#mild panic

[cometchasr]

oh fucking hell do i actually have a fever I SWEAR FUCK THIS

[ollieofthebeholder]

to find promise of peace (and the solace of rest): a TMA fanfic

<< Beginning < Prev. || AO3

Chapter 22: July 2016

Tim had to fight down the urge to panic when he rolled over in the morning and realized he was alone in the bed. The bed was cold, the pillow undisturbed, but that didn’t mean anything, he told himself firmly. After all, Jon’s clothes were still where he’d left them the night before, wadded into a forlorn little ball, so he couldn’t have gone far. Probably he’d just gone to the bathroom.

Swinging his legs out of the bed, Tim crossed over to where he’d left his own clothes, folded on the dresser. Strange that Jon, who was usually meticulous and exacting about everything, hadn’t even bothered piling his clothes neatly, although the slightly stretched-out jumper Martin had draped around his shoulders was laid out almost reverently. As Tim pulled on his trousers, though, he stopped, noticing the stains and smears on the khaki bundle on the floor.

Of course. Jon had been hurt, pretty badly—likely Martin had too. He’d bled onto his clothes, and they were smeared with…whatever Prentiss and the worms had left behind on things. Corruption, Tim thought. His stomach flipped at the thought.

Yeah, they were going to have to burn those, he could see that a mile away.

The press of his bladder was getting too great to ignore, so Tim just grabbed his shirt and headed into the hallway, trying to remember which door Melanie had said was the bathroom. He found it quickly enough—the door was slightly ajar—and slipped in to take care of business. Once done, and as presentable as he was going to get, he went in search of anybody.

The house was built in a square pattern that looped back in on itself, and after passing a couple of doors that were still firmly shut, he found himself stepping through an open archway and into a bright, cheerful kitchen. It was far larger and more open than he would have expected, well-appointed and well-lit, a few plants in pots on the windowsill and a round, well-scrubbed table off to one side. Melanie stood at the sink, rinsing something off.

Tim cleared his throat, not wanting to startle her. “Uh, morning. Have you seen—”

Melanie shushed him and jerked her head towards a door behind her. “In there. Keep your voice down.”

Slightly bewildered, Tim went over to the other door and eased it open, revealing the living room they’d sat in the night before. Martin was still in the loveseat, his feet propped up on the coffee table, sound asleep in nothing but a vest and a pair of loose cotton shorts. The bigger shock to Tim was that Jon was there as well, also sound asleep but cuddled up against Martin’s side, Martin’s arm draped around Jon’s shoulders and pulling him snug. His face pressed against Martin’s chest had warped his glasses slightly askew.

Tim withdrew into the kitchen and pulled the door most of the way closed. “Should we go in there and, I don’t know, at least take their glasses off?” He at least understood why she’d said to keep his voice down. They both had to be exhausted.

Melanie shook her head. “Well, you know Sims better than I do, I don’t know him well enough to know if he’d be okay with someone messing about with his face when he’s asleep. But there are too many people in the house for Martin to sleep with his glasses off.”

Tim closed the door the rest of the way and drifted uncertainly towards Melanie. “What do you mean? Uh, can I do anything to help?”

“You can stir the filling. Even if Andy didn’t take the food processor with him when he left, it’s still cheating.” Melanie set a bowl on the counter and headed for the fridge. “Martin’s thing with being able to see Marks is stronger when he’s not wearing his glasses. And he’s tired and hurt. The glasses give him at least a little bit of control over it.”

“He needs that,” Tim agreed softly. There’d been precious little in his life Martin had been able to control in the last few months.

He washed his hands while Melanie dumped ingredients into the bowl. As she handed him a fork, she asked, “Your last name’s Stoker, you said?”

“Yeah?”

“Any relation to Danny Stoker? The model? You look kind of like him.”

Tim froze, just for a second. Striving to keep his voice even, he said, “Yeah, he was my brother.”

Melanie stiffened, obviously having caught the verb tense. “Oh. I’m sorry.”

Tim mumbled what he hoped was acceptance of her apology, and they lapsed into silence. He didn’t know exactly what they were making, but it didn’t take a genius to guess what he was supposed to do with the sugar and cheese in the bowl in front of him while Melanie worked with something else. After a few minutes, without looking up at him, she said, “It’s not your fault, you know.”

For a horrible minute, Tim thought she knew something about Danny, about how he died—and really, if anyone would know, it would be Martin and his siblings. “What?”

“Yesterday. The whole thing with Jane Prentiss. Anything that’s happened to Martin. It isn’t your fault.” Melanie scowled at him, but it wasn’t unfriendly. “You couldn’t have known.”

Tim tried to laugh. “Reading minds, Ms. King?”

“I know big brothers,” Melanie pointed out. “I’ve got two of them. And it’s not like I never feel responsible when something happens to them, and I’m the baby.”

“Martin’s older than you, then?”

“Technically. We’re nine weeks apart. Practically twins, really. But of the three of us, he’s the caretaker.” Melanie whisked furiously. “And don’t think I don’t know you’re changing the subject. He does that, too.”

Tim managed a smile. “Touché. Seriously, though…I should have checked on him. Wouldn’t you have? If he’d—if she’d texted you to tell you he was staying home sick?”

“If she’d texted me, I’d have gone straight to the Institute and laid everything out for you lot first, so we could have formulated a plan.”

“A plan? To take care of Martin?”

“To save him.” Melanie sighed at Tim’s bewildered expression. “Look, I’ve known Martin for twenty years. In that entire time, he’s been sick enough that he’s actually taken time off to heal once, and it was less that we convinced him to take care of himself and more that he fainted and spent the next three days with a fever so high he was delirious. He’s the kind of guy who says ‘I’ve just got a bit of a headache’ when he’s dealing with a migraine so severe he can’t see more than an inch in front of his face, or that he’s ‘a touch tired’ when he’s running on three hours of sleep in four days. For him to actually call off work, he’d have to be actively dying, and even then I wouldn’t put it past him to drag himself in if he thought it wasn’t contagious and he’d make it through the day so you wouldn’t have to be inconvenienced by his corpse in the middle of the office.”

Tim’s stomach lurched. “If I’d known that, I’d have been over there that first day.”

Melanie raised an eyebrow at him. He knew that expression—had got it from Danny more than a few times. “And you’d have walked straight into Jane Prentiss completely unprepared.”

“And Martin wouldn’t have been trapped for two weeks.”

“Yeah, all right, maybe. But do you have any idea what it would have done to him if you’d been hurt or killed checking on him? He’d never forgive himself. Hell, it took Gerry almost four years to convince him it wasn’t his fault he’d gone to jail, and he didn’t even have anything to do with what happened to Mary.”

“He worries too much,” Tim muttered, as if that wasn’t the biggest case of the pot calling the kettle black.

Melanie actually cracked a smile. “We’ve been saying that for years.”

She went over to the fridge and bent down to do something—Tim couldn’t see what—but she spoke without raising her head. “If you’re going out to smoke, go the long way around. Martin’s still asleep.”

Tim turned, surprised, to see Gerard standing—lurking really—in the doorway behind him. “I wasn’t going out to smoke.”

Melanie snorted as she extracted herself. “Is that because you’re finally actually going to quit this time, or because you don’t have a pack handy?”

“Martin’s still asleep, you said?” Gerard rolled his eyes at Tim, but he’d seen the flash of guilt in them before he crossed the room to the opposite door.

“I don’t think he’s had much lately,” Tim volunteered. “I mean, sleeping in the Archives isn’t exactly restful.”

Gerard eased the door to the living room opened and peered into it, then closed it carefully and turned back around, eyebrows raised as he looked at Melanie. Tim thought he was going to comment on Jon and Martin cuddling, but what he said was, “Hell of a peace offering.”

“Make yourself useful, or get the fuck out of my kitchen,” Melanie grumbled.

Tim shifted slightly to make room for Gerard as he came over and reached into the cabinet above his head and got a smile for it. It was a bit off-kilter and tired, but surprisingly attractive. Tim found himself automatically returning it. “Sleep okay?”

“Yeah, actually.” Gerard sounded surprised. “Didn’t think I would, but I did. You?”

“I did, thanks.” Tim glanced at the jar Gerard pulled out of the cupboard. “Cherry preserves?”

Gerard nodded, running his thumb over the seal. “When did you buy this, Neens?”

“Just after your birthday,” Melanie answered.

She wasn’t looking at Gerard, but Tim saw the look of panic flash across his face. Dropping his voice low enough that Melanie—hopefully—couldn’t hear him, he said, “Three months ago. It’s the end of July.”

“Thanks,” Gerard muttered. He set the jar on the counter and peered into Tim’s bowl. “Hey, that’s pretty good.”

“I’ve made plenty of cannoli in my time.” Tim shrugged. “Mum’s parents came over from Italy during the war.”

“What part?”

“Not sure. They never really talked about it.”

Gerard hummed and unhooked a thin, shallow pan from the rack. “You could probably look it up.”

Tim checked the consistency of his mixture and set to with the fork again. “I never saw the point, really. Nonno always said there was nothing for them back there, so I reckon anything they did leave behind, they wanted left there.” He’d always suspected his grandfather was a deserter, actually, or at least that he’d fled to avoid being conscripted.

Gerard nodded solemnly. “Sometimes the past should stay in the past.”

Melanie took the pan from Gerard. To Tim, she asked, “Do you eat bacon? I won’t ask you to cook it if you don’t, but Gerry would burn a salad.”

“I only did that once,” Gerard protested.

Tim tried not to laugh too loudly. “I can do bacon. You’d think we’d be vegetarians at this point, but…”

“Gotta take pleasure where you can, mate,” Gerard said, clapping him on the shoulder. His hand was like ice.

The door opened a few minutes later as Melanie was swatting at Gerard’s hands with a spatula to keep them away from the first of the incredibly thin pancakes she’d turned out. Martin slipped into the room and froze briefly when he saw Tim, then relaxed and forced a smile. “Morning. Sleep okay?”

“Like a rock. How are you feeling?” Tim reached out to touch his shoulder, then stopped, not sure if he could or even if he should.

“Okay, I guess.” Martin rubbed his forehead and accepted a hug from Melanie, which made Tim feel a bit worse. “I don’t suppose you grabbed any of my trousers when you were digging through the stuff Mrs. Mattson tossed out, did you?”

“No, just your papers and jumpers.” Melanie looked a little embarrassed. “It’s…I mean, if you don’t—”

“I can run back to the Archives,” Tim volunteered, a bit hesitantly. He wasn’t sure he wanted to, or if he’d be able to, but…“Your stuff should still be there.”

“If it’s not covered in ichor. Or residue.” Martin sighed. “It’s fine. I’ll…deal.”

Melanie cleared her throat. “Um. I do still have everything Steph made in my closet. You know, as an alternative to the Trousers of Trauma.”

Gerard turned away for a moment. Martin looked like he was about to protest, then snorted. “You know what, can’t hurt at this point. I’ll be right back.” He slipped into the hallway without another word.

Tim flipped the bacon carefully. “Who’s Steph?”

“Pete’s ex-girlfriend—that’s Peter Warhol, the sound guy for Ghost Hunt UK,” Melanie added. “She’s a fashion designer and she was planning to audition for some big thing a few years back, but she’d never designed for plus-sized models and she thought it’d give her an edge. Martin was the only person any of us knew who could be considered ‘plus-size’, so we talked him into being her model.”

Having only ever seen Martin in collared shirts and worn khakis obviously purchased off the rack at a charity shop, Tim was momentarily distracted by the thought of him in a bespoke suit. Before he could make a complete ass of himself, or burn the bacon, the door opened again and Jon came in. Tim took one look at his face and said, “He’s getting dressed. Morning, boss.”

From the way Jon relaxed, Tim knew he’d been right about what was worrying him. “Good morning, Tim. I—thank you. I, uh, I should…probably get dressed as well.”

“In what? Unless you packed a spare change of clothes yesterday, what you were wearing when you turned up was pretty near ruined,” Melanie pointed out. She sounded annoyed, although Tim wasn’t sure about what. “You’re fine in what you’re wearing. Martin was just in his underthings.”

At that, Gerard turned around and gave Melanie a comically shocked look, which she ignored in a way that was painfully familiar. “Breakfast will be ready in a few. Hope you like cherries. Actually, I don’t care if you like cherries or not, that’s how things work.”

“When one is a guest in someone else’s house, one eats what is put in front of one,” Jon said automatically, like he was reciting a lesson, then seemed to catch himself. “I like cherries just fine. Um, is there, ah, anything I can do to…help?”

“You can set the table. Dishes are up there.” Melanie jerked her head at a cupboard. “And yes, I do actually mean those dishes.”

Jon gave Tim a slightly bewildered glance, but crossed over to the cupboard without another word.

Tim was starting to realize this was a ritual of some kind. Melanie and Gerard’s movements had a practiced familiarity to them that indicated they’d done this dance a thousand times, and Melanie’s insistence on things being done exactly right spoke less to a need for perfection and more to superstition. Whether Jon realized it or not was debatable, but he didn’t argue about laying out the plates, which looked far too fancy for a family breakfast to Tim. Jon, however, handled them as though they were perfectly ordinary, and he at least seemed to know not to ask questions. Or maybe he was too tired.

Sasha came through the kitchen door just as Melanie put the finishing touches on the pancakes, then glanced over her shoulder and held the door. “Morning—oh, that’s really nice. Is that a Stephanie Marchbank?”

Tim looked—and did a double-take as Martin paused in the doorway. He was wearing a t-shirt that had obviously been washed numerous times—and also probably hadn’t been his to begin with, since it was stretched tightly over his torso—tucked into the waistband of a tea-length, flared, pleated skirt in a buttery yellow. It flowed around Martin as he shifted, rippling in the light. It, unlike the shirt, had clearly been made especially for him; it actually flattered the shape of his lower body. He ran a hand down the front of it. “Yes, actually. How did you…?”

“I’ve got one of her suits; I recognize that waistline. It’s kind of her signature at this point.” Sasha nodded. “Looks good on you. That’s not off the rack, though, is it?”

“Uh…no. She was dating one of the Ghost Hunt UK people while she was putting together her portfolio for Finish Line Catwalk, and…I dunno, she thought being able to show she could design for a broader range of sizes might make the difference or something.” Martin shrugged as if it was no big deal, but those parts of his face not covered in bandages were starting to turn pink.

“Sasha’s right, it looks good on you,” Tim told him, and got the satisfaction of seeing that pink get more intense. He turned towards Jon, intending to rope him into the discussion, but the words died on his lips. Jon was staring at Martin with eyes so wide they seemed to fill his glasses, looking utterly dumbstruck. It did look good on Martin—Tim hadn’t been lying about that—but the look on Jon’s face could not more clearly have telegraphed the words oh no he’s hot if they’d been tattooed across his forehead in flashing neon.

Tim couldn’t help it—he grinned. “See? Jon agrees.”

Martin’s blush deepened further; Jon sputtered and quickly tore his gaze away. Gerard drew himself up to his full height and folded his arms over his chest, opening his mouth, but Melanie smacked his shoulder hard as she passed him. “Everyone sit down and eat.”

The pancakes looked and smelled amazing. Tim wasn’t a big fan of cherry preserves, but he didn’t argue when Melanie spooned them over the pancakes on his plate, and it turned out to be pretty good. The bacon had come out well, and there was plenty to go around. Tim was surprised to find he was actually hungry.

“We did miss dinner last night,” Sasha reminded him when he mentioned it. “Everything kicked off right after lunch, and I for one wasn’t thinking about food by the time it was all said and done.”

“No, nor was I,” Jon murmured. “There were…a lot of things I wasn’t thinking about.”

“We can talk about last night more after we’ve eaten,” Martin said, softly but firmly. “Don’t invite it to sit at table with us.”

Gerard broke off a piece of bacon. “Neens, how’s the show going? Look into anything interesting lately?”

Melanie paused, fork halfway to her mouth, and Tim noticed Martin’s hand tighten slightly on his mug. Her shoulders tensed. “We’re…on hiatus right now,” she began, then seemed to deflate. “Indefinitely. I, um, I don’t think it’s going to start up again.”

Gerard stiffened. “Why not? Is it Pete? I always thought that little shit was no good—”

“No. Well, he’s part of it, but it’s not just him. It just…we fell apart. Toni moved to Bristol in March, and never told me. I had to hear it from Pete, who said in the same call he was thinking about leaving, too. Then Andy said he wanted to take ‘a bit of a holiday’ from the show.” Melanie nudged a cherry around her plate for a moment before spearing it. “I thought we might keep it going with a new crew when he came back from his trip, but one morning I woke up and all his stuff was gone. And some of mine, too, I might add, but whatever. Not like I used the curlers that often anyway.”

“So you’re unemployed?”

“For the moment, yeah.”

Gerard hesitated. “Well. Um. Dumb question, but…”

“It’s all in storage, and the premises are currently being used as a secondhand clothing shop, but the lease is up at the end of the month and they’ve already said they don’t want to renew.” Melanie raised an eyebrow at Gerard’s slightly astonished look. “Don’t think I hadn’t already thought about that.”

“In that case, you’re hired. I was trying to work up the nerve to ask both of you to help me reopen it after I got back, anyway,” Gerard admitted. He shot a look at Martin and added, “Don’t worry, I won’t now. I know you can’t.”

Martin smiled feebly. “I’ll still help, you know.”

Melanie snorted. “I didn’t imagine we’d be able to stop you.”

Tim didn’t say anything, but he exchanged a glance with Sasha. Neither one of them would blame Martin for quitting after what they’d all gone through. It was just a question of whether he would, or whether he’d stay out of some misguided attempt to protect them. Or Jon.

Since asking about it would probably violate the don’t invite it to sit at table rule, Tim applied himself to his pancakes and tried not to think about how much lonelier the Archives would be without Martin in them.

[lexicorp]

Did ze team card

Am gonna try my best lolz

AF profile

[angelbvn]

;^; plz don’t stop interacting cuz i take 10 years to answer asks i’m so sorry i ahdjajd ;;

[corrodedbisexual]

That fork in the road where you're like "do I keep the same character POV or do I switch"

[thegreatbuttoneer]

m i l d p a n i c

Hey clown, jester, you have done it again-

[vikanite1]

I've been on this site for at least 4 days now and I still have no idea what I'm doing

[https-furina]

:3

…hi oliver

[bagelman]

Keeping my mind at bay. Supposed to have a fireworks date yesterday, he said he was gonna take a quick nap and he'd text when he wakes up. It's now been 24 hours. No word. Ima wait until tomorrow to text but I feel I'm being ghosted.

[raining-glitterxo]

Umm, anyone used Olaplex before & experienced hair loss? I know there's a lawsuit going on rn, started using olaplex recently and I've definitely noticed im losing insane amount of hair..

[clownmaggot]

[magnificentmicrowave]

here i go posting freak shit at freak hours

[ollieofthebeholder]

to find promise of peace (and the solace of rest): a TMA fanfic

[1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7] [8] || Also on AO3.

Chapter 9: June 2016

Jon surfaced slowly from sleep, somewhat disorientated. It was darker than he was used to—even with his curtains drawn, there was usually some ambient light getting in—and the bed didn’t feel right. The blankets didn’t quite smell right, either. Not unpleasant, in fact rather comforting, but just…not right. He shifted to turn over and heard a sharp creak that made him freeze for a moment.

Suddenly, he remembered. He was in the Archives. He’d been badly affected by Jane Prentiss’ statement, heaven only knew why, and needed to lie down for a few. It had still been a bit before the usual end of the day, so Martin had ushered him into the storage room and assured him—oh, God, Martin.

Jon fumbled for his phone and held the screen close to his face. It was late—not just past closing time, but well and truly into the night. A snatch for his glasses confirmed that it was half-eleven, and a quick scan of the room revealed no Martin. Which meant he had probably tried to find somewhere else to sleep so as not to disturb Jon.

Guilt gnawed at him. He’d been staying later and later, but he didn’t usually sleep when he did, or if he did he usually passed out at his desk. Since he’d given Martin the cot and let him start staying in the Archives, Jon hadn’t touched it. And yet, here he was, lying down on it late enough that Martin was either trying to sleep somewhere else…or not sleeping at all.

Or worse. Panic replaced guilt as it occurred to Jon that something could have happened, that Martin wasn’t in here because the worms had got him and Jon had slept through it. He’d like to think he wouldn’t have, but he’d been so worn out…

He all but fell out of the cot, scrambled to his feet, and slid into his shoes before moving as quickly and quietly as he could out the door.

The Archives were dark and silent…or nearly silent. Jon was about to call out for Martin when he froze, straining to hear a sound. It was a voice—a gentle, warm, plaintive voice, singing something about the souls of the dead and remembering the fallen, the notes seeming to wrap around the shelves like a caress.

Jon knew that voice. He’d heard it before, nights he’d stayed late tucked in a corner of the library finishing his research and later on nights when he’d sneaked back in to listen for it. Tim, who’d heard it too, had always sworn the library was haunted by the ghost of a fisherman; Jon wasn’t sure how much he believed that, but he’d come to think of the voice as the Library Ghost anyway. For some reason, it always made him feel…safe. Comforted. He’d tried slipping up to the library a couple of times since becoming the Head Archivist, in the hopes that the voice would ease the knot of tension and stress he carried almost constantly these days, but there’d been nothing. It was like the ghost was gone.

And yet, here it was. In the Archives. Singing a song Jon didn’t know but felt soothed by.

He stood where he was until the last note faded away, then moved cautiously into the Archives proper. Somehow, he’d never noticed just how dark it got. It was strange that he wasn’t as jumpy or twitchy as usual, but that was the effect the Library Ghost had always had on him. It meant more than comfort—it meant security, safety. If the ghost was singing in the Archives, it must mean everything was okay. For now, anyway. Jon clicked on his torch and went looking.

It didn’t take him long to find Martin. He was sitting up against the little cluster of desks where the assistants sat, his back pressed against it and his knees drawn up to his chest, facing the dark, ominous rows of shelving. His eyes were closed, and even with the light of the torch, Jon could see the tracks of tears streaking down his cheeks. Something twisted in Jon’s chest. He didn’t know if Martin was upset or scared or if the ghost didn’t give him the same feelings of safety it did Jon, but whatever it was, he was faced with a deep and abiding urge to fix it, to make things better. Which, honestly, scared him worse than almost anything he’d dealt with in his life.

His instinct was to be brusque and snappy about it, but he stopped himself. Instead, he simply came closer and said quietly, “Martin?”

If he was honest, he’d expected Martin to jump, to hit his head, and to stammer. He was not prepared for the quiet, subdued, “Hey, Jon.”

Jon angled the torch away from them, but pointed at the ground—he didn’t want to look at the shelves—and slid awkwardly to the floor next to Martin. “Are you all right?”

“Fine.” Martin scrubbed at his eyes with the back of his hand quickly. “Sorry if I woke you up, I—”

“No, no, you’re fine,” Jon assured him quickly. “I was simply…done sleeping, I suppose. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to take your cot.”

“It’s your cot,” Martin pointed out.

“Technically I think it’s Archives property. I was just using it. Anyway, I told you to sleep on it, and here I was lying down on it well into the night.”

“It’s fine. Not like I was sleeping anyway.” Martin glanced at him sideways, then looked away. “Feeling better?”

Jon considered the question from all angles. “Somewhat. Although that’s possibly less to do with the…er, nap…and more to do with the ghost.”

This time the sideways glance lasted longer. “The what?”

“Oh, come on, you must have heard it just now,” Jon said, gesturing towards the shelves. “The singing. It’s…actually, you worked in the library before you came down here, you must have heard it there after hours. A clear, pure voice singing sea shanties and that sort of thing. Tim claims it’s a fisherman of some kind, but I seriously doubt that. What would the ghost of a fisherman be doing in the Institute library?” He pondered for a moment. “Unless it came in attached to one of the books. Rare, I suppose, but it could happen. Perhaps a book the person was particularly fond of in life, or one that had some sort of significance to him. Not a Leitner, certainly, as I’m fairly sure those are destroyed as soon as they’re found, but…” He trailed off, realizing he’d been rambling, and cleared his throat to stop himself from apologizing. “Anyway, I don’t think Tim has ever actually seen this ‘ghost,’ let alone spoken to it, so it could be of anyone. But surely you must know it. It—I haven’t heard it up there since I took the Head Archivist position, but just now, when I came out to make sure you were all right…” He gestured vaguely with the hand not holding the torch.

Martin was quiet for a few breaths. Finally, he said, “How often did you…hear it?”

“Quite often. I—when I was first working for the Institute, I’d get caught up in my research and forget the time, so I’d often have to hurry out. Later I went back on purpose to listen,” Jon admitted, feeling his cheeks heat up. “It’s…comforting, somehow. A bit odd to say, maybe, given the topics of some of the songs, but there’s something about that voice that always makes me feel safe.” He paused, but when Martin didn’t respond, he found himself continuing. “I was worrying about you, actually. When I first—you weren’t back there and I saw how late it was and, well, at first I was upset with myself for taking your bed, and then I started worrying that something had happened to you and I’d slept through it. But I came out and I heard my—the ghost singing, and I-I knew, somehow, that it meant everything was all right. Not the least because it was here instead of in the library, so—well, I suppose that’s proof it’s not tied to one of the books.” He glanced sideways at Martin and tried for a teasing Tim-style smile. “Maybe it followed you.”

Martin let out a soft laugh that…didn’t sound particularly amused, but wasn’t particularly bitter either. “It didn’t follow me, Jon. It is me. I mean—” He sighed. “There was never a ghost in the library. That was me. I usually got stuck shelving the books at the end of the day, so I was always the last one to leave, and…I didn’t mind, really, because I had some time on my own without people…dogging my steps or criticizing everything I did or finding a thousand unreasonable tasks for me to do on top of what I was already doing. But I’d sing shanties while I worked.”

Jon turned fully to face Martin, astonished. Martin wasn’t looking at him, was staring straight ahead into the darkness, and Jon couldn’t have said if he was lost in thought or avoiding Jon’s eye. “That was you? I—I had no idea you sang.”

“Yeah, well…” Martin shrugged one shoulder. “Not exactly something useful to what we do, is it? And I-I don’t do it so often these days.”

“Not everything needs to have a purpose, Martin.” Jon almost pressed his shoulder to Martin’s, but stopped himself just in time. “So what was that you were singing a moment ago? I don’t think I know that one.”

“Um, it’s called ‘Bones in the Ocean.’ Not really a proper shanty, per se, it was written by a band a couple years ago, but it sort of fits.” Martin paused. “I don’t know why I was singing it just now.”

“There could be any number of reasons,” Jon said. “Perhaps it was just stuck in your head.”

“Yeah, but…” Martin shook his head. “Never mind.”

They sat in silence for a while. Jon was surprised at how…comfortable it felt. It wasn’t just that he knew Martin was the “ghost” (he wondered what Tim would have to say when he found out)—it was also that, well, it was Martin. They’d spent a decent amount of time together since Martin had moved into the Archives, and they’d built up something of a working relationship. Jon might even venture to call them friends, the line between boss and underling being significantly blurred down here. Martin had come to mean comfort in a lot of ways, and this just seemed like a natural continuation of that.

When he thought about it that way, Martin being the ghost made perfect sense.

Jon wondered if they were good enough friends that Martin would give him an honest answer if he asked what was bothering him. He’d been…off in the last month or so, ever since Melanie King’s visit, and Jon wondered if there was a connection. Before he could speak up, though, Martin broke the silence. “Did you have a favorite song? That the, ah, ‘ghost’ sang?”

Jon couldn’t help but smile at the slightly teasing note in Martin’s voice. “Now that you mention it, yes. There’s one…I-I’m afraid I don’t know what it’s called, but it’s got a chorus in another language. The verses are something about…someone waiting for a lover to return?”

“Oh, ‘The Boatman,’ sure.” Martin took a deep breath and began to sing.

It was in fact the song Jon was thinking of, and the voice captivated him just like it always did. Somehow, knowing that it was Martin singing made it…better. Jon couldn’t explain it. Nor could he explain why he found himself closing his eyes and leaning against Martin’s shoulder.

Nor why Martin let him.

[eyobis-andthe-bunnycats]

I AM NOT READY FOR OCTOBERRRRrrrrrrr

[pt: I am not ready for October]

[angelbvn]

AT THE AIR PORT AND GUESS WHAT

NOT ONE PLANE BUT WE HAVE TO GET IN TWO— i’m not scared what

[swinging-stars-from-satellites]

> went to sleep with my stomach feeling a tad unsettled, maybe an increased heart rate because of that

> woke up feeling panicky and sick so I decided to go take something for it

> sat up in bed

> immediately felt like I was gonna pass out

> heartrate SKYROCKETED in reaction

> went to go get activated charcoal (bc if I'm sick/ate something icky that usually helps) and as I was getting it felt lightheaded again

> went to tell my mom because either I needed prayer or medical intervention

> now I woke everybody up because my family's idiot (affectionate) dog barks anytime she hears footsteps

> still feel weird and am half convinced that I'm dying but my mom is 100% convinced I'm not so I am going to try and go back to bed

in short, pray for me please, idk what's going on