Chapter Text
By nine-thirty, the Archives felt wrong.
Jon wasn’t there.
It wasn’t terribly unheard of for them to be late, exactly. It’s not like there was anyone enforcing their schedule when they were basically the metaphysical core of the entire Institute. But they always sent a text. Or an email. Or a tape recorder that clicked on by itself and said “I’m gonna be late.” making Sam and Gwendolyn almost jump out of their socks…
Today, there was just radio silence.
Sam stared at the empty desk for the third time in ten minutes. The lights were off in Jon’s office. There was a distinct lack of tape recorders around the room. The archives were disturbingly quiet.
“Okay,” Sam muttered, “nope.”
He stood up.
Gwendolyn looked up from the file she was annotating. “Where are you going?”
“Jon’s flat,” Sam announced. “They’re not in, and they haven’t said anything, and I’m not waiting until lunch to decide it’s weird.”
Gwen frowned. “Their flat? Where is—”
He jerked his chin toward the back corridor. “Behind Document Storage. That door with the Private sign. They live here.”
Gwen blinked slowly, as if struggling to process the sentence. “Wait. They live… here?!”
Sam paused in the doorway. “…you didn’t know that?”
“Nobody tells me anything!” Gwen muttered, grabbing her cardigan. “Hold on, I’m coming with you.”
A faint light filtered through the door to the studio apartment, which ruled out “slept in and just forgot to warn” and landed squarely in “concerning.”
Sam knocked. “Mx. Sims? Jon? It’s Sam… Are you okay?”
Silence.
He was about to try again when the lock scraped and the door opened a crack.
Martin peered out, hair in full haystack mode, glasses askew, drowning in an oversized pyjama top. He looked absolutely knackered.
“Oh. Hey,” he mumbled. “Sorry, I was—um. What time is it?”
Sam really, really hoped he didn’t just walk in to them having sex.
“Hi.” Gwendolyn’s eyes flicked over his shoulder, sharp, trying to get a glimpse of inside. “Is Jon in?”
Martin sighed and opened the door wider. “Yeah. They’re just… uh… not… great, right now.”
The light in the studio apartment was dim, coming from a single tall lamp. Jon was in bed, cocooned in duvet, only a dark tumble of hair and the line of their back visible. The usual low buzz that accompanied them was eerily quiet.
Sam’s stomach dropped. “What’s wrong?”
“I don’t know,” Martin said, rubbing his face. “They’re just… kind of lethargic? Not talking. Barely moving. I called Elliot already.”
“Good,” Sam said automatically. “Did— did they say anything? Yesterday? Did they—”
“They lose speech sometimes,” Martin said quickly. “That’s normal. But this is… more than that.”
Gwendolyn tried to move closer, careful, wary. Martin didn’t let her pass.
“Okay,” Sam said, forcing calm. “We’ll—uh—we’ll go back to the office. We’ll tell you when Dr. Elliot arrives. Call if you need anything.”
Martin gave him a strained but grateful smile. “Thanks.”
—
By ten, everyone knew something was wrong.
Sam and Gwendolyn returned to the Archives, both with their “pretend this is fine” faces on and absolutely failing to sell it.
“Could— could it be the shards, again?” Gwendolyn asked for the third time, pacing between the desks. “Could something be… left over?”
“They’re in Storage,” Sam said, rubbing his temples. “Sonja would have noticed if one went missing.”
“It could be… don’t know— resonance?” Gwen ranted, sounding like she herself didn't know what she was saying. “Or s—sympathetic... metaphysical resonance…”
“It could be just exhaustion…” Sam reasoned, calmly.
Gwendolyn stopped walking, but worry was still all over her face. “Sorry. I just— last time they were sick it was because of me... because they had a piece of that cursed mirror lodged in their chest and I’m really trying not to repeat that.”
He really didn’t have any good response to that.
They pulled files. They pulled statements. Gwen raided the Institute library for medical textbooks on supernatural ailments and, failing those, grabbed an old entomology monograph from some previous researcher’s collection.
By eleven, Tim sauntered in with a coffee and a joke that died halfway out of his mouth when he clocked their faces.
“What happened?” he asked, immediately serious.
“Jon’s not well,” Sam said. The words felt heavy. “Martin’s with them. Elliot’s coming.”
Tim’s jaw tightened. He set the coffee down without comment. “Right. Okay. What do we know?”
“Nothing,” Gwendolyn said, frustrated. “They’re lethargic, they’re not speaking, vitals unknown. And honestly… the past few days they’ve been kind of… off.”
“Oh, you’re right, they were kinda zoning out more than usual,” Sam added. “Like, mid-sentence. I thought it was just Eye stuff.”
Tim passed a hand over his face. “Okay. Okay. The Eye doesn’t seem worried. I’ll see what the Web’s heard. Sasha’s probably already on it, but— you know— better to ask….”
By eleven-thirty, Sasha had indeed already heard. She appeared in the doorway like a worried older cousin, arms folded, spiders twined delicately through her hair.
“Status report,” she said, crossing to Sam’s desk.
“Sleeping. Or… something,” Sam said. “Still no sign of Elliot. We’re… speculating.”
“Always good to,” Sasha muttered, as she pulled up a chair and joined them. When the Web couldn’t immediately produce an answer, she defaulted to her human skills: triage, delegation, logistics.
“Gwendolyn, keep digging through the medical statements,” she said. “Look for anything sleep-adjacent. Sam, pull the post-Ritual files. I want to see if we missed any long-term side effects. Tim—”
“Already checking,” Tim said, gaze unfocused in that way that meant he was listening for things nobody else could hear.
Rosie popped her head in around noon with a Tupperware of biscuits and a tight expression that said she was absolutely not worried and you couldn’t prove otherwise.
“I’m just… bringing snacks,” she said. “For… morale. Not for any particular reason.”
“Thank you, Rosie,” Sam said, taking one.
She hovered. “Is he—Are they…?”
“Martin’s with them,” Sasha said gently. “Doctor’s on his way. We’re watching.”
Rosie nodded, lips pressed together, and left the biscuits like an offering on the altar of Jon’s desk.
Even David found a reason to wander past, holding a file he definitely didn’t need Sam’s input on.
“I was just… checking on the new… thing,” he said too loudly. “Making sure everything's alright.”
“Mm-hm,” Sasha smiled, unimpressed.
David’s eyes flicked to the closed studio door down the hall and away again. “Let me know if you need… anything,” he said, and fled.
—
Dr. Elliot finally arrived mid-afternoon with a medical bag and the air of a man politely trying not to sprint.
Sam and Gwen waited in the corridor, perched on a bench like anxious relatives outside a surgery. Alice joined them ten minutes in, a takeaway coffee in each hand, cheeks pink from the cold.
“How is he?” she asked, pressing a cup into Sam’s hands before he could answer.
“We don’t know yet,” Sam said. “Elliot’s… checking.”
Alice shivered, eyes on the studio door. “Last time they were ill I watched that creepy doc treat their bones like play dough,” she muttered. “I’ve had enough body horror for one lifetime, thanks.”
Gwendolyn hugged her arms around herself, cardigan sleeves pulled down over her hands. “They were… kind of ashen yesterday,” she said. “I thought it was the lighting.”
“They fell asleep at their desk,” Sam remembered. “Twice. Jon. Fall asleep.”
“Woah. That’s like Jesus nodding off during a sermon,” Alice shook her head. “Not reassuring.”
The door opened. Dr. Elliot stepped out, wiping his hands on a towel. He looked more puzzled than alarmed.
“Well?” Gwendolyn demanded.
“Vitals are stable,” Elliot said, both to them and Martin, who stepped out after him. “Heart rate is fine, no arrhythmia. Blood pressure is a little on the low side of normal. Body temperature’s also low… but considering they’re usually running hot as a rule, it’s…” He shrugged helplessly. “It’s not the shard. I can tell you that much. There’s no foreign artefact. No new trauma. They’re just… lethargic.”
“Are they awake?” Sam asked, voice small.
“Can’t really say,” Elliot confirmed, grimacing. “Pupils react. They track movement, sometimes. But they’re not engaging. It could be… neurological fatigue. Or something… else.”
“Helpful,” Alice muttered.
Elliot pushed his glasses up. “Look, I’m doing my best! My medical degrees do not cover any of this. I can keep an eye on them. Make sure nothing tanks. But if this is metaphysical, we’re out of my lane.”
Martin hovered in the doorway behind him, looking wrung-out.
“I’ll stay with them,” Martin said. “Keep them warm. Talk to them. I hope they can appreciate that… even if they don’t answer.”
Sam nodded, throat tight. “We’ll keep looking.”
—
The day turned slow and heavy.
Sam and Gwendolyn went back to their books. Tim came and went, prowling the building. Sasha spent an hour on the phone with a Corruption Avatar in Prague who specialised in unusual illnesses, then another hour glaring at a whiteboard she’d filled with diagrams and question marks.
The snow outside thickened, fat flakes drifting past the high windows. For once, the Archives were as cold as the rest of London; the ancient radiators clanked and rattled, valiantly failing to keep up.
“Christ, it’s freezing,” Alice said mid-afternoon, stomping in after keeping Tim company while he took a smoking break, coat dusted white. “When did we move the building to fucking Narnia?”
“February’s always been bad,” Tim said, unbothered by the climate.
“It’s even snowing in Kent,” Sasha showed them a photograph on her phone. “Mum sent pictures.”
Gwendolyn shivered, flipping a page. “Is it normally this cold in here?”
“No,” Sam said. His own fingers were numb. “We usually keep the HVAC on even in winter to keep the older statements dry… but it’s never been this bad…”
He trailed off.
Alice blew into her gloved hands. “This winter is really fucking cold,” she grumbled. “Even by British standards.” She paused. Her brow furrowed. “Hang on.”
Sam looked up. “What?”
Alice frowned harder, staring into the middle distance. “Do cicadas hibernate?”
The room went very quiet.
Sam blinked once. Twice. “You can’t be serious.”
“Do they?” Alice insisted.
“S— some species go into diapause in winter,” Gwendolyn said automatically from her book, then froze. “Oh. Oh!”
Sam’s brain, blessed with far too much entomological trivia from the last few months, slotted the pieces into place with a horrible click.
“Torpor…” he realised. “Insects slow down in low temperatures. Metabolism drops, movement stops, they just… wait it out. If Jon’s… physiology is mostly… bug-adjacent…”
“…then a cold snap could flip a switch,” Sasha finished. “Put them into quasi-hibernation.”
“Are you telling me Spooky Jesus has the same winter setting as a garden beetle?” Alice said faintly.
“Yes,” Tim laughed. “And we’re idiots for not thinking of it sooner.”
They all moved at once.
—
Elliot reluctantly agreed the theory made sense. Martin, who had been sitting on the bed with Jon’s head on his shoulder and two hot water bottles tucked around them, looked torn between relief and exasperation.
“So they’re not dying,” he said.
“No,” Elliot said. “They’re… napping. Very aggressively so.”
Martin let out a long breath and slumped forward, pressing his cheek to Jon’s hair. “You’re ridiculous,” he muttered into it. “You realise that?”
Jon didn’t answer, but their fingers twitched faintly in his.
The practical solution came bizarrely quick once they knew what they were dealing with. Sasha bullied Procurement. David “repurposed” part of his Research budget. Tim charmed an electrician. By the next morning, a brand new heat pump unit was humming gently on the Archives wall, pumping blessed warm air into the office and down the little corridor toward the studio.
The first day of the new heat, Jon slept. Deeply. More soundly than they had in weeks.
The second day, they emerged from the studio doorway, blinking, wrapped in a cardigan that hung off one shoulder. Their hair was a mess. Their eyes were still a bit too bright. But they were upright.
“Hi,” they said, sounding a little surprised to hear their own voice.
Martin nearly dropped his tea.
“Wow,” Alice said, looking them up and down. “You’ve respawned.”
“Welcome back to the living,” Sam added, relief washing through his words.
Gwendolyn, who had been pretending badly not to be worried, relaxed a fraction. “How do you feel?” she walked towards them.
“Warm,” Jon said, a little dreamily. “I… like it.”
Tim leaned against the doorframe, grinning. “Good news,” he said. “You’re not dying. You’re just… seasonally challenged.”
Sasha appeared behind him with a clipboard. “Doctor Elliot suggests you minimise time outside until the cold snap passes,” she said. “For safety.”
Jon’s face fell. “I’m not an invalid.”
“No,” Tim laughed. “You’re a partially ectothermic Avatar whose absence caused three separate department heads to have mild crises. We’re not risking shutdown for your pride.”
Jon groaned. “I feel like a houseplant…”
“You are a houseplant,” Alice grinned smugly. “A very cursed ficus. Get used to it.”
They grumbled, but they complied.
For the next few weeks, whenever snow dusted the pavement outside, Jon stayed in the artificially warmed cocoon of the Archives, wrapped in cardigans and blankets, a mug of tea permanently in hand. Sasha took staff meetings downstairs. Basira brought them case files instead of dragging them out into the field. Martin instituted a rule about warm slippers that everyone pretended to hate but secretly enjoyed.
Jon complained loudly about being banned from the outside world.
But every time they paused in the doorway of the Archives, letting the enveloping warmth sink into their bones, and saw Sam at his desk, Gwendolyn arguing with Alice over a file, Tim leaning back in his chair, Sasha gliding past with a stack of forms, Martin smiling at them from over a mug—
They felt such immense gratitude.
It was, Jon thought, not the worst thing in the world to be a little bug-like and a little fragile, if it meant being surrounded by people who cared enough to turn the whole department into a very small, very strange, very warm sanctuary. Jon flicked their gaze over the Institute and felt the Eye preen a little.
Family.
Jon smiled to themself. “Yes,” they said softly. “They really are.”