Tim still feels guilty a week later.
Not, it has to be said, that anyone is making him feel guilty. Quite the opposite. The group hug in the Primes’ unofficial bedroom seems to have cleared the air. They don’t exactly say anything about forgiveness or accepting one another’s apologies, but Sasha comes with them when they leave work and ends up spending the night; they build a massive fort in the living room using every pillow and blanket in the house, have popcorn and hot chocolate for dinner, and swap stories about their childhoods until way too late in the evening considering they have work the next day. When Martin hesitantly admits the next evening that he’s been having trouble sleeping, Jon reminds him of his promise that Martin doesn’t have to be alone anymore, and the three of them curl up together in Tim’s bed for the first time since Jon’s stabbing, this time with Martin in the middle. They agree after that to assume they’ll keep doing that unless one of them has a genuine need to sleep alone.
But Tim still finds himself occasionally waking up in the middle of the night and studying the peaceful look on Martin’s face as he sleeps, or watching Jon mumble and shift restlessly as he watches whatever horror the Eye is forcing someone to relive, and feeling like the world’s biggest heel. While he knows he doesn’t have anything to do with Jon’s nightmares, he still feels like they’re not so bad when Jon isn’t isolating himself, and God knows Martin’s sleep is probably better when he doesn’t feel like he’s being shut out. And while, again, Jon was the one to insist at first that it would be better for him to sleep alone while he had the stitches in and Martin had quietly gone to his own room as well, Tim still feels like he pushed them away, even if it was unconsciously. He hurt both of them and he doesn’t know how to fix it.
He knows he should say something. That’s the whole point of all this; they’re trying to communicate. If something is bothering him, he ought to tell the others. But what he doesn’t want is for Martin—or Jon, for that matter—to spout platitudes and reassurances that he won’t believe. Even though he can tell from their actions that they’re genuine.
At the root of it, that’s the issue. Jon and Martin have forgiven Tim for the way he treated them when he was angry. Tim can’t forgive himself.
Tim taps his pen against his jaw absently as he studies the file in front of him. He’s quizzed Martin Prime on the “feeling” he once mentioned getting about which statements were real or not, and in the last few days he’s been trying his hand at it. It’s slow going, and he knows it’s probably at least partly because he’s resisted the Eye harder than the others, but ever since Sasha’s intervention, he’s decided, screw it. He’s trapped here, for better or for worse, and if it means he maybe gets freaky psychic powers, maybe he can at least use them to help keep his family safe.
This one feels real. It feels bad. Tim hates it on sight, which probably means it’s a Stranger statement; he tends to react badly to those for obvious reasons. And this one deals with taxidermy, which definitely doesn’t help matters. Still, he grits his teeth and digs into it, and what he finds…isn’t comforting. The name Daniel Rawlings is one he remembers—that was one of the people who went missing near Old Fishmarket Close, the very first statement they ever researched that had to go on the tape recorders. And the description of the thing in the basement sounds a hell of a lot like the thing Nathan Watts saw—holding bodies, luring people down with creepy, repetitive phrases. The guy’s lucky to be alive. The fact that the Trophy Room apparently still exists, and is still under Daniel Rawlings’ ownership, is…not great. From a research standpoint, it’s a boon they don’t usually get, but from a practical, this-is-probably-something-set-to-destroy-the-world standpoint, it’s fucking terrifying.
Tim stares at the statement for a long moment. Whether they need to follow up on it or not is almost academic at this point; they will follow up on it, because it’s what they do. They’ll do what they can from the office, but Tim doesn’t need any kind of special powers to know that eventually, someone will go out there to investigate in person. And it’s dangerous. Someone could get seriously hurt.
Which means there’s only one choice, really.
Sasha comes back from her lunch break and smiles at Tim; he smiles reflexively back and goes through the usual routine of how was your lunch, what’s the weather like, anything interesting come up while I was out. He assures Sasha that everything is fine on their end, shuffles the folder under some of the others on his desk under the guise of neatening things up, grabs his jacket, feels to make sure his phone is in the inner pocket, and heads out of the Archives.
It’s the warmest it’s been all month, but there’s just enough of a breeze to keep his jacket on as he walks to the Tube station. Sloane Square is the nearest stop to the Institute, but it’s not on the right line, so he’ll have to change trains at Monumental, and God, this is stupid. Jon hasn’t told him to look into this statement like this, hasn’t sent him to investigate. He doesn’t have to do this, job-wise.
It also occurs to him, belatedly, that he hasn’t told anyone he’s doing this. Well, there’s a reason for that, really; Jon would either try to forbid him from heading out there or insist he bring someone along, neither of which are happening. Tim’s not exposing anyone else on the team to this, even if he’s right there with them. Better that it just be him risking…whatever he’s risking by heading up to Woodside Park. But he should at least warn someone he might be a bit late getting back from lunch. He doesn’t have to say where he’s going exactly, he rationalizes, just say he’s investigating a statement. There are four or five on his desk, and even if Sasha goes snooping through them to see what he’s working on, there’s no way they can be sure this is the one he’s poking into. They’ll probably think it’s any statement but this one. They all know how Tim feels about the Stranger.
When he sits down on the second train just before it pulls out of the station, he reaches into his pocket to pull out his phone. What he pulls out…is not his phone. It’s a small handheld tape recorder, the sort of thing you’d find in an amateur spy kit, looking like it’s brand new out of the package. Tim stares at it in stupefaction for a moment, then quickly pats himself down. His phone is not in his pocket, and he suddenly has a clear and vivid picture in his mind of it sitting on the corner of his desk, charging, because he forgot to plug it in last night.
Great.
For a moment, he’s tempted to go back. Turn around, head back to the Institute, grab his phone, come back another time. Maybe give Jon a heads-up that he’ll be a bit late getting back, if Jon’s back from lunch by the time he gets there. He doesn’t have to say where he’s going, just that he’s following up on a statement or something like that. No need to specify, right?
He doesn’t, though. For one thing, he’s pretty sure if he goes back, he’ll lose his nerve and either not go back or bring someone back with him…or worse, let one of the others go instead. He’ll never be able to live with himself if he puts anyone else in danger like that. And for another, he knows Jon won’t accept a half-explanation. Tim will either have to tell him nothing or everything. And if Tim tells Jon everything, Jon will forbid Tim to come out here.
“I can hear him now,” he mutters, still staring at the recorder in his hand. “‘There’s no need for you to put yourself in that kind of danger, Tim, and certainly no need to expose yourself to that. We can do this over the phone if we have to.’”
Except they can’t; the Stranger is at its best when it’s hidden, so if they’re not looking it in the—well, looking it in the eye, Tim guesses—it’s going to lie to them. It might lie to his face, too, but at least he’ll have the evidence of his senses. And at least he can put it on alert, maybe. The Eye sees you. The Institute is aware of you. Timothy Stoker knows where to find you.
Yeah, right. This is the stupidest thing Tim’s done since he tried to jump off the roof using his grandmother’s umbrella with the bird handle as a parachute.
He turns the recorder over a couple of times in his hands. The Primes mentioned once that their Tim hated these things—the way they kept turning up without warning, the way they would turn themselves on at random times, what they might mean. Tim’s not exactly thrilled about this one just turning up in his pocket either, if it comes down to it, especially in place of his phone. A tape recorder won’t enable him to get in touch with anyone if things go tits-up, or if he’s running late or something. On the other hand…well, it’s better than nothing. And he has to admit it’s a little bit of a comfort to know he’s not technically alone. The Primes both swear they aren’t a tool of the Eye, and he has to admit their logic is sound as to why not, but still, someone or something is listening to him, which means he won’t disappear into nothing. If, God forbid, something goes wrong, at least there will be a record. Some kind of witness.
Tim pats down his pockets and locates a pen, then pops open the recorder. Nestled inside is a microcassette tape, ready and waiting. He considers for a moment, then writes RETURN TO ARCHIVES, THE MAGNUS INSTITUTE, LONDON on the label as neatly as he can. There isn’t anywhere on the recorder’s surface to write, and he doesn’t have any tape or anything, but he hopes that will be sufficient, should someone find it and need to send it back. He considers writing his name and the address of the Institute on his arm or something, the way his parents used to do with him and Danny whenever they went out someplace they might get separated, but decides against it. Based on where he’s going and what he knows about what’s there, the balance of probability is that if he dies, they won’t leave any skin to identify him. He’ll have to settle for tucking his wallet in the same pocket as the recorder and hoping they dispose of his jacket without going through it.
Tim is beginning to wish he put a little more forethought into this. Or, you know, any forethought at all.
Woodside Park is almost at the end of the Northern line, which gives Tim way too much time to think about turning back and consider that there’s no turning back now. He’s the only one who gets off at that stop, which is certainly not eerie at all. Nope, nothing to be concerned about here, perfectly normal. (Logically, it probably is perfectly normal, but Tim is so addled right now that everything looks spooky.) He fishes out the recorder and turns it on.
“Right,” he says. “Uh, this is Timothy Stoker, Archival Assistant at the Magnus Institute, and…if you’re listening to this and don’t know what that is, well, uh, stop listening and get this back to Jonathan Sims, the Head Archivist. You, uh, you should be able to look it up. Stop listening now.” He pauses a second or two, then continues, “Okay, should be Archival staff listening now…Jon, Martin, if it’s you, I’m sorry, but I had to do this. I’m, uh, I’m at Woodside Park right now, I just got off the Tube, and…well, I’m about to go into the Trophy Room. This statement is just…it’s too freaky to leave alone. I can’t risk any of you if it’s something serious and…I’m sorry. Anyway, I’m…going to leave this thing going in my pocket, kind of try to get a recording, so that if I can’t explain for whatever reason, you’ll know what happens. I don’t know what’s going to happen. Hopefully nothing too bad, but…well, we’ll see.”
He pauses for a moment, then tucks the recorder back in his pocket and says under his breath, “Fuck.” Then he takes a deep breath, squares his shoulders, and heads down the block.
The Trophy Room isn’t hard to find. It’s exactly as the taxman described it in his statement—an aged, grimy building with faded gold lettering and a dirt-streaked olive green awning. There’s even a stuffed big cat in the window, and the only reason Tim knows it’s a tiger and not a lion, apart from the statement, is because big cats were something of an obsession of his when he was nine or ten, back when he’d considered a career as a wild animal tamer for a circus, and he made a study of the physiology of them. This is unmistakably a tiger, long-faded stripes notwithstanding. That seems to him a somewhat irresponsible way to care for something you ought to put pride in, but what does Tim know?
The bell over the door clangs raucously when Tim pushes the door open, and he is suddenly confronted by hundreds of staring, glassy eyes. Tim quite likes animals and he’s seen many of the ones in the shop live and in person, including an up-close-and-personal encounter with a moose (this one must be a juvenile, he thinks, a full-grown bull wouldn’t fit in the space it’s crammed into), but the concentration of them looking at him, all at once, is disconcerting, to say the least. But it’s not nearly so disorientating as the smell. Danny once declared he was going to buy their mother something “unique” and purchased a titan arum for her before learning that it was more commonly called a “corpse flower” for a very good reason. This place smells like they’ve got an entire greenhouse of them under the floor.
Which is better than the alternative, really.
A man comes out of the back. True to the description in the statement, he’s a “fresh-faced twenty-something”; if he’s even Jon’s age, Tim will eat the entire taxidermied moose. He raises his eyebrows in Tim’s direction. “Can I help you?”
A nagging, persistent voice in the back of Tim’s head that sounds an awful lot like Martin suggests that declaring himself to be from the Magnus Institute would be the worst decision he’s made all day, which is saying a lot. Time to fake it. Luckily, Tim’s good at that. He switches on his most charming smile. “Hi! I sure hope so. I’m looking for a Christmas present for my sister.”
Is it Tim’s imagination, or does the man he presumes to be Daniel Rawlings relax, just a fraction? “Bit early for that, aren’t you?”
“Well, I mean, I didn’t know if you’d have something on hand or if I’d have to wait for you to get something in or bring something in,” Tim says, waving at the assorted animals. “I mean, she’s kinda picky sometimes. I don’t know how this works.”
“Ah. Well, let’s see what I can do to help you.” The man extends a hand and grins. “I’m Daniel Rawlings. And you are…?”
“Nick DiAngelo.” Tim Anglicizes his grandfather’s name; it feels safer than giving his real one. He accepts Rawlings’ hand; it’s cool, hard, and very dry.
“Mm.” Tim can’t tell if Rawlings believes him or not, but he shakes his hand and lowers it. “Well, all of these pieces are for sale, unless you brought something in. You’re not a…hunter yourself, are you?”
Tim doesn’t like the emphasis Rawlings puts on hunter, but he keeps up his smile. “Nah, not my thing. Never been one for guns or the like. I like my nature alive.”
“But your sister doesn’t?”
“She’s an animal lover, but she can’t have pets at this new place she’s moving to. So, stuffed it is.” Tim waves a hand at the room. “Don’t think there’s room in her flat for a whole moose, of course, but…”
“Of course, of course. Well, feel free to look around and see if anything catches your…eye.”
Tim manages not to react to that word. Instead, he, smiles again and ambles towards a shelf full of squirrels. The animals’ eyes seem to follow him as he walks, and he knows Rawlings’ eyes follow him, too.
“So how long have you been doing this, anyway?” he blurts after a moment, turning back to face Rawlings. “It must have taken ages to do all this.”
“Oh, I inherited it,” Rawlings tells him. “An old friend of my father’s left it to me. Apparently he didn’t have any other family.”
Mentally, Tim ticks off the first item on the list—the stories tally. Which, well, of course they would. “Do you like all this?”
Rawlings shrugs. Tim tries again. “You’re lucky, you know. Falling into a business like this. I’ve been having to work my way up from the bottom. Is it hard?”
“Not so hard as it could be, I suppose.” Rawlings looks around him. “At least it’s a good, steady business. No heavy lifting.” He smiles. “I’ve got people for that.”
“Hey, are you hiring?”
“Hmm.” Rawlings tips his head to one side, studying Tim. A prickle of unease crawls up Tim’s spine. The man won’t make eye contact, but something about that regard unsettles him. “I think we might be able to find a…fitting position for you. If you’re interested.”
Tim pretends to consider it. “Tell you what. I’ll let you know after the new year? Got a big project I’m in the middle of now.”
“Of course. There’s plenty of time.” Rawlings smiles. “It’s not like the animals are going anywhere.”
Tim laughs, despite the creeping feeling of dread. “That would be…strange.”
The word slips out before Tim can stop it, but Rawlings laughs, too. He seems genuinely delighted, and even comes closer. “Here, let me help you find something that would suit your sister.”
He lights a cigarette. Tim raises an eyebrow. “Aren’t you worried about these old things going up if you drop that?”
“I’d be desolate if they did.” There’s no doubt about it; Rawlings is dropping those words deliberately, but this time he sounds amused more than taunting. He either realizes Tim knows something, or he’s just showing off his own knowledge. Neither of which is good. “But no, they’re remarkably well-preserved.”
“That’s what they said about our uncle,” Tim quips. He does get another laugh out of Rawlings for that one. “How old are they, anyway? I know you said your dad’s friend did them…”
“He owned the shop. Many hands have worked these creatures.” Rawlings strokes the moose’s nose almost reverently. “Tell me, Mr. DiAngelo, what is your field?”
“History,” Tim lies easily. “Eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, with a focus on arts and industry.”
“Ah.” Rawlings still doesn’t meet his eyes, but there’s a glitter in them. “Then I think I have something worth showing you.” He gestures towards the back.
Tim’s not stupid, despite all current evidence to the contrary. He knows from the statement that the workroom is back there, behind the office. There’s a distinct possibility that he’s letting himself be lured into a deadly trap. But in keeping with his persona, and also in the interest of getting the information he needs, he says brightly, “Great! Lead on, then.”
If he survives this, Jon’s going to kill him.
The office is small, largely dominated by an old oak desk. Seated behind it is a petite woman with close-cropped brown hair, wearing a grey t-shirt and a light jacket, bent over what look like account books. Tim has a nasty feeling he knows who this woman is.
“Sarah,” Rawlings says, confirming Tim’s suspicions-slash-fears, “this is Nick DiAngelo. I brought him back to show him the skins…Mr. DiAngelo, this is Sarah Baldwin, one of my fellow employees.”
“Pleasure,” Tim says cheerfully. This is officially too much, but he’s got to see it through now. The smell of Death By Flowers is stronger here, and he remembers suddenly Melanie King mentioning in her statement that the Sarah Baldwin who did sound work for her Ghost Hunt UK episode had a sharp, faintly floral perfume, or something like that. He wonders if she’s been living here—so to speak—all this time, if the smell of the building has soaked into her skin or if it’s something that comes from her and Rawlings and whatever else might be part of all this.
“Hi,” Sarah says succinctly. Tim also remembers Melanie saying she was a woman of few words.
“Come look at these. She won’t mind,” Rawlings assures Tim. Sure enough, Sarah seems scarcely aware of their presence as Rawlings begins showing Tim the skins hanging on the wall. And if they’re genuine, if he’s telling the truth about their origins—and Tim has no reason to doubt him—they are impressive.
One skin seems to be missing, though. The man from Internal Revenue described a gorilla skin, alleged to be from the fifth century B.C., the oldest bit of taxidermy in the world. There’s nothing like that in this room. Tim’s not sure why that bothers him so much, but reluctantly, he has to admit that he probably shouldn’t ignore it.
“…And this,” Rawlings concludes, indicating a stuffed figure on the desk—a white hare in a waistcoat, “was part of the Great Exhibition of 1851. It helped drive Victorian England mad for the craft.”
Tim doesn’t like the emphasis he puts on mad, but since this is supposed to be his specialty, he says, “I am impressed. There was a lot of fantastic craftwork at the Great Exhibition. I saw a stereoscope card once while I was doing my graduate research, but I never dreamed I would ever see something that was actually displayed there.”
“Would you like to touch it?” Rawlings asks. “You can, you know. It’s quite safe.”
Tim tries very much to look like he’s hesitating out of reverence for the age of the piece and not because he wonders if he’s going to end up poisoned, sucked into an alternate dimension, or triggering a trapdoor to the mouth of a hungry monster, but he can’t actually think of a good reason why a historian would refuse to touch, well, actual history. So he reaches out, slowly, and runs his hand over the hare’s fur. It’s stiff and wiry, the effects of almost two centuries of existence, but still feels mostly soft under his palm. The body is solid and firm. If he didn’t know better, he would swear it has a heartbeat.
“That’s brilliant,” he breathes. Hopefully he still sounds awed and not terrified. He takes a risk. “Is this the oldest piece you have?”
“Wolf,” Sarah grunts, jerking a thumb over her shoulder at the wolf pelt hanging on the wall.
“It dates back to the Middle Ages,” Rawlings explains. “We had one even older, but, well, it was stolen some years ago.”
“Stolen?” Tim is genuinely taken aback by this. “Did they ever find it?”
“No, sadly. It was never sold, at least not publicly, so who knows?” Rawlings sighs. “It was a gorilla skin, from Carthage. Brought over by Hammo in the fifth century B.C.”
“It must have been worth a pretty penny,” Tim whistles.
“Its value is immeasurable,” Rawlings says earnestly. “It means the world.”
Something about that phrase makes Tim’s blood run cold. Not it means the world to me, or to my dad’s friend, even though he guesses that’s a fiction. Just it means the world. Whatever that means, it can’t be good for humanity.
“Well,” he says, as sympathetically as he can. “I hope it comes back to you in the fullness of time.”
“Oh, I’m sure it will. If it hasn’t been destroyed…I’m sure there’s someone out there who knows where to look.”
Tim would like to go now, he decides. He’s pretty sure he has all the information he needs, and surely the Primes can fill in anything he’s missing. “I’m glad you showed me these. They’re really impressive. But I’m sure they’re well out of my price range.”
“Maybe,” Rawlings says. “But that could change. We’ll discuss that later, if you’re still interested in that job.”
Tim definitely does not like the sound of that. “I’ll be in touch about that. And I’ll be back for sure about something for my sister, once I’ve had time to…reassess things a little. You know, get an idea about her flat layout and what sort of thing would work best for her.”
Rawlings smiles. It sends chills down Tim’s spine. “Don’t be a stranger.”
He holds out his hand. As they shake again, for the first time, Rawlings looks Tim dead in the eye, and Tim realizes two things. First of all, the taxman wasn’t kidding; Rawlings’ eyes are as dead and lifeless as the animals’, and like theirs are made of glass, fixed in place where his real eyes should be. They should stare without seeing, but unlike Martin Prime’s eyes, which are still warm and expressive but stare right past or through you, these bore into Tim’s and he is one hundred percent aware that Rawlings can see him perfectly clearly.
Second…his eyes are glowing faintly, a deep and vibrant indigo, like they’re lit from within. Which is frankly beyond disturbing.
“I won’t,” Tim assures him, and means it.
He comes out of the office ahead of Rawlings and is about halfway to the door when it happens. The bell jangles again, and two men come in—two men Tim would prefer never to see again, dressed like deliverymen and crossing into the shop.
It’s Breekon and Hope.
One of them notices Tim and stiffens. “Hey, you.”
“What are you doing here?” asks the other, eyes narrowing suspiciously.
“Come to spy on us?”
“See what we’re doing?”
“What?” Rawlings asks sharply.
Tim bolts. He has surprise on his side and manages to get out the door before anyone can grab him, but unlike the man who gave the statement, he knows they’re not just going to let him get away. He considered a lot of possible fates for himself should he visit the Trophy Room, but somehow, Breekon and Hope turning up while he was there, and recognizing him, never occurred to him. Stupid. Stupid.
It’s a good stretch to the Tube station, and Tim expects every step to feel them on his heels, but either they can’t move as quickly as him or they’re not chasing him for their own reasons. Still, he hears a rumble behind him and doesn’t stop to check if it’s them or not. Instead, he sprints for the entrance to the station and leaps down the steps three at a time. He lands wrong at the bottom and his ankle buckles, but he shakes off the pain and manages to just make it to the train before it pulls out, which at least has the advantage of giving anyone who saw him come flying in a possible explanation for his hurry beyond “being chased by something out of a horror film”.
He collapses into his seat and catches his breath as the train pulls away, heading back towards central London. Once he’s breathing normally, he takes stock. His ankle throbs, but the pain is relatively mild. He’ll live and, most crucially, he’s not in the back of an ersatz delivery van…or worse. Tim honestly can’t say what he would have done if they’d caught him, but he’s glad he doesn’t have to think about it.
After a moment, he reaches into his pocket and checks for the recorder. It’s stopped, which might mean it cut itself off when the danger had passed, or might mean he hit the end of the spool, or might mean he screwed up and turned it off and it didn’t catch what happened in there at all. He’s going to have to hope he got everything, though, because no way is he risking playing this on the train. There are other people here, after all, although not many. He does rewind it, though, and he’s comforted to hear the length of its backwards spool. There’s something on it at least.
He makes the connection with seconds to spare; the Central line is a bit more crowded, so he ends up standing near the door, which does at least mean he’s the first one off at Sloane Square. He tries to hurry without running—the last thing he wants is to draw attention—but even now, he finds himself glancing over his shoulder periodically to see if anyone is following him. Luckily, it appears he’s managed to give them the slip. For now, anyway.
As he gets closer to the Institute, he slows up and tries to straighten up his appearance. The last thing he wants is to make it look like he had to run for his life, or might still be running. He’s got the tape if Jon doesn’t believe what he says, but maybe he’ll get lucky and he can avoid having to play it, so Jon—and Martin, for that matter—don’t have to know how close a shave he just had.
Yeah, right. And maybe he’ll finally get that phone call about his audition for Jersey Boys.
He’s still limping as he reaches the Institute and lets himself in the door to the Archives. For just a minute, he pauses when he comes in, wondering why they swapped out the light bulbs for novelty green ones…but no, he blinks hard and the lighting goes back to normal. Just the regular old Archives, rows of shelves littered with files, pod of desks in the work area, three people grouped around it. Tim’s not sure what’s going on, but from the looks of it, Sasha and Jon are sitting down and Martin is fussing.
Martin looks up as Tim comes closer, and his face goes slack with relief. “Tim!”
Sasha’s head whips around. “Are you all right?” she asks.
Tim tries for a grin. “I’m not dead.”
“Yeah, that’s not exactly comforting. You get why that’s not comforting, right?” Martin tugs at his hair in evident frustration. “Wh—” He stops and presses his lips together tightly for a second.
“You’re late.” Jon’s voice is soft but accusing. He gets to his feet and wobbles for a second before steadying himself against the back of the chair.
Suddenly worried, Tim takes a step towards him. His ankle chooses that moment to remind him that he’s already fucked it up and buckles under him, nearly sending him to the floor. He doesn’t fall far before Martin is there, catching him and half-dragging, half-carrying him over to his chair. “You’re hurt.”
“Master of the obvious,” Tim tries to joke, and then he sees the look on Martin’s face and realizes what’s going on. They’ve all realized that Martin has acquired the ability to compel people to tell him things, especially about how they got hurt or why they’re scared; he’s trying to learn how to control it, just like Jon and Sasha are trying to learn to control their new powers, but Jon Prime warned them already that it will be harder for them to not let it slip in involuntarily when they’re upset or stressed. Martin is trying very hard not to force Tim to tell him anything. It’s a courtesy Tim doesn’t think he deserves, but he swallows down on the guilt. “Just twisted, I think. No big deal.” He eases away from Martin and stands; it hurts a bit, but he’s at least able to do it on his own.
Martin lets him, but he’s still hovering, around both him and Jon. Jon stands facing Tim, looking grim. “You didn’t have your phone with you, Tim. We couldn’t contact you. It’s been two hours.”
Tim winces. “I didn’t realize I’d left it behind until it was too late to come back, and then I just…I thought I’d be back sooner. Sorry, boss. I’ll make up the time.”
“I’m not worried about the time, Tim!” Jon throws his hands up in frustration. “I’m worried about you. You were gone longer than you should have been, and we had no way of getting in touch with you, nor any idea where you were.”
“I—I was going to text you, but—”
“No, Tim, we didn’t know where you were,” Martin emphasizes. “Sasha tried to Know where you’d gone and gave herself a nosebleed. Jon tried and passed out! I-I finally asked downstairs, and all he’d say was that you were safe and on the way back, but that’s really not as comforting as he made it sound.”
“I know how you feel about…all of that,” Jon says, his voice sounding strained, “but we were worried. We were scared. Especially since…” He gestures at the files on Tim’s desk. “I wasn’t sure which one you were investigating.”
And Jon’s avoiding actually asking questions, too, out of fear of forcing Tim to answer against his will. They’re all better than he deserves, he thinks distantly, and it would serve him right if—no. He’s hurt them enough.
“The Trophy Room,” he says quietly. He reaches into his pocket and fishes out the tape recorder, which he hands to Jon. “Pretty sure I got the whole thing on there, but I haven’t had a chance to check.”
“The Trophy Room? The taxidermy shop in Barnet? The one we’re pretty sure is a stronghold for the Stranger?” Martin’s voice rises in pitch. “Are you out of your mind?”
“What were you thinking?” Jon says, clearly upset. “You’ve read that statement, you know how dangerous it is. If I had wanted someone to go there to investigate, I would have sent someone, and you would have been the last person I would choose—”
“I wasn’t going to let any of you go out there,” Tim argues.
“Tim, you’re already marked by the Stranger,” Jon says sharply. “Remember what they said? The marks make you a bigger target. It means they’re more likely to try something on you. That—whatever it was in the basement, the anglerfish thing—if Rawlings had opened the door, it might have lured you down. My God, Tim, you could have been killed and we would have had no idea where you were.”
If Tim did this to make himself feel less guilty, he failed spectacularly. He inhales sharply and tries to meet Jon’s eyes. For just a second, they seem to glow a vivid and vibrant green; Tim blinks and they go back to their normal brown. “I—I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking about that, I just—all I could think about was that I needed to protect you all. I knew someone was going to end up investigating all this, we couldn’t get the truth over the phone, and I—I didn’t want to risk one of you going over there. I knew it was dangerous, but…I haven’t done enough, so I thought it had to be me.”
“Tim.” Jon’s jaw works for a moment, and then he just surges forward and hugs Tim tightly.
Tim hugs him back, feeling the tears pricking at his eyes. A moment later he feels the comforting weight and warmth of Martin’s arms around them both, but instead of making him relax, it just makes the tears flow harder. He doesn’t deserve this.
He must say that aloud, because Jon releases him and steps back to frown at him. “Don’t deserve what? What are you talking about?”
“This.” Tim gestures to Jon and Martin hovering around him, then to Sasha, who evidently was part of the hug, too, at least peripherally. “I didn’t—I fucked up, Jon. I shoved you all away and I made you feel—I was hurting, so I hurt you without any reason, and I—”
“We were all hurting,” Martin interrupts him, his face tight with sympathy. “And we all did things to hurt each other—”
“You didn’t,” Sasha points out.
“I could’ve stepped in any time, or spoken up about what was bothering me, instead of acting like I thought you’d hurt me if I tried,” Martin says. “I didn’t. I let myself class you all in the same category as my mother, and that isn’t fair to any of you. I know better. What happened this month between us is as much my fault as anyone else’s and I’m not going to sit by and act like I’m the victim in all this, because that isn’t fair to anyone. Including me.” He takes a deep breath. “We’re a team. We’re a family. We’re supposed to work together, right?”
“Right.” Tim swallows hard and wipes his eyes. “No more unauthorized field trips. Promise.”
Jon nods. “Thank you.” He glances at the tape recorder. “I’ll listen to this later, if you need me to, but meanwhile, why don’t you tell us what happened?”
Tim sighs. “Might want to sit down. This could take a while.”