Martin really doesn't want to be at The Archive right now. Right now, he would like to be safe at home, Daisy hunkered down with them in their flat while they all steadfastly pretend none of this is happening. Even being on the first floor of the Bramford feels safer than being out here; safe enough that they'd decided to leave the Bishop. John's impression was that the resident ghosts had no intention of letting unwanted anything in; even the rather malicious basement entity has a certain territorial protective instinct, it seems. Their cat is in a safely locked room guarded by friend and foe alike; they, however, are on a busy street on perhaps the worst night of their entire Darrow residency.

But they need to be at The Archive; John needs it, and Martin and Daisy need to be where John is, so here they all are. Protecting their amassed information is too important, not just for the sanctity of the information itself, but for what might happen to John if the place were bloody torched or something. That's more important than Martin's own comfort; he just wishes his nerves would get the bloody memo.

"I can't fucking believe they have a Purge," he mutters to John, pushing the swear through gritted teeth as they slide the last box of Statements inside the rare book cage. "You know, when you had Riggs talk about that, it was so absurd I almost forgot how bad that whole situation was for a few seconds. It was like a, a helpful distraction. I never thought I'd have to put up with it myself. You know this whole concept is from some ridiculous movie series? You probably didn't know. Well, it was. They can have people from Star Wars here, I can put up with that just fine, but this? Unbelievable."

He doubts his babbling is very helpful, much less the unusual reference to the architect of the two previous worst nights of their lives. Why is it always Halloween?


Once he and John have the office more or less in order, he wanders out front to check on Daisy. The windows have all been boarded by now, blockaded by the desks that used to belong to Eliot and Kat; the lights are out and the door is locked, for all the good that'll likely do. Daisy is stationed there, waiting, her eyes glinting eerily in the little light that manages to spill from the office. She looks tense and somehow more angular than usual; it seems the Hunt's already on in her head. They're all hoping none of this will end up amounting to anything — or at least, he and John are. Daisy might need it, after a fashion. And much as Martin might prefer she not fall back into those habits, even just for one night, he can't deny that he's grateful she's here, ready to defend them, far more capable than he or John could ever hope to be.

"All right?" he asks gingerly, unable to mask the way he sort of treads around her in this state, like she might be a bit rabid. It's more for her sake than his own, but that doesn't make it better.

Martin has no idea how this happened.

Well, he does. He knows the technicalities, the moving parts: the comfortable affection of a lazy Sunday morning, the lighthearted chatter over breakfast, the playful turns that took them toward personal territory. Whatever specific conversational juncture prompted him to finally come clean, so to speak, about the open secret of his workplace fantasies, is long forgotten in the aftermath: John's quiet delight, a few teasing suggestions, and the familiar layer of dry incredulity that Martin could've ever wanted him when he'd been such a prick.

That must've been it, Martin reasons. Because he's incapable of not arguing against that. It had nothing to do with you being a prick, all indignant. And, not wanting to get lost in those particular weeds, the flustered shift to how John could be a bit meaner now, though, if the mood ever struck him. Under the right circumstances. With the right conditions.

He hadn't expected... would never have dared to expect anything. No matter how many times John surprises him, or how consistently and relentlessly he seems to be seeking new ways to turn Martin on. He can ever expect it, because to expect it is to admit to himself that he wants, and more complicated, that he deserves to have what he wants. He's no stranger by now to being forced to confront that; but never quite like this.

He hadn't expected the steady and decisive switch in John's demeanor or the issuing of an actual safeword — something they've never had occasion to use, primarily because they never really do scenes — or the suggestion that they ought to head out, then. The Archive is usually closed Sundays, now that it's just the two of them. And of course they certainly aren't going to open it.

He walks a little ahead of John, feeling the hair on his arms and the back of his neck stand up even in the warmth of summer. He had just sort of chosen to do this, to get a step ahead and stay there — not like he's leading, but rather more like he's being escorted. Even ostensibly out front, he is unquestionably being led.

His heart is racing and his mouth is dry, and it's all he can do to keep his composure while still out in public on this relatively short walk. He has no idea how this happened, but he is desperate to see where it leads.

Martin has no idea what, exactly, they're hoping to find at the Oddities and Antiques Show, but whatever it is, it had better be good. John's dwindling supply of Statements has been a building source of unease for him even before it ever came up in conversation. The box he so blessedly received ages ago is kept in John's office, not something he ever really roots through, but he has kept a sort of automatic mental tally of the number of times he's been aware of John rationing from it. They both knew it would run out eventually, with no guarantee of a replacement. It's not like this is a nice three year subscription Darrow will just replenish for them. In his darkest moments, he's found ways to blame himself for it. The gift had appeared in his flat at the time; a gift he wanted, needed, to help John. He'd let himself believe, wishfully or no, that it was his own desire to keep John safe and well that prompted its arrival. Has he become too complacent? If he just needed it more, would another come?

It's ridiculous to think that way, and he knows it. He hasn't let John in on those thoughts, chasing them away as best he can. This is a problem they will both find a way to resolve, somehow or other. And in the meantime, they can still hope some solution presents itself.

John's split off from him now, now that he seems a little less likely to just go after the first Statement he can feel. Martin wishes he'd stuck close, would have liked to keep John's hand in his, for his own comfort if nothing else. He trusts John to maintain his own discipline. But searching alone through all the wares, more efficient though it might be, is not very relaxing or very fun. And he really doesn't know what he's looking for.

He's gravitated toward the books; there are a lot of them, and there's a non-zero chance of finding some sort of personal account among the published works. And it might be nice to pick up something for himself, if he finds something. If he can allow himself to even think of recreation at a time like this.

It's very sudden and very subtle when it happens. He's brushing his fingers over the disorganized heap on this particular table, feeling the spines, both because he likes the tactile experience of it and because he's hoping to feel out anything unusual or unique. Not expecting 'unusual or unique' to find him first.

It starts with an itch, though he doesn't even notice that at first. No, first he notices the book itself. Thin, simple cardboard, bright, stark white. A children's book, here among all the dusty old novels and dry non-fiction.

He fishes it out and his heart drops into his stomach. Lunch was a while ago but he feels for a perilous moment like he's about to throw up. Staring back at him is a friendly smile drawn onto a bulbous black body. Eight legs extending at sharp, nauseating angles. He knows the title before he even flips to the front cover to see it, drawn as if with a knife: A Guest for Mr Spider.

Open it, he thinks immediately. He ought to be sure. There's every possibility this is a real and ordinary picture book in some universe, or just one of Darrow's many copycats. Just the inside cover. Just to check for the label. To be absolutely certain it's a Leitner before he panics.

It's only then he notices the itch, as of something crawling across the back of his hand. His free hand twitches out to scratch or to shoo away whatever's on him, but there is nothing there. He stays like that, frozen, one hand clasped around the other clutching the book. Mr Spider smiles at him, broad and inviting. Open up, he seems to say. A quick peek won't hurt you. You know the danger. And you know better than anyone: spiders aren't really so scary, are they?

He almost throws the book back down on the table, but he can't quite — doesn't want to. Shouldn't. No one else should find this.

Well, of course no one should. This is for him.

It's for him.

Jesus, that was the very day he learned, wasn't it? It hits him like a sudden breath of cold air on the back of his neck. The box of tapes, Darrow's first and only gift to him. John hugging him like it was normal and not an act of desperation. Shared breakfast. Shared stories. The first real story he heard about John's childhood.

Is this Darrow's idea of a fucking joke?

"How much?" he blurts out at the woman behind the table. She glances at the book in his hand, barely seeming to notice it, and tells him Two dollars as if she just decided on the spot. He pays her. He steps away, hurried and unsteady, knocking into a few people and drawing a few annoyed looks as he tries to make himself small within the crowd.

Of all the days to not have his bag on him. Too hot for a coat or even a jumper. Nowhere to hide the bloody thing. But he has to — he has to keep it hidden. John can't see it. John must not be allowed to see it. This is his problem. His.

He crams it under his arm, hugging himself like he's fevered, and scans the warehouse for any sign of John. Easy enough to spot, tall as he is, isolated among the crowd. As if his hunger is a visible thing, or an odor: no one wants to be near him. Thoughts flicker through Martin's head like flashes of lightning against a dark sky: leave. Leave without him. He doesn't have to know. He doesn't have to see. He won't miss you. No one ever misses you.

"Christ," he hisses under his breath. The itch is worse now, crawling up both his arms, seeming to wind paths around him. There is something else too, a faint tickling sensation round the back of his neck and fluttering against his cheek, like he's just walked through cobwebs. He rubs at his face hard enough to redden it but there is nothing there. Imagining it. Can't trust himself right now. He has to get out of here — no, they both have to get out of here.

"John," he whispers, much too far away to be heard, but it doesn't matter. It requires astounding effort to force himself to walk, and he keeps himself moving by muttering John's name under his breath, scarcely aware he's doing it, as if the moment he lets his destination slip he'll lose focus. Can't let John see it but can't leave alone, either. They'll get to the Archive. He'll be able to think more clearly, get this scratchy thing out of his head. If he can just—

"John," he finally says, breathless with relief that he made it. He grabs loosely at John's arm, his palm sweaty, barely making contact before instantly returning it to wrap round himself again. "John, I found — We have to leave. We have to leave now."

January 25th, 2022


Martin blinks his eyes open, and for a moment lies mired in extraordinary cognitive dissonance. It is as though there are two distinct versions of himself, tangling together and struggling to combine. He isn't completely aware of holding his breath but there is certainly a feeling of suspension in his chest as he stares at the ceiling, waiting for his thoughts to order themselves.

In the end, they don't, not entirely. The past week happened both last week and years ago. He is the same person he has always been, and yet he's different from the person he was last night, who curled up against John and thanked him quietly for a lovely day. He remembers doing it; it felt like him doing it. He remembers it near and at an unfathomable distance.

He shuts his eyes briefly and lets his breath go. Christ, the things this city will do to them. It wasn't even harmful, not really; it's just bloody confusing.

But that doesn't matter any longer. He opens his eyes again and turns to find John still asleep. He doesn't wait John's typical sense of being watched to stir him; he can't wait, and there's a slight tremulous urgency to his voice as he says, "John," and reaches out to touch his shoulder, gingerly rousing him. "John, I—I'm back."

January 19th, 2022


"John, honestly." Martin shivers, digging his hands deeper into the pockets of the rather nice coat that is apparently his. He's standing on a stony portion of beach, where the day's mild chill has become much colder, and John is crouching down in the sand, seeking fossils. This has gotten rather out of hand, he thinks. They'd been having a perfectly fine time at Darrow's museum, last stop on the general tour, until the conversation had gotten away from them and had turned to a revelation of John's childhood hobby. Now they're out here, his own delight at learning this detail having driven John on this mission that is rapidly growing ridiculous. He'd been charmed by the idea of John digging around for fossils, but now one or both of them is running the risk of catching cold, and it'll be his fault. "It's okay if you don't find anything. It's probably not the right... time of year?" He grimaces at how stupid that sounds. "Well, I suppose fossils don't really have seasons, do they."

Not exactly helping his case. He hunches his shoulders and looks out at the horizon, the grey water stretching out to an apparently unreachable distance. Sort of haunting, actually.

"You'll catch your death out here," he scolds, turning his attention back to John.

June 30th, 2021

To say this latest twist Darrow's thrown at them has been challenging for Martin is an understatement. In the first week he'd almost wanted to believe he was imagining it. He'd been afraid to ask if anyone else had noticed, and he wasn't even sure what scared him more — the possibility that there was, in fact, some sort of gradual mass disappearance going on, or the possibility that there wasn't. That it was coming from him. The Lonely seeping back through the cracks between universes, trying to take him back, or to take everyone else.

And when it became abundantly clear that it was no hallucination, and not specific to him, that wasn't exactly a comfort. Nor was the eventual clarity that it was only Darrow's native inhabitants who'd gone. Random disappearance is sort of a given possibility with everyone but the natives; this could be anything from one of the city's arbitrary, temporary whims to a sign of some sort of infrastructural breakdown.

It would be easy, understandable, to panic, to let himself be swallowed up by familiar old fears. And it is with a profound stubbornness that he refuses that outcome. An entire city of people may have vanished, leaving life teetering on the brink of collapse for those relative few who remain, but he does no one any good by fretting over it.

So it is his suggestion that they take advantage, as it were. He and John may have grown comfortable here, but it's times like these that remind them Darrow is still more mystery than not. What investigation they managed in their first few months turned up so little it had quickly begun to feel like there was simply nothing to be found. But perhaps that assumption arrived too easily, perhaps by design. And perhaps, with no one to tell them no, there might be more to find.

Libraries are always quiet, but never to such a profound degree as now: no breathing, no muffled coughs, no hushed conversation, no shifting of weight or shuffling of pages. Darrow's Public Library is just empty, and their footsteps seem like deafening intrusions against it. It makes Martin nervous, adds to the general sense that they're doing something wrong.

No one's here. No one's going to yell at them for poking around behind the desk, searching for hidden rooms in the hope of uncovering some sort of secret information. It feels unlikely, but it's worth a bloody shot, and they need to keep busy. He needs it. He wishes the whole thing didn't feel like such a horror film.

He squeezes John's hand for a bit of comfort as they draw to a halt and he looks around at the utterly abandoned space. "Well," he says, his voice dropping reflexively to a low murmur, "if there was a time to break out the word spooky, I'd say this was it."

October 11th, 2020

[CW: grief, specifically regarding the loss of a mother; memories/discussion of emotional abuse; maladaptive coping mechanisms]

The date creeps up on him, as a lot of important dates do, but it doesn't matter. Last year he'd had a new cat to distract him, as well as a commitment to his own misery and guilt that made it all feel intentional and chosen. This year, he doesn't realize until he's washing up after lunch, spies the calendar on the fridge, wonders why the date seems familiar, and realizes. Almost exactly how he'd realized it was their Darrow anniversary just a few months ago, which could've made him laugh bitterly if he'd had even enough energy to do that. If he'd wanted to draw attention to it.

He'd forgotten. He'd actually forgotten, and might well have gone through this nice, sunny autumnal Sunday with his partner and never once remembered.

But he remembers now, and it's all he can think about, even though it doesn't matter, as he sits on the couch and reads — tries to read — with John buried in his own book beside him. He doesn't think of bringing it up, because what would be the point? At least it's such a dull ache that there's not much to show for it. No tears or heavy sighs or moping about the flat. Just a cat on his lap and John beside him and a book which, while its words are no longer holding him, at least serves well as something to look at.

The thing is, he's fine, and there's nothing to talk about, because it doesn't matter. It's been a long time since it mattered. There's no need to fixate on it; it's good he remembered, and he can spend some time thinking about it as he ought, but it need not extend past that, because it doesn't matter. It's fine, and he's fine, and it's all fine.

1st October, 2020

The ride home is quiet but edged with a lovely tension that has both of them sat quite close, angled toward each other as they alternate between exchanging shy smiles and ducking their glances elsewhere. Martin reaches out to curl his hand into John's, running his thumb gently over his knuckles, blushing faintly as if this sort of easy tenderness is in anyway novel. But it isn't novelty; it's eagerness. He wants far more than these little, chaste touches; he can't stop thinking about what he wants, how much and how badly. It's all he can do to contain himself.

The moment they're outside the car and moving quickly toward the building, that containment starts to crumble away. Martin lets slip a sheepish little giggle, equal parts amused at himself and excited almost to the point of nervousness, accompanied by a sort of fluttering in his stomach. Ridiculous. Like they're on a first date; like that was only their first kiss.

It had been a bloody good kiss, is the thing, and it carried intentional weight, meant to overwrite and re-imagine what was actually, technically, their 'first.' That weight was not simply imagined, nor did it vanish; they're both still carrying it and being carried by it, propelled along with a mutual, unspoken urgency. He only lets go of John's hand to fumble for his keys, hastening to let them inside, and the moment he does, the moment they're out of the brisk autumn air, he can't even make it to their flat. He pivots on his heel and presses close, pulling John in by the strap of his bag to kiss him again. The tape recorder still sits clipped on, perhaps even still running (Martin hasn't even thought to check since John switched it on in the maze), but they can deal with that shortly. Right now, it's bloody dashing, and Martin means to enjoy himself.

dated: idk whenever

Martin certainly didn't used to wake up with such ease, rising naturally before any alarm he might set. Indicative first that he feels more relaxed here, that he actually enjoys his job, and now, unbelievably, joyously, that he has someone to wake up with. John is not an early or an easy riser, but Martin likes that just fine, as it allows him precious moments in the light of dawn to return quietly to consciousness, remember where he is and why he's so happy, to blink through the haze of whatever dreams he's already forgetting and see John beside him, resting, breathing slowly.

Martin likes to just look at him, but he knows that has a limited life span; John can always feel it when he's being watched, sooner or later. So more and more he finds other ways to rouse him, as gently as possible: a little kiss to the brow, a warm hand cradling the back of his neck or brushing through his hair. This morning, pulled by an inward surge of affection, he foregoes these gentler methods and just shuffles forward, wrapping an arm around the narrow hunch of John's shoulders and pulling himself close, positioned such that he can reverse their frequent arrangement, tucking his chin on top of John's head. He smiles and shuts his eyes as he feels John stir beneath him.

"G'morning," he says softly.