Jon has always been bad about actually stopping what he’s doing and getting lunch, but ever since Jane Prentiss came into their lives it’s only gotten worse. Sometimes Martin or Tim, or both, can coax him out to join them, but too often it’s met with a you go ahead, I just want to finish this up and the next thing they know it’s six o’clock and Jon hasn’t eaten since breakfast and has just one more thing to finish up before they can go. (He always insists that the others don’t have to wait for him, but that’s a lie; the one time they did all leave and let Jon stay to finish up what he was working on, they wound up having to call him, threaten to come back to the Institute and get him, and keep talking to him while he packed his things and got out the door.) They’ve taken to solving the issue by picking up an extra sandwich or something and bringing it back for Jon when they go to lunch.
Such is the case today. There’s a curry house opening about a ten-minute walk from the Institute that Tim wants to try, but he doesn’t want to go alone; Sasha isn’t all that fond of spicy food, so Martin agrees to go with him. Martin pops in to ask Jon if he wants to go, but Jon appears absorbed in his work and waves him off. Sasha promises to text if anything happens, and he and Tim set off.
It’s the first of October, the temperature hanging at about thirteen degrees following a rainy morning. The air still smells damp and earthy, and worms litter the sidewalks. Martin’s better about that than he used to be—when he was first going on walks with the Primes, during his initial recovery period, they learned very quickly that he needed to give it a good twenty-four hours after the rain stopped before he was able to go out without panicking about the worms—but still, he finds himself watching where he puts his feet very carefully.
Tim has to notice, but doesn’t mention it. Martin’s come to realize over the last year or so that that’s very much how Tim is; he’ll tease, sure, but never about something important. He does loop his arm through Martin’s, though. “Maybe I should start bringing a pack of cards with me to work or something. I bet we can drag Jon out of his office long enough to eat if we give him the chance to whittle away at your point lead, too.”
“I hope so. I’m pretty sure what he’s working on is just the stuff that can be recorded on the laptop, but…I worry. You know?” Martin thinks about the intense look Jon gets when they’re reading over something that they all suspect will turn out to be real. He doesn’t want to lose Jon, but the words stick in his throat.
“I know,” Tim says quietly. “I do, too.” He bumps Martin’s shoulder with his own. “Worry about you, too. I’ve seen the look on your face when you’re researching some of this stuff.”
“I don’t…really?” Martin’s stomach lurches. “I-I mean, it’s…it’s hard to walk away from and…”
“Yeah, I’ve noticed, but…never mind.” Tim falls silent.
Martin decides to wait him out and focuses on his footsteps until they get to the curry house. Because it’s a Saturday (and why they’re working on a Saturday is another issue entirely and allegedly involves a scheduling issue with some work needing to be done), and because it’s the grand opening, they expect a bit of a crowd; because of the rain, it’s not as bad as it could be, but there’s still quite a line and at first Martin thinks they’ll have to take their meals to go, which wouldn’t be a bad thing, honestly. He figures maybe they can get their orders, head back to the Institute, and convince Jon to stop and eat with them if they aren’t taking him out of the Archives. But a table opens up in the corner just as they get their order, and they manage to nab it before anyone else can.
Tim doesn’t go back to his original topic while they’re eating, which, honestly, Martin should have expected. They talk a little bit about the statements they’re investigating, most of which are probably going to end up in the Discredited section, and some about what they’re going to do for Jon’s birthday next week. Although they dance around the issue a bit since they’re in public, they both agree that they’ve somehow got to do something for Jon Prime as well. The memory of the sheer delight on Martin Prime’s face when they included him in Martin’s birthday celebration is hard to forget.
“You know they’d only just had their birthdays when…everything happened, right?” Martin asks as they head back to the Institute. The sun is making a valiant effort to poke through the clouds, and most of the worms seem to have either managed to clear the sidewalks or been removed, but he’s still watching the ground instead of what’s ahead of him and trusting Tim to tell him before he runs into someone.
“Who?” Tim asks, sounding confused.
“The Primes. Martin Prime told me on…our birthday? Jon Prime’s thirty-first was while they were in Scotland, like a week and a half, maybe, before the world ended.”
Tim hums. “What about Martin Prime’s?”
Martin hesitates. “It was, um, before that.”
“While he was still working with Peter Lukas,” Tim says flatly. Martin doesn’t respond. “Great. So he was—ugh. I wish I’d known that beforehand, I’d’ve…I don’t know, tried to do more for him. Being alone on your birthday—”
“Is something we’re used to,” Martin interrupts, a bit more sharply than he means to. “God, Tim, do you know when the last time was someone even bothered to acknowledge my birthday before last year? I was eight. Mum sure as hell wasn’t going to say anything about it, and my only friends were from school. Since my birthday was right in the middle of the summer holiday, I didn’t even get the teacher acknowledging it in class. Martin Prime’s twenty-ninth birthday happened less than a month after Jane Prentiss attacked, when Jon Prime and Tim Prime were still out on medical leave and it was just him and the Not-Sasha. His thirtieth birthday happened less than a month after—” His voice cracks and he can’t bring himself to say it. After your counterpart died. After Jon Prime wound up in a coma.
Tim stops dead on the sidewalk, mid-step. Martin pulls to a stop, too, and looks up at him. Before he can say anything, Tim turns and pulls him into a tight hug. Martin freezes for a second, then relaxes into it and hugs Tim back.
“I’m sorry,” Tim says in his ear. “You deserve better than that. We’ll do better for you. I promise.”
Martin exhales. “Thanks, Tim.”
They separate and head back into the Archives. Sasha looks up at them and smiles wryly when she sees the takeout box in Martin’s hand. “Might have to wait on that a bit. He’s got someone in there.”
Tim curses under his breath. “And nobody to cut the energy.”
“I offered to sit in with them both, but she insisted it would be fine. I couldn’t push it.” Sasha waves a hand at her computer. “Besides, I’m waiting on some reports to compile on—”
There’s a yell of pain from the direction of Jon’s office. Martin’s head jerks up, and the takeout container slips from his hand to the ground. He doesn’t even notice if it falls open or not, too busy rushing for the office door, Tim a half-step behind him. His fingers touch the knob just as there’s a second, louder yell.
“Jon!” Martin flings the door open and bursts into the room. Jon is standing behind his desk, head bowed and shoulders bent, one hand braced against the surface and the other pressing hard against his abdomen.
Jon looks up, his face tight and his eyes wide with pain and terror. “Michael,” he gasps. “H-he was here.”
“Oh, God.” Martin is at Jon’s side in a flash and reaching for him. He starts to pull him into a hug, then freezes when Jon lets out a small, distressed noise. “What happened? What did—are you hurt?”
“H-he—” Jon shifts his hand slightly, and now Martin can see something wet and red on his fingers. Blood. Oh, that’s not good. “His fingers—he—”
“Tim!” Martin barks. “We need the first aid kit. Now.”
“On it.” Tim turns on his heel and practically flies out of the office.
Martin guides Jon back into his chair and kneels down in front of him. “Here, let me see,” he says as calmly as he can, reaching for Jon’s hand.
Jon only presses his hand tighter against his side, despite the obvious pain it causes him to do so, so Martin stops moving. “He took her,” he gasps out.
“Took who?” Martin asks, a sinking feeling in his stomach.
“Th-the woman. Helen Richardson. She was—she was making her statement, I told her we believed her, she left and—and I thought—and then he was there and—” Jon swallows. He’s starting to tremble. “It was the wrong door, Martin. She went out the wrong door. He took her and I couldn’t—”
“Easy, Jon. Easy,” Martin says soothingly. “It’s okay.”
“It’s not! I should have—” Jon breaks off with a whimper. He’s really worked up, and Martin is worried about it.
He’s more worried about the injury, though, so when Tim returns an instant later with the first aid kit in hand, Martin immediately sets about unpacking the gauze and alcohol wipes.
“Okay, Jon,” he says. “I’m going to need to take a look at this. Tim, can you hold his other hand? I know this is going to hurt, but I need you to trust me, okay? I want to help.”
He’s talking to Jon like a frightened child, he knows that, but right now Jon looks like a frightened child, and anyway, he nods and takes Tim’s hand. Martin carefully pulls Jon’s hand away from his side. The fussy old-man cardigan Tim’s been teasing him about since day one is torn and wet to the touch, and when Martin shifts it aside, there’s already a dark stain on the turtleneck underneath. He tries to be gentle about lifting it up, but Jon cries out when he pulls the shirt away from the wound and tightens his grip on Tim’s hand.
“Sorry, sorry!” Martin says, feeling guilty. Tim murmurs soothing nonsense at Jon, squeezing his hand and wrapping his free arm around Jon’s shoulders. Jon’s breathing heavily, and one look at what Martin can see tells him that stopping the bleeding is more important than cleaning up the skin. He grabs a pad of gauze, folds it over, and presses it to where he’s pretty sure the wound is. Jon gives a strangled noise, but doesn’t flinch away.
The gauze soaks through far too quickly, and Martin shakes his head worriedly. He manages to unwrap a second piece of gauze and press it on top of the first without any difficulty, but securing it is going to be a problem. “Here, Jon, I need your help, okay? Come hold this for a second. Can you do that for me?”
Jon’s fingers are trembling as they brush Martin’s. Martin switches their positions as quickly as he can, helping Jon apply the right amount of pressure, then reaches over and grabs the medical tape. He rips off a couple of strips, then nudges Jon’s hand out of the way and secures the gauze as best he can. It’s not perfect, but it’ll hold long enough.
“You’re going to need stitches, I think,” Martin tells him, standing up and holding out a hand. “The clinic’s only a few blocks away. Do you think you can walk?”
Jon stares at Martin’s hand for a moment, then nods mutely and accepts it. He wobbles and winces as he gets to his feet, then stumbles against Martin’s side. He’s shaking all over, and Martin is really worried.
He looks over at Tim, who bites his lip hard before saying quietly, “Call if you need backup. I’ll—I’ll stay here and help Sasha handle Elias if he turns up.”
“The tape—statement—” Jon gasps and gestures at the silent recorder on his desk.
“We’ll listen to it,” Tim promises. “It’ll be okay, boss.”
“I’ll call,” Martin assures him. He wraps his arm around Jon’s shoulders and leads him out of the Archives.
Three blocks over and one block up. It really isn’t a long walk to the clinic, but Martin isn’t completely sure Jon’s going to make it at first without being carried. He keeps stumbling over his feet and stopping for breath. Martin encourages him, but he’s about three seconds away from scooping him up bridal-style and carrying him the rest of the way to the clinic. Somehow, though, they make it. Martin texts Tim to let him know they made it safely, then opens the door and steps in.
It takes Martin a second to recognize the person behind the reception desk; they’ve changed their hair, a green bouffant with a bleach-blond stripe just above black roots and the sides shaved, and Martin’s pretty sure there’s an extra cartilage piercing that wasn’t there before, but it could just be a brighter stud than usual.
“Hey, Zig,” he says in greeting as he ushers Jon up to the counter. “Love the hair.”
Zig looks up and breaks into a grin. “Martin, hey! Long time no see…whoa.”
“Worms,” Martin says succinctly. “Bit much for you all. It was also the middle of the night.”
“Valid.” Zig peers at Jon, who is managing to look both bewildered and terrified, then back at Martin. “Work-related?”
“Yep.”
“On a Saturday?”
Martin shrugs. “They’re doing work on Monday that we apparently can’t manage around, so Elias shifted the weekend. There are some questions I just don’t ask anymore.”
“Fair enough.” Zig waves in the direction of the door. “You know the drill. What am I warning the doc about?”
“Stab wound. Thanks, Zig.” Martin steers Jon through the mercifully empty waiting room. It usually is when he comes through here, but whenever there are people waiting, someone inevitably starts complaining and Zig—or whoever’s working reception—always has to lie and say they have an appointment.
Jon doesn’t say anything as Martin leads him on the familiar route—through the heavy blue door, turn left at the corridor with a nod to the nurse sitting behind the desk, three doors down and the last one on the right. The room is on the smallish side, with enough room for the exam table, a small counter with a sink, two overhead cupboards and a set of drawers under the counter. Two people fit comfortably, three is a bit of a squeeze, but Martin for all his size fits neatly enough into the corner and out of the way…usually. Today, though, Jon clings to his arm almost tight enough to hurt, and Martin knows he isn’t going anywhere.
“It’s okay, Jon,” he says gently. He’s still afraid, there’s no denying that, but he’s also a bit more relaxed now that they’re here. “I’m not going anywhere, okay? Not unless you tell me to.”
“No—stay—” Jon sounds slightly panicked. He closes his eyes and takes a couple deep breaths.
“I will. I promise. C’mon, come sit down. The doctor will be here soon.” Martin keeps his voice as low and soothing as he can as he leads Jon to the exam table and helps him settle onto it. “You’ll like him. He’s good at what he does.”
“You’ve…been here before,” Jon manages. He’s either in a lot of pain or he’s lost a lot more blood than is optimal, and Martin kind of hopes it’s the former so they don’t have to sit here while Jon gets a transfusion.
“Mm-hmm. Remember the day Basira dropped off that first tape, when I told you Diana used to send me on whatever errand she could think of to get me out of the library for a bit?” Jon nods, and Martin continues, “Well, one of those things was bringing people here. Whenever someone in Artifact Storage gets hurt beyond the help of a first aid kit, this is the nearest place. The staff’s really good, the care is excellent, and they…”
“Don’t ask questions?”
“Don’t question answers.”
Before Martin can elaborate, the door opens, and a silver-haired man in a white coat who looks like he was sent straight from Central Casting comes in, shutting the door behind him. He smiles when he sees Martin. “Ah, Martin, good. We were starting to wonder if something had happened to you.”
“I got shifted to the Archives,” Martin explains. “They tend to…leave us to our own devices.”
“Well, they need to stop doing that. Everyone’s so damned close with their secrets. It makes things remarkably difficult.” The doctor turns to Jon with a warm smile. “Hello. I’m Dr. Early. What seems to be the trouble today, Mr…?”
“Uh, Sims. Jonathan Sims.” Jon blinks, looking a bit dazed, and glances helplessly at Martin.
“Mr. Sims, then. I hear you’ve a stab wound?” Dr. Early lifts an eyebrow in Martin’s direction. “That’s a new one. You must’ve got a really interesting artifact in. Did it explode or did you just not notice how close you were to the pointy bits?”
“It was a person this time. Jon’s the Head Archivist,” Martin says. “We don’t deal so much with…things.”
“Oh? Do tell.”
Martin glances at Jon, who still looks a little stunned. “Um, unexpected visit from a being that thrives on the fear of confusion, currently in the shape of a blond man with knives for fingers? I…don’t know the details beyond that, sorry.”
“Mm. Well, Mr. Sims, I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you.” Dr. Early looks Jon over and gentles his voice. “Can you please tell me what happened?”
“Uh—” Jon looks worriedly up at Martin again.
Martin squeezes Jon’s hand. “I usually just tell him exactly what happened. It’s okay.”
“It’s a lot harder to treat someone if I’m lied to about the cause,” Dr. Early explains. “Or given vague, incomplete explanations. Which is why we’ve all been extremely annoyed that they’ve been sending people who are either protective of their work or afraid of being sent to the loony bin. I can assure you, we don’t commit people from the Magnus Institute, and we’re not interested in spreading your research around, either. Martin here is very straightforward and honest and it’s a great help. We’ve missed him a lot.”
“I can understand that,” Jon murmurs, and Martin’s face gets hot. “A—a man came to—h-he appeared and—” He breaks off. “I-I’m sorry, I don’t—I can’t—”
Dr. Early looks at Martin, obviously concerned. Jon can’t seem to get his thoughts straight, which the good doctor obviously thinks means he’s more badly injured than he is. Martin knows Jon, though, and he knows he’s just scared and confused. He takes both of Jon’s hands in his own. Maybe he’ll talk to Martin.
“Jon,” he says, gently but forcefully. “Look at me, okay? Focus on me. What happened?”
Jon’s eyes clear—he’s still frightened, but at least he’s focusing, which Martin appreciates. “Helen Richardson—she came to make a statement, she encountered Michael after all. I told her I believed her and we would do what we could to protect her, and then she left. I was getting ready to come out and tell Sasha I was heading down into the tunnels, to—to tell you and Tim not to worry about me—when I heard a voice asking me if I was who I was pretending to be. There was a man standing there and I started to say he didn’t belong there, but then I realized who he was and asked if he was Michael. He said he was, and—I said Helen had escaped, and he said she hadn’t, that there had never been a door there. I tried to get him to give her back, and when he said no, I stood up, I was—I don’t know what I was going to do, something, but he just—reached out and dug his finger into my side, just like Sasha described in her statement, but—it wasn’t to help, it was to hurt. It did hurt, and I—I asked why he was doing this, and he—he didn’t answer, he just…” His voice cracks. “I-I couldn’t stop him, Martin, I couldn’t save her—”
“Hey, easy, easy,” Martin says as soothingly as he can, even as his heart sinks. “It’s okay, Jon. You did your best. It’s not your fault. Tell me what his fingers looked like.”
“U-um, like—like knives. Long and skinny a-and sharp.”
“Were they straight, jagged…?”
“Straight,” Jon says after a short pause. “Like—like my paper knife, the one I—they weren’t metal, they were bone.”
Martin glances up at Dr. Early, who makes a motion like he’s washing his hands. Martin understands. “Were they clean?”
“I—I didn’t notice? They were yellow. Like old bone. I-I didn’t see any dirt or, or blood, but…”
“All right. Let me take a look at it,” Dr. Early says calmly. “Where is it?”
Martin steps to one side and releases one of Jon’s hands; Jon clings too tightly to the other for him to let go and indicates the injured spot with his now-free hand. Dr. Early carefully lifts the shirt and inspects the double layer of gauze. “I’m going to need to peel this off, Mr. Sims. This might hurt a bit.”
It does, judging by the way Jon’s fingers tighten around Martin’s as he hisses at the tug against his skin; Martin silently gives thanks that the Primes bullied him into taking care of himself properly and his wounds healed well, because otherwise this would hurt more than it does. As it is, he can bear up silently as Dr. Early removes the tape as carefully as he can and lifts the gauze from the wound. Fresh blood wells up as soon as it’s clear, and Jon screws his eyes up tightly.
“Mm, yes, this is going to need a few stitches.” Dr. Early speaks calmly. “Go ahead and take your shirt off and lie back. I’ll go get my supplies and be right back. Do you have any allergies, any medications you’re currently taking, any medical conditions that might interfere with the anesthesia?”
“Don’t—” Jon’s eyes pop open and nearly burst out of his skull, and his breathing starts getting shallow and panicky. “No, please, don’t—”
“All right, we can do this without anesthesia,” Dr. Early says without batting an eyelash. He’s used to the quirks and foibles of the Magnus Institute’s staff, and he’s probably used to people panicking, too. “I’ll go get my supplies and be right back.” He meets Martin’s eyes, flicks a finger at the exam table, and vanishes.
Martin exhales. “Okay, Jon. Let’s get you lying down so we can get this taken care of.”
“Don’t leave.” The raw panic in Jon’s expression is almost painful to look at.
Martin almost leans over to brush a kiss against Jon’s forehead, then catches himself at the last second and simply touches his own forehead to Jon’s briefly. “I’m not going anywhere, Jon. I promise. Might have to stand over there so I’m out of the way, but—”
“N-no—I can’t—I can’t be alone when—” Jon tightens his grip on Martin’s hand. “Th-the last time…I almost didn’t wake up. I don’t—I need someone to—”
That is not information Martin wants to have, let alone information he wants to gain right then, although distantly he supposes he’d need to know it at some point. “You won’t be alone. I promise. I’ll be right here. Doc will probably let me hold your hand, I just might have to—to be behind your head or something. We’ll see. Let’s just get you lying down, okay?”
Jon exhales and nods. “Okay.”
Martin helps Jon take off his ruined cardigan and turtleneck, then lie back against the paper-covered exam table. He tries to focus on Jon’s face so he doesn’t have to look at the gash in his side. “It’s going to be okay,” he tells Jon, and he’s not sure if that’s a promise or a threat, but he means it with every fiber of his being. Everything will be okay if he personally has to take down every entity and being that serves them armed with nothing but a corkscrew and his mediocre poetry.
Jon keeps his eyes fixed on Martin’s, even as Dr. Early comes back into the room with his little kit. He takes one look at the two of them and doesn’t even bother to shoo Martin into the corner. “Great, you’re all set. This might hurt a bit, but I’ll try to be as quick and careful as I can.”
The wound is a bit bigger than Jon implied, once Dr. Early has irrigated it, but at least the edges appear to be clean. Jon occasionally lets out a small, breathy whimper, but for the most part just clings to Martin’s hand, while Martin rubs his thumb soothingly against Jon’s skin. While Dr. Early works, he asks Martin about his scars, and Martin readily tells him about Jane Prentiss and the worms. The fear in Jon’s eyes never goes away, but it doesn’t get worse either.
“All finished,” Dr. Early says at last. “You can sit up now, Mr. Sims. Keep the area clean and try not to agitate it. You can come back here or go to your regular doctor in about a week to have the stitches removed.”
“Thank you,” Jon says softly.
“Anything for a friend of Martin’s.” Dr. Early flashes Martin a smile as he tries not to blush. “We’ll send the bill to the Institute as usual. Do take care, both of you.”
“Thanks, Doc,” Martin says. Dr. Early gives him a wink, collects his supplies, and heads out the door.
Martin helps Jon sit up, gently but firmly stopping him from touching the row of sutures punctuating his abdomen. He starts to hand him his shirt, then pauses, looking at the tear and the bloodstain. “Think this shirt might be a wash.”
“I never liked that color,” Jon whispers, but sighs and reaches for it anyway. “I—I can’t—it’s too cold to go shirtless.”
“Wait, here.” Martin takes off his sweater—he’s got another shirt on underneath it, so it’s fine—and bundles Jon into it before he can protest. He’s so used to seeing Jon Prime wearing Martin Prime’s sweaters that he expects this will be the same, but somehow it isn’t, because this is Jon and it’s his sweater, and even though he tries to remind himself it’s just for convenience’s sake, he can’t deny that it does something to his heart to see Jon, still shaking and vulnerable, huddled in the very first sweater Martin ever completed all on his own.
“Thank you.” Jon looks up at Martin, his eyes huge.
“Of course.” Martin puts an arm around Jon’s shoulders. “You ready?”
Jon nods and lets Martin lead him out of the exam room. Zig gives them a wave and a smile as they head out the door, which Martin returns.
It’s not that cold outside; it’s actually probably the warmest it’s been all day, but there’s a bit of a breeze going that keeps it cool. Martin has enough body fat that he’ll be all right, though, so he concentrates on keeping Jon from blowing away and moving in the right direction. Jon’s pretty pliable, tucked close against Martin’s side, and they’re definitely moving better than they were when they left the Institute, for which Martin is incredibly thankful, especially when the clouds thicken and it starts raining again just before they get back. Martin shields Jon with his body and takes the brunt of the wet, although it’s fortunately not too bad and they get through the Archive door with little more than a sprinkle.
Tim must have been watching the door, because he’s right there almost before they make it all the way down the steps. He grins a little when he sees Jon in Martin’s sweater, but there’s still worry in his eyes. “Hey, boss. All better?”
Jon shakes his head mutely, and Tim’s smile vanishes. Martin decides to blame the chill that runs down his spine on his slightly damp cambric shirt. “Jon, what’s wrong? Where are you hurt?”
“No, not—” Jon wraps his arms around his midsection and tucks his chin against his chest, eyes closed and looking absolutely miserable. “I-it’s my fault, I—I couldn’t—”
“Hey.” Martin pulls Jon into a hug and glances up at Tim, who instantly joins in. They’ve done this a lot lately, the three of them, a small part of his brain muses. Whenever one of them—Jon or Tim, really—has a bit of a breakdown, can’t be strong enough, the other two gently pen them in and do their best to comfort. He pushes the thought aside for the moment. “It’s not your fault. You didn’t ask to get hurt.”
“No, Helen, I—I couldn’t—I should have been able to stop her. It’s my fault,” Jon whispers, balling a hand into Martin’s shirt. “I let Michael get her and I could have saved her.”
“You couldn’t have,” Tim says, gently but firmly. “The Primes tried to warn her and she still fell for it.”
“But I-I knew, I should have known, the door was all wrong, and he’s right, there’s never been a door on that wall, I-I didn’t even notice…God, I thought Jon Prime didn’t notice because he was so—so paranoid, but I wasn’t, I was paying attention the whole time and he still got her…”
“Jon,” Martin says, half scolding and half pleading. Jon’s beginning to—there’s no other word for it—spiral and if they don’t divert it he’s going to break. “You did everything you could. We all know that. You couldn’t have saved her any more than you could have saved some of the people in these other statements. It’s not your fault. I promise. It’s not your fault any more than it’s mine, or Tim’s.”
Jon looks up at Martin. His eyes shine with unshed tears. “Y-you weren’t even here.”
“Exactly,” Tim says, obviously picking up on Martin’s thoughts, and when had they come to know each other so well? “If we’d been thinking about it, we’d have asked the Primes when Helen Richardson came, and we’d have made sure to be here all day so we could have helped. We could have all sat in with her while she made her statement, and surely one of us would have noticed the door was wrong. Or held the right door for her or something.”
Martin takes a risk and runs his hand through Jon’s hair; Jon leans slightly into the touch like a cat. “And it’s not like we would have been able to keep Michael from ever taking her. We can’t guard her all the time. How would you have felt if she’d made it out of the Institute safely, and you’d called her to follow up on the statement and found out she was gone?”
“At least the last thing she saw was a friendly face,” Tim points out softly. “At least this way she wasn’t alone.”
Jon closes his eyes and sags in their embrace. “She wasn’t,” he agrees. “But that’s worse. I-I should have walked her out.”
Martin inhales sharply, and when he looks over Jon’s head he sees the same stark fear in Tim’s eyes he feels in his own as both of them contemplate the possibility of Jon accidentally opening Michael’s door, stepping through it, getting lost in those corridors. He tries to keep his voice from shaking as he says, “And if that just meant both of you were in there? What then?”
Jon simply repeats, “I should have done more.”
And there’s really nothing either Tim or Martin can do right now to convince him otherwise, so they settle for holding him until he stops shaking so badly, then coaxing him to sit down while Tim reheats the curry for him. He claims it’s good, and Martin believes him, but it doesn’t mean they stop worrying.
Especially not when Jon refuses to let anyone else open a single door for the rest of the day.