to find promise of peace (and the solace of rest)

a TMA fanfic

Chapter 32: October 2016

Content Warnings:

Claustrophobia, unreality, abandoned tunnels, darkness, mention of childhood trauma, slight misuse of Beholding powers, dread and foreboding

“I think we’ve doubled back on ourselves again.” Jon wedged his torch under his chin to try and get it to point at the paper in his hands.

Martin, as he usually did, neatly relieved him of the torch and pointed it at the paper, and Jon once again wondered why he didn’t just ask Martin to hold it in the first place. “I don’t see any of our arrows.”

“I’m not altogether convinced someone hasn’t been moving them.”

“Okay, Sarah, you check your map and I’ll keep an eye out for the Cleaners.”

Jon considered Martin’s statement for a moment, map temporarily forgotten. “I have no idea what that’s referencing.”

Martin snorted softly. “Labyrinth. It’s a movie. We’ll have to watch it some night, you’ll probably love it. It’s one of Neenie’s favorites.”

Jon had been intrigued, and slightly suspicious, when he’d returned to work and Martin had produced the key to the tunnels with the information that Elias had essentially given them carte blanche to explore them. He’d at first thought to explore them on his own, but Martin had been waiting for him the first time he tried, and he’d given in fairly readily.

Actually, he found the experience was a lot more…enjoyable wasn’t the word. It was still oppressive, eerie, and at times terrifying to wander around the tunnels where Jane Prentiss had made a home, and where Gertrude Robinson had been brutally murdered by a man they all had to pretend they didn’t know had done it. But having Martin with him made it better, at least. He knew there was somebody there to catch him if he fell, to remind him to eat or drink water, to reassure him when he heard an odd noise or even to validate his fears if he noticed something off and doubted his own mind.

Also, he was enjoying spending time with Martin. They’d grown closer in the weeks they’d spent above Cinnamon Rose Books, but that had always been with someone else present—usually Gerry, often Melanie as well. Their efforts to map the tunnels were just the two of them. While they tried to focus on the route, and limited their discussion while walking to the tunnels themselves and speculation about where Gertrude might have been, they had opportunities to rest.

Well, opportunities was probably not the right word for it. More like forced stops.

As Jon studied the map he’d been drawing, he noticed the beam of light was shaking slightly. He looked up at Martin, concerned. “Are you all right?”

“Fine,” Martin said, completely unconvincingly. At Jon’s raised eyebrow, he relented. “Bit tired, I guess. How long have we been wandering around down here?”

Jon tilted his wrist to get his watch face into view. As soon as he saw the time, he did a double-take. “Good Lord.”

Martin huffed out a laugh. “I’m guessing it’s been a bit.”

“Nearly three hours, and we’ve been going this entire time. Martin, why didn’t you tell me you were getting tired?”

“It’s no big deal. I’ve dealt with worse.” Martin studied Jon sharply. “How are you feeling?”

“I could do with a rest,” Jon admitted.

Martin pointed the torch’s light ahead of them. “Look—that’s either a room without a door, or it’s a stairwell. Either way, should be a decent enough place for a sit.”

It was only a few yards away, but Martin stumbled and had to lean against the wall at one point. Jon tried to steady him and help him over to what turned out to be the top of a flight of steps. They sank down onto the top step together. By unspoken agreement, they both turned themselves sideways so that their backs were against the walls, letting them see down the stairs—to a point—as well as the way they’d come from.

Jon balanced the torch on its end, giving them a decent spread of light—at least enough to see one another and their immediate environs—then dug through the satchel he’d brought with him. He came up with two bottles of water and two protein bars, then handed one of each to Martin. Martin twisted the top of the water bottle open, then saluted him with it. “Na zdrowie.

“Likewise.” Jon raised his own glass. “Is that…Russian?”

“Polish. It means ‘to your health’.”

“You really do speak Polish?” Jon blurted, then bit his lip, slightly embarrassed. He knew Martin had listened to at least some of the tapes and knew some of the things Jon had said about him, but…

Thankfully, Martin didn’t seem offended. He merely nodded before taking a deep drink of water. “My grandfather taught me.”

It seemed like a good opening to a conversation. Jon carefully peeled away the wrapper of the protein bar. His hands were a bit shaky, too—since moving back to his own flat after his shoulder healed, he wasn’t always as good about remembering to eat breakfast as he’d been when he’d stumbled out in the morning to find Martin or Gerry presiding over the frying pan, so his blood sugar was probably low—but he managed it before asking, “Are you…fluent?”

“Pretty much, yeah. Granddad was trilingual and used to switch back and forth all the time, and since I spent a lot of time with him when I was a kid, I did too. I learned pretty quick not to do that at school, though, or I’d just get made fun of.” Martin took a bite of his own protein bar.

Jon was intrigued. “So what languages do you know?”

Martin stared blankly at the wall over Jon’s head as he chewed, then swallowed. “Polish. Russian. French, some—I took a couple advanced courses when I was still in school, and Gerry used to help me practice. Yiddish, a little bit—I understand it better than I speak it. Same with Irish and Romanian. I can read Sanskrit and ancient Greek, but I can’t pronounce them properly. I know a little bit of Chinese—Cantonese, not Mandarin—but I’m not going to be having in-depth conversations, and don’t ask me to read it. I learned BSL as part of an after-school thing, but I’m rusty.” His lips twitched upwards in a smile as he returned his gaze to Jon. “And I know how to say ‘can I pet your dog’ in twenty-seven other languages.”

Jon laughed. “Of course you do. I should learn how to say ‘can I pet your cat’.” He tilted his head at Martin. “That’s…quite an impressive list. I had no idea you were such a polyglot.”

“Yeah, well, how many of those languages have come across our desks since we came down to the Archives? Other than a word in Polish or Russian here or there. Wasn’t like you were going to respond favorably if I told you, ‘No, I don’t actually speak Latin unless you count memorizing seven different choral arrangements with ‘Ave’ in the title, but if you can give me a Sanskrit passage I’ll tell you what it says.’”

“No, I suppose not.” Jon took a sip of water to cover his embarrassment.

Martin tilted his head at him. “What about you? What languages do you know?”

“Ah—not that many. Latin, obviously, and I actually studied ancient Greek, too. And I know a little Urdu, but not much.” Jon winced. “My grandmother didn’t—she wasn’t like your grandfather, I suppose. She was…very determined that I not get my languages confused. We only spoke English at home. I finally convinced her to start teaching me, but I was in university at that point, so it only happened when I was home on breaks. And I didn’t…practice as much as I should have when we were apart.” He considered for a moment. “I don’t think she minded all that much, to be honest.”

“Mum won’t let me talk to her in anything but English, either. Old prejudices die hard, I guess.” Martin’s eyes softened. “Granddad’s parents came over when they were newlyweds, just after the first World War. He said they never did learn to speak English very well. They died long before I was born, so I never met them, but he used to tell me stories.”

Jon smiled. “What about your grandmother?”

“I never met her, either. Mum refused to talk about her—all she ever said was that she’d abandoned her and wasn’t worth her time. Granddad never really talked about her, either, except to say I had her courage.” Martin sipped pensively at his water. “And I never met my dad’s family. I barely remember my dad…what about you? Was it just you and your grandmother?”

“Yes, my extended family wasn’t…close. I-I don’t really remember my parents either,” Jon confessed. “My father died when I was two, from an accidental fall, and my mother died from surgery complications a couple of years later. It was just me left, and I think most of my relatives had gone overseas, so my grandmother wound up being the one raising me.” He hesitated, then added in a low voice, “She never quite hid that she resented that.”

Martin’s eyes radiated with a sympathy so sincere it hurt, and Jon had to look away. He didn’t resist when Martin took his hands, though. “It’s not your fault. You know that, right? No child asks to be born, and certainly no child ever seriously asks to be orphaned. You needed someone, and it’s not your fault that it was her.”

Jon tried to laugh, but it came out sort of strangled. “You sound almost like you’re talking from experience.”

Martin was silent for a long moment before he said softly, “You remember that day I snapped at you about Ex Altiora?”

“Yes, I—I remember you telling Melanie and Gerry that was your mother’s birthday.” Jon still couldn’t look at Martin.

“Right, and I called her to wish her a happy birthday.” Jon nodded. “She wouldn’t take my call. I don’t know why I even bothered trying, honestly, because she always refuses my call. She hasn’t spoken to me in seven years. In my entire life, I’ve heard her say something kind about me once, and that was the first time I found a Leitner.” Martin squeezed Jon’s hands gently. “I’m lucky in that I had Granddad, and then Roger and Melanie—and Gerry, even if he’s not legally family—but I at least know a little bit of what you had to deal with. And I’m so sorry, Jon. Nobody deserves that.”

“I—I know she did her best. And at least I remember enough about my parents to know they loved me.” Jon tried to wipe at his eyes with his shoulder so he wouldn’t have to let go of Martin’s hands, then gave it up and looked up at Martin, blinking heavily to try and clear them. “And—and I’m not alone now. I have Tim and Sasha, and Gerry and Melanie…and you.”

“You have me,” Martin agreed softly. He let go of one of Jon’s hands, then reached forward to carefully cup his chin and wipe the tears away with a gentle caress of his thumb. It was a gesture of such tenderness that Jon wasn’t sure he could stand it without breaking apart. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so…cherished. As if he was something worth caring for, caring about.

Jon found himself wanting to close the gap between them, to…he didn’t know what. Possibly curl against Martin’s side and hold him until both of them forgot every person who should have loved them but didn’t. That was a slightly disconcerting feeling in and of itself, but it was also disconcerting that he didn’t want it to go away. Six months ago he likely would have ignored it, or at least tried to bury it, but after everything they’d been through, he leaned into Martin’s hand and tried to work up the courage to slide to the other side of the stairwell.

A sudden sound came from below them on the stairwell, making both of them jump. Martin’s hand fell away from Jon’s face, and he immediately missed the contact. He gripped Martin’s other hand tightly to keep him from letting go as they peered into the darkness.

“That—what was that?” Jon automatically dropped his voice to a whisper.

“I don’t know,” Martin murmured. “It didn’t sound like a worm. Or a spider. But it didn’t sound like a rat, either.”

“I haven’t seen any evidence of rats down here.”

“Me, either, which should probably be worrying this close to the river, but…” Martin trailed off. “We should get back to the Archives.”

“Yes. We should.” Jon peered into the darkness, then looked up at Martin again. “We’re not going to, are we.”

It wasn’t a question, and Martin didn’t answer it. Instead, he handed Jon his rubbish, then picked up the torch and pulled him to his feet. Jon laced their fingers together, and they made their way carefully down the stairs.

The stairs were narrow, and Jon kept a tight hold of Martin’s hand; the second he got stuck, or couldn’t go any further, they would turn back. Jon was not going on alone. Quietly, he asked, “Did Tim mention stairs at any point?”

“Just the ones we came out of up into the Archives, so Gertrude was up there somewhere,” Martin replied. “But I think that stopped being what we were looking for a while ago.”

“You’re not wrong.” They came to a landing, and Jon paused, peering into the darkened archway leading to the next level down. “Do we check this level or keep going down?”

Martin appeared to be weighing their options. Finally he said, “I don’t hear anything. Whatever made that noise, it isn’t on this floor. Let’s keep going. Carefully.”

Jon appreciated that addition.

It was another two flights down before Martin stopped dead, hissing for Jon to be quiet. Jon held his breath, and then he heard it, too—a rattling noise, like someone had tripped over a rock. He looked up at Martin, saw that he was game, and led him onto the level.

This one felt different, somehow. The air was faintly damp and tasted of rot and decay. The ceiling seemed just a little bit lower, the tunnels just a little bit narrower, and it felt like it should have been cold enough to see their breath steam ahead of them, but luckily wasn’t. Jon was thankful he’d worn Martin’s now-mended jumper, but he still stepped just a bit closer to Martin’s side as they traversed the tunnels on this floor. There was no dust—of course there wasn’t, this wasn’t that kind of a place—but it still felt as though this was a place that hadn’t been traversed by humans in ages, if ever.

“Jon.” Martin’s voice was a mere thread. “Look.”

Jon looked where the beam of light from the torch was pointed and inhaled sharply. As if in mockery of his thoughts a moment ago, there lay a crumpled packet of some kind, dark green and yellow.

Without letting go of Martin’s hand, as impractical as that was, Jon bent down and reached for it with trembling fingers. It had once held biscuits, an imported variety Jon had never particularly cared for, but now only crumbs remained. He turned it over to find the sell-by date. “This can’t have been down here long. A year at most.”

“I don’t think it’s been down here that long,” Martin said slowly. “That’s…not a bad thing, actually.”

“It’s not?”

“It means that whatever—whoever is down here still has to eat regular food. They’re not as far gone as Prentiss was.”

Jon hadn’t considered that, but it made sense. As he straightened up, a thought occurred to him. “That means Gerry isn’t that far gone, right? Since he still eats regular food?”

Martin was silent for a long moment, which told Jon he wasn’t going to like the answer. “He chooses to eat regular food, but it doesn’t really…do anything for him. If he tried to live off of just that, he’d fade pretty quickly.”

“I didn’t know he could die.”

“I never said he would die. I said he would fade. He’d be weak and helpless and—” Martin stumbled, nearly dropping the torch as he tried to balance himself against the wall. “Christ, what did I trip over this time?”

Jon took the torch from him and angled it at the ground. If he was being honest with himself, he didn’t expect to find anything—Martin was probably more worn out by their long journey than he was willing to admit, that was a lot of stairs—but to his surprise, there was a glass bottle lying on its side, still rocking slightly from being kicked. “It looks like a wine bottle.”

“Hang on.” Martin handed the torch back to Jon and knelt down this time, prodding the bottle lightly until the label faced upwards. “Jesus, this stuff runs at least a hundred pounds a bottle.”

“You’re sure?” Jon leaned over to get a closer look.

“It’s what they served at Mum and Roger’s wedding. I remember because Aunt Mary told us if we so much as looked at a single bottle of it too hard, there wouldn’t be enough of us left to put in the Book.” Martin got to his feet with a bit of effort. “And this is the same vintage. Unless our mystery basement dweller has had it sitting around for twenty years, it didn’t come cheap.”

“So a squatter with at least moderately expensive tastes.” Jon watched the bottle spin for a moment, then aimed the torch in the direction the neck was pointing. There was a turn off the corridor just there. “That way?”

“Hold still.” Martin reached across Jon’s body to dig into the bag, then pulled out the chalk they’d been using to mark the walls. He drew an arrow pointing back the way they’d come on the wall facing the corridor. He clearly found it awkward to hold the chalk, and seemed to be having difficulty drawing.

“Martin, are you sure you’re all right?” Jon asked, concerned.

“Fine. I’m left-handed, that’s all. Never really practiced with my right,” Martin admitted.

“Next time, we’ll hold hands the other way round,” Jon said without really thinking. As soon as his brain caught up to what he’d just let his tongue get away with, his face caught fire, but he decided he wasn’t going to apologize or take it back, because he actually meant it.

Martin paused in his work and gave him a crooked, almost shy smile before back to finish the arrow.

“There,” he said at last, stepping back to study the mark. “Good enough?”

Jon squeezed Martin’s hand. “It’s perfect.”

Martin laughed and turned—then froze, the smile dropping off his face instantly. “What the—?”

“What?” Jon turned to see what Martin was looking at, what might be coming down the corridor—and felt his blood run cold.

The corridor was gone.

Frantically, Jon shone the torch along the wall, but it was solid, unbroken stone. “It—I swear there was a passage there a moment ago, I—”

“There was. But there’s not now,” Martin murmured. He reached out hesitantly with his free hand and touched the wall. “I-it’s not a door, it’s…that should not be possible.”

“I didn’t hear anything,” Jon said in a low voice. “Did you?”

“No. No, I didn’t.” Martin took a deep breath. “Right. I guess we keep going straight then.”

“Yes.” Jon turned to face the way they were headed and found he was standing closer to Martin than before. It didn’t really surprise him—he felt very strongly that he needed the comfort—but then Martin cursed quietly and Jon looked up at him. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, just—banged my shoulder on the wall, that’s all. Sorry, would you—can we get more to the middle of the tunnel?”

“Of course,” Jon said immediately, taking a step to the left…or trying to. His foot knocked against the wall, and he turned to regard it sharply, then looked back at Martin. The panic was starting to make itself known. “Are…are these tunnels getting narrower?”

“No,” Martin said under his breath. Jon thought it was an answer, until he caught the note of panic in his voice. “No, no, no…”

“Martin? Martin.” Jon squeezed Martin’s hand tightly, then moved closer to him with the thought of wrapping his arms around him to calm his panic.

Martin yanked his glasses off with an almost violent movement. Jon felt more than heard the static gathering, slowly increasing at first, then faster and faster, rising to an almost fever pitch, painful even though it wasn’t directed at him. He let out a strangled cry and did the only thing he could think of—pinched a bit of Martin’s skin sharply between two fingernails. Martin gasped hard, but the static died instantly, making both of them slump.

From the darkness, a voice spoke, a single word, said without inflection or intonation, just a simple command. “Leave.

Jon didn’t wait to be told twice. He began backing up, eyes fixed on the darkness ahead of them, still holding Martin’s hand so tightly it had to be hurting both of them. Then again, Martin was gripping him just as tightly.

They had to go single file before they got back to the stairwell. Jon didn’t like that and held onto Martin tighter, determined that he would not leave without him; if the halls got too narrow, if Martin were trapped, Jon would stay with him and damn the consequences. Luckily, they made it without too much difficulty, although it was a tight squeeze for Martin at the very end. The second there was space for them to turn around, they did, pelting up the stairs as fast as either of them could go.

Despite how far down they’d descended, and how far they must have explored overall, Jon didn’t think it was more than ten minutes before they were pushing up the trapdoor and emerging into the Archives, both of them collapsing to their knees at the top, gasping for breath. Jon’s face felt sticky and wet, and when managed to glance at Martin, he saw that he was pale as a sheet.

A shadow loomed over them, almost sending Jon into a panicked tumble back down the steps before Tim said, “Are you two all right?”

“Fine,” Martin and Jon said in unison.

Tim did not look remotely convinced, but he didn’t call them on it, either. “You guys were down there a hell of a long time. Find anything?”

“Maybe.” Jon didn’t know what they had found, only that it didn’t want them down there, and he wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to go back yet, either. His heart was finally beginning to slow down, and he managed to look properly at Tim, who was holding something in his hand. “Is everything…all right?”

“Nothing major.” Tim waved the piece of paper he was holding. “I was just getting ready to come looking for you. Rosie just called down—a woman phoned the Institute, said she’s coming by to give a statement. She’ll be here in about twenty minutes.”

“Thank you.” Jon took the paper from Tim and was acutely aware that his hand was shaking. “Where’s Sasha?”

“Lunch. I was going to go out myself once you two got up.”

“Take the afternoon. Both of you. We…made you do the work all morning.” Jon took a deep, steadying breath. “But maybe…help us cover up this trapdoor first?”

Thank God, Tim didn’t ask questions. Probably he didn’t want to know. He shoved one of the disused desks over so that one set of legs rested on the now-closed trapdoor, then waved to them both and headed out. Jon watched him go, then turned to Martin, who had made them both very strong cups of tea and was seated at his desk. “How are you feeling?”

“Tired,” Martin admitted. “I shouldn’t have tried to Look that deep, but…I was panicking, I admit it. I’m sorry, Jon.”

“It’s not your fault. I was panicking, too.” Jon reached out and gingerly touched Martin’s cheek. “Was it…what was it?”

“I’m pretty sure it was the Buried.” Martin’s voice was barely above a whisper. “But it wasn’t…it wasn’t right. Not strong, not enough to…hurt us? Not enough to Mark you, anyway. It felt…controlled somehow.” He took a deep breath and added, “And I’ve heard that voice before. Somewhere. I just—I can’t remember where.”

Upset, Jon took Martin’s face in both hands and pressed their foreheads together. “Martin. Martin, please don’t hurt yourself trying to…we can stay out of the tunnels. We don’t need to go down there, not—not now. Not for a while. Promise me you’ll be careful.”

“I will. I will.” Martin covered Jon’s hands with his own. “You be careful, too. Please.”

“I will. I won’t go down without you.” Jon took a deep breath, inhaling the faint scents of mint and cherries that always seemed to cling to Martin, then reluctantly eased back. “If—if you need to take the rest of the day, too…”

“I’ll stay. Until you leave.” Martin managed a small smile. “Don’t know how much use I’ll be, really, but I’m not leaving you to it alone.”

Jon laughed. It came out a little broken, but it was genuine. “Tell you what. How about I take this statement that’s coming in, and then we can call it a day, too? We’ll, I’ll make it up to Tim and Sasha later.”

Martin’s smile broadened. “Sounds good. I’ll see what I can do in the meantime.”

“Good.”

“Excuse me?”

At the sound of the voice, both of them turned to see a woman approaching them, clutching a cape around her shoulders and looking agitated. Jon hoped he didn’t look as ruffled as he felt. “Yes, can we help you?”

“I—I’m here to—” The woman broke off, looking confused. “They told me—”

“Yes, Rosie called and said you’d be coming to make your statement,” Jon said, as kindly as he could. “Step into my office and we’ll get set up. Right this way, Ms.”—he surreptitiously checked the paper Tim had handed him—“Richardson.”