Martin is ready to go now.
It’s late—it was late when all this started, but it has to be closing in on midnight now. He’s wrapped up like a mummy, and he’s only not in complete agony because one of the very nice paramedics got permission from the doctor at whatever hospital to give him some painkillers. He’s still in pain, but it’s fainter, more muffled. He’s tired and he’s, well, drugged, and it’s hard to think straight, and he just wants to get some rest. He wants to go home, or at least somewhere quieter and less...wormy than here. Somewhere safe.
He’s seen movement and flashing lights through the translucent plastic sheeting that is the quarantine tent, heard voices and shouting that he can’t quite make out, but it all seems to have mostly died down by now. Martin wonders how he’s going to get anywhere, much less home. He wonders if Tim and Sasha made it out of those tunnels okay, if the other is all right. He wonders about the scream.
But nobody will tell him anything, only that he is not infested and needs to keep the wounds clean and needs fresh air. They tell him a lot about how to recover from what’s happened to him and a bit on what to expect about that process, but nothing about what’s going on beyond the four walls of this tent, and it’s worrying Martin. A lot.
“What time is it?” he asks the paramedic currently standing with him. Her partner has stepped outside and may or may not be talking to someone, probably from ECDC. He’s at least ninety percent certain they showed up for this, considering the situation, which is a very mild way of putting it.
Before the paramedic can answer, the second one steps back into the tent and nods. “All clear. Everything’s settled...Mr. Blackwood, just to be clear, you are declining transportation to the hospital, correct?”
“That’s right.” Martin has been asking them to just give him the paperwork already for what feels like this side of forever.
“All right, go ahead and sign here, please.” The second paramedic hands him a clipboard. Martin’s hands are bandaged and it’s hard to hold a pen, but he manages it. He signs without really looking at what he’s signing. The paramedic studies it and nods. “That’s all in order, then. You’ll need to keep the bandages clean and dry, and you may need to go back to your regular doctor for a checkup...”
He rattles off more instructions for looking after himself and his wounds, but frankly, Martin is too tired to listen to all this again. He hopes whatever new information is included isn’t going to be too important, or difficult to figure out; Martin’s usually pretty good at taking care of others, but that’s the point, it’s always someone else he’s looking after. Maybe he’ll just have to think of himself as “someone else”. It’s going to be some time before he’s allowed back to work, he knows that much at least, so he’ll have plenty of time to figure out how to look after himself. Not like there will be anyone else to.
Something of all this must show in his face, because after a minute, the paramedic’s face softens. “I know, it’s a lot to throw at you right now. Don’t worry, I’ve already told your partner all of this.”
“My...?” Martin looks up, confused. He doesn’t have a partner. Who could be out there claiming that? The only one he can think of is the other, and surely he wouldn’t be so foolish as to come out in the middle of...all this.
“Yeah, I told him to give me a minute to debrief you and make sure you didn’t want transport.” The paramedic tucks the clipboard under his arm. “Do you think you can walk on your own?”
If he can’t, Martin’s not about to admit that out loud; they won’t let him leave if he can’t, and he doubts they have crutches handy. “I think so, yeah. Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it.” The paramedic smiles. “You’re a lucky man, you know.”
“I know.” Martin only has to think about Timothy Hodge to know that. If the system had triggered any slower, he might have ended up too far gone to save, even if the CO2 had worked.
The paramedic winks. “’Course, he’s luckier. Take care, Mr. Blackwood.”
“Erm, you, too.” Martin bites his lip to hide his confusion and slides carefully off the stretcher. The painkillers help, but he’s still a little unsteady on his feet. He wobbles at first, but manages to make it to the edge of the quarantine tent without too much difficulty.
He steps outside and shivers. Apparently the tent blocked a lot of the night chill out; it may be halfway to June, but the nights are still cool and Martin wasn’t wearing his sweater when everything went down. It’s still in the Archives...he hopes. Assuming his little fire didn’t spread. Assuming Jane Prentiss didn’t cover the whole place in...whatever that was. Assuming...
“Martin!”
Martin looks up in shock to see Jon coming towards him, eyes wide and panicky. Behind him are—thank God—Tim and Sasha, both looking none the worse for wear. Tim and Sasha should be there, of course, but Jon...Jon went home hours ago, it’s late, he needs his sleep. It has to be a hallucination.
“Jon?” he says anyway.
Jon stops in front of him and reaches out like he wants to touch his shoulder, then stops himself, eyeing the bandages. “Are you all right? The paramedic said—”
“I—I’m fine.” It’s a lie, sort of, but Martin figures Jon doesn’t actually want to hear the nuances of that. “Apart from the...holes.”
He shivers in a sudden gust of wind, and Jon unfolds something under his arm. “Here, I—you left your sweater in the Archives, I—do you need a hand?”
Martin blinks in surprise. Is Jon sick? Is this even really Jon? He wants to say yes, to see how far this will go, but there’s enough of a height difference between the two of them that he finds himself saying, “I think I’ve got it, but...thanks.” As he takes the sweater, he manages to ask, “What are you doing here?”
Jon plays with the cuffs of his cardigan. “I—I came back to get those notes I was looking at before I left, I meant to take them with me and...I don’t know, I suddenly felt like I had to get them right away. I got back here and I found...” He gestures back in the direction of the Institute.
Martin struggles his way into the sweater and looks around. There are police cars, officers prowling about. The ambulance is packing up, and there’s a man in a white hazmat suit, minus the helmet which is under his arm, talking to one of the police officers. He mentally runs through the list of other flashing lights he saw through the walls of the tent, the voices he heard in the Archives, and surmises that there was a lot more chaos an hour or two ago.
“You should be sleeping,” he says instead, unable to keep the worry out of his voice.
Tim’s snort is practically elephantine, and Martin looks at him briefly. Jon just shakes his head. “I couldn’t—I realized you weren’t part of the crowd and that must mean you were still in there, and I—I had to make sure you were all right.”
“I’m all right.” Martin straightens up, despite the stiffness, and manages a smile. “I should...probably try and get home, I guess. If the trains are still running and all.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Jon gives him a look that’s almost reminiscent of his usual stern scowl. “I’ll give you a ride. I—I need to get your statement anyway, and...best to do it somewhere that...isn’t here.” He glances over his shoulder. “That goes for you two as well. Especially you two.”
“Are you guys all right?” Martin asks anxiously.
“We’re fine.” Sasha manages to give him a smile, coming a little closer to him as she does so.
Tim nods. “Well, we’re not hurt, at any rate. It’s...a lot.” He pauses. “Tell you what. My place is closest. Why don’t we all go there? I’ve got plenty of room and we can...debrief or whatever it is we need to do.” He grins, a pale imitation of his usual confidence and cheek, but enough to make Martin feel a little better, anyway. “Besides, we never got that sleepover in the Archives. Might as well do it in my living room.”
Tim’s up to something. Martin’s almost sure of it, but he’s honestly too tired to care. “Yeah, okay, sounds good.”
“Come on, then,” Jon says, turning towards the curb.
Martin starts to follow, and his knees buckle. That fast, Jon turns around and tries to catch him, but unfortunately, Martin is about a head taller than Jon and outweighs him by a good amount, so now they’re both falling. Luckily, Tim steps in and takes Martin’s other side, keeping them from pitching to the ground. “Whoa, there. Come on, nice and steady then.”
The three of them shuffle like an awkward, six-legged beast towards the curb, where a nondescript car that’s seen better days sits haphazardly parked and glared at by several officers. Jon opens the passenger side door, and Tim lets go of Martin slowly while Jon helps him settle into the seat. There’s a gentleness—almost a tenderness—to his actions that Martin isn’t sure he’ll survive. Never mind the worms, he’s going to die right here in this car because Jon is being nice to him.
Not to say Jon’s never been nice before. He’s been better—less tense, less angry—since Martin burst into his office and dumped a literal can of worms onto his desk. And there’s been a definite softening since Martin admitted he lied about his job history. But this level of concern, of care, is new, and Martin’s still not sure he isn’t hallucinating the whole thing.
He’s barely aware of Tim giving Jon an address, of Jon brusquely assuring him he knows where that is. He’s more concerned with not passing out or aggravating any of his injuries. He doesn’t know how many worms tried to burrow into his body, but he’s just thankful he’s not infected.
“Was the fire too bad?” he asks, feeling a little anxious.
“No, it was fine.” Jon’s voice is soft, reassuring. “Confined to a trash can, from what I could tell. I—I admit it wasn’t my primary concern when I went in. Elias said it looks like it was set to trigger the fire system.”
“It was. I just...didn’t want it to get out of control.” Martin takes a deep breath. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t—”
“Martin, no. It’s fine. If—” Jon tightens his grip on the steering wheel briefly. “It’s fine. You did the right thing. Pulling the alarm wouldn’t have done anything but clear out the building, if there had still been anybody in there. It wouldn’t have set off the system.”
Martin nods slowly. Then his brain catches up with what Jon said. “Wait, Elias was there? When? How?”
“I presume he gets an alert from the alarm company. I don’t know. He was already there when I arrived.” Jon glances over at Martin, his beautiful brown eyes still worried. “He’s the one who told me Tim and Sasha were in there.”
“How did he know?” Sasha blurts.
Jon’s eyes flick to the rearview mirror, then back to Martin, before returning to the road. “He said he overheard Tim talking about it.”
There’s an audible frown in Tim’s voice when he speaks, but Martin can’t spare the energy to try and turn his head. “Okay, now I really think he’s got the place bugged. The only person I mentioned it to was Sasha, and we were in the Archives at the time. It was right after she got back from lunch—right after you showed me that statement you found.” He pauses. “Or was that you?”
This time, Martin does turn his head, to see Tim regarding him seriously. “No. Must’ve been the other.”
Tim nods. “Thought as much. I’ve never heard you talk like that before.”
“Wait, what are you talking about?” Jon asks. “The other what?”
Martin opens his mouth to explain, but Tim beats him to it. “Tell you when we get to my place. Don’t want you wrecking the car ‘cause you’re distracted. Make a left right here.”
Jon subsides and continues driving, but he keeps shooting glances at Martin that make him thoroughly nervous. He hates keeping secrets from Jon—from anyone, really, but especially Jon—and he really should have told him about this one right away. But the other’s caution had rubbed off on him, and he had kept his mouth shut. Now it’s going to be another stress about losing his job...despite the other’s reassurance that he won’t.
Even if he doesn’t lose his job...what if he loses Jon’s trust? He doesn’t think he’ll survive that.
Finally, Jon pulls the car to a stop in front of Tim’s house. Or at least, Martin assumes it’s Tim’s house, since he directed them there. For all he knows, this is some completely random place and Tim’s playing one of his jokes on them, but he doubts it. Tim undoes his safety belt and opens the door. “Come on in, everybody.”
Sasha gets out from behind Martin, too. Martin manages to get his safety belt unfastened, but when he goes to open the door and climb out, he can’t help the small, pained noise that escapes him when he tries to stand. He presses his lips together tightly and swallows down on the pain, desperate not to be a burden, to prove that he’ll be fine when—inevitably—Jon drops him home or he manages to hobble to the nearest Underground station and get there himself. He can do this. It’s just a few steps.
“Martin?” Jon’s suddenly there beside him, one hand out uncertainly. “Here, let—let me give you a hand. You’ve got to be stiff at the very least, sitting cramped into that space for so long. I should have pushed the seat back before you got in—that’s why Sasha sat behind you, I’m sure, her legs are shorter...”
“I’m fine,” Martin insists, or tries to, despite the fact that he’s leaning heavily on the roof of Jon’s car for support and that’s really not helping the pain from the holes under the bandages. “You don’t have to.”
“Maybe not, but let me help you anyway,” Jon says. He sounds like he’s trying to summon up his usual brusque and stern facade, but the genuine worry in his eyes makes a lie of that. Martin doesn’t know what to think about it, but he can feel his ears getting hot.
“Sure, okay,” he hears himself say softly.
Jon slips an arm gingerly around him, draping Martin’s arm around his shoulder. Martin tries not to lean on him too hard, but Jon takes more of his weight than Martin would prefer as they limp towards the front door. When Tim, who’s in the process of unlocking the door, realizes what’s going on, he abandons the keys and comes back to help. Since he’s closer to Martin’s height, it makes things easier.
Sasha pulls the door open for them, holds it so they can maneuver in, then shuts the door behind them as Tim switches on the hall light. “Here we are,” he announces, his voice maybe a bit louder than necessary. “Home sweet home. Come on, let’s get settled in the living room.”
It’s not a very long hallway, but still, Martin is definitely ready to sit down by the time they shuffle awkwardly into the living room. There is, he’s relieved to see, plenty of seating available. Apart from two wing chairs flanking a window and backed by a bookcase, there’s a comfortable-looking sofa, a matching love seat, and an oversized armchair. There’s also someone standing next to the love seat, one hand pressed into its back. Jon stops abruptly and nearly sends Martin tumbling to the ground, his entire body stiffening.
“It’s all right,” Tim assures him. “Mostly.”
“Mostly?” Jon repeats incredulously.
The other smiles, but there’s something sad about it. “Hello, Jon.”
“Who—what are you?” Jon demands. There’s an edge to his voice, something between anger and fear that stirs a feeling of protectiveness in Martin’s chest, which is not helpful at the moment since he can barely stand on his own, let alone stand between Jon and anything that might be trying to kill him.
“I’d really like to sit down right now, if nobody minds,” he says.
“Sit. Everybody,” Tim adds. He takes most of Martin’s weight and helps him over to the armchair, which turns out to be a recliner. “Put your feet up if you need to...Jon, Sasha, you sit too. And you,” he adds, gesturing to the other. “I’ll go make tea. Or break out the whiskey. We might need it.”
“Not a good idea for me,” Martin says softly. “Painkillers.”
“What, you don’t think the possibility of a good time outweighs the risks of an overdose? Kidding,” Tim adds quickly, holding up both hands as Jon turns a glare on him that makes the ones he directed at Martin and his work pale in comparison. “Only kidding.”
“Tim, sit down. We don’t need tea right now,” Sasha says, gesturing for everyone to either sit or calm down or both. “Maybe later.”
She takes a seat on the far end of the sofa, by the door; Tim comes over to sit next to her in the middle. The other moves carefully around the love seat and sits down on the end closest to where Martin sits. Jon remains standing, still glaring at the other.
“What are you?” he repeats.
“Human,” the other says. “As far as I can tell, anyway. At least as human as you are. But if you’re asking who I am, which I think was your original question...I’m Martin Blackwood. From the future. And I’m here to help save the world.”