Chapter Text
Jon hadn’t been looking forward to his first official day as Head Archivist before today. It wasn’t so much that he thought the day would be hectic; he’d done as much to prepare for this as he could. But Gertrude Robinson had left the Archive a complete disaster, and the amount of work that would have to be done to make the place make sense was entirely demoralizing. He’s only been at it for a day and he is already desperate to have the whole affair organized.
He’s rather excited to meet his assistants, as Elias had told him they were some of the best the Institute had to offer for their purposes. He’s already met Tim and Sasha. Tim is a bit odd, but seems to be on top of things, and Sasha seems all-around quite nice. Martin, however, he has yet to meet.
At least, until Martin comes barreling down the corridor and directly into him.
He knows it’s Martin almost immediately. This is partly because of the fact that he’s already met his other two assistants, and partly because Martin came in yesterday to move all of his things from his desk in Research. Jon hadn’t actually been there when that had happened, but he had gotten an odd sensation when he’d walked past Martin’s desk. It was the same sensation one feels standing on the edge of a cliff or on top of a very tall building, the itching awareness that one push could set in motion something massively important. His grandmother hadn’t taught him much about his Fae heritage, but he knew enough to trust that he could recognize Martin by that sensation.
That same sensation is there now, so strong it’s making his ears ring. He’s not quite sure how to react, so he buys a bit of time by picking up all the case files he’s just dropped. “Martin?” he asks, as if he needs confirmation. He’s aware in an instant that this is, in fact, his assistant, who did, in fact, introduce himself by running headfirst at full speed into him.
“Hi,” Martin laughs nervously, thankfully not questioning exactly how Jon knows who he is. “Er- Sorry,” he stammers, “about that. I just- er- well- have you seen a dog?”
A dog? What the hell? “Like, in general, or…?”
“No. In the Archives.”
Jon takes a deep breath, trying hard not to sound as on-edge as he is. “Why would there be a dog in the Archives?”
Martin shoves his hands in his pockets. “Oh, because… well…” He’s clearly fishing for a believable story that won’t get him into trouble. “I may have… brought them?”
“What?!” Jon can’t keep himself from raising his voice a bit. “Why?!”
“Well, I didn’t mean for them to get loose. They just- they wanted to come in with me, and it’s so cold out, and…” He starts looking around Jon and down the corridor.
Jon pinches the bridge of his nose and takes another very deep breath. “If you do not resolve this situation, you can be replaced.” He’d hate to fire Martin on his first day, but they have a job to do, and they can’t have dogs in the Archives.
“Oh. Yes, probably.” Martin still isn’t fully paying attention, but after a moment, Jon’s words seem to have sunk in. “ Oh! Right, yes, sorry- I’ll- sorry!”
Martin sprints past Jon again, whistling for the dog.
The next few weeks of Archival work see Jon developing a routine, as well as a deepening sense that something is wrong at the Magnus Institute. Things feel rather normal most of the time, except when he runs across a statement that won’t record on his computer. The feeling he gets when he reads them is just close enough to magic to be comforting, but just wrong enough to be deeply frightening. Even so, he finds himself arriving early and staying late. He has to get the statements organized, he has to find each and everyone and know where to put it.
He knows what his grandmother would have said about that, the old human adage about curiosity and cats. She would say it all the time, so much that Jon realized as he got older that it wasn’t about him. There absolutely had been something in her past that made her so adamant about not looking into things that weren’t yours. But she is dead now. She is dead and Jon is grown, and he has bigger things to worry about than his dead grandmother’s opinions.
Jon still isn’t sure how to feel about Martin though. That odd sensation he gets when they’re around each other hasn’t gone away at all. In fact, it’s only gotten worse. He chalks it up to the fact that he’s not used to being in charge of anyone, even though he’s well aware that isn’t what it is, and tries to avoid talking to Martin too much.
This is no easy feat, considering the man is nothing if not sociable. It’s always “how are you doing, Jon?” and “have you gotten enough sleep lately Jon? You look tired.” Jon is well aware that he doesn’t have the healthiest habits, but he doesn’t want to admit that to his assistant.
He’s actually avoiding Martin when he first notices something is well and truly off about him.
When he has to go get a certain box of files, he usually manages to take a route through the shelves that leaves him invisible to his assistants’ little gaggle of desks. It’s not efficient at all, but Jon finds it comforting that, while he can see them, they can’t see him. He’s on his way to get the newly-dedicated box of statements related to Jane Prentiss so he can add a file to it when he hears what might just be Martin singing.
It’s soft, but Jon recognizes the tune. He’d had a bit of an obsession with old folk songs when he was at university, and that obsession might have made its way into some of the songs he wrote for the band he was in. Martin sings softly, almost as if he knows Jon can hear him and doesn’t want him to:
“Willie stands at his stable door
And he’s combing a coal-black steed
And he’s thinking of fair Margaret’s love
And his heart begins to bleed.”
His voice isn’t extraordinary, but there’s something to the way he’s singing the words that makes Jon want to listen longer. It’s as if they’re coming from the deepest part of who he is, branching out in tendrils just as far as anyone can hear them.
But he doesn’t have time to listen, he reminds himself. And why would he want to? Martin’s just wasting time again, as usual. He finds the shelf in no time, heads back to his office, and promptly realizes he does need to talk to Martin.
He needs someone to take a look at Carlos Vittery’s apartment as part of the Prentiss investigation. Normally he would ask Tim or Sasha to take care of something like that, but they’re both otherwise occupied and Martin is the only one currently at the Archives.
He could send him an email, he supposes, though even he can’t quite justify emailing someone whose desk is approximately four metres away from his own. So he gets up and goes to talk to him.
When he gets to Martin’s desk, the ginger is muttering to himself. Jon can’t quite make any of it out, but Martin isn’t speaking with the same tone as someone who knows they’re talking to themself. Rather, his tone is as if he were talking to someone else- but there’s no one else in the Archive except Jon.
No matter. At least he’s not letting dogs in the Archives this time.
When Jon greets him, Martin jumps as if he’s suddenly been mugged.
“Oh! Hi, Jon.” Martin laughs nervously once he calms down. “You startled me; what can I do for you?”
That feeling snakes its way through Jon’s veins again. “I need you to investigate Carlos Vittery’s apartment.” He gives Martin a slip with the address written on it and tries to keep his composure. “Nothing too involved. Just take a look around and document what you see. We haven’t been able to get ahold of the landlord, but so long as you’re careful it shouldn’t be too much of a problem.”
“Yeah, sure- of course. Yeah, I can do that.” Martin is fidgeting rather furiously now.
Jon isn’t quite sure what to do with that, so he simply replies, “Good,” and walks away.
Before he gets quite through his office door, though, he hears Martin start singing again:
“He’s rode over the high, high hill
Down the dewy glen
And the rushing in the Clyde Water
Would’ve feared 500 men.
‘Rolling Clyde, you roar so loud
Your streams are wondrous strong
Make me a wreck as I come back
But spare me as I’m going’”
That’s when Jon remembers.
When he was small, his grandmother had taken him to see a friend of hers who specialized in curse-breaking. He’d gotten a similar feeling around them, though it had probably dulled as he’d got older. And he remembers what it had sounded like when they’d started their incantations to work at the magic under Jon’s skin.
He looks back at Martin, the suspicion creeping halfway into his mind, and shakes his head as if it’s an Etch-a-Sketch. Whatever Martin is or isn’t, that is none of his business.