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He sat, scrunched tight on his bed with his nerves frayed and spazzing. Martin found another worm had managed to sneak it’s way through the cracks, but he’d managed to kill it and was now struggling to find any semblance of rest. It was futile, he knew it was, but he wanted to at least try.
It had been cloudy the last few days, limiting the already scarce light sources. He’d already paced the length of his flat, clutching rags he stuffed into whatever cracks weren’t already plugged. The shadows loomed, dark and heavy and Martin wished for a flashlight to check for more worms in the corners he couldn’t see.
Scrubbing at his eyes, he considered fishing out his notebook to try and jot down some notes for future poems. “As if I’ll get out of here.” He muttered to himself. “Of course now is when they forget about me.”
It was too dark to write properly anyways and Martin decided it was wiser to save the paper. Martin decides to try again for at least an hour of rest. He propped a pillow up against his back, keeping himself upright incase he needs to throw a worm off his leg.
Without a clock, it’s difficult to measure how much time passed before Martin opened his eyes. It’s dark, but not the muggy grey of a cloudy evening. That told him more or less how much time had passed. He was surprised, not expecting to have had that much sleep. Martin strained his ears and blinked when he couldn’t hear any worms either, just the sound of a dripping tap.
He still checked himself for worms and after testing the air with a toe, pulled his blankets with him when he shivered at the cold air. He was cautious as he crept into the kitchen, thinking he’d left the sink running after a round of rigorous scrubbing.
Martin almost thought he saw something move when he passed the living room, but still, he heard no gross squishing sound. When he passses again, this time, he looks harder.
It might just be the deprivation, but the darkness feels almost concentrated in the small space. A shiver runs up Martin’s spine and he tugs the blanket closer in on himself. Something that's not quite a breeze brushes his cheek and Martin jerks back when he feels something damp graze his cheek.
“Stay back!” His feet stumble and he trips, falling hard and tangling his legs.“ I’ve got a - get away from me!”
He reaches for the first thing he could grab - the lamp - and throws it in the direction of whatever new horror invades his home. There’s a thud and a crack and Martin curses his stupidity as he finds himself backed into a wall. His fingers brush the window and in a wild moment of desperation, Martin wondered if it's worth it to try and break it.
There’s a thin stream of orange light pouring through from a lamp outside. It barely makes a dent in his flat, but it’s enough. Martin swallows his tongue when he finally makes out the outline of what’s looming over him. He gets a glance of a silhouette with extra limbs and deep, opalescent eyes suspended in an empty face.
He’s a breath away from following through when he heard the sound of a door creaking open. Another fresh wave of panic floods his chest, then, as the silence persists, Martin gets to his feet. Still no worms.
“Hello?” He swallows. “Who are - why are you here?”
There was no response and no light coming from the hallway. At this point, he resolves to just accept what was a free ticket out of his flat. He takes a moment to gather a handful of worm corpses as proof for Jon, slipping them into a ziplock before running out. As he expects, it was night, but only a small handful of lamps remain lit.
When he finally makes it inside the Institute, Martin wasn’t surprised to find Jon waiting for him. He was surprised by how much his pricky, abrasive boss takes everything in stride. Tim and Sasha pitch in the effort to make the little storage room more comfortable. The lights do bust several times and in the end, Martin just tolerates the dim.
Compared to the living hive, it isn't bad, just ominous. Jon, Tim or Sasha don’t find many more worms in the Archives, but they still linger plentiful in the upper grounds of the Institute.
“Went to grab a coffee and there were, like, at least six.” Tim comments, passing Martin a muffin. “No clue how they’re not getting down here though. Feels like this place should be swarming; dark, cold, underground.”
“Don’t look a gift in the mouth.” Sasha reminds them. “Anyways, how’s Jon treating you? I know he’s not letting you off the hook for work even if you were literally just held hostage in your own home.”
“It’s fine, really. He isn’t forcing me to do overtime or anything. You know how he is.” He shrugs. “I hardly even see him in the morning.”
“Yea, what’s with that?” Sasha turns to Tim. “You’ve known him for longest, does he always work late?”
“Since research, yea.” He scratches his chin. “I know he sleeps, but the mans practically nocturnal.”
“Huh. Guess that explains it.” Martin still can’t help feel concerned.
He leans over the counter in their small kitchen, looking over the electric kettle as it begins to boil. He sets up two mugs, both decaf because he doesn’t want to give Jon more incentive to not get proper rest. As he carries them back, Martin thanks that he’s got most of the floorplan of the Archives memorized so he doesn't slip on a stray box or chair.
The door to Jon’s office is closed, blinds shut. Now that he notices, Martin can’t see any lights on inside but he still hears the faint sounds of typing. He makes a mental note to ask about getting replacement bulbs before knocking.
“Are you in the middle of a statement? I can come back later?”
There’s a scuffle and Jon making a ruffled sound. Then, the door creaks open. Martin can’t help but make a small frown when he sees that Jon had indeed been working in the dark. His boss looks down to the mugs in his hands and frowns.
“I’m sorry, but I’m not particularly thirsty at the moment.” He says, already about to close the door.
“Okay but, just - wait.” Martin puts a foot in the way. “At least turn on a light in here. You’re going to give yourself a headache even faster.”
The frown between Jon’s eyebrows deepens. His shoulders fall and lets go of the door, returning to his desk to flick on the small lamp. The bulb flickers and Martin wants to complain again, but this is the most ground he’s gotten when it comes to Jon and he doesn’t want to sully the waters.
As Martin sets down the mug, he does take notice of Jon’s paperwork. He knows his handwriting, neat and formal and it still is. But now there are sloppy dots of ink across the pages. They’re even on his hands. Martin can see them just under the cuffs of his shirt sleeve.
“Just… go home at a decent time at least?” He tries.
“I’ll be fine.” He snaps.
Martin sighs. He takes his own drink back to his room and does his best to sleep himself. When he awakes, Jon is still in the office and Martin wishes that he didn’t just change clothes while in the office. He does see there are more ink stains on his shirt.
He keeps noticing these sorts of things as the weeks go on. Martin thinks Jon isn’t used to occupying the Archives with another person this late and tries to hide his bad habits, but Martin knows him too well. He makes them known to Sasha and Tim too, trying to encourage them into getting their boss to sleep better.
Jon does start leaving the Archives sooner, but somehow, he still looks worse. Martin watches as the shadows under his eyes grow heavier and his gaze turns listless. He starts wearing darker clothes to try and hide any more careless stains, but his concern turns up to eleven when he catches Jon in a coughing fit, whipping his hand to try and hide the dark looking phlegm.
The worms, though, gradually begin to disappear. On a particularly exciting afternoon, Sasha finds a cluster all dead and looking to have drowned in a puddle of brackish liquid.
Then, two weeks into his stay, Martin wakes to a thud somewhere deep in the Archives. He sits up and grabs one of the flashlights Tim had insisted on buying due to the notoriously unreliable lighting.
“Jon?” He calls out. “Please don’t tell me you’ve passed out at your desk.”
He checks his office first. When Martin finds the door ajar, something cold fills his guts. He passes the torch over the desk and sucks in a breath when he sees how almost the entire chair is covered in something sticky and black.
There’s more of the substance down in the Archives, smeared against the walls. Martin doesn’t know what he’ll find. Some part of him thinks he already does. The trail leads behind the stacks of statements and Martin’s worry grows stronger when he sees one of the shelves pushed back to reveal a half open trap door behind it. Then, he nearly jumps into the ceiling when his light falls on the creature lying on the steps.
It’s lying in a puddle of liquid the same colour as the rest of it, practically eating the light as it falls across its prone form. Martin can see the extra limbs now. Tendrils, six running parallel down its sides. At least, it looks like there should be six. Two look to have been ripped off, the rest are squeezing around it’s torso. In its free hand, Martin sees a first aid kit and a patch of soaked gauze pressed against its side.
Martin doesn’t know how to react. He only knows that the creature in front of him is in pain. Picking him up proves to be a challenge, with parts of it falling through his fingers and chilling his skin. Eventually, he tries wrapping it up in his jumper and that keeps it intact long enough to lay it across the cot.
Parts of it spill over the edge, a chilly fog like dry ice. Martin does his best to stem the bleeding from the torn off limbs. All the while, the creature only reacts with pained whimpers and shivers. There’s a strange familiarity that Martin can’t pin down until it opens its eyes.
As he wipes his hands down with a spare rag, he catches movement and sees a pair of glassy silver eyes staring up at him with more horror than Martin expects. It’s funny, in a way, how their positions have swapped from the last time they met.
“Um, hello again.” He kneels by the cot. The monster shifts back until it presses itself against the wall. “Do… do you want me to make you tea?”
It watches him without blinking, eyes catching the door for a brief moment. Against his self preservation, Martin holds one palm against its chest. “Don’t. You're hurt. At least… at least stay for a little while if you really need to go.”
Martin can’t see a mouth and yet, he knows the thing is pouting at him. “Don’t give me that look.” He scolds. “It’s the least I can do for you. You’ve been dealing with Prentiss’ worms all week, haven’t you?”
It nods, looking away and poking the bandages around it’s torso, the stark white the only proof of it’s solidity. Martin adjusts the blankets around it and leaves, coming back with two mugs of tea. He sets his own on his lap and carefully offers the second to the living shadow, who is now solid enough to keep it in his grip.
“You’ll be okay to stay the night, unless Jon decides to come in early.” He says.
At the mention of his boss, the creature gives a small shiver. Martin thinks it looks like fear, but it’s eyes look more sheepish than scared.
“He’s not that bad you know.” Martin can’t help but smile a bit. “I mean, maybe it would be good if you stayed. Save me the trouble of trying to come up with a good cover story. ‘Sorry Jon, the printer exploded and that’s why there’s ink everywhere.’ Maybe he’d actually take this whole paranormal business seriously.“
Again, it’s the same reaction. It fiddles with the blankets, incorporeal fingers tugging at loose threads as the light overhead flickers.
Then, Martin watches as the shadow begins to fade. Alarm shoots through him, thinking that the creature is dying before he begins to see the shape hidden underneath. It’s less fading, moreso the darkness melting back into familiar, ashen brown skin. He stares as Jon sits in the cot, blankets tugged up to try and hide his naked torso.
“I… I’m sorry.” He starts coughing again, little wisps of dark smoke dripping down his lips. “I didn’t want you to know.”
The sheer confusion filling Martin is almost overwhelming. Everything slides into place all at once and he has to consciously remember to close his mouth.
He asks the first question he can properly form. “Is this why you don’t sleep properly?”
“Partially.” Jon takes a slow sip of tea. “It’s something I’ve… learned to manage. I’m fine, really. Prentis just happened to take more out of me than I expected.”
“Wait, so is she - is she dead?”
“Hopefully.” He frowns. “Sorry for the mess, but it should all fade after a bit. Normally I’m not this sloppy.”
“Jon, Jon stop.” Martin shakes his head. “Don’t - don’t talk about yourself like that, like you’re being a burden trying to help. How long has it been since you’ve had a proper sleep. And I mean normal proper, not you proper.”
Martin expects something snappy, but the exhaustion and injury has stolen most of the bite from Jon. He sags. “I honestly don’t know.”
“Then please, rest.” He takes the cup from his hands and adjusts the pillow behind him. “I’ve got extra and I don’t mind sleeping on the floor for a bit. Just let me take care of you.”
Jon looks so small like this and Martin wishes for one of his bigger quilts to wrap around the other man. There’s a soft blush on his cheeks and it makes him look the slightest bit healthier.
“Okay.” He sighs.
Martin smiles. Jon doesn’t fuss when he tucks the blanket around him and makes his own nest at the foot of the cot. He catches a soft smile as Jon closes his eyes. The lights flick off without either of them touching the switch.