It’s been six weeks now that Martin’s been living in the Archives, and he’s beginning to feel like he’s going a bit mad.
In the first place, it’s really hard to separate work and personal life when they’re both conducted in the same space, and even though he tries to keep from doing work in the area he’s been sleeping in, it still creeps in. He’ll do anything for Jon, of course—not that he’ll admit that out loud—but it does get a bit wearing, being on the job, so to speak, all the time.
In the second place, there’s the paranoia. The worms are real and present. They’re outside the Institute, and apparently just about everyone has seen them by now, but they’re inside, too, or at least in the Archives. It’s been a while since Jon rolled his eyes or Sasha got that I am being tactful look on her face when Martin suspects he sees one, because they’ve all seen them and gone after them. The trouble is that knowing the worms are getting inside, that he’s not just jumping at shadows, makes his nerves worse, not better. He tries not to bring it up so much to the others unless he has proof, but he’s getting twitchier by the day and it’s getting harder and harder to sleep.
In the third place, he’s apparently getting forgetful. It’s something he’s really only noticed in the last week, but Tim and Sasha will bring something up, ask him about something they wanted him to look up or reference a previous conversation, and then act confused when he doesn’t know what they’re talking about. He’d think they’re gaslighting him if they were the type to do that, but as much as Tim likes to tease, he’s not malicious about it. And Sasha banters, but doesn’t tease, not like that. Which means he’s losing moments and chunks of time. He supposes he should just be thankful he hasn’t forgotten anything Jon’s asked of him yet, or at least that Jon hasn’t brought it up if he has.
It’s probably from lack of sleep, which tells Martin he should definitely be getting more of it, but it’s hard. Partly it’s the worrying about the worms and partly it’s the fact that he’s got this persistent feeling of being watched, but if he’s honest, a lot of it also has to do with the fact that he worries about Jon. The man doesn’t take care of himself, he looks positively exhausted some days, and he hasn’t snapped at Martin in almost two weeks, a new record. Martin wants to wrap Jon in a blanket and hold him until he gets some rest already, but that desire sends his mind down paths he’s trying to keep it from wandering, thank you very much. Still, Martin’s not sleeping much either and it’s probably affecting his memory. Still worrying, though.
He sighs heavily and turns over on the cot, like he’s trying to get comfortable. He already is comfortable, at least physically. It’s his mind that’s uneasy, that won’t rest.
Finally, he gives up. Maybe if he gets up and does a quick circuit of the Archives, just to assure himself there aren’t any worms, he’ll feel better. And if all else fails, he can busy himself with quietly removing staples from documents so they’ll be in better condition years down the line. He gets where Jon is coming from, wanting them all to be together, but come on, even Martin knows you’re not supposed to do that.
He climbs out of the cot, replaces his glasses, and pulls on his trousers; no one else is supposed to be there, but it’d be just his luck if Jon stayed late or passed out at his desk or something. Or worse, Tim’s still around, ready to make a cheeky comment about his choice of sleepwear. He slips the torch into one pocket and the corkscrew into the other, picks up the fire extinguisher he keeps with him at all times now, and heads out barefoot into the Archives.
It’s—there’s no other word for it—spooky at night, with no one else around. The emergency lights stay on all the time, sporadic lights that don’t so much illuminate as give texture to the darkness. You can see your way around, but if you want to do any serious work you’ll need to either turn on a regular light or use a torch. Martin’s at the point where he trusts anything about the Institute about as far as he can see it, including the electricity, hence why he always carries the torch with him. Also, he’s discovered that this emergency lighting isn’t all over the Institute, not that he plans on venturing out of the Archives tonight. This is just a quick tour to reassure himself that his sleep will be worm-free, so that maybe he can get some.
He’s a few steps away from one of the empty offices, its lights dark—no emergency lighting in there—when he hears a sound from a nearby aisle and freezes. Someone—or something—is in the Archives.
Oddly enough, the fact that it sounds too big to be a worm is not reassuring.
Martin’s not stupid, far from it. He’s read the statements, and he’s also got a secret, rarely-indulged fondness for Gothic horror that dates back to his discovery of Samuel Taylor Coleridge’s Christabel. He knows that going towards the sound and calling out a questioning hello is asking for trouble. He’ll end up with all the blood drained out of him, or fed to a giant monster, or with some creep wearing his face like a mask.
On the other hand, what can he actually do? He doesn’t have his cell phone anymore, didn’t grab his laptop before bolting out of his flat, and the only phone in the Archives is in Jon’s office. Martin doesn’t even know if it’s a real phone or if it’s just a fancy-looking intercom system. If he retreats back to the room he’s been staying in and hides under the blankets, it won’t stop whatever is in there from coming after him if it wants to, plus he’ll be trapped. At least out here he can, in theory, get away if it attacks.
Plus...he’s too damned curious, he supposes. Not knowing bothers him almost as much as the risks of finding out.
He takes a deep breath, slips his hand into his pocket to reassure himself the corkscrew is there just in case, and steps around the shelves.
“Hey!” he calls, and then yelps in surprise.
Standing a few yards away down the aisle is him.
The other person doesn’t just look a lot like him. It is him. Same height, same build, same coloring. Same messy mop of hair that needs a cut, never mind a comb. Same bags under the eyes. Hell, he’s even wearing the same damn sweater Martin is, the one he refuses to admit out loud why he likes to wear so often. And he’s looking at Martin with the same startled expression on his face that Martin must have on his own.
Then the other Martin sighs and closes his eyes, his shoulders slumping, and suddenly he looks...old. Tired for more reasons than just a simple lack of sleep. “Christ. You’re the one person I was trying to avoid. Couldn’t sleep, could you?”
“Wh-who are you? What are you?” Martin demands, aware that his voice is creeping towards a higher register. “I-I’ve got a knife!”
The other looks up again. “Really? You haven’t switched to the corkscrew yet?”
“Th—what?”
“Corkscrew,” the other repeats. “It works better on the worms than a knife would. They go straight in, more or less, and they don’t move quickly, so you can...pull them out with it easier. If you need to.”
Martin’s fingers tighten around the corkscrew’s handle, unsettled at hearing his logic spilling from another’s mouth, especially a mouth that matches his own. “How—how do you know about the corkscrew? Or the worms?”
The other’s lips twitch in a smile that doesn’t have a lot of amusement in it. “I’m you from the future.”
Martin blinks. “Shut up.”
“No, honest.”
“You expect me to believe in time travel.”
The other actually laughs. It sounds like the way Martin laughs when he’s not so much amused at what’s happening or what’s been said as at his own reaction to it. “Honestly? I didn’t completely believe in time travel until I woke up here in the Archives and heard Tim’s voice.”
There’s something a bit wistful in the other’s voice that, weirdly enough, makes Martin believe him a little bit. Not completely, but a little bit. On the other hand, the fact that the other claims to have known he was in the past because he heard Tim’s voice is...probably not good. Martin decides he’s not quite ready to know that yet. “So...you’re from the future. In the past. Why?”
“You want the short answer or the long one?”
“Short,” Martin says after a moment’s deliberation. “Until I decide if I trust you.”
The other nods, as if he expected that answer—which, well, if he really is Martin from the future, he probably did. “To stop the world from ending.”
Martin gives a short bark of incredulous laughter. “So—so are you saying you’re here to prevent nuclear warfare, o-or climate change, or are we talking biblical Armageddon with angels and demons and seven years of darkness?”
“The last one’s the closest, really,” the other says seriously. “No demons or angels, though. Not the traditional type, anyway. And I can’t really say how many years of darkness we’ve had. Time hasn’t meant all that much since it ended.”
“Wait, wait. You’re saying the world already ended. Will end. In my lifetime. And I’ll...survive it, somehow?”
The other’s gaze is...disconcerting, to say the least. It’s like he’s seeing through Martin, looking not at him but at a fixed point in his life. “Not your lifetime. That’s what we’re here to stop. Maybe it’s better to say I’m from a future, but not yours.” He smiles faintly. “I never met myself, so we’ve already changed that much, at least.”
We, Martin notes. Not I. That’s not terrifying at all. He decides that most questions can wait until he’s sure he actually believes the other, though. “What are you planning to do to stop it?”
The other hesitates. “That’s...there’s not really a short answer to that one, and it won’t make much sense without the long answer to the other.”
“F-fine. Fine. What can I do to help you prevent the world from ending?”
“Keep Jon safe.” The other speaks with an intensity and gravity that settles into Martin’s bones, pinning him to the ground with the weight of it. “Don’t let him get hurt.”
“He gets hurt?” Martin’s voice goes slightly shrill for a moment. His growing feelings for Jon are a tightly-kept secret, or at least he wants them to be—Tim’s probably figured it out, he seems to figure out everything else—but the mere idea of Jon being hurt sends him into a minor panic. A small, more rational part of him wonders if this is proof that the other isn’t him, that he isn’t panicking at the thought.
“Not if you can help it,” the other says. “I—I can’t go into too many details. Not right now. You’re—you’re probably safe, whatever you know, but I can’t be certain, and it’s a lot to risk at the moment. Just...trust me. Keep Jon safe. Don’t hover,” he adds hastily, as if he knows how likely it is that Martin’s going to do exactly that, “but just...keep a sharp eye out for worms. And spiders.”
“Spiders aren’t dangerous.” Martin narrows his eyes at the other as another tendril of doubt curls through him. “Not all of them. Not inherently.”
“No, not spiders themselves,” the other agrees. “But...well. Let’s just say Jon has his reasons for being afraid of them, and they’re...very valid. Spiders won’t hurt him, exactly, but they’re liable to be a sign that something that will hurt him very nearby.”
“The worms. Am I in danger?”
Again the other hesitates. “Not tonight. Not...Jane Prentiss knows where you live, so she toyed with you, set you off-balance as a warning to the others. It’s why you can’t go home. But she only knows because she followed you back from that basement. You’re not what she’s after. She won’t attack the Institute while you’re sleeping.”
Martin stares. “That’s...not as comforting as you might think.”
“No,” the other says, with an odd sort of smile and laugh, as if at a private joke Martin doesn’t get. “No, I guess not.”
Martin bites his lip, then asks the only question he feels like he can ask. “How can I trust you? How can I know you’re...really me from the future?”
The other tilts his head, as if considering that question from all angles. Martin knows it’s not a fair question. He can’t really expect the other to tell him something that happens in the future and then just...wait around until it happens. Especially since now it might not happen, if the other has already changed things. The thought gives him a slight headache.
Finally, the other says, “You should tell Jon the truth.”
Martin’s heart rate accelerates dramatically. Oh, no. No, no, no, no, no. “A-about what?”
“About your CV. That you lied to get the job. Tell him, first thing tomorrow.”
That’s not what Martin was afraid the other was going to suggest telling the truth about, but it doesn’t noticeably calm him, either. “He’ll kill me! Or worse, fire me!”
“He can’t.” The other speaks with the weirdest mix of authority and sadness Martin’s ever heard. “At least, he can’t fire you, any more than you can quit. And he won’t kill you. Anyway, better for it to come out now than...the way it eventually came out for me. Trust me.”
Martin swallows, hard. In the grand scheme of things, it’s not that big a deal, really. Anyway, he’s been at the Institute for eleven years now, so it’s not like he doesn’t have some qualifications by now. Isn’t university just supposed to be a shortcut to experience? “A-all right. I’ll talk to him tomorrow. And if he doesn’t completely lose his mind, I’ll...be back to talk to you tomorrow night. I’m living here right now.”
“I know. It’s been...what, a month?”
“Six weeks and a bit.”
“So it’s the end of April,” the other mumbles, more to himself than anything. “Plenty of time then. I can hold off a bit longer.”
Martin’s nerves can’t take much more of this. “I’m—I’m going to go—lie down.”
The other’s gaze flicks back to his face. “Go ahead. I promise you’ll be safe.”
It shouldn’t be comforting, to hear that from a stranger wearing his face, his skin. But to Martin’s mild surprise, when he gets into the cot and pulls the blanket up over his shoulders, he falls asleep almost right away.