Chapter Text
Jon’s gotten used to his strange, once-human impulses; gotten used to bracing for emotions that never come. Still, when he hears Sasha joke about Tim and Martin, the faintness of his jealously surprises him.
Martin was the reason he came back. Jon only barely remembers those last moments in another world, but he could never forget that feeling of something being torn away as he discovered Martin’s death- the complete and alien human-ness of the feeling in a body that was now more god than it ever was Jon. After he came back, he carried that loss around like a stab wound in his chest.
The hole is still there, heavy and vacant as always, but the thought of Martin with Tim instead of him barely twists his insides. Experimentally, Jon tries to imagine a different scenario. One where he couldn’t catch him in time as Martin stumbles off a cliff-
There. The familiar wrenching pain ironically settles Jon’s nerves. He frowns. Tries something else.
Martin smiles at him, happy tears brimming in his soft blue eyes, as he leans into Jon’s kiss-
Like a balm, a phantom happiness pretends to fill the hole for a glancing moment. Jon tries again.
He’s sitting in the audience as the officiant pronounces Tim and Martin married-
It’s less pronounced, but that same happiness flickers.
It doesn’t matter who Martin ends up with, Jon realizes, as long as he’s safe and happy.
Unbidden, an image of Martin sitting stony-faced and cross-legged in a rainy moor springs to mind. Jon winces.
Happy as he could be, given the circumstances. Jon amends. Safe, though, definitely.
That’s his entire goal. He’s not entirely sure what the Mother wants with another end of the world; nor why Beholding gave up its perfect end so easily. All he knows- Knows - is that it’s inevitable. All he’s going to do is ensure that this time around, the ones he cares about are safe.
The spider on his desk waits impatiently, and Jon shakes his head as he emerges from his thoughts.
“Sorry.” He apologizes. “Was there anything else important?”
The tension between Tim and Sasha, fear reacting to fear reacting to fea- Martin .
“Martin?” Jon echoes, confused, before the door to his office opens. He glances down at his desk briefly, seeing the spider vanish, and looks up into the eyes of-
“Yes?” Martin asks, awkwardly balancing a tray of tea.
Jon motions for Martin to set it down on his desk, giving himself a moment to collect his thoughts.
“Yes, hello.” Jon says. “Good morning.”
It’s afternoon.
“It’s actually two-thirty, but good morning to you as well.” Martin responds, tugging a file out from underneath the tray. He’s distracted today, a bit more direct than he might normally be. He presents the file to Jon.
“I wasn’t able to find an ‘Angela’ that matched the description, but I wrote up a report anyway. Also…” Martin hesitates.
“Yes?”
“When Tim and I were out a couple days ago… you took a live statement, right?”
“That’s correct. You two had lunch, correct? How was it?”
“It was pretty good. You should ask Tim to give you the name of the place, I’ve unfortunately forgotten it. But the live statement- that was your first, right? How did it go?” Martin presses.
“Fairly well. The young woman was surprisingly articulate.” Jon says. “Why?”
Martin hesitates again. “She looked familiar.”
“Did she?” Jon answers, disinterestedly flipping through the report. “Oh, right, you saw her as she was leaving.”
“Yeah, I was just trying to remember her name. It wasn’t Naomi, by chance, was it?” Martin asks.
Jon raises his gaze and meets Martin’s eyes levelly, though he mentally notes his heart leap as he makes eye contact. “I do believe her paperwork lists her as Natalie, though I could be mistaken. Any statements I’m finished with are placed on the cart outside my office, if you’d like to double check. If it’s not there, it’s most likely filed already.”
“Right.” Martin flushes. “Sorry, I forgot about that. Here’s your tea, and you have the report, so I’m going to head out.”
“No worries, Martin. Thank you for the tea.” Jon smiles at Martin, then returns to the report as Martin scoops up the tray again and hurriedly exits the office.
Martin wasn’t always this… manipulative , Jon thinks, but then again, neither was he.
—
Martin slows as he leaves the office, careful not to let any frustration show on his face. He stops by the other desks in the pen, handing the tea to his coworkers with a practiced nod and smile. Once he enters the kitchenette and sets down the now-vacant tray, however, he lets his shoulders drop. He takes his glasses off, rubbing the bridge of his nose, and sighs.
Martin isn’t sure why Jon was lying to him. Maybe he had noticed the statement’s connections to the Lukas family and linked it to the Institute’s wealthy donors? But the name wasn’t actually mentioned in the statement itself, and Jon didn’t seem the type to care deeply about funding. His “everything will work out in the end” attitude didn’t lend itself to overcautiousness.
Not to mention the fact that Elias hadn’t warned Martin of Naomi’s presence. Lately Elias had been almost ignorant when it came to anything that happened behind the Archives door. Elias keeps hounding Martin for details about his new Archivist, which Martin had found odd at first but now doubly so. If Elias truly is blind when it comes to the Archives, why hasn’t he done anything about it?
As he hears laughter from the desks, Martin pushes his glasses back on and groans internally. He knows what he has to do.
—-
When the work day ends, Martin’s the first one out the door. No point delaying this any longer than he has to, he thinks grimly. Once he’s clear of the Institute, he ducks into a side street and leans against the wall, taking a moment before he opens his bag. He fishes through it until his hand closes around hard plastic and draws out the flip phone. Martin hesitates as he grips the cover, mentally berating himself as his fingers stubbornly refuse to move.
They don’t have to though, because at that moment an unnaturally cold hand grips his shoulder. It’s a testament to how many times this has happened that Martin manages to cut his yelp short.
“Peter!” He drops the phone back in his bag with no small amount of relief, though the feeling is quick to vanish as he turns to the looming figure behind him.
“Martin.” Peter Lukas’s smile, as always, is too broad for the lack of warmth behind it.
“How did you-” Martin begins, but figures it out the same second he gets the answer.
“Elias, of course.” Peter waggles his eyebrows. “And once I heard you needed me, I rushed right over in order to save you the evidently very apparent trouble of calling. Very courteous of me, I know. Shall we?”
He extends a hand towards Martin, who glares at it unimpressed before stepping past him and into a swirling bank of mist. Peter’s grin gains a hint of authenticity before he follows closely behind.
—
Martin only remembers his mother faintly. Most of his memories of her are clouded with age—a brief impression of a large red sweater as she leans over him, a snapshot of a blurry face that he nevertheless knows is tight with anger, and flashes of mottled hands always cupping a chipped pink mug. And, most vivid of all, her eyes boring into him as she drew in labored gasps on the kitchen floor— her watery-blue irises still staring, even after the breathing stopped.
After that, his memory fractures further. Years of family, then family friends, then foster homes—passed between caregivers like an unwanted gift. Then, a hand, large and ice-cold, on his shoulder. A vast, empty manor where the grounds were always coated in thick fog. Silent, skittish staff with dull eyes and deadened tongues. Cloaked shadows in the distance that vanished if he stepped too close.
Surprisingly, in this heavy solitude, his mind began to clear.
The man who’d taken him in was a bulky figure with hair and teeth white as snow—some sort of ship captain who disappeared for months at a time and barely spoke to Martin even when he returned. Martin found this preferable. The fog that wrapped the manor seemed to seep into his lungs, dulling every sharp edge inside him. When he was alone, it filled his body with a soft, numbing quiet.
It only made sense that something this comforting wasn’t of this world.
When he disappeared into the Lonely for the first time and was finally permitted to learn the secrets of his adoptive family, not even the revelation that this peace was born of fear came as a surprise. He could admit there was something deeply unsettling about that quiet emptiness, the absence of emotion his new patron instilled in him. But he wouldn’t have traded it for anything—or so the lonely, pale teen who’d become Martin Blackwood-Lukas believed.
Peter hadn’t exactly been reluctant to let him return to the world; he even offered Martin a job aboard the Tundra when he turned nineteen. But when Martin mentioned wanting to study, Peter made a half-hearted attempt to dissuade him. When Martin insisted, Peter reluctantly introduced him to an “old friend”: Elias Bouchard, Head of the London-based Magnus Institute.
Martin saw the reason for Peter’s hesitation immediately. He took an instant dislike to Elias—too intense, too curious, always watching. But at the time, Martin disliked everyone anyway, so he accepted the offer of academic connections and advice.
During university, he slowly eased out of isolation. Not entirely, of course— but he couldn’t stay shut in his dorm all year, and eventually he was drawn into a small group of other students.
By the end of his degree, Martin felt more certain about where he stood with people. Solitude had its limits. Connections— people you could barter with, rely on, or manipulate— were useful. And no matter where you went, you couldn’t escape other people. Better to choose who surrounded you than leave it to chance.
He figured Peter understood that too. After all, he kept a small roster of consistent crew on the Tundra . Peter hadn’t interfered with Martin’s meager social life, mostly because he truly didn’t care enough to warrant social interaction, but there was one line that Martin crossed.
When he accepted Elias’s offer to work at the Magnus Institute, Peter protested. The Institute was a temple to the Eye. He’d be surrounded by people. Not to mention, Peter had just lost another wager to Elias, reigniting their old antagonism.
Martin went anyway. Despite his ever-present distaste for Elias, he took the job.
In the years since, he and Peter had rarely spoken. A funeral or two. The occasional forwarded job posting. Gertrude’s “disappearance” sparked another brief uptick in contact—if you could call it that. Then Peter found out Martin was switching departments, working directly under Elias’s Archivist. Apparently, that was interesting enough to warrant sending a phone with Peter’s number already saved in it.
The flip phone had sat forgotten at the bottom of Martin’s work bag for months— until the day he decided to investigate Jon.