#minor argument

"Don't you dare!" you warned, picking up one of your sofa pillows. Better to have something handy to lob at him, ineffectual as it was, to hopefully better emphasize your point. "I don't need or want an apology. Not from you. Not for this. You were saving the world, Clark. Literally, not figuratively. I'd never hold that against you."

"But your birthday…"

"Is in two days," you said instead of calling him a stubborn idiot. Adorable as he was, he was proving your point as he remained stuck on this. You shook your head. Seriously, your sweetheart of a boyfriend and his heart of gold really could test you at times like these. "You have plenty of time to make sure my day is as special as you want it to be for me."

"I want you to have everything," he said with such conviction you couldn't help melting a little. You didn't even put up a fight when he finally closed the distance separating you, his hands gently, tenderly, slipping around your waist. They settled in the small of your back as his forehead dipped to settle against yours. "I never want you to doubt how much I love you."

Melting further into his embrace, you dropped the pillow and set your hands on either side of the giant S over his chest. They curled against the fabric, your nails digging or at least attempting to. As much as he infuriated you, he also had the most uncanny ability to make you fall even harder for him. How it was possible, you'd probably never know. Then again, maybe you didn't need to.

"There's still nothing to forgive, but I love you, too. So much, my lovable meathead."

Gentle as Clark could be, his hold tightened around you at hearing your softly spoken words. A tremor shivered through him as if he'd been waiting, dreading, you pushing him away. He couldn't change who he was, and you never wanted him to.

"If I give you one of your gifts tonight, think I can maybe move back to beefcake from meathead?" he murmured after some moments of tender silence passed.

Another laugh bubbled out of you. "Not a fan of meathead?"

"Only from you." His lips curved into a lovesick grin. "But I would like a chance to redeem myself. Wanna go on a little adventure with me? It's not too far."

"I'll go anywhere with you, Clark, you know that."

He nodded, sweeping you into his arms. A quick press of his lips to yours as he walked back to your balcony where he pushed off and into the air.

Imagine your surprise when he flew you to your most coveted travel destination. More, he chose the most romantic spot, the one you've always dreamed of going with him, and dropping to one knee. A ring box held between you with the most perfect ring you'd ever seen.

You said yes, of course.

And of course, he regained his new beefcake endearment.

For a while anyway.

Gerry was awake and standing over the stove, cooking and listening to one of the massive collection of metal tapes Tim had found at the Oxfam shop, which as near as he could tell had been ripped from CDs; this one sounded Norwegian, a language he was reasonably confident Gerry did not in fact speak, but then again, he was also fairly confident that the actual words were less important than the feeling the music itself gave him. Tim checked to make sure he wasn’t carrying anything sharp or hot, then came up behind him and kissed his cheek. “Morning. You’re up early.”

“Morning.” Gerry blew a distracted kiss in Tim’s direction. “I got a line on one of the books in Leitner’s catalog, maybe more than one. Hell, there might be a few that aren’t on his list. Collection is from some scholar who was apparently an expert on American history. It’s almost for certain got Leitner’s copy of Feeble Engines of Despotism—”

“That’s a Slaughter one, right?”

“Yeah. I think there might be a couple others in there, too. The auction is this afternoon, but the preview starts at nine, so I’d like to get there as early as I can to get a chance to go through them.” Gerry laughed. “Can’t imagine there’s going to be a lot of competition for the books, but you never know.”

Tim laughed, too. “So you need the car today?”

“Yeah, why, what’s the weather like today?”

“Cold right now, but it’ll warm up. No, I just wanted to stop and check in on Martin on my way to work.” Tim stepped over the dog and opened the fridge, looking for the casserole dish he’d put in there last night. “He’s been out sick for the last two weeks—some kind of stomach thing, Jon said. I texted him a couple times, but he’s not answering, so he must be pretty miserable. And if he’s been too sick to go out, he’s probably running low on food, if he even has the energy to make it.”

Gerry hummed. “He’s probably dehydrated, too. Or—no, wait, Martin’s the one that practically lives on tea, right?”

“Yeah, but if he’s too sick to stand, he probably hasn’t made much. I was going to bring him that ginger ale you didn’t end up taking when we went to visit Nonno. Scoot over.” Tim opened the oven and popped the dish in. “I just want to get this warmed up a bit so it’s ready to eat when I get there.”

“I can give you a ride,” Gerry offered. “Drop you at his building—he’s in Stockwell, right? The auction is out Gravesend way, so that’s more or less on my way anyway. Then you can head in on the Tube.”

Tim smiled up at his partner. “Thanks, Ger, you’re the best.”

Gerry smiled back. “Hey, you’re the one worrying about a colleague you aren’t even sure is going to stick around.”

“I mean, he’s a nice guy,” Tim said, straightening up and stretching. “Not his fault he got a raw deal all around. Besides, the fog’s pretty bad out there this morning, and…I dunno. I’m worried it won’t actually burn off, you know?”

Gerry’s smile slipped. “Yeah, fair. Gertrude would have a stroke if the Lonely got its icy claws into her Archives.”

“Honestly, so would I. And Martin deserves better. I’m doing my best, but two weeks alone…it’s too much of a chance. If he’s too sick to look at his phone, or if it’s not working or something and he never got the texts to begin with, he’s probably feeling pretty sorry for himself.” Tim sighed. “I should have checked on him earlier.”

“Why?” Gerry said pragmatically. “If all you know is that he’s got ‘some kind of stomach thing’, those don’t usually last two weeks. You thought he’d be back sooner rather than later.”

“Yeah. And he was answering Jon’s texts, apparently, but not mine, so I just figured he didn’t want company.” Tim stole a rasher of bacon out of the frying pan and got a slap on the back of the hand for it. “He’s getting it today whether he wants it or not, though. Maybe I should bring the dog.”

Rowlf’s ears perked up and his tail wagged at that. Gerry laughed. “You’d have to take him in to work with you. I doubt Martin can have him in his flat with the leasehold.”

“You wouldn’t mind that, would you, boy?” Tim asked Rowlf, who wagged harder. “You wanna go for a ride?”

Rowlf let out a happy bark and jumped up to lick Tim’s nose, then chased his tail for a moment before running for the front hall. Gerry laughed even harder. “You realize you have to take him now, yeah?”

Tim couldn’t help but start laughing, too. “Hey, maybe it’ll help make Martin feel better.”

It was still incredibly foggy when they left the house, which did not help Tim feel better about Martin’s situation. He spent most of the drive, though, trying to keep Rowlf from sticking his nose in the casserole tote he’d had since moving out of his parents’ house and genuinely never used; even bland as it was, it still had things in it that weren’t good for dogs. Besides, Martin didn’t need dog germs in his medicinal soup. He thanked Gerry with a quick kiss, extracted food, ginger ale, and dog, and headed into the building.

He’d picked up Martin a few times over the last year, but he was usually waiting out front, so this was the first time he’d actually gone inside. It was an incredibly old building and smelled…musty was the only word Tim could come up with. Unkempt. It was faint, but it definitely smelled like there was some kind of mold or insect problem in the building. If he hadn’t known Martin’s mother was in an expensive care home and that she’d needed a lot of costly treatments, most of which hadn’t worked, before that, he would have wondered why he was still living in such a shithole after ten years at the Institute. As it was, he resolved to keep an eye out for someplace with low rent that maybe wasn’t one step away from being condemned.

At his side, Rowlf whined and tucked his tail between his legs, sticking close to Tim’s side. Tim patted his head as best he could with his hands full. “I know, boy, I know. We won’t be here too long.” And it was probably better in Martin’s flat, he thought as he looped the lead around his wrist and scrolled back through his phone for the unit number. A smell like this probably permeated anyone and anything that spent too long too close to it, and Martin never came to work reeking of…

Filth.

Tim sucked in a breath as a chill rolled down his spine. Was there some nest of the Crawling Rot somewhere in the building? One of Martin’s neighbors, perhaps something in the walls or the attic…yeah, if that was here, Martin definitely didn’t need to be here. Frankly, nobody did. There was probably a way to burn it out without destroying the whole building, but he’d really have to check. Maybe Gerry would know.

As he moved cautiously forward, though, he realized just how faint the smell was. It was no more than a trace, more an impression than anything, even fainter than the smell of the Lonely had been on Naomi. It wasn’t here anymore, whatever it was…but it had been, he was certain of it. Very recently. Maybe even earlier that day. Maybe it was one of Martin’s neighbors and had just gone to work?

At last, he found the right door. He raised his hand to knock—and then paused. Rowlf, at his side, was growling very, very faintly…and right in the center of the door, right where he was poised to knock, was a discolored spot, as though the paint had been worn away by some kind of thick, viscous oil.

Oh, not good. Not good at all.

‘ Tim swallowed down his panic and—rather than knock—kicked the door three times, not hard, just below the letterbox. “Martin?” he called, trying to keep the fear out of his voice. “Martin, it’s Tim, can I come in? I brought soup.”

There was a long pause, and then the flap of the letterbox swung open. Rowlf’s ears perked up and his tail began wagging again as he stuck his nose in the gap. The wagging increased in tempo.

A second later, the door yanked open, and there stood Martin. He certainly looked as if he’d been ill—pale and haggard, with dark circles under his eyes and a fine sheen of sweat on his forehead. “Is she gone?” he asked, his voice shaking.

Tim’s heart sank into his shoes. This was his fault. This was all his fault. If he’d only warned them, if he’d come to look in on Martin sooner…

He swallowed hard and managed to speak calmly. “There’s no one here but me.”

Rowlf woofed happily at the sight of Martin, and Tim amended, “There’s no one here but us. Is someone bothering you, Marto?”

“I—Jesus.” Martin sucked in a ragged, shaking breath. “I, I need to go. I need to get out of here before—I-I need to tell Jon.”

“Grab your coat and bag and let’s go,” Tim said instantly. He handed Rowlf’s lead to Martin. “Take the dog, he’ll protect you. I’ll stand guard here.”

That was evidently the right combination of words to use. Martin took the lead automatically and headed back into the flat; Rowlf glanced back over his shoulder at Tim, then followed Martin obediently enough. Tim stayed where he was, scanning the hallway for the mysterious she like a rabbit preparing to bolt out of the warren.

Suddenly he caught a whiff of the musty odor again—still faint but there—and heard a wet, squelching sound coming from the direction he’d come. He turned his head sharply and saw, wriggling towards him, a dozen or so small, white, wormlike things. He was pretty sure they were blind, but they couldn’t have been more clearly of the Corruption if they’d been carrying banners.

“Martin!” he shouted, hopping back slightly. “We’ve got to go!”

Rowlf suddenly bounded out of the door and darted into the hallway, lead flying behind him; Tim caught it as he lunged for the worms, barking. “Rowlf, heel! Martin, shit, we can’t go that way, is there another way out of this building?”

“Shit, shit, shit!” Martin stumbled out the door, his face even paler as he took in the worms. “Um, yeah, yeah, this way—c’mon, hurry—shit, I hope she’s not—”

He fumbled with something in his hand. Tim realized after a split second it was an empty peach can. “What are you doing with that?”

“I have to—J-Jon won’t believe me if I don’t bring him proof,” Martin babbled, taking a step towards the worms, which Rowlf was still barking at.

Tim dropped the casserole tote and grabbed Martin’s arm. “I’ll back you up! Come on, let’s go before they get us too!”

It was the us that apparently did it; from the gasp Martin made, he evidently hadn’t thought about the possibility of Tim—or Rowlf—getting hurt. He turned on his heel and ran down the hallway. Tim snatched up the tote, not particularly caring if the contents were intact or not, gave a sharp tug on Rowlf’s lead, and followed.

There was a fire exit at the far end of the building, a short flight of steps with worn and peeling paint that led to a mews that reeked of rotting garbage and petrol but—crucially—not of insects and rot. They emerged at the end of it onto the street, and Tim jerked his head to the left. “Come on! Tube station is this way!”

“W-what if she catches us?” Martin sputtered. “I don’t want to—l-let’s just go! Come on!”

Running with a full casserole dish wasn’t on Tim’s Top Ten Good Times list, but Rowlf would probably enjoy the long run, and if it would make Martin feel better, he’d make the effort. He nodded and set off.

For all his size, Martin was a pretty decent runner; fear and adrenaline were probably aiding in his speed and stamina. Rowlf ran along happily enough, and Tim found he didn’t even have to slow his pace to keep from losing Martin, especially in the persistent fog that refused to burn off. He was going to regret doing this much running without stretching properly first, but as long as they made it to the Institute, alive and in one piece, that was all that mattered.

Finally, finally, they pounded across the bridge spanning the Thames, danced their way across the street, tore through the courtyard, and hit the door. Martin, who was slightly ahead of him, jiggled the knob and tugged on it, then cursed. “Locked! We’ll have to go down the front—”

“Fuck that.” Tim shoved the casserole tote into Martin’s hands—he was so surprised he took it—jerked his keys out of his pocket, and unlocked the side door. “Go, go, go!”

Thank God, Martin didn’t question him, just ran into the Archives. Tim slammed the door shut behind them and followed him through the Archives. Sasha was nowhere to be seen, but the Archivist’s office door was shut. Martin didn’t slow down, merely dropped the casserole tote on Tim’s desk as he passed and then burst through the office door, Tim a mere half step behind him.

Jon sputtered, obviously caught off-guard. The tape recorder was spooling next to him, and from the papers spread across his desk, he’d been recording the statement Tim was thankful he hadn’t needed to investigate in person, the statement of the woman whose son had been taken by the Vast. “My God—Martin! What—?” His eyes focused on Rowlf, who was now sticking quite close to Tim’s side, tongue lolling out of his mouth as he panted. “What is that?”

He shut off the recorder with a sharp click. Martin gripped the edge of the desk as he struggled to catch his breath, managing to pant out, “Archway—worms—trapped—” before he couldn’t manage to speak anymore.

Tim, who was in a bit better shape, spoke up. “I went to check up on him this morning, and when he answered the door after I knocked, all he asked was if ‘she’ was gone. I told him to grab his bag and we’d come in together, and while he was grabbing it, a bunch of those little white worm things—like Timothy Hodges described in his statement—started coming down the hall towards us.” He sucked in a sharp breath as the pieces fell into place. “Shit, Martin, was that Jane Prentiss?”

“I—I th-think so.” Martin was still trying to catch his breath, but he managed to raise his head and look at Jon, almost defiantly. “I’m sure of it.”

Jon, for once, looked at a loss for words. Tim took a deep breath to steady himself and—for lack of anything better to do—grabbed the empty mug off of Jon’s desk. “Right. I am going to make tea and see if that soup I made survived the trip. You sit down and catch your breath. I’ll be back.”

He brought Rowlf back out into the main Archives, looped the lead over the finial on the chair, and told him to sit and stay, then gathered his and Martin’s mugs and made his way to the break room. Luckily it didn’t take him long to make the tea, or to find a decent-sized bowl in the communal dish cupboard. With three mugs of tea in one hand and a bowl of water in the other, he carefully returned to the Archives, praised Rowlf for being obedient, and unclipped his lead to let him take a noisy drink before returning back to the Archivist’s office, where Jon and Martin seemed to be in the middle of an argument, big surprise. Both of them turned to look at him as he came in.

Under any other circumstances, Tim would have responded with a lighthearted Whatever it is, I agree with Martin, but that seemed inappropriate here. Instead, he handed them their tea and then took his usual seat on the corner of the Archivist’s desk, not actually caring if it bothered Jon or not. “I haven’t looked in the tote yet, but getting you guys something to drink seemed more important.”

Jon pinched the bridge of his nose. “Why do you have a tote of soup?” he asked, sounding less as if he cared and more as if that was the question he felt more comfortable with the answer for.

Tim shrugged. “I told you, I was going to check on Martin. He’d been stuck in his flat for two weeks, sick and alone, so I brought Nonna’s chicken soup, a bottle of ginger ale, and the dog.”

On cue, Rowlf padded through the open door to the Archivist’s office, looked around the room, then trotted over to Martin and rested his chin on his lap, looking up at him with big dark hopeful eyes and wagging his tail against the floor. Martin’s hand automatically dropped to fondle the silky, feathery ears, and the faintest approximation of a smile appeared on his lips. Jon looked at them like he wanted to say something, then swallowed and shook his head. Tim decided to take that as a cue to continue. “So what’s the current topic of dissent?”

“I want to make a statement,” Martin said immediately. “About, about what happened.”

Tim nodded and turned to Jon. “Makes sense. Do you need another tape?”

“The other side of this one is still blank,” Jon said automatically, then stopped. “Wait, you don’t think it’ll go on the laptop?”

“No,” Tim said simply. “I don’t. Gertrude wouldn’t even try.”

That was maybe an unfair thing to tack on, but it had the desired effect. Or maybe Jon had just decided to trust him. Either way, he simply nodded and flipped over the tape.

Tim didn’t offer to leave, or ask if Jon or Martin wanted him to. He stayed right where he was, sipping at his tea, and waited for Jon to lead Martin into the statement.

Martin’s statement was a prime example of why Tim had tried so hard to keep the others from investigating the real statements. Even more than the danger of them getting sucked further and further into the Eye until there was no escape, every time they went to the wrong place and asked the wrong questions, they risked drawing the attention of someone or something that would see them as a temptation or a threat or both. Tim really should have told them what was going on sooner. Was it too late to do that now? His heart ached for Martin, and all he’d suffered—but he had to admit, there was a small surge of pride, or maybe just malicious satisfaction, at the way his eyes flashed every time he repeated the words due diligence.

“And we—ran,” Martin concluded at last, sounding spent. “All the way here.”

“Statement ends,” Jon said slowly. He didn’t even glance at Tim. It was like he’d forgotten he was there. “You’re sure about all of this, Martin?”

“Look, I’m not going to lie to you about something like this, Jon.” Now Martin just sounded a little exasperated. “I…like my job. Most of the time.”

Tim somehow knew, deep down in his bones, that Martin had just stopped himself from saying I need my job. Jon, however, simply nodded. “Very well. In which case there's a room in the Archives I use to sleep when working late. I suggest you stay there for now. I'll talk to Elias about whether we can get extra security, but the Archives have enough locks for the moment. It's also supposed to be humidity controlled and, though it hasn't been working for some time, it does mean it's well sealed. Nothing will be sneaking through any window cracks.”

The last thing Tim had expected was Jon’s immediate, unconditional acceptance of Martin’s statement—and from the stunned look on his face, it was the last thing Martin had expected as well. He rallied quickly, though. “Okay…thanks. To be honest, I didn’t, didn’t expect you to…take it seriously.” His eyes flicked over to Tim, ever so briefly, and Tim nodded once to indicate that he hadn’t forgotten—he did intend to back Martin up if Jon accused him of lying.

Jon pursed his lips briefly. “You say you lost your phone two weeks ago?”

“Thereabouts,” Martin answered. “When I went back to the basement.”

“Well, in that time I have received several text messages from your phone, stating you were ill with stomach problems.” Jon laid a hand over his phone, which was sitting on the corner of his desk nearest his hand. “The last one said you thought it ‘might be a parasite,’ though my calls trying to follow up were never answered.”

“Jesus Christ, Jon, if you’d said that I’d have been round immediately,” Tim blurted without thinking.

Jon and Martin both looked at Tim in surprise, but before anyone could say anything, there came the loud buzzing of an electronic vibrating against a solid wooden surface. Jon moved his hand and blinked at his phone, then picked it up. “Hold on.”

That fast, Martin turned his attention back to Jon. “What?”

“I just received another text message. From you.” Jon gave Martin a worried look, then tapped something on his phone and read aloud. “’Keep him. We have had our fun. He will want to see it when the Archivist’s crimson fate arrives.’”

Martin licked his lips. “What does that mean?”

Tim’s hands tightened around his mug. Unbidden, the memory of the nightmare he’d had two months ago unfolded in his mind: Gertrude watching him fall away from her, flowers the color of crimson erupting across her chest. Jesus, was that what that meant? The Eye didn’t see the future, he knew that, but could something else have been trying to warn him what might happen to her?

He had to find Gertrude. Fast.

Jon laid his phone back on the table, looking grim. “It means I ask Elias to hire some extra security. We should probably warn Sasha as well. I’ll also have a look through the Archives, as I believe we have a statement from Ms. Prentiss as well.” He looked—almost glared—at the tape recorder. “End recording.” He stabbed the button with a vicious finger.

Rowlf whined softly and nudged Martin’s hand; Martin scratched him behind the ears and was rewarded with a thumping tail. Tim managed a smile. “See, he remembers you.”

Martin blinked, then looked down. “W-wait, is this the dog that—?”

“That got into the Archives last year?” Tim supplied. “Yeah. He was still hanging out in the bushes when I went to lunch and tried to get back in, so I took him to the vet. Was just going to pay for his shots and leave him there to get adopted, but he apparently got attached. Like I said, Jon had said you were sick, and I thought you might like the company.” With a glance at Jon, he added, “My partner’s out all day, so I can’t take him home until lunch, and I’d have to take the time to go there and back on the Tube .”

Jon sighed and waved a hand. “He can stay for the day. In the grand scheme of things, it hardly seems worth worrying over.” He got to his feet. “Let me show you that room.”

Tim slid off the desk. “Here, Martin, let me hang your coat up for you. We forgot to do that when we came in.”

“Kinda busy,” Martin mumbled, setting his mug down and fumbling for the zipper. “Oh—hey—Tim, I-I thought there wasn’t a key to that outer door?”

Tim winced mentally, but when Jon turned to look at him in surprise and a little suspicion, he kept his expression as neutral as he could. “Yeah—I told you, my partner had an errand to run today, so he took the car, which means he’s got the house keys on it, so I dug out my spare set. Forgot Gertrude gave me a key to that door for when she was out of town. It’s not the only key to it, though. She had one as well—it was on your ring when I gave them back to Elias, which is why I forgot I had another copy. Anyway, we got here and the side door was locked, so it was faster to just unlock it and come in that way than go around the front. Plus, if we were being followed, no sense in leading it through the main doors.”

Martin shuddered at that. Jon swallowed hard and nodded. “I—I agree. When I go talk to Elias about security, I’ll ask him again about that key.”

“I can make you a copy if you need me to,” Tim offered. “You know. If Elias keeps insisting he can’t find it.”

Jon raised an eyebrow. “You don’t believe him?”

Tim worked his ring over his knuckle and flexed the finger, hoping to ease whatever was swollen. “Jon, I wouldn’t believe Elias if he told me the sun rose in the east and set in the west. When’s the last time you ate? It might not be the most traditional breakfast in the world, but Nonna’s chicken soup can fix anything.”

He was rewarded with almost identical thin, shy smiles that made both Jon and Martin look close to the same age, despite the grey in Jon’s hair and his claims of being in his late thirties. Well, Martin had claimed to be older than he was, too, Tim thought as he shepherded them back into the main part of the Archives. The balance of probability was pretty high that Jon was lying, too.