
He immediately regrets thinking it, but it cannot be unthought.
The cinnamon and apple smell of Cosy envelops him like an unwanted amorous advance; Jon supposes this is really his own fault.
Cosy is at its most crowded in the mornings and the afternoons, trickling its way empty come evening. Jon is willing to tolerate the fuller hours for the sake of Martin, but he does like it best when there’s space to breathe. When he can take his time in looking at his boyfriend. He likes it best of all when it’s only the two of them left and he’s got Martin in his lap for eager kisses between conversation, but for the moment there are, unfortunate as it may be, other people about. The café doesn’t close for an hour yet.
Martin is busying himself with Halloween decorations. There’s a plastic skeleton family taken up residence at one of the tables, complete with cups full of fake spiderwebs and false condiment jars with labels like ‘Spider Legs’ and ‘Pickled Wailing’. A significant number of paper bats dangle now from the ceiling. Georgie’s off for the evening, but Jon knows she had a very literal hand in the bats; they’ve got her sort of spark to them. There are pumpkins plopped in random locations, none of them yet carved so as to actually last all the way to the holiday itself.
Jon has offered to help with the decorating situation and found himself turned down, because according to Martin, “You’d only distract me.” He thinks he’d like to be distracting, but he does see Martin’s point.
So he’s sitting at a table on his own, attempting to mark papers and mostly watching Martin over what’s left of his raspberry and hazelnut. He can be a distraction later on when they’re the last ones here, or in Martin’s flat where Martin can press him onto the couch or bed and whisper poetry in his ear.
The door opens on a cluster consisting of Gerry, Tim, Sasha, and Melanie, who appears to be doing much better now. Gerry’s smile, at first a casual, amused thing, immediately broadens to cheshire levels of glee.
“You didn’t say you were going to decorate,” he says, his delighted attention now fixed on a tiny Halloween village spread over the counter.
“I didn’t realize I was supposed to,” Martin says, nonplussed, currently with several more bats hanging off of his arm, and his hair all askew from stretching up to the ceiling a dozen times.
“Halloween is the most important time of year.” Gerry turns and sidesteps the clearly baffled-amused trio behind him, and surveys the long glass front of the café. If he’s at all conscious of the people around him now, it becomes unclear for the next few moments. “I’m going to paint that for you for the season. I can do one for Christmas too, later.”
“Ah.” Martin seems taken aback, but not displeased by the suggestions. “All right, I’m certainly not going to tell you no. What did you have in mind?”
“Hang on.” Gerry digs his little sketchpad out of one pocket—Jon is certain he keeps proper pocket dimensions in there—and sets to feverish work drawing something.
“He’s going to be a minute,” Jon says. “You might as well put up another bat.”
Martin’s mouth quirks. Rather than placing another bat, he takes a seat at Jon’s table. Even better. “Does he do this often?”
“You get used to it,” Jon says affectionately. He remembers the first time Gerry lapsed into silence and sketching in his company; they’d been all of ten years old, exploring the wilds of Wistman’s Wood while on a trip with Eric, and Gerry’d been taken with a recently lightning-blackened oak that clearly had better things to do than give up on living just because the sky had been a nuisance. It was odd, at first, but then Jon had shrugged and found a different tree to rest against and wait before they tramped their way back to their rented cabin and Eric’s waiting lunch. “I dread the day he stops in the middle of traffic, mind, it’s bound to happen eventually.”
Martin laughs. “I didn’t realize he felt so strongly about Halloween.”
“Gerry feels strongly about a lot of things. I am surprised Georgie didn’t mention.”
“I’m sure she had her reasons,” Martin says; Georgie usually does have her reasons for the myriad ways in which she chooses to handle things, so Jon doesn’t dispute it.
Gerry appears at the table a moment later, puts his sketchpad down in front of Martin with a crease between on his brow. “What d’you think of this?” He points to Jon without looking. “No peeking. You’ll see it when it’s finished, if Martin wants me to do it.”
Jon rolls his eyes. “No Eric?” he asks while Martin reviews his concept.
“He’s at the museum,” Gerry says. “But he’s promised to come by another day.”
“This would be incredible.” Martin is clearly delighted by whatever mysterious, not for Jon’s eyes thing Gerry has produced. “How much do you usually charge for work like this?”
Gerry’s face pinches into a familiar bemused expression. “You’re not paying me to paint your windows, Martin.”
“The windows of my business,” Martin says with pointed enunciation. “It wouldn’t feel right not to pay you something.”
“If you’re going to insist, you can make a donation to the Chimera Retreat, and we’ll call it square, yeah?” Gerry tucks his sketchpad away again, passing Jon a look as though he’s been craning his neck to get a look when in truth he’s been far more occupied with the last few sips of his drink. Always with the accusations, this one. “Now hand me one of those bats, will you?”
Martin does so, and Gerry saunters toward the counter and its currently nonexistent queue. Melanie, Sascha, and Tim are there, chatting with Michael and Oliver, but Jon wouldn’t really call the loose shape of them a queue.
“Why does Gerry get a bat, but I don’t?” Jon asks mildly.
“Because apparently Gerry’s going to decorate Cosy no matter what,” Martin says, but offers Jon a paper bat now. “Also, I don’t stop what I’m doing to look at him.”
Jon traces the shape of a cutout wing and says, “Give me a moment.”
He hangs the bat over the table where he sat that first night he wandered too-late into Cosy and Martin let him do it. He returns to the table to find Martin with a smile hidden behind his hand, like he knows exactly what Jon was thinking. It still seems impossible that Martin Blackwood is his boyfriend. Jon expects all the time to wake and find it was one long, happy dream.
“The Chimera Retreat,” Martin says when Jon’s settled back down. “That’s the one Gerry founded, right?”
“That’d be the one. It’s been around—six, seven years now?” Jon has to count the time out on his fingers. Gerry chucks his money at all sorts of charitable foundations, but the Chimera Retreat is a project he began on his own, geared specifically toward young artists. Jon’s volunteered plenty of times, usually during the summer programs.
“I suppose I’ll write a cheque,” Martin says, and then, “You should come back to mine tonight. I know you just stayed last night, but I’m sure Gerry and Georgie can spare you another.”
Before Jon’s given his answer—a yes, of course a yes—Gerry reappears with Sasha and Melanie in tow. Tim’s still occupied with Michael and Oliver (though mostly Michael, Jon’s sure).
“They’re talking about that missing woman,” Sasha says with a slight jerk of chin toward Tim. “The one who disappeared over in Chiswick. Maybe you’re having a more pleasant conversation?”
“We were talking about Halloween a minute ago,” Jon says, because the last thing Martin said isn’t actually anybody else’s business.
“We should keep talking about Halloween.” Gerry sets himself straddling a chair and has an undoubtedly scalding sip of his drink. “What do you lot usually do to celebrate?”
“Halloween party, if I’ve been invited to one.” Melanie shrugs. “Sometimes I go out and try to get some footage of hauntings in the area, but that’s usually in advance, every idiot with a camera gets the idea to go out on Halloween proper. I don’t fancy tripping all over a dozen amateurs in the dark.”
“I’m usually dragged along,” Sasha offers, with a smile that says she doesn’t really mind the dragging; Jon only recognizes it because he wears that smile himself on a regular basis.
“Michael and I aren’t really the party sort,” Martin says. “We usually stay in with a bowl of popcorn and watch a spooky movie or two.”
“Have any of you heard of Devereaux Manor?” Gerry asks.
One of Melanie’s eyebrows flicks up. “I’ve done the haunted house once. It’s nearly impossible to get tickets to the party.”
“Is it?” Gerry smiles like the Sphinx after delivering her riddle, and waits.
“Hang on.” Melanie glowers at him. “You’re not saying you’re involved?”
“Melanie, pet, I’m the founder, I run the entire thing.”
“I’m sorry,” Martin says, “but I don’t actually know what we’re talking about?”
“It’s a haunted house that’s been around for—what, six years?” Sasha glances at Gerry for confirmation, and he grants it with an encouraging nod. “It’s really good, always takes place in this giant building in Shoreditch, and on Halloween night there’s a party, but the admission is limited, and they sell out immediately.”
“I’ll put a few aside,” Gerry says smoothly, “for anybody who wants to come.” Melanie appears to be fitting jigsaw pieces together in her head; Jon is genuinely surprised, in this case, that Georgie didn’t say anything to her. “Martin, I wondered if you and Michael might want to add to the catering this year?”
Martin gives an amused shake of his head. “Not likely to say no, am I?”
“I always wondered where the name came from,” Melanie says to Gerry, though she hasn’t finished glowering.
“Devereaux,” Gerry says, “for an old friend.”
“He means,” Jon puts in, “that Blanche is his favorite Golden Girl.”
Everyone laughs, and Gerry dips his head in acknowledgment of the truth. “I thought about calling it Arkham Manor, but Lovecraft was a racist twat, so I went with a vastly superior namesake.”
“Good choice,” Martin says. His eyes are mischief-bright when he looks at Jon. “If I’m going to a Halloween party for the first time since secondary school, I expect you to dress up with me.”
“No need to worry about that.” Jon picks off a resigned bite of scone. “Gerry’s made sure I always dress up. We can talk about it at yours tonight.” The casual ending earns him a smile.
“You two are adorable,” Sasha says, and Jon makes immediate non-eye contact with the clean table surface.
“You never tell Michael and I we’re adorable,” Tim says, announcing his presence.
“That’s because you’re not,” Melanie says. “Michael is adorable. We’re not really sure what you are.”
“Jaw-droppingly handsome,” Tim advises.
Jon smiles at the table, and then at Martin, as he listens to them go round.
Jon’s office in the Archive steadies back into place over the course of a minute or two. He’s not timing it; he couldn’t if he wanted to, as it takes longest for his vision to smooth and his thoughts are too hazy for thousanding out the seconds. He rests his head against both hands and tries not to imagine Martin looking at him the way the wrong one does his counterpart.
In the end, he reaches for his notebook and writes it all out. He escorts his thoughts meticulously away from Michael Shelley and Timothy Stoker, as well as Georgina Barker and Melanie King.
(There is another thought, just out of reach, and it seems to taunt him.)
He returns his attention to the supplemental recording he intended to make. For all his time spent at Pinhole Books and certainly not pining over someone else’s life, he has also carved his attentions toward the matter of what is happening at the Institute. Specifically, he has done his best to look into Elias Bouchard, and the findings have been…surprising.
Jon fishes for an extra, blank tape, and begins. The idea of Elias as Jon knows him ever smoking marijuana is—it refuses to be properly imagined. Elias might, he supposes, have had some sort of experience that changed him, his own knock knock, Mr. Spider that made him seek out an organization like the Magnus Institute and all the knowledge he holds at his fingertips.
A knock comes at the door as he finishes up. He just slides the tape, calmly surreptitious, into his desk before calling, “Come in.”
It’s Elias, appeared as though he’d heard Jon thinking of him and decided to come and have a chat. The thought is as unsettling as it is nonsense. “Have you got a moment?”
“If I said no?” Jon raises an eyebrow, and Elias smiles thinly back. “Yes, I just finished up recording.” He waits until Elias has closed the door to ask, “I suppose Tim’s told you I’m watching his house again.”
“Tim,” Elias muses, “is having a difficult time. But no, I haven’t had any complaints since our last little chat.” Jon has the evidence of that one tucked safely away, for all the use it is. “Have you been watching his house again?”
“I wasn’t watching his house the first time,” Jon snaps; he feels somehow like Elias can read the lie on him.
“Of course,” Elias says. “But no, I only came to check in. You had physical therapy today, didn’t you?”
“Almost good as new.” Jon wiggles his fingers as though to prove it, and Elias looks amused as he follows the motion all the way back to the paperwork-laden surface of Jon’s desk. “I’m meant to go back one more time, though I could swear she said that last time.”
“You are looking better,” Elias says, “though I would guess you still aren’t sleeping as much as you should be.”
“I sleep,” Jon says, and Elias looks unconvinced. Jon supposes he does feel more worn down than usual, after the statement. They do that to him sometimes. Like so many things, he’s avoided looking too closely at that.
Elias stays a little while longer, to discuss the current state of the Archive, and Jon’s thoughts on the wellbeing of his staff, and then he leaves Jon to his work for the rest of the day.
Come evening, following a quick stop into Artefact Storage to consider the table and smuggle the lighter into his pocket, Jon resists the siren-call of Pinhole Books and returns directly to his flat. One is no more quiet than the other; but there are fewer spiders in his flat. He thinks, as he looks on Gerard Keay’s painting, that he is unsure of the number of ghosts.
Notes:
Much love to everyone reading!
Chapter 29: hopeless and grumpy
Notes:
Spent a bunch of time figuring out the timeline thus far. Swore at myself a lot.
Here's hoping I've got this shit together now :')
Chapter Text
“Stop laughing,” Martin moans, half-heartedly swatting at Lee’s leg. He tries to glare at him, but it doesn’t go very well. It’s difficult to glare or glower or do anything else irritated and possibly beginning with the letter G when Lee’s laughing like that. Even if the cause of the laughter is Martin’s misfortune. “It’s not funny!”
“Martin,” Lee says, clearly trying to suppress his smile, but failing horribly. He takes hold of Martin’s hands and kisses his fingers, like that might earn him forgiveness. It might, come to that. Martin is a forgiving man. “Martin, I’m sorry, but it is a little, tiny bit funny.”
Martin’s shoulders slump. “It wouldn’t be funny if it happened to you.”
“No,” Lee agrees with his somewhat plaintive grousing, “it’d be completely mortifying. But it hasn’t happened to me.”
“I’ll have to introduce you to Tim,” Martin says, only sort of meaning the sourness. “He had a good laugh at it too. You’re all rubbish at sympathy.”
“I’ll show you sympathy.” Lee pulls him in—they’re on Martin’s threadbare sofa, dinner plates empty but for scraps on the table in front of them—and makes soothing sounds and pets his hair some, which is all well and good, except:
“I can still feel you smiling, you know,” Martin says, muffled into Lee’s collar.
“I know.” Lee tangles his fingers into Martin’s hair and tugs his head back to press easy kisses into his neck. “I am sorry it happened, if that helps.”
The unnamed ‘it’ is of course Martin’s absolutely disastrous call to Nicola Loredo, which he’d successfully put out of his mind, given everything, right up until Jon recorded the statement today. He hadn’t realized—that is, he’d assumed someone would have told the widow about the state of her husband if only to clarify the funeral should under no circumstances be open casket, only nobody had; instead they’d quietly cremated Hector Loredo and notified her afterward. She hadn’t taken the details well at all. Martin supposes nobody would have. He’d needed to get some air himself after going through the gory reports, and he’d never met the man, never mind been married (however unhappily) to him.
“It helps a little,” Martin allows.
“Let me take your mind off it?” Lee says, and then Martin’s being kissed again, on the mouth now, and his arms go around Lee’s middle, while Lee’s stay in his hair.
Far away, another Martin Blackwood sits in the empty evening space of his café.
Empty aside from himself and Jonathan Sims, that is. He’s on Jon’s lap, and Jon’s hands are curled in his hair, pulling here and there, and if there is a world outside of them, neither is aware of it in any way that matters.
For a moment, the mouth warm against Martin’s feels different from before. Changed, but familiar, still; he knows the shape of Lee’s lips, and he knows the set he feels now, and they are not the same.
Martin’s eyes open halfway, and there is Jon. Except it isn’t, because it can’t be, and it is the other Jon, if it is either of them: there are no scars, after all. He inhales a startled breath, his fingers tightening in Lee’s shirt, and it is Lee again, looking at him through surprised green eyes. “Everything all right?”
“Sorry,” Martin says, forcing a smile. “I just—was trying to stay.”
Lee’s expression sharpens just a little, and Martin shivers beneath being looked at like that; it’s a pleasant shivering. “Then let’s keep you here,” Lee says, and then his mouth is on Martin’s throat. He continues, “You can’t have him,” and, “He’s busy at the moment,” and the rest of it is what he doesn’t say, only shapes into Martin’s skin, making his pulse flutter with the flicking of his tongue and the heat of his breath.
Here, he tells himself, pulling Lee fractionally closer, and here he stays for the night.
Jon sits in a silent living room.
It is his living room, not Mary Keay’s. Moments ago, he was in the wrong London, where Martin’s mouth was unbearably warm on—not his, while the two of them conspired about possible Halloween costumes between kisses. So sweet it was almost sickening. (But mostly, it was sweet, and so was Martin’s mouth.) Now the quiet is a relief so sharp as to be almost painful. (Is a thing a relief, if it is painful?)
Jon’s mobile is on the coffee table, where he cannot reach it to make any poor choices.
There is a whispering temptation in the back of his mind. Urging him that if he does not want to be alone in his flat, there is another place he can go and be. Just as alone. As if isolation might be a better experience one place than another. Maybe it would. It has only been one day of the bookshop’s siren calling, one day tied to the ship’s mast, refusing to hear it. He wonders if it had the same effect on Gerard Keay. If it was this that kept him there with his dead mother, and has he truly managed to get away in his own death, or is he still haunting the place? Could Jon find him there, if only he looked hard enough?
And what, Jon, become best mates with a phantom? He scoffs at himself.
Tetchy, answers another voice, also his own.
Jon extracts the spiderweb lighter from his pocket and flips it open. There are cigarettes in his other pocket. It’s a full packet, he hasn’t smoked in years, but he purchased these on a whim today, just to have the option. If anything might drive him to smoke again, it’s the mirror. Also the murder. He drags a hand through the snarls of his hair and flicks the lighter to life to study its flame.
He studies Gerard’s painting as well, still leaned against the wall because Jon cannot decide whether or not he wants to hang the thing. It isn’t as though he has guests to question where he came by it. In an abandoned bookshop. The artist was accused of killing his mother, but he didn’t do it. No, I never met him, but funny thing—
“What do you think, Gerard?” he says to it, though he could not articulate what it is he’s asking about. What would Gerard Keay think about any of this? And what of the Gerard Keay from the other universe? Jon will never have either of their opinions on anything, so the questions (and the questions of questions) are entirely moot.
Jon closes the lighter again. He moves the painting from its place against the wall, into the hall closet. It can keep his umbrella company a while instead of tormenting him.
It’s around three in the morning when Jon wakes in a cold sweat. He crawls out of his bed, stumbling like he’s several drinks tipsy, and pulls the painting out of the closet again. “I’m sorry,” he says, for no reason he can think of, and again, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” until the painting is back against the wall and he is fallen into place on the couch. He stares right at the eye.
Eventually he rolls to look instead at his ceiling. It isn’t much better.
He considers a cigarette, or taking the lighter to the painting (the thought makes him cringe).
He considers ringing Georgie, but the fact of it being so late is enough to stop him.
He could pick up and go to Pinhole, never mind what the neighbors make of him at this ridiculous hour.
He considers, finally, the sleeping medication in his bathroom cabinet.
The lighter is in his hands, though he doesn’t remember picking it up, and he hasn’t yet decided whether he means to smoke or to burn or simply to hold it, when his flat dissolves around him in a way that would make him think of an ancient screensaver taking over, if he were thinking anything more complex than, Damn that thing.
Given his schedule, Jon really ought to be at King’s at the moment, crammed into his office with his books and notes (with Of Magic, he thinks loosely), or possibly in the library with Ms. Robinson. Instead, because Gerry and Eric are currently settled in at Cosy, Jon is there as well. His laptop is open, not that he’s paying it much mind. Mostly he’s watching Martin behind the counter, while Eric tells him about the goings on at home, which sounds about as dramatic as Midsommar Murders, without all the resulting—well, murder.
Jon expects if there were murders all over the place, Eric would say so.
Outside, Gerry is working at the windows, all whites and oranges and blacks. He’d fussed a while over the paints, having rather more to say than Jon thought could be said about the merits of various brands; apparently, nobody in the world makes a purple for outdoor use on glass that satisfies Gerard Keay’s exacting standards. Then he’d gone outside and set his mind to things, the way he always has done. So far he’s got a tree that ought to be creaking with every blow of wind, all long-limbed and orange-leafed; several of the leaves have faces, grinning or leering. There’s a knot in the tree with a pair of owl-wide eyes, and Jon wouldn’t be all that surprised if they blinked. He’d watched that for a while, his gaze always drifting back to Martin, and he’s given up on stopping it.
“You’re completely smitten, aren’t you?” comes Eric’s amused voice, all-over affectionate father.
Jon’s face warms, and he has a drink of his raspberry and hazelnut like he might come up with something clever in the duration of a sip. “I don’t know what you mean.” Exceptionally done.
“You’ve barely looked away the entire two hours we’ve been sat here,” Eric says, and Jon doesn’t mind teasing terribly much when it’s coming from him. “How long have the two of you been seeing each other?”
“A little over a month,” Jon says, and wonders that it’s only been that long. It’s difficult to fathom that Martin has only been a part of his life—first as a source of coffee and tea, then as a boyfriend—since the end of July; he feels as much a staple and constant as Gerry and Georgie. He swallows. Talking to Eric has never been much harder than talking to Gerry; he’s been there just as long, making himself more than available to help Jon’s grandmother with him. He knows Eric had hoped for more children, but Mary had made that impossible, in all her own ways, and he’d taken on the role of Jon’s father with all the warmth and support any child could have asked for. “I like him a lot. He’s really…”
Jon cannot come up with a word to summarize the thing that is Martin Blackwood. He is sweet, and talented, and caring, and it does not seem rational that someone like him should want somebody like Jon, who is hopeless and grumpy and driven entirely by a story once encountered in childhood.
“He’s good for you,” Eric fills in for him, fixing him with the sort of astute look only a parent really can.
“Yes,” Jon says, gaze darting again to Martin, who catches him at it this time and holds up a hang on finger. He attempts to indicate there’s no need for Martin to come over here, but Martin’s already facing the other direction, saying something to a customer. “I’m really not sure why he likes me.”
“Jonathan.” Eric has this way of frowning at people, certainly at his sons, that makes them feel like they ought to sit up straight; Jon does exactly that, now. “You’re one of the best people I know.”
“You’re only saying that because you practically raised me.”
“That’s how I know.” Eric smiles. “I’d never raise anyone less than exceptional.”
“Gerry’s exceptional enough for both of us,” Jon says mildly, and there’s that look again, so Jon raises his hands in a placating gesture. “Right, all right.”
“Tell me what you really mean.” Eric tears a piece of lemon poppyseed cake loose with his fingers; Gerry’s come by his eating mannerisms honestly.
“How do you do that?” Jon asks, and when Eric only raises a pointed eyebrow, sighs. “I mean that Gerry’s always known exactly what he wants out of the world and gone right for it, while I’ve…drifted my way through academia? I’ll be lucky to finish my PhD on time, and I don’t have the faintest idea what comes after I do, and Gerry is,” he tips his head toward the windows, “Gerry.”
“Gerry is Gerry,” Eric echoes, amused. “And you’re Jon, and you know exactly what you want as well, yours is just a little trickier than his.”
Jon looks at him, mouth somewhat agape. He’s never confided in Eric about his search, but it shouldn’t surprise him that Eric would know—some of it, at least. “What I want isn’t nearly so practical as what Gerry does.” Being fanciful doesn’t pay the bills. He knows, of course, that Gerry would happily support him for the rest of his life, but he doesn’t like the idea of living off of him forever.
Eric waves a hand. “Worry about the practical parts later. You’re still young, you know.”
Jon snorts. “I’m nearly thirty.”
“Don’t remind me.” Eric grimaces. “Anyway—”
“Please don’t tell me how old Tolkien was when The Hobbit was published,” Jon says, because plenty of people already have, seems to be the only factoid anyone knows to reassure him. It never has reassured him though.
Eric laughs, and then there’s Martin, saying, “I’m not interrupting anything, am I?”
“Not at all,” Eric says, pushing out another chair with his foot.
“I can’t stay long,” Martin says, but sits anyway, and reaches for Jon’s unoccupied hand like it’s second-nature to slide their fingers together, like it doesn’t still give Jon a rush of absurd stomach butterflies every time. He never had stomach butterflies before Martin; it was a different sort of feeling, with Georgie, and with the few other relationships he’s had.
“We were just talking about you.” Eric smiles, while Jon gives him a look of horror, which goes placidly ignored.
“Were you?” Martin sounds intrigued. “Good things?”
“I’ve yet to hear anything bad, but I haven’t actually heard much. Seems you leave Jon at a loss for words.”
Fathers, Jon concludes, can be quite terrible.
Martin’s cheeks pink at this, and he gives Jon a brief, embarrassed smile.
“He’s just told me you’ve been dating around a month,” Eric goes on, “but I’d like to know more about how you met. Here, I assume.”
“Yes, that’s right,” Martin says.
“You haven’t had the whole story from Gerry?” Jon asks.
“That wouldn’t be nearly as fulfilling,” Eric says, and Jon exhales hard through his nose to stop himself laughing; Martin, the traitor, doesn’t stop himself. It’s also Martin who proceeds to tell Eric about Jon coming to Cosy at night, and that he’d already liked him, and Jon sounds much less pitiful in Martin’s telling than in his own recollection of events.
“Is it a month?” Martin looks at Jon when he’s finished.
“Is it not?” Jon blinks, and immediately runs through his memory for anything he might have forgotten.
“Suppose I wasn’t sure if we were counting from the first date or the first night you came here.”
Eric’s eyes shift to Jon, and he only wants to sink into the floor a little bit.
“I went from the date,” he says, because he doesn’t actually know how to sink into the floor, and anyway he wouldn’t want to leave Martin alone, “but we could also go from that time you quoted Tolkien at me like it was nothing, which was sort of in the middle, wasn’t it?”
“Perfect recipe, there.” Eric smiles, presumably to make sure they’re properly appreciating his use of recipe, and Martin laughs again, while Jon looks him dead on.
“You’re helping him think he’s funny,” Jon says. “You’re encouraging him.”
“I like him,” Martin says unapologetically.
Eric’s smile broadens. “I like you too. Especially because Jon seems the happiest I’ve ever seen him.”
“Ever?” Martin says.
“He was always a rather dour child,” Eric says.
“Was he.” Martin sounds neither surprised nor particularly interrogative.
“Bit of a dour adult sometimes, too.” Eric looks perfectly serene when Jon scowls at him, which is an exchange of expressions they’ve shared many, many times.
Jon squeezes Martin’s hand some. “I am happy. Georgie is already planning our wedding, of course.”
“She and Michael are in on it together,” Martin says reassuringly, before leaning in to brush a kiss over Jon’s cheek. “I’d best get back. I’ll talk to you again before you leave?”
Jon confirms, and Martin goes, and it seems wiser to check on Gerry’s progress than to meet his father’s eyes right away. There’s a cat among the outstretched, hungry branches now; it’s not a black cat, as might be expected for the season, but an orange creature, licking one dainty paw. Sat at the bottom of the tree is a witch with an apple in her hand and a jack-o’-lantern at her feet. Gerry’s moved on to working at a series of grave markers.
“You are happy,” Eric decides, which is when Jon looks at him, face burning. “I want to see you stay that way.”
Martin’s sliding back behind the counter, shaking his head fondly at something Michael’s said, and yes, Eric’s got it perfectly; he is the happiest he’s ever been.
There is a stark difference in the Jon returning, one swirl of light or sound at a time, to his sofa. He closes his eyes, breathes in and out, and when he says, “I don’t know how long I can do this,” he does not know if he is talking to himself or the painting, the lighter or the spiders in the walls.
None of them have an answer, anyway.
Chapter 30: what it would cost
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The afternoon subsequent his night on the couch, his back an aching reminder that the sofa is not well-suited for a good night’s sleep (or indeed for a paltry fraction of restlessness more than sleep), Jon commits himself to the matter of Gertrude’s murder with a fresh ferocity. He cannot stop the mirror from showing him a happy man who shares his name and face, but maybe he can do something to put his own mind more at ease.
The renewed dedication does him little good. His options are as limited as they are frustrating, which is to say extraordinary amounts of each, and he knows the answers are there if only he could see from the right angle.
He hasn’t yet done much digging through her past, anything before the Institute seeming irrelevant, but he does so now. It pulls up exactly as much as he’d dully anticipated it would.
Gertrude Robinson was employed by the Magnus Institute for the better part of sixty years, from the time she was in her early twenties, a little younger than himself upon starting. She spent fifty of those years as the Head Archivist.
Her employment history prior to the Institute is, as expected, not much to go off of. She graduated university early and spent part of 1959 and 1960 in the university library system (it is an effort not to think of her at King’s), and a year after that at a museum in Cornwall; in late 1961, she came here.
Jon finds himself once again thinking of Pinhole Books, which doesn’t make much sense at all. As far as he knows Gertrude had nothing to do with the place. Therein lies the problem: as far as he knows. How many secrets are buried in this Archive, and how many still tucked away in boxes at Pinhole? (She might have been a regular patron, he’s no way of knowing.) How many kept by his assistants and his employer?
“What were you doing?” he asks the office around him, as though the spirit of Gertrude herself might manifest before him and explain exactly who killed her and why they did it with a bloody gun and what in the hell is going on in this place. Unsurprisingly, no such thing happens.
Jon rests his forehead against one hand for a moment; then he turns his attention to his work, sifting through statements for the Discredited section. Sasha did make a fair point about his recent lack of attention to the area. There are so many, and it is so difficult to care anymore about the patently false—whether fabricated as a prank or genuine mental distress or jumping at shadows—when there are any number of other real things for him to be concerned with.
He examines the damage to his hand, where Michael’s fingers sank so easily through him. It’s healing well, mostly. Sometimes it still hurts. Maybe Michael left something inside him, some sort of toxin. He closes his fist and uncurls it again, almost as a reminder that he can. There is still something bothering him about Michael’s visit, something beyond its ominous words about lies.
It was his first encounter with the thing that calls itself Michael, there’s no question of that. Still, he would swear he’s met it before. Heard that laugh before.
That is a real name.
Jon squeezes his eyes closed and conjures Michael as well as he can. If you softened it, if it looked more human…
His eyes fly wide, his hands to his computer. He does a search for Michael Shelley, the Michael he’s seen so many times when the mirror asserts its pressure, can’t believe it didn’t occur to him sooner, and there, yes, is Michael Shelley, the very same long blond hair and a smile less menacing, but Michael. There’s something. What that something is, he couldn’t say.
It isn’t a surprise to find that this world’s Michael Shelley disappeared some years ago. No death records, he was only gone following a trip out of the country.
It also isn’t much of a surprise to learn he worked for the Magnus Institute. Of course he did. He worked here, and he became…something else. If that is the right way to think of it. Michael is not here for him to ask, politely, for a statement.
He calls upstairs to Rosie’s desk, asks her to dig up Michael Shelley’s employment records and have them sent down to him. They’re as unlikely to be useful as anything else he’s looked at until now, but it doesn’t hurt to check. If nothing else he can see what department the man worked in.
Then he spends long seconds considering his hand again, his thoughts all tumbling over each other like waves in the ocean; it’s nigh impossible to grasp at a single drop of water among the deluge, particularly when you want a specific drop. Where is the divergence between the worlds? When was it? The Jonathan Sims and Gerard Keay of the second world have known each other, it seems, almost all their lives; similar can be said of Martin Blackwood and Michael Shelley, but they have all been strangers to each other in this life, only Jon and Martin ever crossing paths. Jon rubs at his temples. It might not even be possible to find the answers to any of this.
That’s never stopped him from trying.
It’s doing him to no good to think about it now, however, so he changes tack and locates the statement of Sampson Kempthorne. He doesn’t often record statements on back-to-back days, finds the experience oddly draining, when he is only reading aloud; but it will distract him, at least for a little while. So he finds a fresh tape, and begins.
Following up on statements as old as this feels pointless, given everyone involved is dead and beyond caring. They’re not going to Kempthorne’s gravesite to tell him what they’ve learned. The structures they left behind remain, however, and Jon doesn’t know if that is good or bad or—meaningless. Plenty of buildings from the 1800s are standing, despite the best efforts of the Blitz, designed by Robert Smirke or George Gilbert Scott or a hundred other architects.
There’s nothing of interest for him to note on a supplemental recording—not unless he wants to tell his potential successor about his newly developing habit of rambling at a painting—but he’s got a tape running for it all the same, largely filling it with empty air and his own exasperated sighs. He straightens in his chair at a knock, followed by Tim, who looks largely perplexed.
“Are you in some kind of trouble?” he asks, and Jon cuts him a distracted look.
“I don’t know what you mean?”
“There was a policewoman asking after you,” Tim says. “You know, the one who came to look into Gertrude.”
“Basira.” Jon could kick himself for missing her, and again for using her first name, given what it does to the relative position of Tim’s eyebrows. Never mind that. “Where is—when was this?”
A moment later he’s decided that rather than kicking himself, he might go and kick his physical therapist. He sets aside Tim’s other assumptions, that there’s something between himself and Basira, with a sharp exhale. There’s nothing between him and anybody, not Martin, not Basira, not the goddamn ghost of Gerard Keay. It’s only ever just him and that’s fine.
Jon rubs at his temples once the door’s shut behind Tim. He doesn’t know entirely what to do with himself.
Pinhole is off the table. He hasn’t got Basira’s number to call and ask what she came for—to drop off another tape, presumably? He could call Martin in for a chat. They haven’t yet gone to visit the mirror. He hasn’t felt like he’s really allowed to bring it up to Martin. It isn’t work, not in any official capacity, and talking to Martin about anything that isn’t strictly professional at the moment feels somewhat invasive. Martin hasn’t broached the subject again either.
What Martin has done is—seem brighter, more cheerful of late, and Jon hasn’t wanted to stick a spanner in it. Somebody here ought to be happy. Everybody seems to be, in the life they’re not living.
He wonders idly if Smirke and Scott were architects in the world through the mirror. If they designed and oversaw the same buildings there. If those buildings demonstrate similar peculiarities to their matches in this one. He wonders what he can possibly hope to glean from wondering any of this.
And yet.
Before he can think better of it, Jon is outside St. Pancras Chambers. Part St. Pancras railway station, part St. Pancras Renaissance London Hotel, part luxury apartments, and formerly railway offices, among other uses. Originally both a train station and the Midland Grand Hotel, designed by George Gilbert Scott, the most costly of the submitted hotel designs. Rumors of hauntings abound, including a maid who continues to fold bedsheets (as though there’s nothing better to do with one’s afterlife, if there is such a thing), and the more gruesome visage of a politician who hanged himself in one of the Midland’s three hundred guest rooms following a scandal.
There’s nothing for him here. Jon knows that.
And yet.
He stands, for a time, with his hands in his pockets, studying the bell tower. It puts him in mind of Michael Crew leaping from the heights of Chichester Cathedral, which brings him around to Lion Street Books, and from there back again to Pinhole, which wrinkles his nose as though he can smell the place from here. The key to the front door is a weight in his pocket.
Sometimes he wonders, not very seriously, what it would cost to buy the place. More than his grandmother left him, to be sure. Maybe if he sold the property in Bournemouth—it’s not too far from the beach, but it’s also not in the best of conditions—he’s getting distracted. He wants to be distracted. He wants to go home and sleep for a year, and maybe this will all be over when he wakes up.
But he’s come this far, so instead he walks into the hotel’s lobby.
According to the website, they’ve got a room named for its architect. It probably wasn’t called that back in Scott’s day, and Jon very much doubts there is anything of the original left in place. There have been renovations, between the Midland and the Renaissance, and you don’t keep antique furniture in a hotel room. It’s probably in some asshole collector’s treasure trove. Maybe Mikaele Salesa’s got it, or bought and sold it.
What Jon would give to pick his brain.
Anyway, even if the Sir George Gilbert Scott Suite were riddled with Scott’s belongings, Jon has no interest in paying for a night here, and he’s not a clever enough liar to get himself into the room unpaid. Preferably unattended. Tim could probably pull it off, if Jon had the nerve to ask him; but Tim would just as probably laugh in his face.
The lobby is all gleaming surfaces and bland-smiling receptionists and just full enough of people that Jon doesn’t feel horribly obvious and out of place even with his scuffed shoes. He passes through the polished space and finds his way to the Grand Staircase, where he leans against the bannister and contemplates the building around him. What he ever expected to come of this venture—
He descends the stairs and finds his way, after a near-collision with a trio of careering children, back to the lobby.
At reception he asks if they know where he might find more information about the history of the building. The man at the desk, as blandly handsome as blandly smiling, gives him a queer look, and he clarifies that he’s doing research for his work, which is not entirely a lie. However convincing he may or may not be, he’s handed a single-page brochure advertising the St. Pancras Museum. Apparently it hasn’t earned a website. No wonder he didn’t find anything about its existence prior to coming.
The ‘museum’ is…unimpressive. He supposes it would be, else there might be evidence of it on the Internet. Located several floors up and attended by a drowsy elderly woman, it’s one room, apparently managed by some historical preservation group. There are photographs from the building’s construction, including several with George Gilbert Scott himself, most often with Midland director Joseph Lewis, who apparently convinced Scott to submit a design for the original hotel in the first place. Jon studies these photos for a while, gleaning absolutely nothing.
They’ve also got a collection of letters, the originals out of reach in the care of the historical society, but printed versions available for flipping through, which Jon does. It’s tedious stuff, entirely on the subject of the building. Jon’s eyes glaze over midway through, but he keeps at it until he finds mention of some trouble with Spiders, particularly and peculiarly capitalized.
At this, he pesters the old woman, who he suspects had been near to dozing. Giving his best approximation of an apologetic smile, he asks, “Would it be possible for me to have copies made of these?”
She seems baffled by his interest, but willing enough to indulge him, and soon enough he’s settling down on his couch, Gerard’s painting turned to face the wall, and letters in hand. He’s only started to reread the first of the stack, ‘Dear Mr. Lewis,’ when he hears chimes over a door that remind him broadly of thunder; he resigns himself to the ride just before it flies.
They take Eric to Lightning-Branch Books on Wednesday. It’s a predictably overcast afternoon, and it has been raining off and on all day long. Georgie tags along before she’s due at Cosy, disappearing into the stacks the moment they step into the shop.
Mike is on his stool behind the counter, occupying himself with a thick science fiction novel. He doesn’t look up at their arrival, but does reach for a bookmark, which he tucks into the pages just as they properly reach him. “Hello,” he says, one eyebrow quirked. “Can I help you find something?”
Gerry leans across the counter and whispers something in his ear. Mike’s face falls into deep concentration for a moment before his eyes linger over Eric and he waggles his fingers for somebody—it’s not entirely clear who—to follow him. He’s already out of sight among all the books when he calls, “Eric, I’ve got something your son says you’ll like. If somebody wouldn’t mind watching the till.”
Jon’s got absolutely no experience with such things, but he maneuvers himself behind the counter anyway, so that Gerry can accompany Eric. He imagines, sitting there, what it might be like to own a bookshop. It was a childhood fantasy, and it feels such a long time ago, removed from the man he is today, but connected, also, by stories in all their myriad forms.
He does not know what he means to do with himself when he finds the elusive thing he has spent the better part of two decades chasing after.
For years he has felt stagnant, mired down in the search as though it were a hungry swampland. It could pull him under and drown him, and when he pulls himself to the surface, where will he be? Is his life going to be academia forever, or will a new path spread open before him when he finds the silver-dew land of Fairy; will he know then what comes next?
Whatever it is, he wants Martin Blackwood to be a part of it. He can’t much picture a future without Martin in it anymore, which feels a bit silly, having lived so many perfectly good years without him in the past.
“You look awfully deep in thought,” a voice quips, and Jon pulls himself from his haze to find Georgie standing across the counter, a small pile of books under one protective palm, like somebody might try to steal them from her before final sale. “Does that happen automatically when you sit back there? Can I have the next go? I bet I’ll look really good, all pensive and everything.”
Jon snorts and pulls her discoveries toward himself. Half of them are romance novels and the other half are nonfiction titles about hauntings. Given the shop’s constant state of disarray, it seems a miracle that anyone ever finds what they’re looking for here, and Jon wonders sometimes if that’s a spot of magic as well, something laid over the place when Mike opened it. “You’re going to have to wait for Mike.”
“You’re not very good at this, Jon.”
“I’m not an employee, Georgie.”
She sticks her tongue out at him.
It’s another few minutes and several apologies to other patrons before Mike and the rest emerge from between shelves, Eric toting a boxful of books. Jon cranes his neck for a look inside and sees they’re all ragged things, needful of Eric’s careful touch. Jon surrenders the stool to its owner, who sees to the short queue before furnishing Jon with a meaningful look and a, “Have you got a moment?” and Jon feels at once antsy-prickly; he couldn’t say if that’s more nerves or anticipation.
“Sure,” he says, and this time it’s Gerry left in charge of the till while Jon’s escorted into Mike’s office, which is exactly as tricky to navigate as the last time. “Did you just gift Eric a box of work?”
Mike shrugs. “Gerry said it would make him happy.”
“I’m sure it will.” Jon tucks his hands into his pockets and attempts nonchalance. “Was there something…?”
“Of Magic,” Mike says. “Have you read any more of it?”
“No,” Jon admits. “I haven’t really—I’ve been busy.”
It’s the truth: he has been busy, between helping Gerry with readying this year’s Devereaux Manor, time spent with Martin, and the regrettable element that is teaching. It’s a fragment of the truth.
“You’re nervous,” Mike says, and it’s not a question.
“Am I that transparent?”
“Anyone would be.”
He is, and has been. Even through his eagerness, the story of the girl and the oncoming monster has stuck with him, and the way it just wasn’t there anymore, it—
It is frightening. Of Magic sometimes seems a rabid animal on his desk; he wants to touch it, but it might reveal its claws at any moment.
“What is—do you know something about the book or—anything?” The odd feelings that have come over him sometimes. Flashes of things he can never remember, though he knows there was something he should be remembering.
Mike drags his finger along the spine of a book on garden maintenance like it might hold some deep, fathomless secrets. “The trouble,” he says, “is I don’t know if telling you what I know would do more harm than good. It’s mostly history.”
“You asked me back here to tell me you can’t tell me anything?” Jon’s smile is a wisp of a thing.
“Well, when you put it like that.” Mike gives him an even, considering look. “You’ve got to keep reading. I think it’ll do you some good. The important thing though, is to not be afraid of it, you understand?”
Jon’s not sure he does, and he’s not sure he can help being afraid, but he nods. “If you say so. I’ll—”
Jon misses the rest of what his counterpart begins to say, drawn back to his own sofa, which greets him with the threat of a monstrous backache should he dare sleep there again. His physical therapist would probably have something to say about it too. He waits for his flat to settle, and considers the letters in his hands.
This is a great waste of his time. Obviously this is all a waste of time. George Gilbert Scott’s letters aren’t going to tell him anything about what’s happening in the here and now. It’s mostly history. He stares down at a line about Scott’s wife and a comb for too long, really, until the words begin to blur, and then he goes for a shower, which he runs too hot. Head bent forward, he lets the burn push everything else away for a while.
Notes:
a) I try, most of the time, to stick to the canon timeline. But the canon timeline doesn’t always feel entirely sensible, so there are also cases where I’ll fiddle with it as I see necessary. Gertrude’s employment history as discussed here is one of those times. Per MAG 137, she was born in the 1940s. In MAG 4 we’re told she was Head Archivist “for over fifty years,” while in MAG 158 Elias indicates it was basically fifty years exactly (“Fifty years is a long time. End of an era.”).
So if we say it was 50 years exactly, she became Head Archivist in 1965. If she was born in…let’s say 1945, she became Head Archivist at 20 years old, which struck me as improbable, to say the least. (I know Jonah does as Jonah likes, but still.) I’ve taken the liberty of pushing her birth into 1938, so she was 27 when she took the position.
b) Some dialogue borrowed from MAG 50.
c) I heavily referred to the internet as far as the St. Pancras building, and I'm still not 100% sure I didn't merge two buildings. Supposed hauntings entirely my own.
Chapter 31: it's complicated
Notes:
I was trying to write a Plot Chapter and it was going badly, so then I gave myself permission to write an Introspective Character Focus/Romance Chapter instead and was much happier.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
It rains again on Thursday.
Martin gets caught in it on his way to the Institute, and curses himself for not buying a new umbrella after the last one snapped in the wind. He lives in London, he ought to have an entire collection of emergency umbrellas. During lunch, he promises himself, he’ll run out and find one. In the meantime, there’s no way around arriving to work with something of a drowned rat look about him. At least the Institute’s foyer is warm; he would almost go as far as calling it welcoming, but he’s worked here too long for that. Also, one of the lightbulbs is on its way out, which does unfriendly things to the ambience. It’s kinder than the Archive, but the bar is on the ground—or under it.
He waves to Rosie on his way to the break room and its kitchenette. The chill from outside has found its way into his bones. Nothing a cup of tea won’t remedy. He wishes everything could be so easily solved. Unfortunately, he’s had quite a lot of tea since picking up the mirror, and it doesn’t seem to have made a difference.
Lee, though.
Lee seemed to help, the last time, with his hands warm and gentle on Martin’s skin, the look on his face somewhat territorial. Not in some horrid, possessive boyfriend way, but in a grounding way, keeping Martin with him. It was nice. And sure, there’s every possibility it was pure coincidence, that he was never going to fully spectator-slip into the other Martin’s life at that moment, there’s no way of knowing, but he does like the idea that it was Lee’s doing. That someone wants him enough to overpower the supernatural.
The break room is occupied when he gets there, by Hannah and a newer researcher Martin thinks is called Jordan. They’re chatting the way coworkers do in the morning, about the weather and weekend plans. Martin doesn’t want to interrupt, slips through with a murmured greeting on the way to fetch his mug.
“Should we be expecting you in the library today?” Hannah’s voice nudges in on him after a minute spent mulling over, with a rise of delight, that even though nobody has asked him about his plans for the weekend, he has got them. He never did, before, spent most of his time bored in his flat, occupying himself with the occasional walk, because it was somehow easier to pretend he wasn’t lonely if he was out and witnessing the existence of other Londoners. Now that there’s Lee, his evenings and weekends are properly full. He actually looks forward to them, and it’s a novel realization.
“Oh,” he says with a start, and has to consider what sort of statement follow-up he’s got on his plate versus his current researches for the mirror. He’s continued with reading up on multiverse theory, found it much more scientifically inclined than he first imagined it would be, and Martin himself has never been the science-minded sort, got rubbish scores on his science GCSEs and gone on to even worse marks in the physics A-level he’d stupidly thought could be a good idea, and then he had to quit and it hadn’t mattered anyway. And it came off silly at first, with half the search suggestions and results offering him guides to various comic book universes and other science fiction, weirdly a lot of pages dedicated to facial hair and morality in so-called “mirrorverses,” which had taken him aback and got him thinking about the other universe, and he hadn’t noticed much difference in the facial hair at all, him and his counterpart both being clean shaven—he tried growing a beard for about five minutes once and no—and as to the moral end of things, he hardly knew where to begin with that conundrum. There were also loads of results for science fiction novels and fan communities, where there seemed to be something of a penchant for naming the alternate universes they came up with; and there were so many, ones with soulmates and others with arranged marriages or vampires or dystopias, something shortened to omegaverse that he dearly hadn’t wanted to look too deeply into on a work computer, and—and, quite often: coffee shops. Hell of a coincidence, that. The ones with proper nicknames have set him thinking of their literal mirrorverse, in just the last few days and privately, as the Cosyverse. He can imagine Jon’s reaction to that. Lee’d probably like it, if Lee liked anything to do with the mirror, and neither of them bring it up any more than they have to, so it’s only his, for the time being.
But, aside from all the fannish stuff and the definitively fictional bits, multiverse theory is science. Awfully complicated science, given it’s all…erm, highly theoretical. He’s given himself any number of headaches reading up on M-theory (which has to do with superstring theory, which is so far beyond him it’s laughable), brane cosmology (he hadn’t even heard of that one before and thinking about it gives him a headache), black-hole cosmology (and the concept of white holes, which, what?), and the anthropic principle (to his understanding, not a singular principle, but several of them in a trenchcoat).
It’s been a lot. Especially doing it on top of his ordinary workload, because that was already a lot, and the rest of the Institute hasn’t got any idea how lucky they’ve got it. Sometimes even Artefact Storage sounds like an improvement.
He hasn’t gone back to Jon about it yet, as there hasn’t really been anything to go to Jon about. None of the reading he’s done is directly related to the mirror in any way, he hasn’t unearthed some string theory-quantum mechanics-modal realism book by an expert that says, “Also, there might be mirrors that will let you see-slash-audience-inhabit those other universes.” If he had, that expert would probably be just as dead as half the people they try to follow up with. The mirror isn’t science any more than Jane Prentiss or Grifter’s Bone are science, so all this research is superfluous at best; mostly, it makes him feel like he’s doing something, so if Jon asks, he can say he’s still trying. Even if he hasn’t got the first idea how to make it stop.
Maybe if it turns out Lee’s presence—Lee’s wanting him—really does have a dampening effect and that wasn’t some placebo moment, he’ll present that to Jon and they can…all right, he doesn’t know where they’d go from that point. Ask Tim to help Jon find a date, maybe, because whatever he thinks, Jon’s not romantically involved with that police officer. Is he? It shouldn’t matter to Martin, and mostly it doesn’t, he doesn’t get to date Lee and then quietly hope Jon’s still unattached. He doesn’t—he wouldn’t—
It’s complicated.
Jon’s not going to up and ask him out, and if he did, Martin wouldn’t say yes; he wouldn’t leave Lee for Jon, that is. Yes, he’s still in love with Jon, he can’t just flip a switch to shut it off after several years’ pining over him, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t mean it with Lee. Obviously he means it; they’ve only known each other less than two months, and been together for a little over a week, even if it does feel like longer (he thinks, because they’ve spent so much time together, having seen or rang each other daily since meeting, and because Lee…understands), and he isn’t there yet, but it would be an easy thing, to fall for Lee Kipple.
So yeah, it’s complicated, the mirror and his stupid feelings, and if falling in love is some mad solution to the mirror’s grasp, it’s a bridge for dragging Jon across once they map their way to the damn thing. As the bridge, and indeed the map, are currently as hypothetical as the quilted multiverse, it’s really not an immediate concern. He doesn’t think it’ll be that simple, anyway.
Then again, that woman in Genoa just had to focus on her mother to get out of that teeming mass of not-people, so maybe it will be.
“Martin?” Hannah prods, and he realizes he’s doing an excessive amount of thinking, for such a simple question.
“Oh,” he says again, with an awkward smile. “I’m not sure yet. I might be up.”
“You’ve been doing a lot of complicated reading,” she says, and then more to Jordan, “Martin’s trying to become a hypothetical sciences expert lately. Before that it was mirrors, which,” back to Martin now, puzzled and curious, “didn’t go anywhere, I guess?”
“Not so far.” Martin doesn’t really want to go into it. He doesn’t need it getting to Jon that he’s been letting anything mirror-adjacent slip (not that he can really stop anyone in the library from knowing what he’s reading), and heaven forbid Elias catch wind of it. Martin’s not the best liar; he stammers something awful. Skirting the truth is more manageable, and even that can be difficult with Elias looking down his nose at him like he already knows every secret Martin’s ever had; he prefers to be noticed by Elias as little as possible. “It was all interesting, though.”
“That’s something,” Hannah says doubtfully.
“So,” Martin says, in the interest of changing the subject, “you’re going to a dinner theatre this weekend? That sounds fun.”
They chat a while longer, before Hannah and Jordan depart with little waves, and Martin’s alone with his tea. He’s early enough still that he sinks onto one end of the couch and ponders his mug. He’s taken to cradle-balancing his drinks close to himself, better to avoid spilling in case the mirror presents itself. It’s quiet here, except for the occasional voice in the hallway, so it’s immediately noticeable when he hears Jon’s, clear as though he were directly beside Martin; and he is, Martin reflects, it’s just not the Martin sat in the break room at the Magnus Institute.
“Did you know you can go kayaking down the Thames?”
Martin casts Jon a baffled look. They’re climbing the stairs to his flat, Cosy left in the capable hands of Georgie, Oliver, and Paul. It’s a comfortable enough evening, Jon in a dusty blue coat Martin hadn’t seen before, which he likes very much, and the plan is to stay in, have dinner, and maybe put on a film. His flat’s still a mess of half-written poetry, and he expects it will remain so until nearer to his collection’s release, a thing he still can’t believe is going to happen.
“Sorry,” he says, “why would anyone want to do that?”
“I haven’t the faintest. It was on a list of date ideas.”
“You were looking at date ideas?” Martin digs for his key to let them inside. He flicks the light on, and catches the color in Jon’s cheeks. “That’s sweet.”
Jon clears his throat. “Yes. Well. I haven’t got many of my own. The Internet has its uses.”
Martin touches a kiss to his temple before making his way to the kitchen. Dinner’s nothing complicated, a pasta recipe Gerry’s written out for them on a little card, slightly more elevated than boiling noodles and warming sauce from a jar.
“I brought dessert,” Jon informs him, still pink, while Martin is rummaging through the cupboards for pots and the like.
“Is that what’s in the bag? I was wondering,” Martin says of an unmarked paper bag Jon’s been holding since his arrival at Cosy, all his attempts to peek inside gently rebuffed.
“It is, and you’ll see after dinner.” For now, Jon tucks it into a safe wedge of fridge space and washes his hands. “What do you need me to do?”
Martin indicates the recipe card, laid out on the counter this morning so he wouldn’t lose it among the chaos of his living room. “You can start on the sauce, if you want, but you haven’t got to.”
Jon scoffs. “I’m hardly going to make you do all the work. Mind, Gerry’s too territorial to let me help in the kitchen much, so I don’t know how much use I’ll be.”
“I’m no Gerry, but I’m sure I can teach you a thing or two. It’s not complex, this.”
“You think so?”
The way Jon’s smiling at him, Martin comes quite near saying sod dinner in favor of several hours’ kissing on the sofa, but probably best they eat first, make out like teenagers later. He never really had the teenage experience, always too busy trying to manage things with his mother to date, and he felt older than his peers because he was dealing with more than they were (in retrospect, he knows it’s likely some of them were handling their own weighty life problems, but it hadn’t seemed that way at the time), while simultaneously too young to go for anyone older, and the result was just…not. Martin had his first real boyfriend at twenty, and it lasted six (he thought) lovely months, before it crashed down around his ears. Most of the others didn’t last much longer, and he dearly wants Jon to last—
He wants Jon to last.
Pull yourself together, Blackwood.
“I have every confidence,” he says, before reapplying himself to the matter of retrieving a saucepan. He’s never been the greatest cook in the world, but he has managed to feed himself perfectly well in the years since he and Michael stopped sharing places. “Could you check the spice rack? I did the shopping the other day, so everything should be there…”
Making dinner together is a peaceful, laughing affair, and they eat at the counter, because Martin hasn’t got a proper dining table, having never needed one before. It seemed a very lonely thing, when he considered buying one, sitting at it on his own every day. Maybe he should look into getting a small one, for more nights like this? Would that seem odd of him, buying a table just to eat at it with Jon, when they’ve only been dating this long? It would probably be odd.
“Thinking hard?” Jon asks, amusement lacing the question, and Martin wonders if he’s been trying to get his attention.
“Thinking too much,” Martin corrects.
“Care to share what’s on your mind?” There’s a spot of pasta sauce at the corner of Jon’s mouth, which seems incredibly distracting now he’s noticed it.
“Us,” he says, and Jon visibly swallows. “I think about us a lot, if you ever wondered.”
“Good things, I hope.”
“Very good things,” Martin assures him. “We suit each other, don’t you think so?”
“Obviously I think so.” Jon’s hand, the one that isn’t holding his dinner fork, makes itself at home on Martin’s knee and squeezes. Martin could curse his slacks for being in the way, between his skin and Jon’s, because he likes the feeling of Jon’s hands directly on him, whether or not it’s sexual. There’s a warmth to Jonathan Sims, despite the perpetual ‘hasn’t slept in five years’ look of him; his students would probably disagree, but they aren’t the ones who get to see him like this, nor tucked up in bed. “Is there a reason it’s on your mind?”
“Not really,” Martin half-lies, and then reconsiders, as he can’t imagine Jon laughing at him. “Only I was thinking about how all my other relationships have gone, and how this one is better.”
A little crease appears on Jon’s brow, and there’s an amused quirk to his lips, and Christ Martin wants to kiss him. He’s suppressed the urge this long, to hell with it—he drops his fork and leans in, interrupting whatever Jon meant to say, and Jon tastes of the meal they’re eating, it’s not actually the best on someone else’s mouth, but Martin doesn’t care. There’s a clattering of Jon’s fork as well, and then a hand cradling his face so gently, and Jon’s tongue in his mouth.
After, Jon leans his forehead against Martin’s and says, “I don’t think I’ve ever been someone’s better, before. You can ask Georgie.”
“I don’t need to ask Georgie,” Martin laughs. “I don’t need to know what you were like with anyone else, just what you’re like with me, and that happens to be…”
“Better?”
“Much.”
“Will you report me to Georgie if I say you’re better for me as well?”
“You’ll have to persuade me not to.”
“Have you got any suggestions for how I might persuade you?”
“You’re a clever man,” Martin says, “I’m sure you’ll think of something.”
“There is the dessert I’ve brought along.”
“We’d better see how good it is then, hadn’t we?”
Dessert, Martin is well-pleased to discover once they’ve cleaned up and moved to the living room, is a sampler of chocolates. “It’s a random selection,” Jon explains of the neatly-divided box, with twelve little pairs of chocolates, two per flavor it looks like. “I didn’t know what you’d like, and there were so many options it was hard to think where to begin, so I just…left the shop owner to it. I’m surprised he didn’t call me a peasant.”
Martin laughs hard at this, and says, “I feel like we should be drinking wine to go with these.” He’s even more delighted when Jon produces a bottle from within the bag, and scurries back to the kitchen to fetch a set of glasses. They’re not proper wineglasses, he doesn’t own those, but they’ll do all the same. “If it was between this and kayaking down the Thames, I’m glad you went with the chocolates.”
“There were a few other options,” Jon says contemplatively.
“Oh? What were those?”
“I’d rather keep them back for another day.”
Martin has to wrangle the somewhat giddy butterflies in his stomach at that. He’s being ridiculous. Is this what falling in love is meant to feel like? Maybe it’s just the honeymoon phase, he’s never been sure how long that’s meant to last, as he never properly had it with his former boyfriends. Jon is different, and the fact that he thinks he’s bad at this is…comical, really. Martin fills their glasses with care, then turns attentive eyes on the chocolates.
“Where do we start?” They all look equally enticing.
“Here is as good as anywhere.” Jon picks up a square of chocolate with delicate care, and Martin isn’t fully prepared for Jon’s other hand on the column of his throat, tipping his face back, nor for Jon to press the chocolate between his lips. He might whimper. Just a little. There’s a ganache filling, the melded flavors of dark chocolate and sea salt, and Martin licks what’s left from his lips, catching Jon’s thumb along the way because it’s still just there, and the heavy way Jon exhales does put ideas in his mind. He doesn’t push, because he hasn’t yet got a firm grasp of how frequently Jon is interested in sex, and he worries he might ask too much, because he can be a needful thing at times.
For his own part—he wants Jon all the time, ‘course he does. “That,” he says somewhat breathlessly, “was very good. Here, let me—” His fingers are clumsier than Jon’s, it’s not his fault Jon’s just ruined him a little bit by feeding him a damned piece of chocolate; but he manages to slide the matching piece into Jon’s waiting mouth.
Though there’s no whimpering on Jon’s part, Martin does earn a hitch in his breath.
“I think,” Martin says, reaching for conversational and coming up short, owing to the shaking, “you chose dessert well.”
“And I think,” Jon returns, his fingers sliding down Martin’s neck again, his eyes intent, “I can have you incoherent by the end of this box.”
Martin rather loses his hold on the English language then. “Please,” he breathes, and then Jon’s mouth is on his.
The time ’s off again.
Martin notes this with some detachment as the break room comes into place around him, the smell of coffee and sound of somebody opening the fridge. He hasn’t spilled his drink at all, which is a more triumphant realization.
His morning, their evening. That’ll go into his notes as soon as he’s downstairs and can find a fresh page for it.
Glad to see they ’re having a nice time.
The thought is surprisingly…placid? Peaceful? There’s no jealousy of his counterpart, no brief wish he could have that with his own Jon; he’s glad for the Martin of the Cosyverse, and if he feels a need to have an intimate chocolate tasting with anyone, he can ask Lee, or surprise him. It’s nice, not being envious.
He has a sip of his tea, looking thoughtfully about the room, not that there’s much of interest in this particular corner of the Institute. Jon’s suggested the mirror can color their feelings, that it wasn’t him who fumblingly attempted to ask Jon out but some aftereffect of the other Martin, and he hadn’t entirely agreed, given he was already long gone for Jon. Will he notice a difference now that he’s got a boyfriend and his feelings are a touch tangled up? Something to consider over time, probably.
Martin stands, fixes his bag, and with a wave to the researchers on their way in, heads for the basement stairs and another long day in the Archive.
Notes:
Plot Things…next time…probably. (This is why this fic’s never going to end, even though I know the ending, I swear 😭)
PS I am now open to ficlet requests, because I want to write things that are...quicker. Details are on my profile :)
Chapter 32: whatever strangeness has come
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Jon continues, through Thursday afternoon, to examine Scott’s letters as though he’s back in university analyzing some needlessly opaque literature, looking for meaning in murky words where there is no meaning to be found.
There are several points that are of interest, not that he can make heads nor tails of them. In a letter written to a member of the Lukas family he finds a single reference to “Smirke’s zealotry—his militant commitment to Balance, his refusal to see sense, that it is unattainable and to be perfectly frank: undesirable.” Another letter, this an exchange with his wife Caroline and focused primarily on the subject of their sons, mentions “the Magnus business,” and in a third he finds several lines dedicated to Maxwell Rayner. Additionally, there are no less than half a dozen further mentions of his wife’s hair comb, crafted from ivory, which catch Jon’s attention if only because he cannot understand why Scott should be so fixated on his wife’s fashion choices. There is also the reference to Spiders, over which he lingers long.
The letters are, if nothing else, an interesting way to keep himself occupied. Useless they may be to his here and now, but Jon has always liked history, even considered doing a course in uni, and primary sources like these are the best sort of window.
He pulls a hand through his hair and pushes up from his desk. Tim is easily located, sat at his own desk with his brow furrowed down at whatever he’s reading—Jon would have to lean too close in order to read the file number, and he doesn’t think Tim would welcome his proximity. He clears his throat while proffering the collection of letters.
Tim startles, giving him a look equal parts exasperation, bewilderment, and rather grim vexation.
“I thought you might like to read these,” Jon heads him off, before he can make any unwelcome remarks.
Tim has been both more and less tolerable in the few days since he’s begun to make assumptions about Jon’s romantic life.
Which does not exist.
He might as well get a grave marker for the concept and place flowers there weekly—that’s neither here nor there, however.
“You’ll find," he continues, "that some of them involve Robert Smirke. No direct correspondence, I’m afraid.”
“What is all this?” Tim rifles through the pages, expression easing some, and Jon might well deserve the way Tim looks at him lately, but until he can know for certain Tim had absolutely nothing to do with—not now, pay attention. “Where did you get these?”
“There’s a museum in St. Pancras,” Jon says, “not that you would know it unless you asked.”
“And you asked?” Tim’s eyebrows scrunch together.
“I asked, yes.” He has no interest in explaining why he went to all the trouble of visiting St. Pancras, that it was primarily an exercise in distracting himself from the absolute muddle that is his life, so he goes briskly on to, “I’ve already read them, but if you find anything of interest, I would like to hear about it. We can compare notes.”
Tim is quiet for a moment, staring down at the topmost letter, which mostly concerns a pause in work on the hotel, and Jon wills him to accept the—olive branch? Is that what this is? That sounds much too simple. There is nothing truly simple for him anymore; in some ways, he envies his counterpart, whose life may not be entirely without its difficulties (its fairy stories, whatever strangeness has come and is yet to come from Of Magic), but at least none of his mysteries involve death.
“Sure,” Tim says eventually, pulling him from his distracted reverie. “I’ll take a look.”
“Good.” Jon’s voice is brisk. “There’s no hurry, as they aren’t related to any current cases.”
“Sure,” Tim says again; Jon can tell when he’s unwanted.
“I’ll leave you to them,” he says, but doesn’t walk directly away. The Archive is…conspicuously empty. Neither Martin nor Sasha occupy their desks, and he knows they were in this morning. “Have you seen the others?”
“Martin’s back in the library,” Tim reports. “He said something about—black-hole cosmology? And I think Sasha went up to Artefact Storage for something.”
“Artefact Storage again?” Jon says before he can think better of it, some amount of peevishness slipping in. “What can she possibly want with the place?”
“Search me.” Tim makes a vague, shrug-adjacent gesture. “Maybe she’s got a crush on somebody in there.”
Jon makes a face. It has been some time since he’s updated himself on new arrivals, and now that he’s handed Scott’s letters off to Tim, it won’t hurt to get out of the Archive for a brief while. He excuses himself to make his way upstairs.
There is a certain peculiarly hushed quality to the air of the Magnus Institute, as though the building itself—and indeed the concept of the building—is a rigid elderly figure with a finger to their lips. Jon noticed it, as most people tend to, on his first visit, when he came for an interview with Elias. Then, he thought it was…perhaps nice is not the word for it, neither comfortable, but it was a proud, profound stillness such as he would expect of a venerable and long-standing Institute like theirs. It is a place that comes with weight. Back then, it made him all the eagerer to work here.
Now he’s grown used to that pervasive quietude, and still he would describe it as neither nice nor comfortable, but he has come to notice the minutest of differences about it, according to where one stands. To his notice the library is—somewhat ironically—the room least affected, feeling a great deal like any other wine-aged library.
The Archive has its own…unique qualities, to put it generously, and Jon does understand why the blessedly rare, but still all-too frequent people who come to make their statements directly to him find the place so unsettling.
Still, his Archive is not the most discomfiting segment of the centuries-old building.
That honor, such as it is, belongs to Artefact Storage.
As a researcher, Jon spent a not-insignificant amount of time intimating himself with the expansive collection. Not so much time as the staff permanently assigned there—and he has never, for any amount of time, envied those in that particular role—but more than his fair share. He has experimented at some length with the horrors they keep to hand, from the relatively mundane (as much as anything kept here can be called mundane) to the downright malevolent.
Artefact Storage’s attendants are the tetchily scrupulous sort, as though Sonja expects somebody to come in and attempt to make off with all the room’s contents stuffed down their pockets. As a result, Jon is obliged to pencil himself in on every visit; sure enough, Sasha’s name appears above his, and with disconcerting frequency on lines prior. He considers, as he scrawls his name, how well the mirror would fit in here—and it would fit in here. The ways they would experiment with it.
Technically speaking, Jon has already played the role of naughty schoolchild making off with the contents of Sonja’s cookie jar, but as the lighter was delivered to him to begin with, he’d taken it back without guilt. He only turned it over to Artefact Storage at all because he hadn’t wanted it in his Archive, and they hadn’t found anything amiss with it, so they can hardly complain he’s taken it back into his own care.
The mirror would be another story altogether.
The mirror would be quite a few stories, as it were.
They would all have their fervent, greedy hands all over it, and then…Jon banishes the thought away into nothing, preferring not to imagine the results if half the Institute began imagining their counterparts’ lives. It puts a pit in his stomach.
In any case: Jon has not come to moth-flutter about Artefact Storage owing to the mirror, nor to his lighter, which is safely stowed in his flat. He’s here to update himself.
And, unhappily, to keep an eye on Sasha.
Sonja is otherwise engaged, and places him in the hands of a scrawny man with hair such an incandescent shade of orange it puts him in mind of pumpkins, and several days’ scruff that will soon qualify as beard, who introduces himself as Hartley Lewis. His eyebrows give him a look of permanent surprise, and he seems well-pleased to make Jon’s acquaintance, which is…disconcerting.
“I’m new,” he says, unnecessarily, as Jon has never before met somebody whose demeanor so clearly announces them as new to the Institute. And Hartley Lewis must be very new indeed; there is, generally, a tour for new hires, and this man has not been to the Archive unless it happened while Jon was out. “You’re the Head Archivist, then?”
“So my email signature would suggest,” Jon replies. “Erm—how are you liking things then?”
Hartley stage whispers, “It’s a bit spooky, isn’t it?” Behind him, Sonja rolls her eyes, while Jon offers up a smile that would be more accurately called a grimace. “But it’s good, spooky’s what I signed up for. I hear the Archives are—”
“Fine,” Jon cuts him off. He hasn’t come to discuss the relative creepiness of the Institute’s departments either. “I don’t mean to be rude, but—”
“Right, right, look at me getting carried away.” Hartley appears to wave himself off, then gestures for Jon to follow him.
The nastiest of Artefact Storage’s new arrivals by far is the disease-ridden scalpel, about which Hartley makes several off-color jokes, but he also goes a bit green-gilled, suggesting defense mechanism more than anything else; Jon politely refrains from comment. The carved rock eye that interferes with the cameras renders him mostly curious. He wonders if it would play nicely with the mirror.
When he’s all up-to-date, he shakes Hartley off and meanders toward the back of the room with certain assumptions regarding Sasha’s location.
Assumptions that are proved correct: she’s standing at the table featured so prominently in Amy Patel’s statement. One of his first, he recalls with something that is not exactly nostalgia. Things were simpler then. At least, he thought they were. Told himself he believed it, as if that would make it truer. He hadn’t known how unnatural things were going to become around here. He has a sense that he still doesn’t know, as though there are vast multitudes of terrifying things only waiting for him to pluck them out of the air so they might whisper at his ear like secrets conveyed by…conveyed by something he prefers not to think about.
Maybe that something knows what the mirror is; the thought of asking frightens him, like he would be opening a door he couldn’t close again later. The thought of getting an answer is somehow worse even than that, whatever’s on the other side coming through and dusting itself off.
In any case: the table itself is an interesting piece to look upon, and the sight of Sasha entranced by it is not as new as he would like it to be.
It often seems that when she is not on a long lunch, she is here. Jon cannot recall with any clarity if she was like this when the table was first delivered to the Institute. To him, specifically. The table and the lighter. He still hasn’t got the first idea who sent them, never mind knowing why, but he doesn’t like it. No more than he likes the way Sasha stands over the table, her gaze intent and transfixed and…bitterly amused, he would almost call it.
He wonders, somewhat dryly, if she’d like to transfer back to Artefact Storage in order to spend more time with it. To his understanding, she was champing at the bit to put her time here behind her.
But here she is again, again.
He feels the barest frisson of guilt as he checks his pockets to ascertain the tape recorder’s presence and approaches.
By the end of their conversation, Jon is mostly…baffled, in truth.
He asked, with what he could only hope came across as casual curiosity, about her long lunches, and—Madame Tussaud’s Wax Museum. Whatever answer he might have expected, it wasn’t that one. She claims to have taken a liking to the figures, and while that isn’t impossible, it bothers him for reasons he cannot elucidate.
Do you even know they ’re lying to you?
Well, unless Michael wants to return and tell him something properly helpful this time, there’s nothing for it but to continue keeping an eye on her as much as the others, until he knows exactly what is going on around here. What is being hidden from him.
“Something on your mind there?”
Jon startles at the sudden arrival of Hartley beside him. The man’s snuck up on him quietly as a ghost. He remembers, with a curious lurching sensation, the exasperated amusement in Martin’s voice when he’d thought for a moment Martin might be a ghost. Stupid of him—then, and to think of it now.
“Just work,” he says, a lie and a truth at once. “I’ll be out of your way.”
He retreats before anything else can be said, returns to the Archive, where Martin’s returned to his desk, head bent over a thick text; where Sasha is fussing over the Discredited section again; where Tim has begun to pore over Scott’s correspondence; and where an endless armada of statements awaits him. Tomorrow he’ll record another, has Antonia Hayley’s already set aside.
There is also a plate of biscuits, which, lacking any sort of note, he can only assume were left for him by Martin. They’re his favorite kind, with chocolate drizzle. He doesn’t think he’s ever mentioned that, and does not know how to feel about Martin having marked it, and bringing them to him despite his own recent behavior. There’s a pang of something adjacent to loneliness again.
He should talk to Martin.
But he shouldn’t talk to Martin, because he’s worried over what he might say. If it will belong to him, him, as he is, or if the words and wants will be his counterpart’s.
What he wants—all he wants—are the answers of what happened to Gertrude, and a good night’s sleep. (And the mirror. He wants to hold the mirror, to understand it.) He doesn’t think it’s much to ask, rest and the solving of a murder. People are meant to be rested and murders meant to be solved. He wonders if Basira has learned anything new since they last spoke. She hadn’t seemed overly optimistic about her odds. Their odds.
Jon pinches the bridge of his nose before reaching for a biscuit. He’s chewing when the office around him lurches and judders, like he’s in a carriage bouncing along a poorly paved road circa 1800-something; his stomach twists with it.
He has, at least, the presence of mind to set the biscuit aside before he’s not really there any longer.
You wanted the mirror, Jonathan.
Notes:
From a chapter I had a lot of fun writing to a chapter that was rewritten about a dozen times and was like pulling teeth every time...and it’s still shorter than it was supposed to be! (The trouble with Jon's chapters is so much of canon is still happening for him. It is a Tremendous Pain.)
I try to avoid OCs where canon characters will do, but in this case...ah, well, I’m not changing anyone’s role in the Magnusverse (actions? yes. place in life? not so much.) and to my recollection the only named Institute staff member for A.S. is Sonja. So, Hartley exists now, I guess.
Update 9/29/21: There used to be a note here about how I was trying not to put this back on hiatus, and then I immediately put it back on hiatus because whoa there burnout. It'll be back! This fic is basically years from completion, alas. (Not years from returning! Just years from being done!)
Chapter 33: the fun of exploring
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
It’s raining buckets and buckets outside, a storm rolled in as though the greater London area decided itself in need of building atmosphere for the impending spookiest of holidays; or maybe the storm made the decision all on its own. Jon, thankfully, is indoors, kept conscious of the weather by its drum-crashing against the warehouse rooftop and occasional rolling of thunder; the wind hasn’t achieved howling, but Jon has the impression it’s working its way up to it. One particularly frightful crash makes him pause, and straighten where he’s been examining the contents of a breakfast table. The morning spread is fake, at least for today, Gerry will inevitably go overboard and dress real food up with fake blood on Halloween proper.
“Heavens,” he says, words seeming quieter than ever in the ear-ringing wake of that.
“If I wish really hard,” Gerry says, rolling his knuckles thoughtfully along a cupboard, “d’you think we could get more of this on the big night?”
“I wouldn’t put it past the universe to do exactly as you ask,” Jon says, his voice considerably drier than the outdoors. There aren’t any windows, but he’s lived through storms enough to know what it must look like out there, the skies dark and streets gone to ankle-high rivers for children to splash their way through.
“We should all be so lucky.” Georgie makes as though to hop onto a countertop, then instead makes a face as she sticks her hand in a great lot of sticky webbing made by an effects artist acquaintance of Gerry’s. “Give it a go, surely.”
“I’ll do just that.” Gerry gestures them toward the next doorway, leading deeper into what is not a home, though it is presently disguised as one, extraordinarily dilapidated and ghost-populated though it may be.
With only days left between them and Devereaux Manor’s ‘big night’—as Gerry dubs it year after year—Jon’s having his first proper looking through of this year’s design. It’s ever-changing, it could never be anything else with Gerry at its helm, walls knocked out and new ones erected and such; this time he’s gone for what he’s repeatedly described as a classic style. The warehouse interior has been transformed into an actual manor—insofar as a thing can be a manor, fit inside a Shoreditch warehouse—single story and twisting about from sitting room to kitchens to music room and orangery and other such former glamour.
It puts Jon greatly in mind of fairy tale glamours, magic casting a veneer of beauty, all never what it appears.
The kitchen leads into a branching corridor, from which point guests will have their own choices to make. Devereaux’s not so much a straightforward path as many of October’s haunted houses, allowing its visitors to take their time in its dark embrace, to really explore and ingest all the detail work as it deserves to be ingested.
“You’ve outdone yourself this year,” Jon says, slowed to admire a framed painting of Gerda, the little robber girl, and several ravens, battling their way together through a snowscape; the style marks it as obviously Gerry’s own, the one and only artist whose work Jon can identify with confidence.
Gerry grins. “Thought you’d like that.”
“Come to think of it.” Jon frowns some, his eyebrows doing much of the heavy labor. “I ought to have seen this before today. You haven’t had me here nearly as much this year,” comes out more accusation than he intends.
“You’ve been preoccupied,” Gerry says, complete with unconcerned shrug.
Jon positively glowers at him, face heating. “You haven’t had me less because of Martin? You know I’d—”
“Do anything I ask, yeah, you and the universe both, I’m well aware.” Gerry pats him on the shoulder, and it’d be patronizing if Gerry weren’t the one doing it. It still is, a little. “I’m pleased for you, idiot. I want you to have time with your boyfriend, there are loads of people to help out around here.”
Jon tries hard not to bristle. He feels—irked, in a way he can’t quite attach a word to. A commingling of guilt and betrayal. The sense of being left behind, somehow. “Yes, but—”
“People like me,” Georgie offers, which doesn’t begin to help. If anything it makes him feel worse.
“I’m meant to help,” is all he says. They’re meant to be in this together, however much Jon might complain.
Gerry must catch something of what he means, because half a second later he’s caught in a hug, and Gerry sounds incredibly fond over, “Next year, when you’re not in a new relationship I’d rather not watch you cock up and also killing yourself working with a particular prick on your dissertation, I’ll have you back to doing absolutely everything around here with me, sound fair? You’ll regret ever bringing this up.”
Jon exhales hard. “Fair,” he says, and after a pause, “Bold of you to assume I’ll have finished the dissertation by next Halloween.”
Gerry, the arse, ruffles his hair. “I’ve got faith in you, Jonny boy.”
That makes one of them.
Jon rolls his eyes and their walk through the (probably, but you never know) unhaunted house continues.
It’s a foregone conclusion that haunted houses are decidedly less frightening with all the lights on. They’ve never done much for him to begin with, not like they do Gerry and Georgie, who are always delighted with their own choices of blood spatter and graveyard scenes, but he doesn’t deny their entertainment potential. (Also, put together by Gerry, their absolute artistry.) Only, doing the advance visits, brightly lit and absent performers, ruins the effect some. He does grimace when he steps in a patch of—he doesn’t know what that is, nor, he suspects, does he want to, and he’ll have to bin these shoes once they get home.
This year’s Manor features a labyrinthine library, hundreds or thousands of old books on shelves or the floor. When the place is open, it’ll be dimly lit by flickering lanterns, but for now it’s bright as anything.
On second look, with books stacked eight or ten feet high and packed tight as anything, Jon can’t tell if there are bookshelves or if the books themselves serve as frames. Loose, ancient newspapers scatter the floor. The path goes forward ten feet before branching off in two different directions.
“How do you intend to make sure people aren’t lost in here too long?”
“We’re still deciding on that bit,” Georgie says brightly, “but we have considered supplying maps.”
“Then what’s to make them explore?” Jon raises his eyebrows.
“The fun of exploring what I’ve made,” Gerry scoffs. “Also, they’ll probably have to ask the librarian for the map, we won’t give it to them right off.”
“When you say librarian—”
“Gertrude, yeah.”
“It’s a home library, why would there be a—”
“Oh hush up.” Gerry gestures for him to get a move on. “We’ve already got this memorized, so we’ll let you have the fun of navigating, yeah?” He winks, and calls for Dominic—the theatre tech who’s managed their lighting for as long as Devereaux’s been a thing—to dim the room some.
Jon sighs good-naturedly and takes his lead. The warehouse sprawls well enough in its natural state, and does so even more under Gerry’s carefully arranged direction; he knows how to make the most of his space, artist’s eye or what-have-you, and the warehouse likely as not wants to please him, as most things do. Squinting in the semidarkness at some of the newspaper headlines, and the spines of books on the shelves (or not), he asks, “Where’d you get all of these?”
“Bulk buying,” Georgie says.
“Gertrude helped, and so did Mike.”
“Does Eric know what you’ve done?”
“Not yet,” Gerry says evasively, and Jon rolls his eyes again. The state of things would give their father a heart attack. He’s not staying long enough to attend the open manor, but he’ll want a tour before he leaves them.
“And what’s the plan for all of these after you close for the year?”
“Keep them for next, if this goes over well.”
As though Gerry’s ever had an idea that didn’t go over well. He’s never, in Jon’s well-cited opinion, concerned himself much with what interests or excites people; he does what excites himself, and finds it convenient when other people turn out to like it too, which they always, always have. Still—
“The same room two years in a row? I’ll believe that when I see it.”
They stay with him a while, until he loses them around a turn, and then he’s alone with what must be literally thousands of books, stretching for ages (not really stretching though, not squashed up this way). It reminds him of—what does it remind him of? he can’t quite think. It’s quiet enough in this temporary library he could almost expect to find a real ghost around the next bend.
Instead he finds a dead end reading nook arranged mid-scene: a torn armchair, a table scored across the top, and a book lying open. The book is unharmed aside from the generous amounts of something that looks convincingly enough like blood. There’s a mystery in the Manor, but it isn’t Jon’s to solve. He’s got his own mysteries, his own mur—
“No,” he says under his breath, rubbing one-handed at his forehead. Where did that come from? Nobody’s been murdered or even hurt. There’s only missing fairy stories. Two of them, now, silver-dewed and dizzying elevation, respectively. It’s not even close to murder.
He doesn’t deign to linger, turns and retraces his steps until he’s back at a branch. There is a flood of relief when he finds his way out, finds Gerry and Georgie waiting to take him to their next stop.
“What d’you think?” Georgie asks.
“Books on the floor is an awful idea,” he says flatly, both because it’s true and because he doesn’t want to think about the misplaced ideas wandering into his head.
The observation earns him a wounded look. “It was my idea.”
“And I love you, but that one’s rubbish.” He jerks a thumb at Gerry. “It’s his call, not mine.”
“And I’ve decided on the tripping hazard,” Gerry says, unbothered.
“And he’s decided on the tripping hazard,” Jon follows.
It’s easier, returned to the company of his friends, to dismiss his wild-run imagination. He says nothing of his mislaid thoughts all the way through the family mausoleum.
Next, and last, comes the master bedroom, a particularly haunting set piece, though it lacks the evidence of violence scattered through the rest of the Manor. There’s a sad, abandoned sense to it. Jon runs his palm along an old bedspread; the image of another man, lonely and scarred, doing the same, somewhere else altogether, echoes in his head.
Jon shakes his head at his own silliness. His mind’s playing tricks on him, that’s all it is. Between the fairy tales and the ghost stories and—there are fairy tales, he thinks, and there are ghost stories, and which of them are we?
We who? he questions or answers himself. He needs to follow the directions of Martin’s disapproving looks, get more sleep.
For now he shifts his gaze to the bedside table, littered with the debris of a life, former: a hairbrush, a pair of eyeglasses, a hand mirror, a single ragged volume with a corded bookmark, a ceramic tray holding half sets of earrings and a string of pearls he hopes is fake, though one never does know. It’s the hand mirror he selects for a closer look, the little voice in the back of his head still murmuring on about ghost stories and fairy tales and the dragons that dwell in each.
The glass is flecked with what he assumes to be paint, and cracked as though some too-heavy object was left a while on the center of it. The effect is—affecting, his own cracked reflection staring back at him, face a prod away from shattering.
It’s disquieting, as well.
He has, all at once, the feeling he is being watched.
A flash of movement in the corner startles him into nearly dropping the mirror. He just saves it from an untimely demise, breath caught in his throat.
“You all right?” Georgie asks, and relief washes through him. She must have come up behind him; it must have been the shadow-shape of her in the mirror. But it can’t have been, he realizes a beat on, because she’s not behind or beside or near him at all. She’s on the opposite side of the bed, scrutinizing his face. And Gerry’s there across the room, tweaking some wall decor to whatever he deems the right level of abandoned crookedness. It can’t have been either of them.
Ice creeps greedy fingers along his spine.
It’s your imagination. You’re walking through a haunted house. Obviously it was your imagination.
Never mind he’s never scared easily, it’s the only reasonable explanation.
Then again, he has dedicated his life to chasing after the opposite of reason, and he’s getting closer, he knows he is.
Nothing else moves in the glass, though he spends thirty seconds more studying his own reflection. He looks as much himself as he ever has.
“Shall we?” Gerry’s moving on even as he asks the question. They’ve been through the entire place aside from the wide, open area at the end that’ll host the party. Martin’s lately taken to muttering under his breath (and once, in his sleep) about themed drinks and desserts, waving off Jon’s observations he’s already got them for Cosy itself.
“You didn’t answer me, Jonathan,” Georgie says, prodding a finger into his ribs as they follow a winding corridor to the last room.
“I’m fine,” he tells her, and does not know if he is lying. He isn’t not fine. He is thinking, a little, of sheep girls (shepherdesses, he supposes, though Of Magic’s disappeared story never called her one) stepping neatly over cliff edges and never hitting the ground.
“You’re sure?”
“What about me says otherwise?”
“You don’t want me to answer that.”
Jon exhales, says, “How about Gerry’s opening tomorrow night?”
“Oooh.” Georgie laughs as she moves away from him. “Masterful subject change, Jonathan, did you rehearse that one?”
“Sod you,” he says, flipping her off as he begins to follow, and then stops with a frown. His sock is wet. It wasn’t a moment ago, it’s impossible not to notice a wet sock. His “Hang on” goes unanswered, so he sighs and sits on the edge of the bed, he’ll catch up with them in a minute.
Or, it turns out, he won’t do that.
Instead they’ll find him still sat on the bed, frowning at a shoe removed and held in his hand, the matching sock abandoned on the floor.
“Jon? Everything okay?”
“Everything’s fine,” Jon says, again not sure he’s being truthful. There is a substance on his shoe, whatever he stepped in earlier, dark and tar-like, leaked through into his sock at some point. He really will have to bin these shoes. “What the hell are you using around here now?”
“Sorry?” Gerry takes the shoe from him and frowns at it. “I don’t know what this is.”
“Somebody must have spilled something,” Georgie suggests.
“They should have cleaned it up then.” Gerry makes a face and drops the shoe. “We’ve got extras in costuming, let’s find something that fits you and then you can show us where you stepped in…whatever the hell you stepped in.”
Jon retrieves his shoe, though he refrains from slipping his foot into it, and off to costuming they go, where he picks up a set of loafers that are only slightly too large. They bin the old pair, along with his unfortunate socks, then and there.
“It was before the library, after the kitchen,” he recalls, “down one of the corridors.”
There’s nothing to be found. No dark puddles, only false bloodstains.
“We’re not the only ones here,” Georgie says, sounding baffled. “Maybe whoever spilled it realized their mess and came to clean it up?”
“Maybe,” Jon says, though a nagging voice in his head insists that’s wrong, because the stuff he trod in wasn’t the sort of thing that—that belongs, not anywhere, and he’s getting properly exhausted with his own imagination. Still. Maybe he ought to have another chat with Mike? The man believed him readily enough about Of Magic’s there and gone again story, there’s every reason to believe he would trust him on this as well. What would he even say though? I stepped in a mess on the floor and then the mess disappeared, but it felt like more than an ordinary spill. No. It’s got to be what Georgie said, a cleaned up spill, because Gerry’s people are good about that sort of thing.
“I guess that’s all there is to it then,” he says, pushing his mystification and longing to know aside.
The mirror, hidden in its hole, sighs.
Not yet, it seems.
The mirror, still not a dragon however much it fancies itself one, yawns its way to rest.
Jon takes a moment.
Put rightly, Jon takes several moments, the semidarkness of Gerard Keay’s Devereaux Manor consumed by the lighting of his office.
He’s almost gotten used to the way his office returns to him, piecemeal.
Almost.
It’s never an entirely pleasant experience, though it isn’t painful, either. Mostly it’s disconcerting, being one place and then another without having moved; his legs feel like they’ve been moving, as though he’s the one who’s walked through a maze of books. Which he has, at Pinhole, but that’s not today.
There are fewer spiders in Gerard Keay’s maze, he reflects, and it smells less of long-settled mildew and mothballs.
He wonders, did this Gerard ever watch American sitcoms? It doesn’t seem likely. Georgie’s earlier laughter echoes in his ears, rings and fades; the wrong Jon’s does the same, and it is so much his own, except when did he last laugh so freely? Sometime in uni, most probably. It could well have been with Georgie, before he went and, as Gerard so eloquently phrased it, cocked it up. Thoroughly.
In any case: Jon takes his moments, stuffing a biscuit into his mouth with more grumpiness than the action would ordinarily entail. His own plans for the impending holiday—his own plans for any day at all—are lacking, aside from his continued investigation of…everything. It’s fine. He doesn’t need a Halloween party. He doesn’t want a Halloween party. The Institute’s sure to be inundated with statements in the coming days, it always is this time of year, positive hoards of supposed hauntings, if they were all real there’d be no turning around without bumping elbows with ghoulies and ghosties and long-leggedy beasties.
He snorts around his biscuit. That’s the sort of whimsy the wrong Jon’s just full of.
It’s buried in his own recesses, somewhere.
He remembers it through a film of everything gone wrong, through a film of Mr. Spider.
And today the wrong Jon picked up a mirror, and it was nothing like the mirror stowed in a storage unit, but that didn’t stop it startling him. Did he see something there? Maybe he saw Jon. Who knows. And what the hell was on his shoe?
Jon picks another biscuit.
Murder, he’d thought. Was that Gertrude’s murder, then? Something of his crossing through?
He commits the events, and the questions, to paper, and puts it as far from his mind as it will go.
It’s not far enough. It’s never far enough by half.
Notes:
*peeks between fingers* Hi. It's alive again.
Chapter 34: and burn the pieces
Notes:
Been running around like someone stuck in a certain set of hallways today, almost forgot about getting this up :')
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Saturday morning brings Martin the simple pleasure of waking up in the coziness of Lee’s flat. Even better, in the coziness of Lee’s embrace: there’s an arm draped around his middle, a chin tucked into his neck and chest against his back, the slow, easy exhalations of sleep breezing over his skin. As far as morning experiences go, this stands quite high on the list. He could get used to it. Should he get used to it?
You’re always so surprised you haven’t put me off, Lee said before. Martin’s bound to put him off eventually, isn’t he? To stick his foot in his mouth one too many times in yet more horrible ways. Or to blink away into another existence so much that Lee gets sick of it. Hell, even without the whole mirror thing, working for the Institute ought to have been enough to send Lee screaming, given his own encounter with the sorts of ghoulishness Martin investigates on a daily basis. He wouldn’t have blamed him. He still wouldn’t blame him.
“You’re thinking too much for this early,” mumbled into his neck alerts him that Lee’s not so asleep now. “You tense up y’know, gives you away.”
“Sorry,” Martin says, and Lee yawns before tugging him into rolling over so they’re face-to-face.
“Everything all right?” he asks, complete with raised eyebrows. Could be both of them, one eye’s hidden beneath blond fringe. On impulse, Martin reaches out to push that hair out of the way, and Lee catches his wrist; not to stop him, only to rest there, a smile tugging at his closed mouth.
“Everything’s fine,” Martin says. “I mean aside from the things that are never all right, but even that’s…here I am?”
“Here you are,” Lee agrees, with just a hint of decisive claimingness to it, enough to thrill Martin to the bone. Maybe Lee’s not going to be put off. Maybe he’ll stick around and they’ll be happy together. Just sodding maybe it wouldn’t be so impossible for Martin Blackwood, Archival Assistant, to be half as happy as Martin Blackwood, owner of Cosy.
He hasn’t yet got enough points of reference to figure if Lee’s determination to keep him in himself is making any difference, but he does hope.
“I’ll fix breakfast in a few,” Lee goes on, bringing Martin back into the present with both his voice and his thumbnail scraping along Martin’s palm. “I’ve got a show tonight, you’re welcome to come along. I don’t think it’ll be your sort of thing, but Tommy’ll be there, he’d like to meet you.”
“Tommy’s your”—Martin rifles through his memories; he listens, course he does, only Lee knows loads more people than he does, because the ones in the Cosyverse don’t count, they’re not his—“boss?”
Lee nods shaggy-headed confirmation.
“And he wants to meet me?”
“Yup.”
“So,” Martin continues, “I suppose that means you talk about me?”
This gets him a huff of laughter, Lee’s eyes alight with fond amusement. “I might’ve mentioned you a time or two. D’you not talk about me?”
Martin grimaces a bit, the response too reflexive for him to stop it catching. “Talking’s not really something we do much of around the Archive, especially since Prentiss and Gertrude and all.”
Some of the humor fades. It occurs to Martin his hand’s still on his boyfriend’s face, so he makes a valiant attempt to save the moment—why the hell’d he go and mention worm monsters and dead women in bed? this, this is what’s wrong with him—with a kiss. Lee kisses back, so it can’t be all bad. They spend a while that way, Lee’s hands at rest on Martin’s bare sides and occasionally flexing in distracting, inspirational ways, until Lee’s stomach interrupts, and Martin dissolves into laughter.
“I suppose,” Lee says, dignified as anything, “that means it’s breakfast time.”
“Someone thinks so,” Martin agrees, palm on Lee’s stomach. He likes that Lee’s slept shirtless with him, that he’s comfortable enough to have his scars on display; could go the other way around, too, he supposes, minus the scars and plus some generalized awkwardness in his own body.
Scrambled eggs and pancakes are followed by turns in the shower—Martin’s not quite bold enough to invite himself into Lee’s with him, so turns it is—and then settling on the couch, where they stay until Lee hauls Martin outside for a walk about his neighborhood, a much pleasanter one than Martin’s own.
The mirror lets him alone, barring the occasional flash of sensation (a hot cup of tea in his hand) or smell (a fresh batch of muffins pulled from the oven) or clutch of words (“Martin,” Georgie says, and he startles in his own world, “could I borrow you?”) caught like eavesdropping across time and space, whatever else it might be.
It’s not until late afternoon that Martin begs off the night’s concert with, “It’s not that I don’t want to meet your coworkers, but I’d rather do it with music you think I’ll like?” and Lee gives him this grin that almost changes his mind.
Only, he has this…feeling. A soft, brush of spiderweb sensation tickling at the back of his head. He could call it an urge. So he goes home, to the books stacked upon his coffee table, and fixes himself a pot of tea. He gets to work, heedless of it being Saturday, of the fact that he could be with his boyfriend.
Back to researching multiverse theory he pops.
What he ought to do, really, is more digging through the mess Gertrude left them, see if there’s anything remotely buried in the stacks, but not so deep he won’t be able to find it. He’s thought of doing it, only getting around to the actual doing is tricky with so much going on anymore.
Monday, maybe, he tells himself. They’ve still got to go and have a fresh look at the mirror itself, as well. He turns the page with a sigh, ready to drag his finger along another utterly unhelpful line of text, drowning under overwhelming scientific terms all the while. And he does just so, until several pages further he sits up:
‘It has been theorized that if multiple universes do indeed exist, those in greatest proximity may hold some sway over each other. While sending a person from one universe to another may be well beyond our capability however great our technological advances may be, Dr. Britta Tabet has postulated that it would be much simpler to make contact[1]. She has further suggested that easiest of all would be the influence and change of objects across universes[2] and while she acknowledges this as something of a fringe theory, all-but impossible to prove, posits it has already been done[3] with the limited technologies of the past.’
“I’ll give you all-but impossible to prove,” Martin mutters, reaching for a pen to jot down the sources in the footnotes—maybe he can find this Dr. Tabet and pick her well-educated brain without sounding completely mental?—but the mirror is reaching too, reaching faster, text and living room giving way to motion and color and the heat of a roomful of bodies, and Lee’s not here to have a say in the matter.
“You know,” Martin says, only marginally overwhelmed by his surroundings, or so he insists on telling himself, “this is impressive. I mean really impressive.”
Okay, so his voice is a little higher than usual. It could happen to anyone.
“You sound so surprised.” On his arm—or is it the other way round?—Jon sounds amused by his awed little revelation, which probably isn’t much of a revelation to a man who’s been to plenty of these, and that, too is a revelation. “You do know Gerry’s work sells for more than any other living artist.”
“And several dead ones, I know, Georgie’s said.” He goes a bit faint. “There’s a difference between knowing that and seeing all of this, though. You don’t expect it, do you, from people who come to your cafe every day.”
“Artists have to get their coffee somewhere too,” Jon says, and Martin elbows him gently.
‘All of this’ encompasses the gallery opening. Martin’s never been to one before, maybe they’re all like this, but he doubts it; probably most of them are smaller, with fewer photographers, and he’s spotted at least three popular actors—oh, four now—and a handful of MPs and one woman he thinks is a singer. His suit’s started to feel shabby in comparison to half the glamorous people around them, however much he tries to remind himself Georgie and Michael and such are out there as well.
“How much are these going to sell for?” he wonders aloud.
“Haven’t the faintest,” says Gerry himself, newly-arrived beside them and cheerful. He’s earned it, to be sure. He’s also brought along Mike Crew, who looks dazed and more overwhelmed than Martin, and it seems likely Gerry’s hand at his elbow is as much to stop him wandering off and getting lost among the swells as it is for the sake of touching him. “I make a point of not knowing about my money.”
On Gerry’s other side, Eric makes a woeful sound. “What a rubbish father I must have been,” he says, “to not leave you with any financial sense at all.”
“Nonsense.” Gerry waves this off. “I’ve enough sense to know that at a certain point it’s just a great lot of numbers and commas, haven’t I? And anyway, Alex makes me sit down with him four times a year.”
“Most of it’s in one ear,” Jon tells Martin. “I go along with him to make sure someone’s paying attention.”
“Aye.” Gerry grins at him. “Jonny’s better acquainted with my bank accounts than I am.”
“Not because I want to be.”
Martin snorts laughter. “Should we go and have a look at the art?”
“That is what it’s for,” Gerry says.
“I’ve seen more than enough of Gerry’s art,” Jon grouses, his face—as well as the fact that Martin’s met him—betraying he doesn’t mean it one bit.
“That’s not nice.” Gerry looks to his father. “Da, Jon’s being mean to me again.”
“Somebody has to be mean to you on occasion,” Eric says placidly, and Gerry makes a wounded sound, which is the first thing to get a sound out of Mike, who from Martin’s limited experience is a quiet fellow. “It’ll do you no good hearing only nice things.”
“Agree to disagree,” Gerry says. “Mike, do you want to look at the art?”
“As long as I’m here,” Mike allows, and has been dragged away a moment later by the smug-faced artist who drew him here to begin with.
Jon and Eric both watch them go, Jon wearing an expression that cannot be parsed, Eric with clearer amusement.
“I’m glad to see you’re both doing so well,” Eric says, and Jon’s odd expression clears as though it was never there at all. “And Georgie.”
“Debatable in my case.”
Eric sighs at him, but doesn’t argue the point; Martin’s under the impression he’s argued it several times already since the start of his visit. “Go and look at your brother’s art, Jon.”
“If I must,” Jon says in suffering tones.
“I did get all dressed up for it,” Martin points out, and Jon in turn consents to be led away.
“Here I thought you dressed up for me.” Jon pulls him from the path of an unobservant woman gesturing with a champagne flute more dramatically than full champagne flutes were intended for.
“Maybe a little bit for you,” Martin allows, passing a smile Jon’s way. “You’re a nice sight yourself.”
“The art,” says a passing—Tim, of course it is, who else would it be, and gone before Martin’s had the chance to reply.
“I’m not meant to say anything intelligent about all of this, am I?” Martin doesn’t know how many paintings and drawings—and occasional sculptures—are scattered through the gallery’s rooms, only that Gerry must rarely let pencil or brush or charcoal out of his hands, to find the time to make them all.
“I hope you’ll try,” Jon says fervently. “Gerry gets a kick out of the critics and rich pri—sorry, wealthy art collectors—analyzing what he’s trying to say. Would you like to know a secret?”
Martin kindly sets aside that his boyfriend’s just stopped himself calling half the crowd ‘rich pricks’ where they can hear him. “Are you allowed to tell me, or is this going to be the secret door all over again?”
Jon shrugs, mouth twitching in a way Martin’s a touch in love with, and then he dips in so his breath is on Martin’s ear and his voice is low and makes Martin want to do things not generally considered decent in such public forums. “It’s always,” Jon says, “he thought they might look neat.”
Martin has to laugh. “Oh, is that all?”
“At a stretch,” Jon goes on, thoughtful, and leaning away in a most disappointing way, “you might say he’s painting the world he wishes we had, but he’s not in it to send messages, such and such represents the pain of mankind, any of that.”
“I dunno,” Martin says, slowing before a painting that depicts a man having an unfortunate meeting with a prickly bush, “this looks like the pain of mankind to me.”
“Now Martin,” Jon now in the sort of tone he’s like to use with his students, all set to bestow knowledge; if Martin were Jon’s student, he thinks he’d listen a fair bit more closely than the ones he’s got now. “This man is clearly representative of the struggle we all face in creating, and Gerry certainly didn’t paint him because he thought it would be funny.”
“And this one?” Martin indicates the next painting, home to a parliament of owls, barn and screech and great grey and others he can’t name, gathered in an enormous tree. “I suppose this is something to do with wisdom.”
“Yes, wisdom,” Jon says, straight-faced, “and nothing to do with him rereading a beloved children’s series.”
Martin just contains himself. They proceed through the gallery space, jellyfish rainforests and mountains populated by starving ghosts and writers hunched over keyboards while storms filled with fish howl outside their windows, until they come to a work that takes up the entirety of one long wall. The canvas is crawling with spiders painted so realistically it sets an instinctual prickling up Martin’s spine, tarantulas and huntsmans and black widows scattered across an immense web; there’s nothing caught in it, but Martin has the idea there should be a yet attached to its lack of prey.
Gerry and Mike have paused there too, and Georgie’s further down the wall with Melanie and Sasha, separated by strangers. Martin takes several steps nearer the canvas, though he’s not altogether sure he wants to; he comes almost too close to the web and has the mad thought that if he were to reach out, to put a hand on Gerry’s painted spiderweb, he would stick to it. He would fulfill the yet, and all of those spiders, each and every one and their multitude of legs and eyes and fangs would swallow him.
One of those legs twitches.
Martin blinks and—no, no, of course it hasn’t, it’s a bloody painting.
Still. He trains his gaze on the guilty recluse.
Gerry’s voice drifts into his hearing, low and distance and a touch disgruntled. “Hardly remember painting this one,” he’s saying, “which is stupid, look at the thing, I must have spent hours on it, where’d they all go?”
“Don’t sell it,” comes Mike’s answer, and he sounds deadly serious, “just destroy it.”
“Any expert suggestions?” Gerry asks, his ordinary humor laced with something like fear. “Shall I drown it like the last one?”
“No,” Mike says. “Cut it up. Cut it up and burn the pieces.”
“So fire’s all right this time?” He sounds dubious at now.
“They’re different.”
“Are you going to tell me—”
“I can’t. Hush now.”
Gerry’s laugh is thin.
Last one? Martin finally lets his gaze shift from the recluse, wander along the canvas anew. It was his imagination, obviously. He wonders what the last one was, and why Gerry doesn’t remember painting this thing, and—and there, there it is again, motion on the canvas, from the corner of Martin’s eye an orb-weaver crawling, so he startles back and into something solid, says, “Sorry, sorry, wasn’t—”
“It’s me,” Jon says, a distracted element to his voice, though his hands are steady enough on Martin’s shoulders; Martin wonders if he overheard that as well, if it sounded at once mental and entirely rational to him.
“I think,” he says, “I’d like some water.”
Jon guides him away.
Martin comes back to his ceiling drifting and one of his hands swatting at a spider that is not there. He lets the ceiling do what it wants, because the idea of forcing his eyes to focus makes him wince; his hand though, he clenches that, as he doesn’t kill spiders.
That pass has left him…uneasy, he supposes is the word.
Why is that world’s Michael Crew instructing Gerard Keay to destroy paintings?
Is it anything to do with them at all? It couldn’t be, could it? Martin scrubs at his eyes and scribbles out his account and then, chewing at his bottom lip, pages his way to the first time it happened. The angry business neighbor and his first sight of a second Jonathan Sims, meeting the life of a Martin Blackwood who’s happy.
That’s what stands out as he finds himself rereading his own records in the vain hope of finding something he’s missed this far, catching a pattern that’s easier to notice taken all at once: mostly his notes are about the other Martin being happy. What’s he supposed to do with that? How does it help him?
“What”—his voice cracks—“d’you want from us?”
He thinks, with dark, dull humor, of the mirror suggesting they ought to just try being happy.
If only it were that easy, eh?
He sets his notes aside and goes back to headache-inducing scientific research, wishing he’d agreed to go to that concert with Lee after all.
He reads only a few pages before gritting his teeth and whispering a fierce, “Sod you, I have been happy,” and he snatches up his mobile, because Lee told him, didn’t he, Lee said, ‘I’ll send you the details in case you change your mind,’ with his hair in his eyes and sure enough, there they are.
The club is one of the places they went before, the night Martin got a touch stupid and brought up Grifter’s Bone, before he ever dreamed of touching Lee’s scars. He gets himself there, intending to be a surprise; it only occurs to him once he’s already arrived to worry that getting in might be trickier without Lee to sweep them in, and will he have to ring his boyfriend to rescue him from the queue?, only with the show having already begun it turns out there is no queue anymore and all he’s got to do is pay the relatively paltry cover charge.
He locates Lee and what must be his colleagues easily enough despite the lowness of the lights, Lee’s blond head easily recognizable once he’s woven through the audience enough.
“You were right,” he says by way of greeting, voice raised to be heard, and Lee first jumps, then grins and gets an arm around his waist to pull him in, “this isn’t my sort of music at all.”
It’s much too…dare he say throbbing? It isn’t punk or synth, but it has elements of both, and maybe it’s not bad, but he doesn’t like it.
“What changed your mind?” Lee asks.
“Didn’t want to sit at home alone when I could be with you,” Martin says easily, and before he can ask to be introduced around—
“This must be the boyfriend,” says a man with deep smile lines, a good two decades his senior. “I’m Tommy.”
“Priya.” An Indian woman with blue streaks in her hair and a glass to nurse lifts her free hand in a tiny wave. “Martin, isn’t it?”
Martin nods. “Nice to meet you. And…?”
The remaining two, another older man and a woman with warm brown skin, introduce themselves as Mike and Alice, and Martin hopes attention will fade from him, only it doesn’t, really.
“So,” Alice says, sat atop the table, “how’s it you met our Lee? He hasn’t been sharing.”
“At another show.” Martin shrugs.
She looks nearly disappointed. “Damn. I thought you might have met somewhere we didn’t know he ever went and could tell us something exciting.”
“She’s been convinced we met at a sex club,” Lee says, which burns Martin’s cheeks.
“Which is obviously nonsense,” Mike says, “because Lee’s never been known for fu—”
Tommy cuts him off. “Mike.”
If Martin were more like Tim, he would have something bold and witty to say, about their—well—but he isn’t, and he doesn’t, and they haven’t actually—and—
“Sorry, sorry,” Mike says, not sounding the sorriest he could. He tosses a scowl toward the stage. “I’m not drunk enough for this lot. Not as bad as Grifter’s Bone, aye, but—”
Martin doesn’t hear the rest of what he says, because Lee’s gone still, incredibly still, so he says into his ear, “Come with me to get a drink?” and it’s another unmoving moment before Lee squeezes his hand and tells the rest of the Earful lot they’ll be back in a few.
“Are you okay?” Martin asks when they’ve reached the bar, but haven’t yet achieved the bartender’s attention.
“I’m fine,” Lee says, “Mike says things like that all the time.”
“I’m not entirely reassured.”
“I’m okay.” Lee’s fingers scrape through his hair, back to front. “You’re sweet to worry.”
“I’m your boyfriend,” Martin points out. “I’m meant to worry.”
The bartender is quite occupied at the other end, so they spend several minutes pondering the menu, Martin unsure if he wants to drink tonight. He’s yet undecided when a man shimmies in beside him, and his features are so familiar Martin can’t help saying, “Haven’t I seen you before?”
The man, his expression mild and his face attractive enough to get people tongue-tied, Martin’s sure, glances at him, and away, and back again. His brow furrows. He says, “Hm,” which is rather like saying nothing.
“My mistake?” Martin offers. “Or is there something on my face?”
“I don’t think I should be able to see that,” the man says thoughtfully, and—drops away into the crowd quicker than seems entirely plausible.
He’s just gone.
“Was that Oliver?” Lee asks.
“What?”
“Oliver,” Lee says. “He hangs around this area a lot. I think he works around here, somewhere, maybe. Do you know him?”
“No, I—”
Martin stops. Oliver. He has seen him.
“I don’t know him,” he says. “The other one does.”
Notes:
Rereading this chapter (which I wrote ages and ages ago) had me like, "Man, I really decided it was time for the plot to show up, didn't I."
Chapter 35: that little ache
Notes:
This chapter borrows a bit of conversation from canon, with minor tweaks. You'll know it when you see it.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Basira’s arrival comes as something of a relief. Jon half-feared (more than half, if he’s being honest with himself) she might have forsaken him altogether, changed her mind about sharing after the first tape. She shouldn’t be bringing them to him after all. He knows that. He isn’t police. It’s only, without them, without her help, he’s even more at a loss than he is with them.
So yes, when she raps at the door to his office and lets herself in, the permanent knot in his chest loosens a fraction. “Mr. Sims,” she says in a most professional tone, followed by, “Jon.”
It doesn’t matter she’s caught him mid-recording—
That is, it does matter, he says, “Hold on, one moment,” and gropes for the tape recorder to switch out his tape while she looks on, impassive—
But it doesn’t matter in the sense that he doesn’t snap at her the way he might—would, he knows he would—his assistants, or even scowl the way he does at Elias’ rare interruptions.
She’s not so interested in the contents of the previous tape as he was, wrinkling her nose at his talk of the Russian circus. He’s glad, somewhat and unashamedly, to hear of the trouble with the precinct’s tape recorder, if only because it means he’s what she’s got at the moment, although…the thought itches. There have got to be easier ways than smuggling evidence out to a man who, by rights, has no business with it. He dismisses that.
It doesn’t matter, she’s proved more helpful to him than Elias, than anybody else.
Before she leaves, she stops and frowns at him. “What’s the name of that helper of yours?”
“Martin?” he hazards, as Martin is often the most underfoot, the most likely to be over-interested in anybody coming to Jon’s office, possibly even jealous, given the influence of the mirror.
“No, not the nervous—I know Martin. The hot one, I meant. He has scars like you, but kind of manages to pull them off—”
His stomach clenches. It’s fair for her to say. He’s not offended, though he might be a little hurt. The scars haven’t done him any favors, while Tim could likely pull off the sort of scarring most often seen among murderers haunting Parisian opera houses. “You mean Tim.”
“Him, yeah. When I came in he grinned at me like he’s in on some big secret, and gave me a…thumbs up?”
Jon winces. Not this again. Still. Whichever. “It’s nothing to worry about.”
“No?” Basira, policewoman as she is, looks unconvinced.
“He thinks we’re, I don’t know”—there’s no unmortifying way to put this, keep it simple, Jon—“seeing each other?”
The widening of Basira’s eyes is brief, but not so brief he could miss it. “Oh—oh. No, you know I—”
“I know,” he hastens to say, “and I’m not—that is, neither am I, I haven’t encouraged him, he just got it in his head and he doesn’t listen, the more I object the more he—”
“You’re nice and all,” Basira says, which if anything makes him feel worse, not better.
Jon cuts her off again. “I feel the same way.”
There’s a pause before, police mind at work he supposes, she says, “I guess it’s better he think we’re illicitly involved,” and she doesn’t even grimace over the words, “than…”
“We’re doing something illicit and illegal,” he sighs. “I won’t say anything if you won’t.”
“Right.” She stretches the word out, the moment already trod much too deep into awkward territory for rescuing, so when she excuses herself he doesn’t protest, only waves a farewell and sinks back into his chair.
It takes him longer than it should to regain his focus. It isn’t…he’s not disappointed, he has no romantic interest in Basira whatsoever, that much is true enough, and she had the right of it, it’s unquestionably better for Tim to believe they’re a couple, only—
Only it is Tim, and Timothy Stoker is—as was so recently demonstrated—not a subtle man. It seems to be true of him on both sides of the supernatural glass. He’ll say something to the others if he hasn’t already, spread it all around the Institute, and the lot of them can think what they want about him, he’s neither energy nor attention to spare for office gossip, but he can’t combat the aching pang at the thought of Martin believing what Tim says.
That little ache is followed by a louder-than-he-means snarl of frustration.
It doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter if Martin believes it, because he and Martin—he and Martin are not involved, sod their counterparts.
Nor does it matter that Martin may well be involved with his Lee fellow, that Sasha has found herself a boyfriend if her explanation for her wax museum visits is to be believed, that Tim always has one partner or several, and that he is still alone; none of it matters, because how could it, next to everything else? Singleness is far and away the least of his troubles. It’s only solitude, the same as it ever has been. He wonders if Gerard Keay—
He shoves the wondering away before it’s got anywhere worth going.
“Get back to work, Jon,” he says tiredly, reaching again for the recorder, he’s got to swap his tape back. “Just do your damn job for a little while, just…”
So he just does his damn job for a little while. Collects his professional academic detachment and resumes the statement of Phillip Brown, himself formerly a professional prick, and however awful the inmates he dealt with, Jon cannot bring himself to expend any amount of pity for his lost job and fallen apart marriage.
Much more interesting is the second appearance of Robert Montauk and the beast from his daughter’s statement, along with Maxwell Rayner. He jots a note, once he’s finished, to ask Rosie about getting additional torches, and exits his office to find his team bent over their respective desks, and for that moment in time it’s easy to pretend everything is just as it always was.
There was no predecessor’s corpse in the tunnels, there is no mirror in an Enfield storage unit, he did not find a letter from Martin.
Then he says, “Are you all doing all right?” and Tim’s snort is so packed with disdain the pretending is blown down, a house of straw facing a wolf. He hazards another try, a, “Is your work going all right?”
“Dull and dusty as ever,” Tim reports. “I’ve started keeping a tally of sneezes. Martin is winning.”
Martin makes an affronted sound.
“Or…losing?” Sasha suggests.
It isn’t particularly dusty in the Archive, not between the ventilation system and their own fastidiousness, but Jon thinks that metaphorically there is plenty of dust indeed, though whether or not metaphorical dust can induce sneezing…he wouldn’t rule it out, particularly down here.
“Have you looked through those letters at all?” he asks next, while Tim seems not entirely against talking with him.
“Not yet, no.” Tim indicates the expanse of his desk, every inch covered in one file or sticky note or another. “Haven’t had the chance, what with all the mess. I’ll let you know if I find anything interesting, when I do.”
“Please do,” Jon says, and shifts his attention to Sasha and Martin, who both report they’re doing perfectly well, they’ve no need of him, and while nobody’s outright told him to go away (and indeed he doesn’t think Martin ever would), he does feel his own unwantedness as an extra presence in the room, and retreats back into his office.
“I just don’t get him,” Tim says contemplatively, hands wrapped around his new cup of coffee; Martin can’t help wondering whether it’s as good as what the other Tim orders from Cosy, though this Tim has much more intensive orders.
“Who?” Martin blinks away his distraction.
“Jon,” Tim says, caught between disgust and fascination and even a little frustrated amusement. Tim’s good at packing an awful lot of feeling into a single word. “One minute he’s watching my house—yes, he did—and looking at us like we might murder him at any moment, as if that makes any amount of sense, tempting as he makes it, the next he’s bringing me historical letters and acting like he wants to collaborate on an investigative project—and that’s after he’s gotten snippy about my interest in Smirke. He doesn’t make any sense.”
Martin can’t disagree with that, the way Jon’s moods shift from day to day of late, though he thinks he has some idea of what’s causing it. Not the sort of thing he can explain to Tim though, not when they’ve agreed to keep it between them, and it’s one thing to have told Lee, Jon’ll be cross with him when he comes clean, but Lee doesn’t know them, whereas Tim’s rather in the thick of it and the truth is definitely off limits.
“He’s been under a lot of stress lately,” he says, an uninspired excuse. It earns him an incredulous scoff. “Yeah, I know, so have the rest of us, I just mean he’s handling it badly.”
“True.” Tim has a swallow of his complicated coffee. “Stalking your subordinates is a poor way to handle anything.”
“I think he’s doing better,” Martin offers, and tries his own drink, he’s not much of a coffee person, but it isn’t bad. Bitier and bitterer than he expects. “A little bit. Maybe.” As in, maybe the other Jon’s been a good influence when his mere existence isn’t proving a source of additional anger.
Tim next mixes his incredulity with sympathy, or maybe pity, it’s an awkward line for straddling. “I have no idea,” he says, and oh, good, he’s got pensive in there as well, “how you manage to be so optimistic.”
“Think the word you’re looking for is naive,” says Martin, who does possess some measure of self-awareness alongside his awareness that, as Lee so simply put it, life’s a little weird sometimes.
Or a lot weird, in their case.
“I didn’t want to say it.”
Martin shrugs. “I know what I am.”
“Maybe having this policewoman of his around will be good for him.” Tim puffs out a breath and adjusts his jacket. It was raining earlier, and it’s not cold yet, but certainly chilly enough to call for an extra layer, an effortlessly stylish one in Tim’s case, easy to imagine his counterpart owning the same article of clothing, and Martin spares a thought for fashion trends across the universes before coming back to—
“You’re not still on about that?” Whether or not Tim’s got the right of it shouldn’t matter to him in the least; he has Lee, and he cares about Lee, and he means to carry on with both of those things, the having and the caring. But it does matter to him and to the (larger than he cares to acknowledge) part of his uncooperative heart that’s as hung up as ever it was. Besides, he doesn’t think the officer is Jon’s type, not that he can speak much to the subject; and not that it’s any of his business.
“Oh, yes,” Tim says, quite cheerfully, this being rather a favored subject of his. That is, all their love lives, hypothetical or otherwise, not only Jon’s. “And that means we’ve just got to see to you.”
“We really, really don’t.” Martin wonders if the ground might be persuaded to swallow him. If he asks nicely.
“Sure we do.” Tim is, unfortunate and obviously, warming to his subject. “We could do doubles, I know a few people you might li—”
“I’m seeing someone,” Martin throws into the air, because it’s the only thing guaranteed to stop Tim before he gets much too far along.
“Oh?” Tim lights up at this confession. “Kept that all to yourself, did you?”
“It’s new,” Martin says delicately. “I didn’t want to…I don’t know, jinx it.”
“You’re going to tell me all about them, aren’t you?” Tim nudges him with an elbow.
“He’s called Lee, and he works for a music magazine.”
“Hang on.” Tim’s much quicker on the uptake than Martin, unsurprising given he’s got the better memory between them. “This wouldn’t be the Lee mentioned in that statement from before, the one with the band and the ears that—”
“It would,” Martin interrupts.
“So he’s—” Tim makes a dispirited sound. “You couldn’t find someone not involved with our sort of thing?”
“It’s not like I did it on purpose.” Martin rolls his eyes. “We happened to meet and I didn’t remember at first and I like him. He’s sweet.”
“Better him, I suppose,” Tim sighs, and Martin hasn’t got to ask what that means. He actively chooses not to, in fact, in the interest of not starting a fight. Verbal sparring isn’t his idea of a good time. “Do I get to meet him?”
“I dunno,” Martin says. “Probably, if you want to?”
“We could still do doubles.”
“Long as you don’t mean tennis.”
“I don’t not mean tennis.”
“I’d rather not make an idiot of myself, thanks.”
“Come on now,” Tim says, oddly beseeching given Martin doesn’t think he gives a damn about tennis, “you’ve got to be able to make a fool of yourself in front of the person you’re dating, that’s how you work out if they really like you.”
“I manage to stick my foot in my mouth about every other sentence,” Martin points out, “and he still asked me out, so…besides, what’s it you know about making a fool of yourself?”
“I am not,” Tim goes on with dignity, “always the smoothest man in the world.”
“Whatever you say, we’re still not playing tennis, pick something else.”
“I assume this bloke takes you to shows with him?”
“Sometimes.”
“We’ll join you for one of those, if that’s all right.”
“I’m sure it is,” Martin says.
They’ve just about made it back to the Institute by now, so they hustle on through the doors and wave on their way by Rosie’s desk, and Martin’s vision goes slantways and the wrong color on the basement stairs. He stumbles, but catches himself on the handrail, and Tim gets a steadying hand on his shoulder.
“Careful there,” he says, frowning at Martin’s near-tumble. “Didn’t think it was that slippery in here yet.”
“No,” Martin says, voice subdued, it needs to wait, “thanks for…”
“Sure.” Tim keeps an eye on him the rest of the way down. Which goes well, all things considered, Martin doesn’t trip again, doesn’t lose hold of his cafe cup, tries his damnedest to ignore Michael Shelley’s voice saying have we got and fading out like a radio station he’s going too far from.
He does, thankfully, make it into his chair before the mirror fully wraps itself about him, the station blaring into full strength. It’d have been a shame to spill his drink all over the floor, however bitter it might be.
“This,” Martin declares, clicking his pen a round baker’s dozen in succession, “was a mistake.”
“You’ll have to be a little more specific,” Michael says over the noise of the blender.
“I hope he doesn’t mean the window,” Oliver says, having just handed off a chocolate chip muffin to a later-than-usual, much-relieved-to-discover-they-weren’t-gone-already regular.
“Definitely not the window.” Martin passes another admiring glance toward the storefront, where it almost seems they’ve got a live tree growing on the glass, all orange and red and occupied at the bottom by a reading witch and her sleeping cats. “I meant Devereaux. I’ve never catered anything before, I have no idea what I’m doing.”
The upshot of losing his mind over the menu—and impending production for—Gerry’s haunted house is it’s keeping his mind off of what he couldn’t possibly have seen at the opening. It was his mind, his eyes, his shivering arms playing tricks on him. Because Gerry’s an exceptional painter, as proved by the tree surely endeavoring to reach its boughs into the street.
But that doesn’t explain—
It doesn’t explain what he knows he overheard.
He’d thought about it a great deal over the weekend, said to Jon, once they’d got back to his flat, “Did you, erm, while we were by that big painting with the spiders—I wasn’t trying to listen, but I heard Gerry and Mike talking, and it was a bit. Um.”
“I heard them too,” Jon had said, expression lapsed thoughtful, his forehead creased. “I have…absolutely no idea what any of it was about, Gerry hasn’t said, and he usually tells me everything, so I’m a little…concerned, I suppose.”
What Martin hadn’t mentioned was the effect the painting had on him. It wasn’t worth mentioning his wilder imaginings. That’s all they were. Imaginings.
Then, this morning, Jon had reported in an undertone that the painting was already removed from its place in the gallery by time it opened for its second day, though whether or not Gerry had cut it into pieces as Mike suggested, he didn’t know; Gerry hadn’t said, and he didn’t want to confess to eavesdropping.
“Oh,” Michael says now, much more dismissively, “that. What are you worried about, I’m working on it too and we’re fine.”
“I don’t want us to be the reason Gerry gets negative feedback this year!”
Michael looks deeply unimpressed, while Oliver outright scoffs and Paul laughs, because apparently Martin is the only one even a little bit worried about how this might turn out. He feels a bit betrayed, truth told.
“You,” he says to Michael, accusingly indeed, “are meant to be fretting with me. Why aren’t you fretting with me? You’re great at fretting.”
“I am,” Michael agrees, “but I’ve decided to take the month off it.”
“This wouldn’t have something to do with Tim,” Oliver says, leaning against one counter while they’ve a minute or two to breathe.
“He’s got a way with words,” Michael says with a noncommittal shrug.
Martin throws him another wounded look before fixing his attention once again on his menu.
Trying, rather.
The menu’s finished, nicely on-theme, and Michael’s probably right, they won’t have anything to worry about, so it doesn’t really need his focus at the moment. His eyes wander back to the tree and all its branches. A shadowy shape moves among those branches, resolving itself into a spider, a large one.
It scuttles, as he watches, transfixed, to the end of a branch until he nearly cannot see it anymore, except that it is black among the autumn colors, and then it descends on its thread, to dangle above one sleeping tabby. Martin’s chest pulls tight, he has a terrible feeling about what’s going to happen to the cat if the spider is allowed to continue, and hysteria comes on that feeling’s heels because there wasn’t a spider in the window painting to begin with, and he begins to grope for something—for anything at all—to throw at the spider—
“Martin?” Oliver’s voice breaks in, and Martin blinks hard; the spider is gone. The spider did not exist to begin with, he corrects himself. Just like the spiders on Gerry’s other painting were not moving. Oliver looks concerned, and Martin realizes he’s squeezed one hand bloodless, forces himself to flex.
“I’m fine,” he says softly, “I was only distracted, thinking about…everything, don’t worry about me.”
Oliver looks unconvinced, and Michael even less so, while Paul politely does not look at him at all. Martin’s gaze darts back to the Halloween scene to reassure himself nothing is there, and is hugely relieved to find it true.
How is that helping? Martin complains at the mirror when he’s come back to himself, to Tim stood beside his desk, frowning. It’s a moment longer for the quietude of the Archive to flow around him, Cosy’s classical strains keeping the last to drift away this time. Helping, right, as though it means to do that. Helping’d be stopping.
“You’re not sick, are you?” Tim asks with reasonable concern, and Martin almost laughs.
“No,” he says, “I’m fine, just a little dizzy? I didn’t sleep well last night.”
He’d slept fine, actually, but it’s as good an excuse as any.
Believable, at any rate.
The fact that lots of things are believable down here is neither…here nor there, as it were.
“You’re sure you’re all right?”
“I’m sure,” Martin says, and retrieves his coffee for a drink, as though that seals it. Good enough for Tim, apparently, because he returns to his desk, even if it is with an unconvinced shake of his head.
Martin finds his notebook and scribbles the details, the—shadow was the strangest part, particularly coupled with the painting from before, but he hasn’t got the first idea what to do with that. Hope for the other Martin’s sake it’s really nothing, he supposes. Oliver’s presence stands out too, but really, what about him?
He’d asked Lee about the man the other night, only to be told no, he didn’t have his number, and didn’t think anybody else did, and he didn’t really know much about him, only saw him about Soho sometimes, and why did it matter?, and Martin didn’t know why himself, except that it felt like something. Not just that he was on both sides of the glass, plenty of them are, but this Oliver has crossed his path twice now and had seemed baffled by him the second, and he knows it could mean nothing at all, but he doesn’t think it does mean nothing.
His computer fusses as he wakes it up, but wake up it does.
Oliver Banks, the other one is called, so this one likely is as well, assuming he’s not gotten married or such. He runs searches through their ordinary resources. None of them come up with anything useful; Oliver Banks isn’t an uncommon combination of names, it turns out, there are quite a few of them scattered throughout England and even London in particular, and none of the Oliver Banks’ with photographs available are the one he’s looking for. Several of them are dead, but he’s seen this one walking around so it’s probably not one of them.
Probably. He supposes you never know, in his world.
He really hopes it’s not one of the dead ones, so with his luck it absolutely is.
Oliver Banks, living or otherwise however, will have to wait, as he’s got a scientist to look into.
Notes:
I've been a bit...lethargic and struggling to work lately, so I sat and reduxed my fic schedule over the weekend. This'll be going dark for the next 2 months while I try to build up another batch of chapters. I think it might become a bit of an on-again-off-again schedule, which annoys me, but should at least avoid another 84-year-long hiatus. Schedule updates will as always be in the tags, and hopefully updated onto my bio soon.
Chapter 36: something to bond over
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
There’s something markedly relaxing about the search for Dr. Britta Tabet.
That is, she’s not the sort of person Martin’s usually stuck tracking down for statement follow-up purposes: he doesn’t expect to discover she’s dead, nor vanished under flimsily-explained circumstances, or even involved with somebody who does fall into those categories. She’s just a person. It’s refreshing, looking for just a person.
Best of all is the fact that he finds her, and sure enough she’s alive and well. Far as he can tell she’s busy as a woman can be, employed in the private sector, some enormous international breaking development-type science conglomerate, where he expects she has loads of responsibilities and not so much time for answering messages from random men who are themselves employed by under-respected institutions.
Then again, given the nature of her work and some of the scientific community’s response to it, maybe they’ll have something to bond over.
Also, she’s got a publicly-listed email address along with all the papers she’s ever published—there are loads and Martin intends to read all of them however head-spinning they turn out to be—so she must be open to contact. He drafts a message, reads it over about fifty times trying to decide whether or not he’ll sound utterly mental to someone like her, realizes the words have stopped looking like words, and clicks send before this takes up his entire day.
It’s destined to be a busy one. Apart from poking about the background of the Daedalus satellite and assisting Sasha with the discredited section and a bit of watching Tim make faces at the stack of historical documents Jon gave him, they’re coming up on Halloween. It’s not so bad as it will be come the end of the week, or Halloween itself, but the research department is already up to their knees in…er, liars, to put it not so delicately.
Okay, probably some of them aren’t liars. Some of them had too much to drink or made use of particular illicit substances and gave themselves a good scare, or they’ve got childhood nightmares ballooning themselves in their minds to be Real Experiences they think worth sharing with the Magnus Institute, and because they’re all so polite and professional, none of the research staff taking their statements will do more than nod and promise to look into it.
And they will look into it.
For as long as it takes to determine that no, there is not a shadow lurking beneath the lampposts of Clerkenwell, and the ‘weird horse woman thing’ in Islington was part of a theatrical production, and so on.
All right, there are exceptions.
They won’t bother with following up on the specter of Henry VIII supposedly hanging about Soho with his vampire wives. Some of the graduate students are snickering about that one when Martin pops upstairs to join in separating the wheat from the chaff or whatever, and are more than pleased to explain what it is they find so funny.
“How many of the wives has he got?” Martin asks, setting himself in an unoccupied seat around the table. Statements are stacked up like an incredibly miniature version of the Archive. He has the idea he should let Lee know he’s doomed to working late and won’t be able to see him tonight.
“All six,” reports one of the students—Josh, Martin thinks is his name? Tim knows the grad students better than he does.
“And”—speak of the devil, there’s Tim dropping into the chair beside Martin’s—“have a particular Anne and Catherine regained their heads? Surely it’s difficult to do the whole vampire thing without a mouth.”
Josh snorts with laughter. He’s straightened up a bit, oh good, another one who fancies Tim; Martin’s pretty sure a full eighty percent of the grad students who work-study or otherwise borrow Institute resources come down with an urge to drown themselves in Tim’s eyes. Romantically. Not that there’s anything romantic about drowning. Obviously. There’s an Ophelia joke here somewhere, he thinks.
Another student, he’s pretty sure this one’s a Samantha, reaches for a manila folder, flips it open and scans, and says, “Heads were all present and accounted for.”
“Oh dear.” Tim clucks his tongue. “Good for them, but it only counts for my bingo card if the heads are gone.”
“I’ll keep an eye out,” Martin murmurs, “though I would expect Henry to be demanding his throne back, not haunting Soho.”
“Do you spend much time in Soho?” Samantha asks.
“Martin,” Tim says in the dulcet tones of a proud parent, “has got himself a boyfriend who takes him to music clubs.”
“Oh yeah? My girlfriend works at a music club,” Samantha says, giving him a keen look. “There’re loads, I know, but maybe you’ve met? Her name’s Maddie, hair’s always lots of colors.”
Martin gives her a wide-eyed look. “She got me very drunk one time.”
“Yeah,” Samantha says with a grin, “she does that.”
“Excuse me?” Tim’s on the verge of glowering at him. “Why haven’t I heard about this?”
“Because I don’t go round talking about making an ass of myself?” Martin says.
“You ought to!”
Conversation ebbs and flows from there, until the table is clear of statements for the day. Disproved to a one, destined for the Discredited Section, as they don’t throw things out around here, Elias doesn’t like it, even if the thing they’re not throwing out is absolute hogwash. Martin collects a pile to run downstairs before heading home. It comes as no surprise to see Jon’s office light still on, the door open a crack, and he hesitates before shaking his head and leaving without a word.
Tuesday morning does not, unfortunately, bring Martin an email from Dr. Britta Tabet on the subject of multiversal contact. That’s all right, he hadn’t expected it would. It’s been less than twenty-four hours, probably she hasn’t even seen his message. He pencils a reminder to follow up with her if he hasn’t got a response by this time next week, and flips through his notes on what else there is to do—aside from rejoining the research team.
As usual, the answer is plenty. He stays working in his own little world right up until it’s time for lunch, at which point he considers the matter of Jon’s closed office door. If it’s closed, he doesn’t want to be disturbed, only Martin doesn’t think he’s eaten today—Jon’s good at skipping breakfast, he noticed a long time ago—and maybe he needs persuading?
Tim gives him a really mate? look as he approaches the door, which he ignores, and raps at the doorframe before nudging the door inward. He’s already saying, “Hey, d’you—” before he realizes Jon is mid-word. Now Jon’s the one looking at him and he can’t so much ignore this one given he’s the one who went and opened the door. So he fumbles onward: “I was going to get lunch, I thought maybe you could come with me?”
It occurs to him, once the question’s out, how it might sound, particularly to a Jon who’s already pity-convinced himself Martin’s got the other Martin pouring attraction into his head and is too much an idiot to realize it’s happening. “Oh—I didn’t mean—I wasn’t asking—”
He would have meant it like that, several befores ago.
Before the whole mirror thing.
Before Lee.
Now he’d really just like to know Jon’s getting fed and not having further mishaps of the sharp, dangerous variety. And maybe to…check in, a bit? He can do that, can’t he, without deserving Tim’s sullen reminder Jon is an adult and not his responsibility? He’s an archival assistant. He’s assisting.
“That depends,” Jon says after considering him in weighty silence, “are you going to keep hovering over me if I go to the canteen again?”
“Five stitches,” Martin reminds him with a flat look. “If you still want to tell me you accidentally cut yourself with a bread knife—”
“I did,” comes the even interruption.
“—then yes, and you’ll forgive me for worrying when you use sharp knives. D’you want to come have lunch or not?”
The expression on Jon’s face is difficult to parse, though Martin has had plenty of practice trying. He doesn’t think there’s anger in it, almost thinks Jon’s amused behind his whole—Jon shell. “Fine, I’ll come. Let me get my coat.”
“You know where to find me.” Martin dips out of the office to find Tim’s drumming his fingers on his desk, looking a bit like he wants to shake Martin and a bit like he wants to put his face in his hands.
“You’re a hopeless case,” Tim tells him.
Martin shrugs. “What else is new?”
It’s not long till Jon emerges from his office; Martin spends the time making sure his mirror notebook is tucked into his bag, then fidgeting with notes on his desk, arranging and rearranging, bending page corners. Tim has the decency not to say a word, and only calls, “You’re coming upstairs with me later,” as they depart.
“Are we going anywhere in particular?” Jon asks, somewhat stiff about it, on their way out of the Institute. Today’s another chilly day; Martin expects they’ll only be getting colder from here until spring, barring unseasonable, environmentally ill-boding shifts.
He stuffs his hands into his pockets. “Not really. Craving anything?”
“Peace and quiet,” Jon says, but his mouth twitches, so Martin’s relatively sure it’s not a subtle dig.
“We could do that—um, the one you were—”
“A bit of a prick in?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You could have.” Jon turns in a direction that suggests he does not, in fact, want to revisit the restaurant where he encountered Martin and Lee and immediately left again. “I would…probably deserve it.”
“Tim’s the one who wants to say unkind things,” Martin says, and would feel slightly more ungracious about it if he weren’t pretty sure Tim’d be all nodding approval if he were there to hear.
“Don’t you, ever?” Jon sounds curious enough that Martin’s startled by it.
“It’s not as if I never think them,” he says. “But I also think there are enough unkind things without me being one of them. Look where we work. The world doesn’t need me bungling about, making it worse by being cruel.” He does enough bungling on accident.
Jon seems to consider that—seems surprised enough Martin’s a touch wounded, actually—until Martin asks, “Where are we going?”
“Didn’t I—”Jon laughs, at himself, Martin thinks, he certainly hasn’t done anything worth a chuckle. “We never did visit the mirror again. Suppose I thought we might as well do it while we’re out, and find lunch along the way. If that’s all right.”
“Sure, I have some things to tell you anyway—nothing serious, don’t look at me like that”—because Jon’s face has telltale-twitched like what Martin’s actually just said is they ought to try a touch of book burning so long as they’re out—“I haven’t been hiding anything.”
Okay, he has been hiding the one thing, having disclosed the mirror to Lee, and if he wants to dig deep, get technical, all that, there’s the same thing he’s been hiding since he started at the Institute to begin with. Neither of those things count. Or so he tells himself.
“I meant I’ve kept researching and found a scientist I’d like to talk with.”
Jon’s expression doesn’t narrow, quite, but Martin does feel like he’s being considered with greater scrutiny. “Oh?”
“I don’t think she’ll have all the answers,” Martin says, to temper expectations, “but she’s interested in the whole multiverse thing. I’m not going to tell her about the mirror—unless you want me to?—we’re the Magnus Institute, I’m sure I can come up with some reason to be researching her field, could probably find an actual relevant statement or two if we look hard enough. I’ve thought of asking if she’s got any stories of our sort, if I have to.” In his experience though, research types love discussing their work so long as they’ve been invited to do it.
“Don’t tell her about the mirror,” Jon decides. “Not right away. If you think she’ll be able to help, then—keep me posted.”
“Obviously.”
“Was that all?”
“No, there’re a few other things, I’ve written them all down.” Science things, he means. He hasn’t decided yet whether it’s worth mentioning Oliver’s appearance, and reappearance, and how much of a pain it’s going to be tracking him down; Oliver is so far from the first person to appear on both sides it might mean nothing at all, except for the way he’d looked at Martin felt like it might mean something. “I’ll run you through it over lunch.”
They don’t chat much on the tube, each of them lost inside their own heads. Martin checks his phone to make sure Lee hasn’t spontaneously invited him to lunch again, and there’s nothing, for the best today. They’ve got plans tonight anyway. Off the train again at Enfield Town Station, Martin lets Jon lead, as he’s the one who knows where the mirror’s stashed.
Jon’s pace increases as they draw along the road, so Martin would think even though he curses the thing’s existence aloud, Jon is eager to touch it again. The fact that he is, too, shocks through him. It’s not the first time he’s had the urge to hold the mirror since stowing it elsewhere. What it is, is a much stronger sensation: he almost thinks he could find his way to the mirror without Jon guiding him the rest of the way, thinks he could pick the right box and everything, by instinct, and because the mirror’s seeking him as much as he’s seeking it.
It’s a frightening thought, and it doesn’t frighten him; that’s frightening too, frankly.
They come to the Sovereign Safe Deposit Box Centre and Jon shows his key to the attendant, who doesn’t look as if he particularly cares whether or not they’re not to be here, and on they go down the corridor.
Jon brings the key to the keyhole, as one does with keys and holes and all. It’s a silly moment for holding one’s breath, which doesn’t stop Martin from doing so, and he thinks Jon’s doing it too, and then the deposit box is open, and there’s the mirror, smaller in reality than it was in Martin’s memory, where it had rather begun to loom. Both of them reach for it at once; Martin has the idea the freefall into the wrong sets of eyes happens at once as well.
Notes:
We're back!
I didn't get as much of a stockpile done as I wanted to, but I got...some. Like sr&s this'll probably have regular biweekly for a bit, and then less, because I've gotten into a routine of doing no more than 300-400 words on a project per day, which is great for my ability to do things, less great for doing them quickly.
We (I) shall keep on keeping on.
Chapter 37: in the moment
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The house smells as good as it ever has, Gerry having committed himself to a—rather excessive, in Jon’s unasked opinion—dinner of lasagna bolognese and homemade rolls in honor of Eric’s last evening with them for this visit. It’s just the three of them, Georgie excused herself to carve pumpkins at Cosy, even though they’ve told her over and over she’s as much family as the rest of them.
“I’m not,” she’d said, with a shaky bounce of curls, “and that’s all right, I have got a whole family of my own, you remember.”
“You are so,” Gerry’d grumbled after her today, once she’d disappeared through the front door.
In any case: they’ve a bottle of wine and Eric keeps looking at the both of them like he couldn’t be prouder of his sons, and Jon is feeling a bit…tipsy’s not the word for it. He hasn’t had more than a few swallows of the wine. The sensation’s like floating outside of himself, like he can feel something faraway and ephemeral, his land of Fairy calling to him across some metaphysical chasm. Has he had more to drink than he remembers? He squints suspicion at his glass.
“You ought to stay longer,” Gerry says now.
“There are books waiting for me,” Eric reminds him, “and my garden.”
“Transplant the lot, you can move in here,” Gerry says, and Eric laughs.
“You know how I feel about London, Ger.”
Gerry makes a face. He does know. They both do, and they’ve had plenty of discussions round the subject when Eric’s not about to tell them he’s fine, not to fuss, et cetera. London, for Eric, means Mary more than it’s ever meant Gerry or anything else, and so he takes the place in tiny doses; he could never live here again, in this house that was so entirely hers, however much Gerry’s made it his instead.
“I’ll be back for Christmas, it’s not far off,” Eric says.
Gerry grouses a bit more, a typical way for the last dinners of Eric’s visits to proceed. When it’s time to do the washing up, Jon follows Gerry to the sink, still feeling—bubbly’s not the word either, nor is effervescent, but something like those. He thinks of the conversation snatch overheard at the gallery, and the quickly-destroyed spider painting; he thinks of Mike, and Of Magic, and the vanished mess at Devereaux.
“Are you here to help or to stand beside me in a daze?” Gerry flings a towel at him.
“I haven’t decided yet,” Jon says, and does the drying anyway. They share a companionable silence, save the clink of crockery and splash of water and the tune Gerry begins humming halfway through.
It’s not until the middle of the night, when they’ve all gone off to bed, and in Jon’s case gotten out again, owing to telltale creaking, that he feels ready enough to broach the subject. He finds Gerry in the loft, as he’d known he would, the enormous studio space packed with art supplies and paintings, and Gerry himself in a splattered undershirt, covering a canvas in what appears to be network of confined tunnels, wide enough for a person to wriggle through, but without any space to spare, and the room itself has been sucked into sharing the tight sensation, and he feels, absurdly, afraid.
What the hell has he got to be afraid of in the loft?
He says, “What’s that you’re painting?” and expects some jolly answer about mazes for ants.
Gerry stiffens, and turns, and something about his eyes is off-putting in a way nothing about Gerry has ever been. Almost as though he’s somewhere else altogether. “I didn’t hear you come up. I…” He glances at his work in progress. “I don’t know.” He adds another daub of paint to one of the tunnels. “Wonder what Mike’ll tell me to do with this one.”
“I wanted to ask you about that,” Jon says, and Gerry looks unsurprised. “I should have before, I wasn’t—we weren’t listening intentionally, but Martin and I, we both heard Mike telling you what to do with that spider painting, and you mentioned something about drowning another. What…” He hasn’t got the rest of the question, can’t pin the particulars in place, any more than he can his lost fairy tale. He gestures vaguely. “What’s going on, I suppose?”
“Haven’t a clue,” Gerry says with a grin, raggeder than Jon has seen on him since Mary was alive. “There was another painting he had me destroy, the drowned one, but I don’t know why. It wasn’t a good painting.” He pauses, scoffs a little. “It was gorgeous, I mean, but it wasn’t—it didn’t feel good. Neither did those spiders.” He adds a vicious, slapdash streak to the painting. “Neither does this.” After a moment, he picks up a bottle of bright, sunflower yellow paint, and squirts half its contents onto the canvas.
The sense of enclosure recedes.
“Have you ever got the idea,” Gerry says, smearing his blobs of yellow with his fingers, “there are rotten fairy tales out there, and we’re better off without them?”
“I hadn’t.” Jon’s hand curls into a fist. “Not until lately. What do you think your boyfriend knows?”
“Loads.” He adds, helplessly, “I don’t think he’ll tell us much of it though.”
“No.” Jon doesn’t imagine so either, though that won’t stop him asking. Asking’s what he does, whether or not he’s getting answers, it’s how he got here to begin with.
“Come help me with this,” Gerry says, decisive enough about it that Jon automatically moves forward and lets a brush be plopped into his hand. They spend the next hour working in tandem, flinging and smearing bits of paint until the tunnels have become the sort of color mishmash a toddler might enjoy putting on the wall (or so Jon, having little experience with toddlers, assumes).
“Much better.” Gerry eyes their results with relish, though his smile dims a fraction, and he adds a wry, “I’ll have to ask Mike if this is good enough to take care of it, or if I’m meant to shoot the thing into space.”
“Who knows,” Jon says through a yawn, thoughts of sheep girls and enormity and rotten fairy tales flitting about his mind. “I’m going back to bed, we’re got to see Eric off in the morning.”
Gerry rolls his eyes, but doesn’t bother correcting him with the traditional ‘just say Da, you stubborn arse’ and bids him good night. “Jonny,” he says before Jon’s on his way, “you know this is utterly mad, right?”
“I know,” Jon says, and leaves him; Gerry’s fishing his mobile out as Jon starts down the stairs, as though he means to ring Mike now, lateness of hour be damned. Not that Jon can blame him. As he washes his hands, he rather wishes he were prick enough to ring Martin, could do with hearing his voice.
Martin has never been much good at carving pumpkins. It sometimes—that is, every blasted year—seems he can follow a stencil perfectly and still not come out with the result he means to, as the owl he’s working on would attest. It’s gone bafflingly lopsided. He glances over at Oliver, who’s putting the finishing touches on a faultless witch’s cottage, complete with garden; perhaps Gerry’s window witch lives there with her cat. “Have you carved many pumpkins?”
“Loads,” Oliver says, grimacing. “It was a whole thing in my family. Very competitive. There were prizes and all.”
“It’s paid off,” Michael says over his own goopy-mouthed ghost.
“Has it?” Oliver slants a look at him. “It’s about as useful as being better than average at those little cube things.”
“Never know when that might come in handy,” Tim says from the next table, fiddling with a knife in a way that’s probably not safe.
“It’ll make the windows look nicer.” Martin spins his tragic owl to face them. “Unlike this.”
“You’re already good at tea, anything else would just be showing off.” Michael studies his own pumpkin, likely debating finishing touches.
“Says the baker with a perfectly good pumpkin.”
Pumpkin carving night was something of a last minute suggestion, one Melanie had thrown out while glancing at the uncarved lot plopped around the cafe. Georgie had run with it, and Martin had…gone along for the ride, more or less, allowing her to fetch more pumpkins and tell customers to bring their children, and now the whole place smells like pumpkin guts and cider and lemon juice, but it’s a popular enough activity that he’s already planning to implement it next year, with more in the way of planning ahead; as it is, they’ve got Paul, Jack, and Harriet doing an extra shift, the whole lot of Cosy employees taking it in turns to work at carving, and then to work.
“What d’you think?” Tim leans back to show them his classic jack o’lantern, man and pumpkin both grinning away.
“I think,” Michael says as though utterly disinterested in his boyfriend’s efforts, “you could do better.”
Tim makes an aggrieved sound. “I had no idea your standards were so high.”
Michael smiles prettily at him, and resumes careful cutting of the skin.
“I might be motivated to do better by a kiss?”
“I’m sure you would.” Michael doesn’t look at him. “Not in public.”
“Nobody wants to see that,” Melanie agrees, sat at the same table as Tim, with Sasha to her other side. Martin hasn’t the faintest what her pumpkin is. Something interesting, undoubtedly. Maybe a matching set with Sasha and Georgie? He’s really not sure what’s going on there.
“I only meant on the cheek!” Tim protests.
Melanie hums her disbelief.
“Is this a contest?” Sasha asks over her work.
“As this was flung at me last minute, I haven’t got prizes,” Martin says, with a hint of apology.
“You could do store credit,” suggests a customer from another table, a semi-regular whose name escapes him. “And then next year you’ll have time to plan something else, if you want to.”
“That’s not a bad idea,” Michael says.
It isn’t. Martin rolls it about in his head and, because Georgie’s got the best projecting voice among them, goes and asks her to shout the announcement. He wishes, casting his gaze about the whole scene, Jon were here, and Gerry too. Only it’s Eric’s last night in London and they had dinner plans, poor timing and all, maybe next year…
When he returns to the table, it’s to the sound of Oliver cursing under his breath, his detailing knife clattering to the floor.
“What’s the matter?” Martin asks, with urgency.
Oliver releases a pained hiss, hand tucked into his chest. “It’s nothing,” he says. “Just caught myself, wasn’t paying attention.” It seems he’s still not paying attention, his gaze caught on a young woman working away at a pumpkin, even as Michael leans over to retrieve the knife.
“There’s a first aid kit in the back.” Martin leaves no room for argument, tugging Oliver up from his chair and into the back. “Wash your hands.”
He leaves Oliver to do so while he fetches the first aid kit from its home in the cupboard. The knife’s torn through the pad of Oliver’s thumb, deeper than Martin had expected.
“Do we need to do a session on knife safety?” he chides, squeezing antiseptic cream from its tube onto Oliver’s finger.
“I’m all right,” Oliver says. “I just thought I saw something.”
“What kind of something?” Martin cuts loose a strip of gauze.
Oliver’s brow furrows. “Not sure. It sort of looked like a vine, like the pumpkins’d have if they were still attached. I’m sure it was just my imagination.”
He doesn’t sound especially sure. Martin’s thoughts drift toward enormous spider paintings.
“Next time your eyes play tricks on you, remember if you’re holding a knife.”
Oliver murmurs agreement, and Martin helps him to bandage his thumb before they return to the front. He catches Oliver’s attention drifting toward the woman again. Vines. What the hell would vines be? Maybe he’ll ring Jon after this, see if anything about it sounds familiar. Shame Mike Crew had opted out of the evening, or Martin might pin him down and ask if he’s got any bright ideas.
Maybe it was just Oliver’s imagination. That’s more likely, isn’t it?
Martin wanders the room, mulling it over and glancing at the pumpkins in progress. There’s some real skill on display. One person—the woman, he realizes, the one Oliver was looking at before, has carved an intricate spider. He compliments her on it, even as an out of place chill ghosts along his spine. It’s silly of him, the way he thinks of Gerry’s painting, not to mention the way his eyes dart toward the window painting as though to make sure that one isn’t moving again. Not that it moved the first time, obviously.
The remainder of the night plays as smooth as it can. He leaves the pumpkin judging to popular vote. By time he makes it home, he’s too exhausted to worry over much of anything, which doesn’t stop it sitting in the back of his mind.
The corridor siphons back into place around Jon, the glint of light from the mirror surface amid the bland grays. He should not be surprised to discover how close he is to Martin. Everything comes as a surprise, after the passage of hours in a heartbeat. They’d both leaned in for the mirror, probably both felt the same pulse of eagerness to hold it again, more fool them, so of course they’re near enough to bump together; of course, that is, they’re near enough for Martin’s curls to catch his attention, and his neck, and then his mouth. His lips, which Jon has given little thought to prior to this, are parted. As Jon tells himself to look away, move away, anything away, Martin’s tongue darts out to wet them, and Jon finds himself lurching forward instead.
Martin jerks back at the last moment. “I’m seeing someone,” he blurts out, expression petrified, as though he thinks Jon will be angry over it.
There’s a tide of disappointment; it recedes after a moment, as tides do. It’s a nonsense feeling anyway. The wrong Jon had wanted his Martin, and it put him off-balance is all.
“I’m sorry,” Jon says, stiff. “I didn’t mean to do that. I shouldn’t have done it.”
“Sorry,” Martin echoes, as wilting as Jon is stiff.
“I suppose you’re seeing that man from before.” He doesn’t know why he says that. It doesn’t matter to him who exactly Martin is involved with, he’s not Tim and his endless quest for gossip. It does come as something of a surprise he hasn’t heard this from Tim already, come to that.
“Lee,” Martin supplies.
“Right,” Jon says. “Good for you.”
“I should tell you,” Martin says, hesitant enough Jon can’t help a sharp look. “I’ve told him about the mirror.”
Jon opens his mouth, not sure what he means to say. There is anger now, and a sagging sensation, and something roiling like jealousy. It’s nonsense.
Martin rushes ahead of him. “I know we weren’t going to—only we’ve been together when it’s happened, and he worries, and I hate to do that to him. I meant to talk to you before I told him, but you weren’t particularly erm. In the mood to talk.”
Jon startles himself by barking a laugh. He drops his face into his palm, huffs another laugh there, and finds Martin looking at him as though worried he might have lost his mind, finally. “In the mood to talk,” he says. “You really are…never mind, I suppose. He believed you?”
“He’s been through similar. You remember Jennifer Ling’s statement.”
Ah. That’s it. No wonder something struck him as familiar during their brief interaction, given Ms. Ling’s details on her colleague. “Grifter’s Bone, then.”
“We don’t talk about it much,” Martin says, a wistfulness on his face that sets jealousy flaring again. “He doesn’t like to. But yes, he believes me. Are you—”
“Angry?” Jon finishes for him, and considers whether he is—whether he really is, after the first flare—or not. The matter of the mirror belongs to Martin as much as it does to him; it might, reluctant as he is to admit it, belong to Martin more, as he’s the one who found it, the one it got its hooks in first, and he would be carrying it alone if he hadn’t come to Jon at all. And if Martin’s got himself a life and doesn’t want to keep such a terrifying thing from somebody important to him—he doesn’t like it, but he says, “No. It’s one person. I don’t expect your boyfriend to go splashing the story about.”
“He wouldn’t,” Martin says, with obvious relief, and guilt worms its way up Jon’s gut. A good boss, he expects, wouldn’t inspire such anticipation of anger. “He’s not a fan of it. Or the Institute, thinks I ought to quit, and he’s probably right, but…”
“But?”
Martin gives him a faint, twitchy sort of smile. “Don’t expect my letter of resignation anytime soon?”
It’s Jon’s turn for relief. Deeply unwanted relief.
“Good,” he says, and straightens his shoulders, jerks his chin toward the mirror. “Shall we do what we came for?”
“Right, right.”
Martin whips his mobile from his pocket and begins snapping photos of the mirror’s front while Jon makes notes and tells himself the engraved figures are not studying them in return. They turn the mirror over with care, not that touching it is bound to make any difference at this state, and repeat the process. The words on the mirror remain incomprehensible, though Jon has the sense if he turned his head just right, they would make perfect sense. Apparently he doesn’t achieve just right before they’re finished.
“I don’t want to leave it,” Martin says when there are no more pictures or notes to be taken.
“No,” Jon agrees, with the same reluctance as when he left it to begin with. It ought to be with him. With one of them, at least. “This is the safest thing for it.”
“It couldn’t be much worse, having it at home, could it?”
Jon frowns at him. “I expect not, but that’s no reason to move it.”
“I know.” Martin traces the handle. “You’re right, I know. We had better go, before I can’t talk myself out of snatching it.”
Jon says a firm, “Lunch,” and they slip the mirror back into its storage home, though Jon’s teeth ache at the loss. Walking out of the building makes it no better. Martin hesitates outside the doors, and Jon clamps a hand over his wrist to haul him away without looking at his face, only releasing him a few streets over. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have grabbed you.”
“S’okay.” Martin’s rubbing at his freed wrist, his face a little flushed, and looking at anything that isn’t Jon. “Probably needed it. Pick a place?”
They settle on a noisy lunch spot, good for not being overheard; not that anyone listening in on their conversation would believe a word of it. Jon wishes he could not believe it. Wouldn’t that be so much easier than being stuck in whatever all this is.
“You said you had more to tell me,” Jon says, yanking himself from some amount of studying Martin’s reddened cheeks.
“It’s science, mostly.” Blush fading, Martin makes a face and frees a notebook. “Loads of science. The sort that goes well over my head, but I’m trying not to let it stop me.” He shoves the notebook across the table for Jon to page through, and he doesn’t squirm exactly, while Jon scans his notes—it does seem like quite complicated subject matter, he’s almost impressed. He’s still shifting uncomfortably a minute later, which makes focusing on reading his spidery scrawl difficult.
“Do you want to spit out whatever it is you’re not saying?” Jon says, impatient but not unkind.
“Oh. Um.” Martin looks as if in fact, he would prefer a turtle shell for withdrawing into. “It’s just a thought I had, it probably doesn’t mean anything, it’s not worth mentioning.”
“And yet,” Jon says, “I’m asking you to mention it or sit still.”
Martin freezes, then takes a shaky breath. “Okay. Okay. It’s about Lee, sort of?” He begins to tug at his napkin, as though he means to shred it, then visibly stops himself and puts his hands around his water glass instead. “I told you I’ve been with him when the mirror has—” A vague turning of glass, like a shrug.
“Yes, you said.” Jon tamps down another inappropriate flare of jealousy, and a matching shot of loneliness.
“There was one time—and it was only the once, which is why I don’t know if it was anything or just—it sort of started, I was getting bits of them and then Lee told me to stay”—going on the fresh color of Martin’s face, Jon has the idea Lee did this telling in more than words—“and I did. Stay. It went away.”
“I see,” Jon says.
“But you know sometimes they come on in little bits and it’s not a full—whatever you want to call them, vision, experience, so this could have just been one of those bits all along. I don’t know if Lee made a difference as a sort of anchor or if it was a coincidence.”
“So you’re suggesting,” Jon says, his voice dry despite the internal wrestling, “I find myself a partner to see if it has any effect.”
Martin’s face becomes redder yet. “That’s not exactly what I’m saying.”
“I’ll ask Tim if he knows anyone.” He doesn’t mean it, obviously, but it makes Martin laugh, bright and surprised, and Jon finds himself laughing as well. It’s nice. Odd, given everything, but nice. He doesn’t even want to remind himself Martin might be a murderer; in the moment, that feels unimaginable, and he makes no effort to think otherwise, not now.
Notes:
I have an England question!
Sugar cookies. Are they called sugar cookies there??
Relevant to the chapter I'm currently fighting with :')
Chapter 38: then somebody screams
Notes:
Thanks to those who gave me input on what sugar cookies are called in the UK!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Halloween proper finally rolls around, the way days on the calendar always do. By time it does, Tim has invented something of a drinking game with the grad students and research staff, though they can’t do any drinking at the Institute. “More’s the pity,” Tim mourns; Martin privately agrees. The good bit is he manages to exempt himself from staying late, with the fact he did so on Friday.
“Big plans?” Tim asks, doing his own packing up for the evening.
“There’s a show,” Martin says. “I think it’s Halloween-themed?” He has no idea what to expect from a Halloween concert. Maybe it’ll all be renditions of Thriller and that skeleton song. “You could come, if you’re not busy.”
“Alas, as much as I’m dying to meet this man of yours, I have got plans already. Helping out at a charity haunted house for—why do you look so surprised, hm?” Tim gives him a playful scowl, all feigned offense Martin would have taken deadly serious before he got to know him. “You thought I’d be going to some slutty Halloween party.”
“I’m…not sure what that would even look like?” Martin wrinkles his nose, brain unfortunately leaping to an image of Tim in one of those ridiculous sexy cat costumes, tail and all; probably he could pull it off. He had, in fact, expected Tim to be doing something a bit more adult-oriented, but the bit that’s really startled him is the specific thing Tim is doing.
Charity haunted house. Like in the Cosyverse, though this one presumably isn’t being run by Gerard Keay. How literally haunted that’d be. Anyway, as not impossible as that is, he thinks it unlikely.
“I could tell you,” Tim says, because of course he could.
“No thank you.”
“You’re no fun. Dressing up for this concert?”
“Not that I’ve been told.” He hasn’t dressed up for Halloween in…oh, who knows how many years, his childhood hadn’t wasted time in becoming not much of a childhood.
“Pity, I’d have asked for pictures.”
“I wouldn’t have shown them to you.”
“Even”—Tim pauses dramatically—“if I said please?”
“Not a chance.”
“Killjoy.” Tim flicks his hand in a vague salute as he heads out, having grimaced at the time. “See you tomorrow then.”
Martin is in no particular rush, so he packs up with a touch more care than Tim, then ducks in to say his farewells to Jon, who looks distracted as ever. Better than his sourer moods. He, Martin is sure, has no plans whatsoever for Halloween, he’s not the sort for…well, holidays in general? Martin’s not sure he does Christmas or New Year’s. If he has anyone to do them with.
Not that Martin has done much better, historically speaking.
“Martin,” Jon says when he raps at the door frame, and he sounds a lot tired and a little wary, but not in a targeted way, just the sort you come by naturally, working down here. “Do you need anything?”
“Just wanted to let you know I’m going and tell you to have a good night. Tim’s gone as well,” Martin says. “I know there’s loads of extra work left upstairs, but you don’t have to do all of it personally, yeah? The grad students are an all right batch.”
Jon gives him a thin smile. “Yes, I do know. Go enjoy your Halloween, if you’re doing anything.”
Martin doesn’t fill him in on the details, doubtful he’s interested. They’ve been all right with each other, more or less, since the—thing they haven’t spoken about since it happened, but still.
“Oh, before you go,” Jon says, “have you seen Sasha?”
“I think she said something about Artefact Storage.”
“Again?” Jon looks less than pleased. “Has she said anything to you about why she’s spending so much time there?”
“Not a word,” Martin says apologetically. “It’s weird, isn’t it?”
He half-expects her to request a transfer back to research, which is…odd, given he remembers her hating it up there before Prentiss. Maybe it’s therapeutic, he’s no expert on these things.
“That is a word for it,” Jon says, and sighs. “That’s all, thank you.”
Martin murmurs his last farewell and heads out. He’s set to meet Lee at his flat, but as the concert isn’t until later in the evening there’s time enough to stop at a little bakery, where he buys a batch of Halloween-themed iced biscuits, bats and pumpkins and things. He wonders if Michael Shelley’s done these sorts for the haunted house, if that side’s Tim might be eating them even now—now being relative, considering.
Lee greets him cheerfully as ever, though there’s a bit of tired crease on his forehead.
“Everything all right?” Martin asks. “I brought biscuits, if you need a pick-me-up.”
“Those are adorable,” Lee says when he’s pulled them out of the bag. “Everything’s fine, just Halloween, ghost stories and all, Mike made about fifty Grifter’s Bone jokes today, how they’re bound to be performing somewhere, wouldn’t it be funny if they show up for us tonight.”
Martin winces. He sets the box of iced biscuits aside and tugs Lee in by the hand, smooths fingers across the line on his forehead, and follows it with a kiss to the same place. “We could stay in, if you’re worried about it? I don’t mind.”
“No.” Lee gives him a wry smile. “They’re not more likely on Halloween than any other time, are they, and if I ever see Alfred Grifter again I’ll be setting off the fire alarm.”
“Good plan,” Martin says.
“I’ve had a good long while to think it over.” Lee leans his forehead against Martin’s. “If you would rather stay in…”
“Anything that might happen to me tonight won’t much care where I am for it.”
Lee makes a face at this reminder.
They kill what time they have until the concert with dinner and some haunted house show, which has Martin’s mind drifting to Gerry’s haunted house again, and Tim’s, and probably he shouldn’t think about these things if he wants to stay present for his own damn Halloween, the one with his boyfriend in it.
Lee seems to catch him wandering in his head, and threads their fingers together on the cushion. “D’you need me to do anything?”
“Just stick around,” Martin says, because it’s still not as if they’ve worked out whether Lee’s presence makes a true anchoring difference. It’s not an especially scientific process. Maybe that will change if Dr. Tabet gets back to him. Barring that, they can only do what they can do, and in his case that so often seems to mean…not much at all.
“I already planned to do that,” Lee assures him. “Though I do need to go change, if you can give me up for a few minutes.”
“Leaving me already,” Martin muses, resting his head briefly on Lee’s shoulder. “Go on then.”
He lets himself take up the whole sofa in Lee’s absence, rolled onto his side to face the telly, where a knot of twentysomethings explore a house that doesn’t look haunted so much as neglected. His eyes close, he just listens to the prerecorded exploration until behind him, Lee asks, “How do I look?”
Martin shifts onto his back and blinks up at his boyfriend, who’s donned a black cape over something broadly…Victorian? Edwardian? Eras of men’s fashion are not at all his area. There’s a pointy bit of tooth sticking over his lip. “You look vampirey?” Except not, because according to Trevor Herbert, real vampires are less fanged and more…shark teeth and really upsetting tongue, but he’s not going to mention that. Dracula-style is preferable, really.
“Oh good, I was going for vampirey.”
“I didn’t know we were doing costumes?” He props himself up on elbows. “Am I going to be the only one not?”
“Nah, definitely not, I’m only doing it because Tommy bet today that nobody would. If anyone asks what you’re supposed to be we’ll tell them you’re my thrall.”
Martin laughs, determinedly steering his thoughts away from the whole silent vampire mind control thing. It’s Halloween, he is going to have a pleasant night. “Yeah, all right.”
They do adorn his neck with a touch of fake blood, just so he can pretend an effort was made.
A little while on, off they head to a music club in Shoreditch, and the location, too, is a thing that makes Martin think of the Cosyverse, as if something’s scheming to keep it on his mind. Gerry’s Devereaux Manor is in Shoreditch, isn’t it? But that’s in a former warehouse, and he’s not, and the club’s interior has nothing in common with a haunted house, except that there are people in costume, some dramatic lighting, and some attempt at spooky wall decor, big hairy spiders and such.
They find Lee’s colleagues in the crowd, the same set as last time minus Mike—which gives Martin a rude-ish bolt of satisfaction, he doesn’t want any more Grifter’s Bone comments tonight, thanks ever so much—and they’re all perfectly pleasant at his inclusion. He’s relieved to find Alice the only other person dressed up, in what he thinks is a television reference.
They’ve arrived shortly before the opening act is set to come on, and despite knowing the odds are low, Martin still catches himself holding his breath, tensed for a thin man in a too-big suit to come onstage. He releases when a woman with hair in shades of pink and platinum strides out and retrieves her guitar; he thinks Lee does, too. Only then does he allow himself to be nudged onto a barstool, listening to Lee tell Tommy to pay up.
Everything is fine through the first act, Martin leaning against Lee and contributing on the rare occasion a comment is directed his way. It’s halfway into the second band he feels the beginnings of slipping away, and grasping for Lee does not help when his vision goes under.
Devereaux Manor is—unsurprisingly, given everything else Martin has seen Gerry apply himself to this far—awe-inspiring. He doesn’t make a habit of attending haunted houses, but suspects even if he did, this would be the most intricate he’d ever seen by far. Jon is with him, wilded up a bit in old-fashioned clothing, with the words ‘come buy’ traced carefully onto cheek and off-center forehead by Georgie, in greens and blues; Martin carries a basket of grapes and gooseberries, pomegranates and pears, fake but convincing at a glance, while his mouth is stained the purple-red of Goblin Market fruits. They look quite good, if he’s allowed to think so.
More surprisingly, Devereaux Manor is also quiet. Jon’s said it’s to do with acoustics, ‘Gerry’s awfully nitpicky about it,’ but with the sheer number of people here, surely they should hear them a little bit? Or the employees?
Tim and Michael were due to enter the first corridor only a minute after them, and yes, there are multiple routes through this place—Jon has promised to make sure he sees everything, since he already knows the whole thing, cheater—only it seems so unlikely they haven’t caught their voices. Tim’s the antithesis of quiet and Michael’s voice is so distinctive.
It’s unsettling, is all.
Bravo, he supposes?
“Watch your hands,” Jon says, tugging at him where his hand was about to make contact with the back of a torn up armchair, which is all over fake blood.
“That would come off,” he says mildly.
“If it’s what it’s supposed to be, yes.” Jon turns round and snatches a worn blanket from the floor, spreads it over the bloodstain, face scrunched so the ‘come buy’ on his forehead creases too.
“What, ah, are you doing, exactly?” Surely Gerry hasn’t asked him to go about adjusting the decor when the place is open already.
“When Gerry finally gave me this year’s tour,” Jon says, “I stepped in something. I don’t know what it was, but it—evanesced itself before I could point it out to him.”
“Ah.” Martin eyes the chair with its hidden…possibly corn syrup, possibly not? “You don’t think it’s anything to do with the—”
“I have”—Jon straightens and catches his hand to proceed along the corridor, and how haven’t they met anyone while paused here for so long—“absolutely no idea. Shall we?”
They shall.
They come to a bedroom, where Jon casts a suspicious look about before coming any deeper into the room. Martin pages casually at a book, possibly a journal; they were ridiculously thorough in getting these props set up, the journal is three-quarters full and what scraps he catches look like actual content. “Is there supposed to be an actor in here, is that why you’re…?”
“No,” Jon says, and then, “maybe, I don’t know what Gerry intended.”
“Something else then?”
“My imagination, last time I was here.”
Martin puts the journal back where he found it and gives Jon a dubious look. He imagines the spiders from that dreadful painting skittering along the floor toward them, and however much he likes spiders, the thought of those particular spiders coming for them pokes his flight instinct into wakefulness. “If you’re sure.”
“I’m rarely sure of anything anymore,” Jon says with a wan smile.
“Makes two of us,” Martin says, voice soft, as if he might disturb one of the nonexistent ghosts.
Coming out of the room again, Martin nearly crashes into a corridor-jogging Georgie, her face made up to look like something crawled out of the ground. “Sorry, sorry, oh—it’s just you, thought you were somebody I didn’t know.”
“I do pay you,” Martin points out, more amused than anything.
Georgie bows. “And I am ever so grateful, yes, have the pair of you by any chance seen Sasha? Or Melanie? I had them and then I turned around and”—her nose wrinkles—“I suppose I didn’t have them anymore, which wasn’t part of the plan.”
“We haven’t seen anybody until you,” Jon tells her.
“I was starting to feel like we were the only people in here,” Martin adds.
Georgie frowns and chews at her lower lip. “I suppose,” she says, “they can’t have gone far. There’s only so much space in here.”
“Gerry is good,” Jon agrees, casting a wary look about, “but not quite good enough to stretch dimensions, so that is true.”
“Would you two stay with me?” Georgie takes a slow circle, looking hopeful that her girlfriends—Martin thinks?—might appear.
They do stay with her, because neither of them are rubbish enough friends to do otherwise. She slips one arm through Jon’s, and the other through Martin’s, which is nice, he hadn’t realized they were that sort of friends and quite enjoys the idea that they are.
They walk a long way without meeting anybody else.
It really is much too quiet in here.
“We should be near the exit,” Georgie says after a while, with less certainty than Martin would expect from somebody with so much of a hand in readying the place for its audience.
Then somebody screams, far off in the depths of Devereaux Manor.
Martin blinks back to himself in the club, frowning. The song is unbroken, it can’t have been more than a second. He doesn’t wish he’d witnessed more of the scene, obviously, only—well, he sort of does? Who was doing that screaming?
Lee, pressed tight behind him, in part because it’s become sardine crowded in here and in part because it’s just nice, says, “You all right?” in Martin’s ear.
“I’m fine,” he says. The other members of Earful Magazine aren’t paying them any mind, focused on the band. “It was just…something seemed wrong, I thought. But they’re at a haunted house, I’m sure it was just that. Someone got startled, there’s lots of screaming at haunted houses, right?”
“Right,” Lee says, running a hand up and down Martin’s side. It’s nice.
Except, it had been so unnaturally quiet before the scream, and it hadn’t sounded like an enjoying oneself scream. There’s sod all he can do about it, so it doesn’t matter, shouldn’t matter, and he’ll inevitably find out sooner or later if it does, that’s the way this all seems to go.
Jon, following his share of assisting with the research team, goes home. He was never the Halloween sort, only ever attended a single party during uni, at Georgie’s insistence. He prefers a quiet night in, with Gerard’s painting his only company.
He turns the television on, volume down low, to a channel playing the original Twilight Zone, which seems…suitable, he supposes. It doesn’t matter what’s playing anyway, he’ll be reading, he just wants to stave off silence. He has always enjoyed his quiet, but recently he finds it difficult, with nothing in the background.
One episode is giving way to another when a scream breaks into his evening.
The scream cutting through the air should come as a relief, as confirmation there are more than the three of them in here, Georgie caught between Jon and Martin. It gives no relief at all though, because it doesn’t sound as much like one of Gerry’s employees has startled the shit out of somebody as it does genuine terror. It is possible someone here has had a stronger than ordinary reaction to Gerry’s efforts, but Jon finds it difficult to think so.
Then Martin says, his voice mouse-quiet in the dark, “That was Michael.”
Jon looks at him past Georgie and finds him pale. “You’re sure?”
“I’m positive.”
“We had better find him then, I think,” Georgie says. Her voice doesn’t shake. Jon doesn’t think he’s ever heard her voice shake, however nervous she may be about something. “It sounded like it came from the library, maybe?”
“You wanted to find Melanie and Sascha,” Martin says. “We could—I could go for Michael and the two of you could—”
“You’re going to suggest leaving you,” Jon says, “and we’re not going to do that.”
“Of course not.” Georgie takes a step, and they’ve no choice but to move with her. “It’s only a haunted house, they’ll be fine.”
“Then I’d be fine too.” Martin doesn’t really seem to be protesting though, and a good thing, because under no circumstances will Jon be leaving him alone in here. Georgie is right, it’s only a haunted house, there has never been a problem with Devereaux Manors past, but so many things have been different already this year, and he’s no desire to take chances, even if he’s no idea at all what chances they’d be.
For now, what matters is finding Michael, who has not screamed again. There are other footsteps though, moving in the same direction, through different hallways, so at least absolute quiet has not descended again.
They find the library quickly with Georgie’s guidance, and now Jon hears what sounds like somebody sobbing, and a voice that must be Tim, though he can’t make out the words. Ahead, Gerry and Mike are approaching from another direction.
“What’s going on?” Georgie asks.
“I don’t know yet.” Gerry doesn’t look pleased with his own answer.
Their party expands to five, Gerry in the lead now, until the crying is louder and Tim’s words clearer, saying, “Got to get up, it’s fine, everything’s going to be fine,” and there they are, around one last corner.
There’s a shape on the floor that must be Michael, curled into itself, while Tim crouches beside him, stroking his hair. Martin breaks away from the group. “Michael! What’s wrong, what’s happen—”
Jon jolts into place to the sound of Rod Sterling’s voice. He blinks at the television screen, and again at Gerry’s painting. Why should Michael Shelley be collapsing on the floor of a simple—if extravagant—haunted house? The wrong Jon’s anxiety brushes against his own.
“What the hell was that about?” he asks—the air, the painting, or nothing in particular, but something pushes at his brain, an answer just out of reach.
Notes:
This chapter took many attempts and I still feel a bit dubious, but! I often feel a bit dubious!
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