a garland of lilies (a basket of posies): a TMA/WTNV fanfic
[1] || Also on AO3 and my personal website
Chapter 2: Tim
“I think that’s the closest I’ll ever get to flying on a personal jet,” Martin says, stretching as they emerge from the walkway onto the concourse. His shoulder muscles pop audibly, and he straightens, looking relieved.
Tim can sympathize. He’s incredibly stiff and cramped himself; he can only imagine how Martin must be feeling. Thankfully, they only had to be on the tiny eight-passenger plane for the last leg of their journey, but it’s still a long time to be crammed in a loo paper tube with wings. He reaches over to pat Martin’s arm comfortingly, then looks down at Charlie. “You okay, buddy?”
“Yeah,” Charlie says, but it’s not very convincing, and he’s holding the strap of his bag tightly in both hands. “This one’s smaller than the others.”
“Well, Night Vale is a smaller town than London or Chicago or Los Angeles,” Martin points out. "It’s not a bad thing. It means it’ll be easier for Jon’s cousin to find us.”
“Should we wait for him here?”
Tim shakes his head. “No, we have to leave and go to the main part of the airport, remember? They don’t let you come to the gates without tickets. We’ll go this way, and when we get to the end there will probably be a lot of people waiting for someone to get off the planes. He’ll be there.” He hopes.
There are signs hanging on the walls of the concourse, advertisements and tourism posters. One shows a half-buried Ferris wheel and aggressively declares We will show you FUN in a handful of DUST! Another seems to be advertising a pizza restaurant; a third features a cheerful message about investments from the Last Bank of Night Vale, which is an interesting choice of names. A slightly threatening sign with a law-enforcement symbol of some kind at the bottom warns: If you see something, say nothing, and drink to forget. Most of the official-looking posters have a large, prominent eye at the top, which Tim finds himself stealing uneasy glances at. They seem harmless enough, anyway, but he still hustles the others along. They don’t seem to mind.
At last, they emerge into an open space where two hallways converge and find a bustling crowd, moving around with suitcases and rolling bags and animal carriers, calling to one another and generally being loud. Charlie stares around him with wide eyes, but he seems marginally more relaxed now that they’re in a more open area. Tim makes a mental note of that.
Jon hums absently, but it’s got a proper tune to it. Tim’s about to ask him about it when he suddenly stops, tilting his head slightly, and goes from humming to singing under his breath. A grin blooms on his face, his eyes lighting up in a way that’s almost but not quite the way they did when he saw Tim and Martin in the airport after his last trip to America, and he turns, raising his voice to sing as he does so. “Johnny’s so long at the fair…”
“Jonny!” The man coming towards them can’t be anyone but Jon’s cousin. They’ve got the same eyes—what the Keeper once described in a statement as a warm and guileless brown—and general coloring. The other man is taller than Jon, not quite as tall as Tim, but surprisingly muscular for a scientist (then again, Tim supposes he’s pretty muscular for an academic, so he’s not really one to talk), and his hair is thicker and fuller than Jon’s surprisingly fine strands, but the delighted grin on his face is identical to the one on Jon’s.
He gets within a few feet of them, arms outspread, then slows to a stop. “Oh, right. Is today a hug day?”
Jon laughs and spreads his arms out as well. “More often than not these days. You?”
“Saved one up for you.” Jon’s cousin hugs him tightly for a moment, then pulls back and looks Jon up and down. “You look much better than the last time I saw you. Taking better care of yourself, are you?”
“Yes. Well, not without significant prodding.” Jon gives Tim and Martin a fond smile over his shoulder.
The man smiles up at them, too, eyes flicking back and forth between them. “You must be Jonny’s partners.”
“Yes, this is Martin, and this is Tim,” Jon says, indicating them in turn. “And this is our boy Charlie…ah, this is my cousin Carlos.”
“Hi.” Martin holds out his hand for Carlos to shake.
"It’s so good to meet you,” Carlos says warmly, shaking Martin’s hand, then turning to shake Tim’s before kneeling down on Charlie’s level and offering him a bright, friendly smile. “Hey there!”
“Hi!” Charlie beams back at Carlos, revealing the gap where his lower left canine used to be. “What kind of science do you study?”
“I’ll take you to my lab while you’re here and show you some of our experiments,” Carlos promises, which isn’t exactly an answer, but Charlie seems willing to accept it. He gets to his feet and looks over his shoulder, smiling. “Honey, come here and meet the rest of our family.”
The man who steps forward now is also smiling broadly. He’s a little taller than Carlos, a little less muscular but roughly the same girth, with hair the color of cornsilk and dark blue eyes. Nestled in his arms and studying all of them with the peculiar blend of interest and deep skepticism only a toddler can manage is a very small boy with round, chubby cheeks, floppy hair, and one blue eye and one brown. Tim is only vaguely aware of this, because his brain is still trying to cope with the rest of our family.
“Cece, this is my cousin Jonny, and his partners Tim and Martin, and their son Charlie,” Carlos says, pointing them out one by one. “This is my husband Cecil, and our son Esteban.”
Cecil shifts Esteban to his hip and holds out his hand to Jon. In a deep, sonorous, almost portentous voice, he says, “Welcome to Night Vale.”
“Ah—thank you.” Jon shakes Cecil’s hand. “We’re glad to be here.”
“We’re glad to have you.” Cecil’s voice drifts into a slightly higher register as he looks down at Esteban. “Can you say hi?”
“Hi,” Esteban echoes, grinning at Jon but clinging tighter to Cecil just the same.
Carlos wrinkles his nose in a smile at Esteban, who mimics the face back. “You must be hungry. We can head home and get you all settled in, and then I’ll finish up dinner. Do you have any checked luggage, or—”
“INTERLOPERS!”
All four of them jump, Charlie practically into Martin’s arms, and Jon almost falls over backwards. Tim catches him and then abruptly thrusts him at Martin, shoving between his family and the woman striding towards them without a moment’s thought. Her hands and arms drip with red, spattered across her torso and clotting the blade of the hatchet thrust in her belt, and her eyes gleam the same color, all of it glowing so bright it hurts Tim’s eyes. It’s always harder for him to control this when he’s tired or scared or angry, and the yell caught him off-guard enough that his grip on it has slipped.
And the problem is, now it’s worse, because if this woman isn’t actually an avatar of the Hunt, she’s been Marked by it very deeply. Which sets off every single protective instinct Tim has.
“Hi, Leann,” Carlos says, in the same tone of voice Jon Prime uses to speak to Institute donors. Tim looks at him and immediately wishes he hadn’t. A bright green glowing line runs up his left arm, from his finger to his chest, terminating at a marbled mess of grey and yellow directly over his heart; the grey streaks in his hair and beard glow as well, and his eyes are flecked with indigo. And that’s just what Tim sees before he drags his gaze away.
Well, he definitely has some statements for them.
Leann—if that’s the woman’s name—nods distractedly at Carlos. “Carlos. Cecil. Are these friends of yours?”
“My cousin and his family,” Carlos says. “And they’re probably tired, so we should get going, if you don’t mind.”
“Sure, sure.” Leann eyes them again. “Leann Hart, editor of the Night Vale Daily Journal. Maybe we could sit down for an interview at some point while you’re here.”
“Absolutely not,” Tim growls. Static crackles on his tongue, and Leann actually takes a half-step back, looking surprised.
Martin, thank God, steps in, slipping an arm through Tim’s. “We’re not supposed to talk to the press without express permission from our boss, sorry. But it’s nice to meet you.”
The static is building, and Tim’s not sure if it’s contained in his head or all around them, but either way, if they don’t get out of here now, there’s going to be an incident and he doesn’t want to screw up Jon’s first visit with family in a decade. He also doesn’t want to scare Charlie, or Esteban for that matter. He does want her statement—the sharp, hungry ache stabs at him in a way that’s becoming depressingly familiar—but he grits his teeth against it. The risk of her retaliating against the people he loves is too great if he just takes it.
Jon brushes a hand against Tim’s elbow, not exactly holding it, but maintaining contact nevertheless as he addresses his cousin. “We’ve got one checked suitcase, but we were trying to travel light.”
“Sure. Right this way.” Carlos smiles brightly and Esteban matches it.
“Good night, Leann,” Cecil says, in a very final tone of voice.
Leann nods and backs away, but Tim can still feel her suspicious gaze on them as they walk away.
If you think my permanent moods don’t consistently consist of underlying panic and general “ugh”-ness that has a tendency to become overwhelmingly prominent panic and “ugh”-ness then you don’t know me at all.
The Lecturer: “Close your eyes and imagine a tree. You can picture it because it’s a mental representation you’re already familiar with.” 🌳✨
The rest of the class: 🌳🍎☀️ (´꒳`)
My goddamn brain: 🦌🍷💀🎨 🩸🩹
(I’m literally picturing the wound-man tree, the lungs, the flowers... the full Hannibal Lecter special). (ᗒᗩᗕ)
Damn, it’s so hard to act "normal" when your mental representations are strictly Will Graham flavored. 🌀
I’m sitting there looking all soft and coquette with my notes, but internally I’m analyzing the exact pattern of those branches like I’m at a crime scene. ( ◜‿◝ )♡
My RSD is telling me that if they saw what I was imagining, I’d be sent straight to the Principal’s office (or the BSHCI). 🛡️🎀
But I guess that’s just the beauty of having a mind fixed on these specific, dark patterns. (｡･ω･｡)ﾉ♡
I’m trying to leave the house less. (ᗒᗩᗕ) Between RSD and my mild paranoia about social encounters, staying in feels safer. Goddamn, real life and the internet haven't always been kind to me. 🚫🌪️
But my friend invited me out for a snack, and I actually went. (´꒳`)
It’s a rare moment of courage.
While we were chatting, he gave me this smile:
It’s the exact energy of Will having lunch with Hannibal. (人´∀｀)｡ﾟ+ 🍷
Between the new short curls and his hormone treatment, he’s basically becoming my real-life investigator. 🌸
Damn, please smile more! You make the world feel a little more fixed and less terrifying. ( ◜‿◝ )♡
Read from the beginning on Tumblr || AO3 || My Website
Chapter 53: These move my soul to wend its way
Tim didn’t sleep that night, which was less than comforting. Ordinarily he’d have welcomed a night without dreams, even if it meant he’d be utterly exhausted when he got to work the next morning, but something told him that the fact that, no matter how long he lay in the darkness listening to Gerry’s breathing and willing sleep to come, he remained wide awake and watchful was likely to mean something with unfortunate implications.
He stared at the ceiling, tracing the whorls in the plaster and imagining them to be his own thoughts. The rituals would fail on their own, which meant they didn’t actually need to worry about the Unknowing…which meant they’d been wasting their time for the last three years. On the other hand, Gertrude’s note had explicitly given him the blessing to blow the Unknowing to hell anyway. While it could have been a revenge thing—letting Tim take down the thing that had destroyed his brother, the way she’d taken down the thing that had destroyed her sister—he somehow thought there might have been more to it than that.
It occurred to him, as his eyes lit on a particularly deep shadow that he couldn’t quite see all the way into, that the Dark hadn’t just given up when their ritual failed. Sure, he hadn’t seen much in the way of activity, but he’d managed to find Jon’s backup tapes and listened to one that had turned out to be Basira Hussein’s statement about the kidnapping case that had led to her quitting the police force, so he knew what had happened, or almost happened, to Callum Brodie—which had gone a long way towards explaining why Gerry had had so much trouble with the lighting in his painting, anyway. But the incident at Outer Bay Shipping had ended in five deaths, including a police officer, and left a boy scarred and deeply marked. If Gertrude had disrupted it properly—maybe if she'd come to Ny-Ålesund and blown it up, or done something violent like that—it would have saved a few lives. Maybe that was the reason for letting him continue to disrupt it. The Stranger couldn’t come through, but that didn’t mean people couldn’t get hurt, even killed, in the attempt.
So maybe they hadn’t wasted their time. Even if the world wouldn’t end. Still…it was a hard pill to swallow. Realizing how many people Gertrude had sacrificed, apparently without mercy, was a hard one to swallow as well. She’d spoken as though she wasn’t willing to sacrifice him or Gerry, but he had to acknowledge that he didn’t know that for sure, and now he never would. He vowed to himself, once again, that he wouldn’t let anyone else be fodder for the grist of the mills of the Fourteen. If anyone was going to die to them—which he didn’t plan on—it was going to be him.
And a fine job you’re doing protecting them, a voice whispered in the back of his mind, slimy and insidious and oh so persuasive. You let the Corruption into the Archives and nearly take the Archivist’s life. You let the Stranger into the Archives and called it friend. You let the Spiral slide through your defenses and attack the Archivist and tried to pretend you were fixing it. You’ve left the Archives unguarded so many times to follow your own desires. And can you truly say what’s been around him since he left? Have you even tried to find him, let alone defend him?
“Get thee behind me, Satan,” Tim muttered, crossing himself with his free hand.
Gerry stirred beside him. “Mmm…Tim? You ‘wake?”
“Yeah, babe, I’m awake.” Tim ran a hand through Gerry’s hair. It was down past his shoulders now, and he’d taken to dyeing it again, with Tim’s help so it came out evenly. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you up.”
“You didn’t. I don’t think.” Gerry slid himself up a bit to rest his head on Tim’s chest. “Heard you talking to Satan and assumed you were addressing me.”
“Ha. Ha ha. Very funny.” Tim sighed. “No, just…my brain being an asshole. Or one of the Fourteen trying to get me to give into despair. You know, enumerating all the ways I’ve failed at keeping Jon and the others safe.”
“Safe doesn’t mean totally free from harm,” Gerry pointed out. “You’ve kept them alive. And as we discovered yesterday, that’s probably more than Gertrude would have bothered with.”
“I wish I could say you were wrong.”
“Believe me, so do I. But I’m glad I’m not wrong about you. You did everything you possibly could.”
“Did I?” Tim said bitterly. “Three different agents of other Fears got into the Archives, on my watch, and attacked Jon. And I didn’t do anything to stop them.”
“Bullshit.” Gerry half sat up and leaned his elbows pointedly on Tim’s chest, pinning him down. “The Corruption worked its way in through a method you couldn’t detect, and you still did what you could to keep it out—you had no way of knowing just how bad it was. The Stranger literally rewrote your memories, there was no possible way you could have stopped it, and you still were suspicious enough of it to look into it. The Spiral stole its way in after someone it had already marked while you were out of the Archives—you couldn’t stay in there indefinitely, and even if you’d been there, how much could you have really done?”
“If it had been Gertrude…well, it wouldn’t have got that far, I don’t think, but if she’d been the Archivist then instead of Jon, I’d have still been in the Archives.” Tim grabbed Gerry’s elbows and lifted them up to give himself enough room to scoot up to a sitting position. “I guess that’s what’s really getting me right now. I…I really and truly thought Jon had killed Gertrude, and I let that color my movements. I left him unguarded because, in the end, did I really care if he lived or died?”
“Yes,” Gerry said simply. “You did. Maybe it was because you said that if anyone was going to kill the little bastard it was going to be you, but you honestly didn’t even really believe he was the murderer by that point, did you? What were you going to do, get him one of those backpacks with a lead on it they sell to put on toddlers?”
Tim sighed. “Okay, maybe I couldn’t have really stopped anything from getting to him. Then. Short of being there to defend him, or…scaring off potential predators, there’s only so much I can do, after all. But I didn’t exactly give him reason to trust me, did I? I practically drove him towards the threats.”
“You absolutely did not. Any more than you drove Martin towards them. Jon was paranoid, from what you said, he wasn’t going to trust anyone or anything if he could help it, no matter what you did. Hell, if he didn’t trust Martin, he sure wasn’t going to trust you.”
“Christ, Martin.” Tim blew out a long, slow breath. “I haven’t done him any favors, either. He’s having a shitty time of it as it is, and I definitely made it worse running off to Russia without warning like I did. Never mind Jon, he’s never going to trust me again.”
Gerry shrugged. “Well, you’ve got a chance there.”
Tim blinked. “What makes you say that?”
“You work with him, Tim. You see him five days a week. As a matter of fact, you’re going to see him in just a couple of hours. You’re both alive and in good health. Until you’re both dead, seems to me you’ve got every chance at repairing your relationship.” Gerry kissed the tip of Tim’s nose and pushed himself up from the bed. “Why not start on that today?”
It was…a startlingly simple statement, and a shockingly simple solution. And it probably wouldn’t work. But Gerry was right, Tim thought as he tossed the covers back and swung his legs out of bed. The only thing he could do was try. And he’d already acknowledged he was going to have to be the one to reach out first. Might as well make a start on it sooner rather than later.
He took Rowlf for a run, showered, and dressed without particularly paying attention to what he was wearing, snagging a hoodie on his way out the door. He assumed it was a plain one until he caught a glimpse of himself in the reflection of the train’s window and noticed the gigantic red bear silhouette on the front. Oh, well, he thought to himself, Melanie showed up in promotional shirts for her ghost hunting show all the damned time, they could deal with Tim rocking a sports hoodie, depending on what he had on underneath it.
He glanced down the front and bit back a groan when he spotted the top of the decal. Well. Either that would help or it wouldn’t.
On an impulse, he got off at Victoria Station and walked to the café he remembered Sasha visiting. He was pretty sure that was a real memory—she’d said as much on the tapes, and he remembered stopping there with her once. If he forced himself, really forced himself, he could remember her teasing him about not remembering his umbrella and buying him a cup of coffee as a thank you. As he placed his orders, the knowledge suddenly slammed into his mind that the thanks had been not only for supporting her after her encounter with Michael, but for getting between her and the professional dog-walker on the corner. Sasha, the real Sasha, was deathly afraid of dogs.
Tim swallowed back the sudden surge of grief and guilt, accepted his purchases, and set off down the street again. It fortunately wasn’t so cold that the drinks were likely to go bad before he got to the Institute, but he did have to struggle a bit to juggle things around so he could maneuver the keys into the lock. Finally, though, he made it into the Archives, made his way to the cluster of desks, and set down the box of assorted pastries before placing a coffee on each desk. Hopefully Melanie liked it…and didn’t assume he was trying to poison her.
Actually, he was less concerned about her than he was about Martin.
He was just coming out of the storage closet with a stack of napkins when the man in question came in, looking about how he usually did first thing on a Monday—tired and stressed. Tim hung back for a moment to give him a chance to compose himself without knowing he was observed, but the moment he laid eyes on the coffee and his brows furrowed in confusion, he stepped forward. “Morning, Marto. I know you don’t usually do coffee, but I got you a half-caf. Cream, sugar, and a sprinkle of cinnamon.”
Martin checked and blinked at him. “Uh…how did you know that’s how I like my coffee?”
Shit. Tim considered the merits of lying, or covering up with a simple story, but…honestly, Martin deserved better. Especially from him. “I just did. Hazard of working down here for an extended period of time. It’s safe, though, I promise. So are the pastries.”
That did not appear to appease Martin in the slightest. He eyed the coffee on Melanie’s desk. “So what did you get Mel?”
“Black, two sugars, with extra shot of espresso. And she hates being called Mel,” Tim told him. Martin grunted. “Mine’s a flat white. And since you’re going to ask, Jon’s not much of a coffee drinker either, and on the rare occasions he does he just drinks it black because he hates wasting time.”
At least that got a tiny smile, albeit a brief one, out of Martin. “And the pastries?”
“Two apple fritters, a cinnamon bun with a frankly insulting amount of glaze, two plain cake donuts, and a chocolate croissant. That and one of the fritters are yours.” Tim held up a hand. “Nothing clever about that. I just paid attention to what you picked that time Sasha brought in an assortment when you were living in the Archives.”
Martin’s shoulders slumped. “Was that even real?”
Tim sighed and nodded. “Yeah, I think so. Enough of the broad strokes of our memories would be the same. Even if the real Sasha never brought them in, I’m not wrong about your preferences, am I?”
“No.” Martin sighed heavily and opened the box. “Thanks, by the way. I do mean that. I, uh, kind of forgot to eat anything this morning.”
Tim watched Martin devour the croissant in three bites. “What about last night?”
Martin mumbled something around the mouth of the coffee cup that sounded enough like I forgot that Tim was prepared to start nagging. Before he could, though, Melanie stomped into the Archives. She, too, stopped at the sight of the desk, then frowned at Martin. “How’d you know I didn’t have time to stop and get coffee?”
Martin pointed at Tim, who shrugged and repeated, “Occupational hazard. There’s a donut and a cinnamon bun in there for you, too…this place is a lot stingier on the glaze than the one I brought the box from the other day, but that bakery didn’t really sell much in the way of coffee.”
“I’ll live.” Melanie grabbed one of the donuts. “Assuming you haven’t poisoned the pastries, that is.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, that would be far too obvious,” Tim deadpanned. “The poison’s on your pen. I know you chew on the end. So, what are we planning to do this morning that doesn’t involve us going out of the Archives?”
“Why do we need to not leave the Archives?” Martin sounded suspicious.
Tim prodded his brain, then poked the Ceaseless Watcher—as stupid as that was—but both remained stubbornly (and, in the case of the Beholding, smugly) silent on the matter. “Genuinely, I do not know. I just get these annoying instincts sometimes, and this one is telling me that we all need to stay indoors today.”
“Maybe it’s going to rain,” Melanie said sarcastically. “Well, in that case, I’ve got a few files I need to look into. I had other ones that were more pr—um, interesting, and I let a bunch sit.”
Martin sighed. “I’ve got a couple that are giving me trouble. I think I’ll poke into them. What about you, Tim?”
“Melanie kind of made a good point last week,” Tim said. He flashed his middle finger at her in response to her dramatic, exaggerated gasp of shock. “We do need some kind of research database. At the very least, we need some sort of contact directory, yeah? I’m going to take some time to see if I can code up something on Mister Megabytes so we can get an idea of what we need to put in it.”
Melanie frowned at the computer. “Why do you have such an ancient piece of tech, anyway? I mean, it fits with the damned tape recorders, but did it ever occur to Gertrude Robinson to, you know, update it at some point in the last twenty years?”
“That is the update. Elias had it installed three years ago,” Tim told her. “I think it was his idea of a joke. Backfired on him, though, because we made it work. We never had a computer before that.”
“Jesus,” Melanie muttered under her breath, flopping down into her chair and reaching for her stack of files.
The morning passed more or less as normal. Actually, it almost felt like the normal of before—before the murder, before the paranoia, before Prentiss’s attack. Maybe it was the tense normal from when Martin had been living in the Archives, but at least it wasn’t the open hostility and suspicion that had become all too commonplace. Tim even dared let himself relax a little. Clearly he’d hit the right note, with the honesty and the coffee both. At the very least it was a start.
“I need to verify something up in the library,” Melanie announced, thumping her boots off her desk and onto the floor. “Permission to step outside the confines of the Archives, Commander Stoker?”
“Permission granted, Cadet King,” Tim replied crisply. “Just don’t leave the boundaries of the Institute.”
“Aye, aye, sir.” Melanie gave him a sarcastic salute and marched with the precision of either a soldier or a drum major out of the room.
“If this were actually the military, she’d be dropping and giving me fifty for insubordination,” Tim said dryly. He turned around. “You doing okay there, Freckles?”
“Yeah, I’m good,” Martin muttered. The response was more than half mechanical.
Tim hesitated, then saved his file, ejected the disk, and set it on the table before crossing over to sit on the edge of Martin’s desk. “Are you sure? Look, I know I get on you about not taking care of yourself, but I’m genuinely worried. You look like you haven’t slept in six weeks, you’re not eating properly, and, you know, I was trying to let you have some semblance of privacy by pretending I didn’t see it, but I know you put on a mask when you come in on Mondays. Today seemed worse than usual.” He reached out tentatively, but didn’t touch. “Let me help you, Martin. Please. At least tell me what’s up.”
Martin hesitated for a moment, then looked up, met Tim’s eyes, and sagged. “I, er—I went looking for Jon this weekend. I, I know what you said about, about not, b-but that was weeks ago and I’m sure she’s not…anyway, I just, I know he’s alive, I don’t know how, but I needed to know he was okay, and I thought, I thought maybe if I found him I could tell him he wasn’t a suspect and it was safe for him to come back, or, or at least help him, you know? But I couldn’t find him, and…it maybe took more time than I thought.” He rubbed a hand over his face. “And then there’s…all this. Melanie, and the statements, and the murder, and you l—” He snapped his jaw closed with an almost audible click.
“And I left you to deal with it on your own,” Tim completed. “Without so much as a by your leave. I made you feel like you weren’t important enough to know what I was planning or what I was doing, and that wasn’t fair to you. No wonder you didn’t believe me when I told you that I wouldn’t have left m—the Archives unguarded.”
“I—yeah. Yeah, that hurt a lot,” Martin admitted. “I know everybody thinks, ‘oh, it’s Martin, he’ll be fine, he’ll just go make the tea and keep things ticking along while we go off and do the real work,’ but—”
“I absolutely do not think that way.” Tim slid off the desk and knelt down beside Martin to look up at him seriously. “Martin, believe me when I tell you that if there had been any other way to handle that, I would have. I trusted you to keep things together while I was gone—the same way Gertrude always trusted me—and I definitely knew you’d do the real work. Did I underestimate how…docile and willing to go along without question you’d be? Absolutely, and I sincerely apologize for that. I assumed you would trust me without realizing that I hadn’t given you any reason to. I am genuinely sorry. I had…a very good reason that I couldn’t tell you ahead of time what I was planning. If you want, I’m happy to tell you tonight, but…”
“Let’s…table that until Friday, maybe? If it’s going to keep me up all night, I’d rather do it when I don’t have to pretend to be functional the next day.”
“Entirely fair. But you will sleep tonight.”
“Sir, yes, sir,” Martin said in a fair imitation of Melanie’s bark.
Tim grinned and pushed himself to a standing position. “That’s the spirit. By the way, when Melanie gets back, if you want to go up to the canteen for lunch, go for it. Or go sit…somewhere that’s not here to eat, if you brought from home.”
“You’re really serious about us not going outside, then?” Martin suddenly got serious again, looking up at Tim with something that was almost like trust. “Is there something dangerous out there, then?”
Tim pursed his lips. “I—I don’t know how to explain it, Martin. It’s not exactly danger I’m sensing. More…something oppressive, like thunder.”
Martin’s eyebrows lifted, just a little. “If you say so, Fiver.”
“I’m definitely more Bigwig than Fiver, but the sentiment stands, I guess.” Tim grinned. “Should’ve known you were a fan of that book.”
“I—I’ve actually only read the first part,” Martin confessed. “I had a copy on my phone, my old one, but I’d only got as far as them joining the new warren before…you know, the whole thing with Jane Prentiss. And it was a download from somewhere, so…I just never got back to it.”
“The new warren…you mean they’d made it to Watership Down? Or was it—did you get as far as the King’s Lettuce?”
“The what? The only lettuce mentioned was what was stolen for the, um…the Chief Rabbit.”
Tim shook his head in only half playful despair. “Oh, jeez, you haven’t even got to the really good bits yet. I’ll dig out my copy tonight and loan it to you. You’ll love it.”
Martin smiled wanly. “Sure, Tim. Thanks.”
Melanie returned a few minutes later, clutching a small stack of books, and Martin spent a bit longer typing before closing his laptop. “I’m going to run up to the canteen and get a sandwich to bring back here…Tim, Melanie, you want anything?”
“BLT on rye. Thanks, Martin.” Tim pulled a twenty pound note out of his wallet and handed it to Martin. “Keep the change.”
“Turkey’s fine.” Melanie cracked open the book she had selected and began to read.
Tim waited for a thank you, then sighed when Martin walked away without bothering to get one. Either he knew not to expect one or didn’t think he deserved one. Once it was just the two of them, though, he asked Melanie, “Is this for work, or a personal project?”
The way that she glared at him over the top of the book told him he wasn’t that far off. “Does it matter, as long as I get my work done?”
“Well, it might matter, because if I know what you’re trying to find out I can tell you if those books are going to help or not, but if it’s for a personal project I’m pretty sure you’ll lie to me.”
“If I want your help, I’ll ask for it.”
“Nobody gets what they want in the Archives, Miss King. I—” Tim stopped and snapped his head up as abrupt awareness flooded over him, and he suddenly understood exactly what Fiver must have felt when he beheld the notice board across from the warren. The danger he had been anticipating all day was here, and the field was full of blood.
“What?” Melanie asked, sounding annoyed and concerned in equal measures.
Tim ignored her. He shoved to his feet, knocking the chair over with a clatter and the peculiar soft rumble of a flapping caster wheel, and strode towards the door of the Archives, his heart hammering ninety to the dozen. Something got in, something’s here, something got in something got in something got in something got in…
He flung open the door and nearly slammed into Martin, who looked as though he had been hurrying himself. He gave a startled oomph and backed off a step.
“Are you hurt? What happened?” Tim barked.
“Jon’s here,” Martin blurted out, looking from Tim to Melanie and back. “Jon’s here and he’s angry, and he’s not alone.”
Tim didn’t wait for anything further. He shouldered past Martin, ignoring his flustered cries, and stormed for the steps. He didn’t need to ask where Jon was—he could sense it like the draw of a magnet—and damned if he wasn’t going up there. He could hear Martin and Melanie following behind him, running to catch up, which was good. He couldn’t leave them unguarded, but like the shepherd searching for his hundredth lamb, he had to get to Jon. Before it was too late.
Goddamn, I finally finished my work and I’m so ready to just rot in my Will Graham obsession! (ᗒᗩᗕ) 🍷🦌
This picture is basically me every time my ASD brain starts finding patterns in a conversation... I swear I’m nice, I’m just trapped in my own head! (´；ω；｀)
Time to rewatch the whole series and let my RSD rest. 🌀🩹 ( ◜‿◝ )♡
If you don't use AI'S, do they even know about you? Or will they notice your hesitancy to engage and get weird about it? Will they try to get your attention through the people around you? I'm on track to be fuckin around and finding out how acquisitive these things are...
