Robby is looking down at the papers. It’s his. His name, social security number, his age(51), everything... and the results of his blood tests.
He can feel how his own pulse has sped up, it’s all he can hear as he’s looking down at the results.
He’s a doctor, he would have known what these numbers meant. Even without the words from his own regular doctor, whose office he’s currently sitting in.
Had he actually taken the time to think through his own symptoms, he would have.. Should have known. But there's also no doubt that he would never have been able to convince himself of the diagnosis.
He vaguely registers a sound in the room and only reacts when a hand lands on his shoulder.
“Michael, are you alright?”
...
The rest of the appointment is sort of a blur. He remembers everything, but it’s also strangely foggy and seems like a dream.
He’s happy he took the car to the doctors. He wouldn’t have trusted his own balance on the bike right now.
Driving through town, he concentrates all he can, trying not to get distracted. He makes it home, parks the car and walks to the door.
For some reason he pauses as he’s reaching for the door handle. His pulse quickens again. If he doesn't open that door in the next few seconds, he’s not sure if he’ll be able to for a while. That all too familiar sense of panic is starting to spread through his body.
He opens the door.
Jack’s in the kitchen. Sitting at the island, working at his computer, with a cup of coffee at his side. His husband looks up as he enters their kitchen.
“Hey, how did..”
Jack’s smile falters as their eyes meet, and Robby knows he must rip off the Band-Aid.
“I’m pregnant.”
(Might try to write more, but mostly just a bite of an idea I had in my head I wanted to share.:) )
Long story short, my wife had her gall bladder removed early yesterday afternoon. She checked into the ER after work Monday because of Symptoms™️ but she wasn't exactly experiencing the wholesale pain of gallstones, had tests run all that evening and Tues-weds morning, And because it's non-life-threatening (at that moment) and insurance covered it, they let her 'slip schedule" it rather than come back later (😬😬)
So everything is fine, my wife is sore with 5 small Lazer-insert organ-removal tiny scars/wounds/incisions and usually post op things and challenges, but man....none of that was fun, and THANK GOD her work has great health ins.
Hello! Apologies for not using the request box, but I wanted to ask anonymously. Is it possible for you to do Aventurine with a reader who has agoraphobia? Somewhat similar to Futaba Sakura from Persona 5. They struggle to leave their home and whenever they do, they end up feeling very light-headed and scared due to the anxiety that comes with it, and rely heavily on a trusted person to feel safe with. Hope I explained it well enough, it's so late here rn so I'm like half-asleep rn lol, tysm!
“Hold my hand and I’ll take you there, somehow, someday”
Summary: Aventurine helps you face your agoraphobia, taking small steps together to step outside your home. Though the outside world feels overwhelming, his unwavering support and gentle encouragement help you navigate the anxiety, proving that no matter the obstacles, you’re never alone when he's by your side.
Warnings: Mentions of anxiety and agoraphobia, Light-hearted but emotional themes, Mild panic/anxiety attacks.
A/N: dw! I'm literally half asleep most of the time while writing these fics 💀
Aventurine had always been a man of high stakes and calculated risks. His world revolved around strategy, manipulation, and power. But there was something about you that made him discard all his usual games. With you, everything felt different. You were his sanctuary, a calm he could never find anywhere else.
He first met you at a party, his usual charm and sharp wit on full display, yet he found himself drawn to you in a way he hadn't anticipated. You were quiet, a little reserved, yet there was a depth to you that intrigued him. It wasn't until much later that he learned about your struggle—your agoraphobia, the anxiety that clung to you like a second skin, making the outside world seem more like a battlefield than a place for living.
You never fully revealed the extent of your fears, but Aventurine, ever the observant strategist, had seen enough to understand. When your trembling hands would grip the edge of the doorframe when you were about to step outside, when you'd look to him with uncertainty, he knew.
Tonight, as the world outside was cloaked in the soft glow of the streetlights, Aventurine stood in the doorway of your apartment, eyes flicking to you with a gentle concern.
"You're thinking of going out again, aren't you?" His voice was smooth, like velvet, though there was a hint of playfulness in it. He always knew when your thoughts drifted toward venturing outside.
You hesitated, fingers nervously playing with the hem of your sleeve. "I... I just feel like I should try. I need to do it. Maybe just for a short walk."
He stepped closer to you, his presence like a calm weight in the room. "You know you don't have to, right? But, if you do, I'll be right by your side. Always."
His words were like a lifeline, pulling you back from the edge of anxiety. Aventurine's soft smile reminded you that, despite the world outside being overwhelming, you weren't alone. Not when he was with you.
"I... I don't want to be a burden." you murmured, glancing away, embarrassed by the constant need for his support.
Aventurine tilted your chin gently, making you meet his gaze. His eyes glistened with warmth and understanding. "You could never be a burden to me. I’m here because I want to be. And you’re not weak for needing help. You're brave for even considering it."
His words wrapped around you like a blanket, soothing the tightness in your chest. The weight of the world outside, so daunting and far-reaching, suddenly seemed lighter when you were with him.
"Just a walk. And if you need to turn back, we turn back. No questions asked. No shame." Aventurine reassured you, his hand gently brushing against yours.
You looked at him, your heart beating a little faster, but this time not from fear. There was a soft fluttering inside you, an unfamiliar warmth spreading through your chest.
Slowly, you nodded. "Okay. Let's try. But only if you're with me."
"Always." he promised, his smile widening as he took your hand in his, leading you to the door.
The walk outside was nothing extraordinary to most. It was just a few blocks around the neighborhood, the moon casting a soft light on the sidewalks. But to you, it was everything. Each step you took outside was a victory, and each moment of his presence beside you made the world feel just a little less intimidating.
Aventurine kept the conversation light, his voice drawing you out of your head. He teased you gently about your nervous glances at every passerby, and you laughed, the sound bright and genuine. Even as your heart raced and your thoughts threatened to spiral, he was there, grounding you with his presence, reminding you that there was no rush. No pressure.
Halfway through the walk, you began to feel the familiar light-headedness creeping in, the anxious tension rising like a storm in your chest. Your breath hitched, and your grip tightened on his hand.
"Aventurine, I—" you began, but he squeezed your hand gently, cutting you off.
"Hey, it’s okay," he said softly, stopping in his tracks. He turned you toward him, his eyes full of understanding. "You don’t have to go any further. Let’s head back, yeah? We’ve already won by being out here, together."
You blinked at him, a wave of relief washing over you. You had feared that stepping outside, just stepping out the door, would somehow break you, but with him, you realized that you didn't need to conquer the world all at once. Small steps mattered too.
You nodded, taking a deep breath. "Yeah... let’s go back."
With a smile, Aventurine tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, the light from the streetlamp catching the delicate curve of his smile. "See? No need to rush. We have all the time in the world."
The walk back felt different—lighter. You could feel the weight lifting off your shoulders as Aventurine led you back to your apartment, his hand firmly clasped around yours. It wasn’t just about the journey outside. It was about knowing that, with him, you didn’t have to fight your battles alone.
When you finally stepped back inside your sanctuary, the familiar walls offering you comfort, Aventurine closed the door behind you both, turning to face you with an almost proud glint in his eyes.
"Look at you," he said softly, his voice full of affection. "You did it. You made it outside, and we did it together. I'm so proud of you."
A small smile tugged at your lips as you leaned against him, the comforting presence of his warmth surrounding you. "I couldn’t have done it without you."
Aventurine chuckled, brushing his lips lightly against your forehead. "I’ll always be here. You’re never alone."
And as you stood there, in your home, with him by your side, you realized that with Aventurine, stepping into the world didn’t seem so impossible. Not when you had a partner who understood, who would walk beside you no matter how many steps it took.
Sorry I'm late to the party on this one. So many app issues with this post. So finally here's some blurry Misha, because he's too pretty to not post even it's fuzzy.
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.
