“Sit down, boss,” Tim says insistently.
“Jon, please,” Martin—the real Martin—says, his voice soft. “We’ll explain, just...sit down. Please.”
Jon doesn’t want to sit down. He wants to stay standing, to put himself between this—this thing wearing his assistant’s face, his skin—and the three people he’s already nearly lost tonight. But he responds to the please and sits, slowly, never taking his eyes off the creature claiming to be Martin Blackwood from the future.
It’s a good likeness, he has to admit. The...creature or whatever it is looks almost identical to his—the real Martin, down to the odd twist in one set of cables on his jumper (not that Jon’s spent a lot of time staring at Martin or his jumper, of course, only that it’s not quite even and the oddity catches his attention) and that one errant curl that never seems to do what he wants it to. But this creature is also...muted is the best way Jon can think of to describe it. As if someone has turned down the saturation on a picture, or coated the whole thing in a grey wash.
“How long were you waiting for us?” Tim asks the other Martin. It seems safer to think of him that way.
“Not long,” Other-Martin answers. “Maybe a minute.”
“Really? It took you that long to get here? Must’ve been a hell of a complicated route.”
Other-Martin gives a soft snort of laughter without a lot of humor in it. “Time in those corridors doesn’t follow the same rules. As far as I could tell, I was only in there five, ten minutes, tops.”
“Tim, you invited this here?” Jon exclaims.
Tim shrugs. “It seemed safer than leaving him in the tunnels under the Institute. You know, what with the worms and the police and everything. Hard enough to explain to us what’s going on, but someone who doesn’t deal with this every day?”
Other-Martin tilts his head slightly, but his gaze is directed at Jon. It makes him feel uneasy, for reasons he can’t quite explain. He tries to bring his chin up defiantly, but he’s aware of the fact that he’s terrified and wonders if this creature can smell fear. “And you expect us to just...believe you. That you’re—that you’re Martin come back from the future. There is no scientific explanation for time travel—”
“There probably is, actually, but that’s got nothing to do with how I came back,” Other-Martin interrupts. “And no. I don’t expect you to just...believe me. Not like that. I mean, especially not right now. I know you well enough to know you’re pushing the skeptic thing as hard as you are because you know it’s real and you’re afraid. You can feel something watching you when you’re recording the statements, the real ones, the ones that you have to do on the tape, yeah? That’s what you told me. So you believe in the supernatural and the paranormal and all that, but that doesn’t mean you want to. And it sure doesn’t mean you’re going to believe I am who I say I am without some kind of proof.”
For just a moment, Jon is speechless. He’s never told anyone about that persistent feeling, or his belief that the “difficult” statements are actually true encounters. He certainly wouldn’t have told Martin, although if he’s being honest, Martin is probably the only one he would have trusted with that knowledge. To hear it pour out of someone else’s mouth is startling, to say the least. It’s not really proof, of course, but it’s certainly enough to crack the shell of skepticism Jon hides behind.
“Wait,” Sasha interrupts. “You’re saying those statements...the ones that won’t go on the laptop...they’re real? Like, they actually happened?”
“They did, yeah. I know they’re hard to verify, but, well, that’s the thing about the paranormal. Ghosts don’t leave a lot of physical evidence. And...well, people see what they want to see, and they rationalize out a lot of things they don’t.” Other-Martin sighs. “It used to drive Basira nuts.”
“Basira?” Tim asks.
“Ah—you haven’t met her yet, I don’t think. Unless you...no, she was one of the officers on the scene when all this happened in my timeline, but honestly, I had a hard time concentrating on who I talked to that night and who I talked to later. I was too busy worrying about—” Other-Martin snaps off the sentence. “She’s a cop. One of the officers assigned to the investigation at the Institute. In our timeline, she...eventually got hired to work in the Archives. It’s—”
“A long story?” Martin says, sounding tired.
Other-Martin holds up his hands. “I know, I know. I promise, we’ll explain everything as soon as—”
“We?” Jon and Sasha say in unison.
“I didn’t come back alone. Well, I mean—we came back separately, but I’m not the only one who came back. We were warned we’d probably end up in different places, though.”
Tim lifts an eyebrow and grins. “Ooh, did you arrange a rendezvous at a secret meeting point? Send one another coded messages?”
“Tim,” Sasha hisses, elbowing him.
Other-Martin smiles, a little wistfully. “I wouldn’t say that, but...the plan we worked out before we came back involved us being at the Archives, so we were going to meet there. I have no doubt they’re on their way there.”
“And when they get there?” Martin asks quietly. “When they show up and see...everything that’s happening? What then? Did you have a—a backup plan?”
“Not really. But my guess? They’ll come looking for me. Or at least for you all.”
Jon tenses. “Looking for us? Why?”
“We were always planning to bring you all into it, after we...took care of Jane Prentiss. This wasn’t...exactly how we planned to do that, it got a bit out of hand, but I had to improvise, and I didn’t do it well.” Other-Martin gives another soft huff of not-all-that-amused laughter. “I’m quite literally lost without them. But I don’t doubt for a minute that if they can’t find me, they’ll come to you all.”
Jon is torn. On the one hand, he wants to shout at this creature, demand to know what its game actually is, chase it from the building, and keep it from coming anywhere near his assistants ever again. On the other hand...the more he talks, the easier it is to believe what he’s saying. Also, this isn’t Jon’s house and it’s not exactly his place to deny access to it.
“How did you get in here, anyway?” Jon decides a change of subject might clear his mind.
“Michael,” Other-Martin answers.
“That thing that attacked Sasha?” Jon exclaims. “You’re friends with it?”
“Oh, God, no,” Other-Martin says with another laugh that has no humor in it. “Michael hates anything to do with the Archives. Not necessarily without reason. I just managed to talk him into a temporary truce. Mostly I told him I knew what would happen to him and if he didn’t want to be utterly destroyed, he’d best help me out. I think that’s the only favor I’m actually going to get out of him, though.”
Sasha rubs her temples with her fingers. “Wait, wait. If he hates us so much, why would he tell me how to save everyone?”
Other-Martin hesitates. Beside Jon, Martin sighs deeply. “Is this another ‘telling you might be dangerous until someone who can protect you shows up’ thing?” In response to the startled look Jon shoots his way, Martin gestures at his doppelganger. “That’s what he keeps saying when I push too hard.”
“Look, I know it’s frustrating, but it’s also serious. You might be okay tonight, but...I’m just reluctant to risk it until—”
A firm rapping sound interrupts him. Sasha glances at Tim. “Somebody’s knocking at your door.”
Martin hums something under his breath, which brings that sad, wistful smile to Other-Martin’s face for a second. Tim gets up. “I’ll be right back. Try not to kill Martin Prime while I’m gone.”
“Really, Tim? Star Trek reference?” Sasha snorts.
“How about you? You understood that,” Tim shoots back at her before disappearing down the hallway.
Jon wonders whether to demand an explanation or not when a yelp comes from the direction of the doorway. He’s on his feet before he can think about it, nerves thrumming with adrenaline, not sure if he wants to launch himself down the hall to drag Tim to safety or stay where he is to protect Martin and Sasha. Sasha and...their guest rise from their seats, too, all of them tense for a moment. There’s the sound of voices, too low to be distinguishable, and then, unmistakably, Tim’s laughter, and Jon relaxes a little bit. Not hurt, at least. Then Tim comes back into the room, bringing with him a person who takes the breath from Jon’s lungs.
It’s him.
Or at least, the tiny part of his brain that insists on remaining skeptical says, it’s someone who looks like him—albeit a bit less like him than the other Martin looks like his—their Martin. His hair is longer than Jon is wearing his right now—more like the length he wore it in uni, if he’s being honest—pulled back into a sort of half-ponytail and far more liberally streaked with grey. His face and hands are dotted with round scars, and Jon’s stomach lurches as he realizes they’re probably from the worms. There are probably more scars, but they’re impossible to see, as he’s draped in a dark green jumper several sizes too big for him. He looks weary, like he’s carrying far greater a burden than one would reasonably expect to fit in the pack on his back, but he’s also smiling a little. It’s Jon’s smile, that’s for sure, just...sadder, somehow.
He stops dead just inside the room. All the tension seems to drain from him. “Martin,” he gasps.
The other Martin’s face lights up. “Jon?”
Jon swears he doesn’t see his counterpart move. One moment he’s standing just inside the doorway and the next he’s in front of the sofa, and the two of them are embracing tightly. The other Jon’s bag slips to the floor with a soft thud, but neither of them seem to notice it.
“Oh, thank God,” Other-Jon chokes out. The words tumble out in a semipanicked, breathless rush. “I couldn’t find you, I tried to use the—to Know where you were, but it was—I c-couldn’t see you and I was worried, I tried to tell myself you would be fine, but I—I didn’t think about—I should have realized whatever hid you from the Eye would mean I wouldn’t be able to see you either, but I thought since it was you I’d—”
“Jon, it’s okay, it’s okay,” Other-Martin says, his voice barely above a whisper.
“Are you all right? You’re not hurt?” Other-Jon pulls back enough that he can look up into Other-Martin’s face, but doesn’t let go of him. If anything, his grip seems to tighten just a little.
“I’m fine,” Other-Martin assures him. “I’m okay. Are you all right?”
“I am now.” Other-Jon pulls him into another tight hug.
Jon feels a bit like he’s watching something he shouldn’t be privy to, but at the same time, he can’t look away. Partly because the reunion is so compelling, partly due to what feels like the same thing that grips him when he’s reading those statements, but mostly because he does not want to see the look on Tim’s face right now, thank you very much. And he’s not sure he can look at Martin without making a fool of himself.
Whatever else happens in the future, he finds himself thinking, at least he loosens up enough that he can express how he actually feels instead of trying to hide behind a professional facade. Because this is pretty much how he wanted to react when he saw Martin emerge from the quarantine tent—to wrap him up in a hug, to tell him how glad he was that he was safe, to reassure himself Martin was alive and whole. It’s why he was so quick to help him walk. He almost envies his future self this freedom, the ability to just wrap his arms around Martin and know he’s all right. Whatever else they’ve gone through—and from their appearances, they’ve been through a lot—at least he has this.
He realizes the direction his thoughts are trending and clenches his teeth, mentally grasping the last bit of skepticism in his mind with both hands. He still can’t be completely sure these two are really them from the future. Yes, they look a lot like him and Martin, sound like them, but...what was it his cousin used to say? Correlation does not imply causation. There could be a perfectly normal explanation for this—a non-supernatural one, one that doesn’t involve time travel or the end of the world or anything like that. He’s just got to figure out what that explanation is.
Tim, naturally, is the one to break the silence. “So!” he says, settling onto the sofa and stretching out his arms along the back. “Should we be expecting Tim Prime and Sasha Prime to come along any minute now?”
“No,” Other-Jon says quietly, drawing back from Other-Martin with visible reluctance. “No, it’s only us.”
He turns to look at Tim and Sasha, and Jon finds himself torn between the desire to shift and stand between them and the fear of leaving Martin exposed if he does so. He takes a small step forward and speaks up, drawing the attention back to himself. “How do we know you’re really from the future? What proof is there that you’re really who you say you are?”
“Well, we believe them,” Tim says. “Or at least we believe him.” He waves at Other-Martin.
“Not good enough, I’m afraid,” Other-Jon says before Jon can. There’s a faint hint of amusement in his tone. “You’re all rather too credulous. It’s easy to convince you. He’s far less ready to believe on flimsy evidence. Proof, that’s what’s needed.”
Tim tilts his head sideways, as if considering that. “He’s certainly got you pegged, Boss.”
Jon narrows his eyes. He rather suspects he’s being mocked, and he doesn’t like it in the slightest. “If that’s the best you can come up with—” he begins.
“A Guest for Mister Spider,” Other-Martin interrupts.
Jon’s entire body goes still with horror as the memories come rushing in, not that they’re ever far from his mind. He fights very hard to keep it from showing on his face, however, and says as evenly as he can, “I beg your pardon?”
“Your grandmother bought it out of the bargain bin at a charity shop when you were about eight.” Other-Martin’s eyes seem to stare right through Jon, as if they’re seeing him all those years ago, walking down the streets unknowingly with his nose buried in a book. “It was your first encounter with the supernatural. Your first encounter with the name Jurgen Leitner. It’s why you came to work at the Institute in the first place.”
The words are as gentle and as inexorable as falling snow, and just as chilling. Jon’s very soul seems to freeze. He stares at the other Martin without really seeing him, without really seeing anything except the darkness within that door, the boy whose name he can’t remember vanishing in its depths, the growing smears of red on black and white drawings...
“Jon? Jon, are you all right?” Martin sounds worried, but he also sounds very far away.
Other-Martin looks slightly embarrassed as he turns to look at Other-Jon. “Too far?”
“No—no, I-I think that was...just about right.” Other-Jon reaches out and presses two fingers to Jon’s shoulder, pushing him downward. “Sit down and breathe, Archivist.”
It’s the word Archivist that pushes through the fog in Jon’s brain, oddly enough. It at least serves to remind him that he’s not actually eight years old anymore. He draws in a deep, shuddering gasp of air and sits down rather heavily, jostling both Sasha and Tim.
Other-Martin and Other-Jon sit down as well. Jon notices, with the part of his brain not currently paging through the Owner’s Manual to the Human Body for the instructions on breathing, that Other-Jon rests his hand on top of Other-Martin’s. Other-Martin strokes Other-Jon’s thumb with his own in slow, careful strokes. It’s a gesture that speaks of intimacy and tenderness, and a jealousy curls in his stomach that he has no idea what to do with. Other-Jon’s free hand taps on his thigh as his eyes flutter closed, and for a moment, Jon assumes it’s an idle fidget until his brain latches onto the regularity of it and realizes what it is. He’s counting out the seconds to regulate his own breathing.
All the fight goes out of Jon in that instant. He knows when he’s beaten. This other who bears his face is him, not some stranger or monster or evil being. Which means the other must be Martin. They are from the future. They’re telling the truth.
He’s not going to admit that out loud, not just yet, but they slide from being Others to being Primes, as Tim called them, in his mind.
After a moment, Jon Prime squeezes Martin Prime’s fingers briefly, exhales, and opens his eyes. “I...I suppose you have more than a few questions.”
“You could say that,” Tim agrees.
“So where do we start?” Sasha asks, the last word nearly being swallowed in a yawn.
Jon is burning with curiosity, but he also recognizes that Sasha is tired, and likely Tim as well. And Martin...Martin must be absolutely wiped out. His own energy, the adrenaline that’s been driving him since he saw the emergency lights at the Institute, is starting to flag. It’s late.
“As much as I’d like to know what the hell is going on here, I think most of it can wait until tomorrow, when we’re all fresh,” he says, putting as much authority into his words as he can. “I need to get your statements before you start forgetting the details.”
“I don’t know if that’s possible,” Sasha says, not quite under her breath.
Martin Prime snorts. “It’s not. Best to get your statements done now, though. Trust me.”
Tim raises an eyebrow. “I think Martin should go first.”
Jon turns to look fully at Martin. He’s visibly exhausted, but he nods, eyes fixed unwaveringly on Jon.
Jon exhales. “All right, then.”