For John

[loficharm]

November 25th, 2019

Martin wakes before his alarm, which is to say The Bishop wakes him at the usual time, batting at him gently until he stirs. The Bishop has become his true alarm, really; the one on his phone is more backup. Martin grumbles softly and reaches out to give the cat a few cursory headrubs before he sits up, stretching and wincing as his back creaks. The Bishop chirps pleasantly at him and bounds away, heading to the kitchen to wait by his dish. He is demanding, but never impatient, which Martin appreciates.

"I'm coming," he mumbles, fumbling with his phone to switch the alarm off before setting it aside and pulling himself out of bed.

His shins connect immediately with something surprisingly solid right there at his bedside, and he lets out a startled yell as he nearly unbalances and topples right over it. He jolts back, his adrenaline shooting through the roof as he stares down at the foreign object on his floor. It's a box, a rather sizable but ordinary-looking cardboard box, just sitting there unobtrusively. It wasn't there last night; he doesn't even have any boxes like that around. There is no explanation for it, and for a moment he's gripped with terror that Peter or someone else got in and left him something, as little sense as that makes.

He inches forward, peering inside it. It isn't sealed, and its contents are quite visible. They are a disorganized mess: a mix of folders, loose pages, and tapes. His eyes go wide and he drops down to his knees, rifling feverishly through it all, looking through the first several tape labels and the headings on the pages before he allows himself any confirmation of hope. That this is what it appears to be: a box of Statements.

The paper is from the Magnus Institute; those tapes that are labeled are labeled in Gertrude's writing. None of the file numbers or names are familiar; there are none he can see that John has read before. These are new. Or they will be new to John.

Amid his racing thoughts, he remembers meeting Michael, struggling with the pieces of that crashed ship; he remembers hearing the story of how Saoirse received her coat and her dog. That Darrow just does this sometimes, just gives its stolen residents tokens from home.

Martin practically leaps back to his feet, nearly grabs for his phone to contact John, then decides not to waste time on that. He'll likely already be in the office, keeping his odd hours. Best to just get a move on. He opts to forego his shower, pulling his clothes on and fussing only momentarily with his hair before he stumbles out to the kitchen and gives The Bishop his breakfast. He leans down just long enough to give him a little kiss on the head before he rushes back into his bedroom, scoops up the box, and hurries to the door, awkwardly pushing his feet into his shoes. No time for his own breakfast. He can have some tea at The Archive, grab something at Ahab's later. He needs to get there first.

He just barely manages to lock his door without needing to set the box down, and then he's hurrying down the stairs and out. The box is a bit cumbersome and quite heavy, but he can just manage it. The weight is actually rather exciting, further evidence of just how much is there. He hustles two whole blocks before he finally flags down a cab, and sits full of jittery energy for the entire ride over. He tips the driver graciously and rushes inside. No one else is in yet, but he can just see John through the open door at the back.

"John," he huffs out, breathless and grinning as he bursts into his office, his face flushed from his rush and the exertion and the cold air. "John, look, look what I found!"

It doesn't make any sense, put like that--he didn't 'find' it so much as the city gave it to him. But it doesn't matter. The how, the why, none of it matters. What matters is they have it, and John isn't going to starve, and this will help him stop preying on people more than he and his little stories ever could, and he's going to be okay. Christ, Martin could almost cry with relief.

Comments

[statement_ends]

There are several reasons why he shouldn't be embarking on a major overhaul of his own filing system, including but not limited to the fact that he barely has anything to overhaul in the first place, and that it's early in the morning and he's bound to suffer interruptions before he's finished. But the urge had struck him, and they don't get that much foot traffic, so he'd dug in, eventually removing his tie and folding it haphazardly on his desk, and rolling up his shirtsleeves to keep cool and prevent dust-smudges.

It's the tapes that are causing him the most grief, really, and that's because it's twenty-fucking-nineteen and nothing is designed with cassette tape storage in mind anymore. The Eye has yet to helpfully manifest any tape cases, and he's not sure if that sort of outdated-but-not-old-old paraphernalia could even be found in antique shops anymore. People don't seem to be as broadly nostalgic for tapes as they are for records, when all is said and done.

By the time Martin barges in, the row of shelves that are budged up against the wall opposite the rare books cage have been emptied, their meager contents spread across the floor as he considers potential configurations. John is on his feet, having risen when he heard the door open, and he takes in Martin's grin and the flush in his cheeks, and his chest does that little thing it's been doing, that wholly internal lifting sensation, as if gravity has decided to work on him only selectively. He tells himself that he is already tired of it, and that there's no point to it, besides, but it hasn't stopped happening, yet.

And then he looks down at the contents of the box, and blinks. His hand dives in of its own accord, and he pulls out a file with a slightly peeling label that reads: "0140911 - Gorgoli, H." Christ, they're Statements, Statements from the Institute. Martin has a whole bloody box of them.

"Wh--" John starts, intending to ask where the hell he found them, but he cuts himself off; that's less important than the apparent fact that Martin hauled them straight here, and that the box looks heavy. "I--here, set it down." He hurries to make a little space on his desk, shoving aside a tape recorder (he distantly notes that it's on, the tape spooling away even as he unceremoniously moves it), his tie, and a few other odds and ends until he's cleared a space large enough for the box. He fidgets restlessly as Martin puts it down, feeling the build-up of some sort of pressure that demands a release, like he's caught in those few seconds between when the water starts to roil and the kettle starts to shriek.

And it isn't until Martin steps back that he realizes it isn't the box he wants to go for -- at least not first.

"I..." he starts, looking helplessly at Martin for a moment. Then he staggers forward as if shoved from behind, throwing his arms around Martin's shoulders and pulling him in, silently praying he'll forgive him this absurd indulgence. But if ever a positive situation called for a hug, this one does, surely. "Thank you," he says, his voice sounding very small.