Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

When Martin Blackwood is fifteen, he trips over a stray rock and drops his phone. At that precise moment, two things do and do not happen.

In one universe, Martin is quick enough to snatch it out of the air, bruising his knees in the process. He will walk slower and miss his train. He will also, because of both these things, call his mother on his brand new cell phone to inform her he will be home late. His mother will smile faintly at his voice (and not his visage) and stay home to wait for him instead of going out into the cold winter air.

She will welcome him home with a strained smile and die a decade later, a footnote in history as The Archivist lies unconscious in a lone hospital bed.

In another universe, Martin hesitates. The phone breaks. His knees do not hurt. He will fret terribly and still miss his train; he does not call his mother. His mother will go out for a walk into the cold winter air.

Three weeks later, Karen Blackwood dies of pneumonia.

Martin Blackwood never knows any of this. Nor could he. This is for the best, as this knowledge would burden Martin terribly. Thankfully, it is not obtainable nor comprehensible to him.

For us, it is both.

(A butterfly flaps its wings.)

The orphanage is a strange place.

Martin barely remembers anything that happened these past few weeks. His mother is dead. She left a will, he recalls vaguely. There was a funeral. There were few people and even fewer who would talk to him.

New clothes, black and drab. Rain on his cheeks. A shiver in his bones.

Other things must have happened as well, but he doesn’t know what they are. He is only aware of the dull ache behind his ribs. The numbness of his fingers. The way colour seeps out from the world, little by little.

Martin is placed in a group home. He is bullied from the get go; too fat, too clumsy, too kind, too everything. He manages. It is not as if he is used to having friends.

Time passes. Days, maybe weeks. He spends his time on the upper bunk bed of the room that he shares with three others. Hiding in the corner, closing his eyes until the day is over. Take a breath and count to ten. One, three, ten. Take a breath. Count again. One, three, ten. And again, and again, and again.

He will wither here, Martin knows. Now that his mother is gone there is no one in this world who knows him. No one that will miss him. No one that cares what he does or who he is.

He wonders if someone would remember his name if he dies.

Maybe it would be better if–

“Martin?”

He looks up, startled. A little bit of colour seeps back into the world.

It’s the matron of the place – Jawaya, Jawari, something like that. The woman looks surprisingly chipper for this Monday, no, Wednesday– for this morning. Her hijab is a cheerful blue.

“Yes?” His voice is rough from disuse.

“There are two gentlemen here to see you,” the woman continues, frank in a way Martin vaguely appreciates. “They’d like to get to know you. They might be able to give you a new home, if you would like that.”

Martin frowns. That sounds like – adoption? But who would want him? He’s fifteen years old. He does not have any illusions about the rate of teenage adoption. Still, Martin nods and obediently follows the woman.

Downstairs, in the special Guest Room, a man sits properly behind the matrons desk. Jawaria, the nameplate says. The man looks rich. A bureaucrat. Boring, if not for the way Marin shivers when the man’s eyes find his, piercing.

The man smiles. It is not unkind. “Lovely,” he says, and Martin feels a little flattered. His accent is very posh.

“Mr. Bouchard,” Jawaria greets him, then adds with a little confusion, “Mr. Lukas. This is Martin Blackwood. Martin, say hello.”

“Good ev– afternoon, I mean, good afternoon,” Martin squeaks, wringing his fingers. God, he fucked up already, and the other man hasn’t even introduced himself yet.

“Please, call me Elias,” the posh man says kindly, standing up and offering his hand.

Martin steps forward on shaky legs and wipes his hand on his trousers before putting it into Elias’. The handshake is firm. Martin tries and succeeds in meeting Elias’ eyes. The older man’s gaze is so intense it almost fills the hollowness behind his ribs.

“Peter,” a new voice calls out cheerily. Martin startles, dropping his hand as Elias shakes his head fondly. There is another man in the room, leaning casually against the wall that Martin swears had been empty a minute ago.

If you ask Martin what kind of person Elias Bouchard would be married to, his first instinct would be to describe a picture perfect society wife. Jawaria had said gentlemen, though, so he had adjusted that image to a picture perfect society husband. Fair-haired, fair-skinned, a decade younger and dressed in a shiny suit with a sugar-sweet smile.

Not a broad, older, gruff-looking sailor who looks as uncomfortable to be here as Martin.

Peter does not offer his hand. Martin does not step forward. Instead, he studies the man, from his pale skin to the somewhat familiar bleakness of his jacket to the way the hollowness in his chest swells as they lock eyes.

Martin offers Peter a small smile. Peter studies him for a moment longer before he returns it with one of his own.

“He’s the most lonely child currently available,” Elias tells his – husband? – proudly. It’s said in an undertone Martin isn’t sure he is meant to overhear. It’s such an unexpected remark that Martin feels himself frown.

“What do you mean?” the young boy blurts out curiously, clamping his mouth shut immediately afterwards.

Elias turns to him, slowly, and smiles widely. “Oh,” he remarks, and sounds almost gleeful, “you’ll do perfectly.”

Within the hour, Martin is seated in the backseat of a sleek back car, a single suitcase with whatever is left of his belongings tucked into the back.

He’s not sure this is the way things are supposed to go. Aren’t there forms he should sign? Checks his new guardians should go through? Shouldn’t someone be informed of this change of custody? The whole conversation had gone nothing like Martin had imagined an adoption process to go.

After Martin’s rude question Peter had stepped forward, nodded, and told Jawaria “We’ll take him.” Like a business proposal.

Jawaria had sputtered. “That’s not really how–”

“Martin is okay with it,” Elias had interrupted the woman politely, gaze lingering on Peter before shifting to Martin. “Aren’t you?”

Martin remembers the way the three adults turned to look at him. He’d bitten his lip, looking down, thoughts racing. I feel more alive than I’ve felt in weeks. I can feel my fingers again. Here are two people, two strange people, who look at me. Who see me. They even decided they like me as their son. There could be someone else besides me who knows my name. Isn’t that all that matters?

So, in the end, Martin didn’t have to think long. “Yeah,” he’d said, clearing his throat. “Yes. Please.”

And so it was done.

The car ride is silent. Martin feels this morning’s solitary feeling slowly seep back into his bones. It’s quite exhausting. Every time it starts to overwhelm him, Elias glances at him through the rearview mirror. And every time, unfailingly, Martin feels the numbness retreat. On the contrary, Peter might have not been in the car at all for all the difference it makes.

The car pulls up into the sideway of the biggest houses Martin has ever seen. The garden is perfectly kept. Too perfectly. The windows gleam in the afternoon sun.

The house is silent as they enter. Martin’s hand on the suitcase is trembling slightly. The door closes behind them with a dull thud.

Elias claps his hands, a smile on his face.

“Martin,” he says and he seems genuine. “Welcome to your new home. I’m aware this experience might be overwhelming.”

A chilled hand touches his arm, and Martin shivers. When he looks at Peter, the man smiles vapidly.

“I would like to explain a few things before you get the chance to unpack,” Elias continues as Peter pulls his hand back. “First of all, you will have your own room in this house. Neither myself or Peter will enter it without your explicit permission – which does mean you’ll have to clean it yourself,” he adds light-heartedly. Martin can’t help but return Elias’ smile with a wobbly one of his own.

“Secondly, as you might have deduced, Peter and I posses some material wealth,” to which Peter adds in a murmur, “you mean I do,” without any bite. Elias continues as if uninterrupted. “This means you’ll be financially well-taken care of. We expect you to finish your schooling properly in return.”

Martin nods.

“Lastly, as of this moment, you are still in possession of your own name. If at any point in our… relationship,” an undecipherable expression flickers over both men’s faces for a moment, “you wish to change that, you need only inform us.”

Martin freezes. It has not even occurred to him that he might be expected to change his name. To lose the last thing that connects him to his mother.

Elias is still talking. Peter is silent but for the occasional eye-roll. “Any other rules or expectations will be discussed later. We would like your input in those decisions and set clear, consistent boundaries while allowing independence.”

It sounds like he’s reading from a brochure, Martin thinks fleetingly, vaguely amused. These men – his new parents – do not seem like they know what they are doing.

But they seem determined to try.

The feeling of appreciation chokes him for a moment. They think he’s worth the effort. Think he’s worth something.

Martin shuts his eyes and tries not to cry.

The door closes behind him. Martin holds his breath and listens.

“You certainly seem to know a lot about adopting a teenager,” Peter says cheerfully, voice dull through the wood.

“When I set my mind to something, I don’t just succeed at it, Peter. I excel.”

“You might know the theory, but that’s not the same as practice, darling.”

A pause. Footsteps, slowly moving away.

“I’ll be his favourite parent soon enough,” Elias replies, voice fading.

Peter’s reply warps strangely through the corridor. Martin is used to listening to voices in the distance, deciphering whether or not it is safe to come out. Maybe that is why he’s able to catch the next words.

“You’ll not win your prize that easily.”

Martin turns and starts to unpack his things.

Living with Elias and Peter is… strange.

The two are different as night and day. For the first week the three of them stay home together, to acclimate and reaffirm his place in the family as Elias reprimands Peter when the man complains about clinginess two days in.

Peter turns out to be the fun dad.

He has the worst sense of risk-assessment that Martin has ever seen. The gruff sailor is up for anything as long as it does not involve too many people. Peter is the one who Martin can sit in comfortable silence with for hours when the world becomes too much. Once, when Martin feels so numb he can’t feel his toes, Peter even pulls him into his side. The embrace is inherently contradictory, numbness and comfort radiating from it at the same time.

It’s nice. It’s – effort.

His dad is also, unsurprisingly, the one who makes him laugh. Either through his sense of humour – mostly based around making fun of Elias – or through the fact that he doesn’t mind Martin’s increasingly weird suggestions of things to watch or do as Elias talks sternly on the phone two rooms over.

Martin learns a lot about sloths. There are still splatters of clay on the expensive rug in the living room. Peter and Martin decide it should stay that way.

Elias, on the other hand, is the serious father.

He’s all about open communication and healthy lifestyle choices – although his definition of ‘healthy’ makes no sense. Elias actually manages to get Martin to open up after he refuses the offer of a therapist. When his father sits down and asks something in that voice it difficult for Martin to not answer. Elias is the one Martin talks to about his mother, his childhood. His father says right words at the right moments, even though he often misses the emotional component of the words. Martin wonders if he’s studied psychology. He also wonders if Elias failed. Still, the man tries.

Martin never fails to appreciate that both of them try.

Elias is also the practical one. He’s the one to take him shopping for clothes and furniture and books – lots and lots of books. Money is so far from an issue it might as well not even exist.

Sometimes, Martin thinks this is all a joke. That he’s just an experiment for these men, a thing to be played with until they get bored, then discarded without a fuss. You’ll not win your prize that easily resonates in his head when he’s alone at night, crying and sobbing and gasping, grief a monster in his chest that is far from defeated.

But the weeks go on, and the axe doesn’t fall.

Things change. Elias works even more than nine to five, though he makes an effort to be home for dinner at least three times during the workweek. Head of The Institute, whatever that may be.

Peter, on the other hand, disappears for weeks on his ship. Apparently he’s the captain.

Martin doesn’t mind being alone sometimes. His adoptive parents can be quite overbearing, and it’s not like his biological mother ever spend that much attention on him. In fact, the amount of privacy he gets is strangely calming.

His new school is pretty okay. Expensive, with excellent teachers and facilities and pupils who are too busy studying to think of bullying. Martin takes up boxing and revels in the outlet.

Elias seems satisfied. Peter is indifferent.

A few months pass.

The gaping hole his mother left behind is still there, but it is not quite as painful. The edges are dulled with Peter’s numbing comfort and familiar coldness. It fills slowly with Elias’ eyes and words, gaining warmth as the days progress.

Martin has less difficulty than he expected with these two men both filling the role of parent in his life. He wonders if it has to do with the fact that they’re both male, that neither of them come anywhere near the mental slot of mother in his mind that is still pulsing with pain and loss. Martin never really had a father figure in his life; now, he has two.

He's not sure what exactly a father figure is supposed to do. His two new parents certainly have different takes on it.

Peter takes him on trips ranging from busy cities to nature’s solitary wonders. He explains, all the while, the beauty of solitude, to which he is really attached for some reason. Alone in a crowd, alone in the woods, alone alone alone.

Martin never really feels alone, not matter how unnaturally the fog follows them. He doesn’t mind the creeping isolation. It’s sort of comforting. Familiar. His dad is there with him, after all, and he never disappears.

(Not really.)

Elias teaches him things. So many things. Psychology and body language and management styles for some reason – he is very opiniated about those. The most Martin understands about it is that it has something to do with colours. It’s nice to see his father being passionate. Elias takes a certain delight in teaching him, emphasising the importance of curiosity, knowledge, in observing others as if they are objects to be dissected.

Martin finds it rather charming. He likes learning new things. He likes listening to his father talk even more. He likes the pleased tilt to Elias’ voice whenever Martin asks a well-thought out question the most.

His parents are not quite normal. But that’s okay. They care for him, make time for him, and do the best they can.

Time flies by. Life settles into a routine. Martin slowly feels like himself again. The morning of his sixteenth birthday dawns brightly.

For dinner, as desert, he’s promised cake.

Before they even start the main course, his parents announce their divorce.

Even years later, the reason why is not quite clear. Martin’s best guess would be that the domesticity, the sense of normality, had become too much for them.

“I get the house, so Martin stays with me. Simple as that.” Elias sounds like he’s proposing a business deal as Martin’s world shatters.

“Alone in this awful place with only you and your books as company? He might get lonely.” Peter’s usually cheery voice is dark and low. “Or worse, bored. Martin can stay at the Tundra with me.”

“Please,” Elias’ voice is full of disdain, piercing eyes flaring, “don’t come to me with that horrible ship of yours. A boy his age needs to develop, socially and intellectually. The only thing he can learn on that wreckage of yours is seasickness,” the last word is drawn out into a sneer.

Martin’s knuckles are white from where he’s clutching the silverware. “You’re… getting divorced?” His voice sounds small, though not as small as Martin feels, all the broken pieces of his soul shining through.

He should’ve known. It was finally going well, both his dad and father treating him with actual affection. He had even started to make some friendly overtures at school. His room felt like his own safe place. And now…

Tears well up in his eyes.

“Oh.” Peter says, perfunctory.

“Oh.” Elias repeats blankly.

Martin turns around and flees. He slams the door of his room before either of his parents can catch up.

“Martin,” Elias says, knocking on the door and by God he actually sounds worried. Good acting, Martin thinks spitefully. “Can I come in?”

Martin does not answer. He’s not sure he can, silent sobs wrecking his body. It’s falling apart. It’s all falling apart.

“Martin,” Peter adds helplessly. There is real emotion in his voice even though he does not say anything else.

Something about it makes Martin nod in permission. The door opens the next moment, before Martin even remembers to verbalize it.

For all their insistence, the way his parents enter his room is strangely hesitant.

Martin forces himself to stop crying. Usually, that’s easy to do. He’s remarkably good at it, replacing sadness with numbness. To detach himself from whatever is happening like he’s merely an observer to his own life, distant and all-knowing.

Today, however, it won’t quite work.

“Martin.” Elias’ voice is soft, softer than Martin has ever heard him be. It only makes the urge to cry well up once more. It’s getting harder to keep still. Why would they do this, be like this, if they–

His bed dips. Two arms press around him, drawing him close. Martin moves with them easily, too easily, weakweakweak before he realize the arms lack their usual chill. Furthermore, unlike the usual half-hug, these arms encircle him completely.

Martin vaguely protests as he’s drawn into Elias’ lap like a fucking child even as he burrows his head into his father’s shoulder. A familiar chilled hand settles in the small of his back the next moment, another body pressing into his side as Peter moves closer.

Outside, a flock of birds passes their window, cawing loudly. The evening sun reaches in through his bedroom window and bathes the room in gentle light.

Martin doesn’t notice. The only things he’s aware of are the silent tears steaming down his cheeks; the hand stroking through his hair, softly; the chill from a calloused hand rubbing the small of his back.

Martin’s not sure when the last time was that he was touched like this. With care.

“Your father and I have been divorced six times,” Peter breaks the silence.

“Peter,” Elias snarls angrily as Martin stiffens.

“And,” his dad continues sternly, “we have also gotten remarried six times.”

Martin doesn’t know what to think. Was that meant to be comforting?

“What your dad means to say, Martin,” Elias picks up the conversation, the reproaching glare audible in his words, “is that…” He pauses for a moment, searching. It is weird, hearing his parents like this.

Like they’re human.

The hand in his hair is still moving. His back is still cold.

“Your dad and I have an unique relationship. We are both, ah, unique people with unique tastes and interests. This has resulted in,” Elias hesitates, “in a unusual relationship. With an unusual sense of what is normal and what is not.” Unseen to Martin, who has pressed his face tightly into Elias’ shoulders, the two adults are frantically exchanging increasingly panicked looks.

Martin stays silent. His toes are numb.

“It’s like a game,” Peter tells him, sounding like the words are being pulled out of his throat by force. “Part of a… thing. It’s…” He falls silent. His dad never is one to use a lot of words.

“No matter whether Peter and I are married or divorced, you are still our son, Martin,” Elias says resolutely. “You will always hold that place in our,” he clears his throat, “our family.”

Next to Martin, Peter shudders. The room feels colder.

“And we,” now even Elias sounds hesitant, “we care about you.”

A rustle of cloth. Martin feels the weight of Elias’ gaze leave him for just a moment.

“Peter,” Elias says dangerously, “place in the family. Reaffirming.”

For a moment it seems like the weight on the bed lessens, though the cold next to him does not. His dad shifts, releasing Martin, before Elias’ words make him lay an arm on Martin’s other shoulder again.

“We care about you, son,” Peter manages. He sounds strangled. Pained.

His fathers both act like they are held under gunpoint, simply because of Martin’s tears.

(Martin can’t remember the last time he cried in an adult’s presence like this.)

The absurdity of the situation is what finally stops the waterworks. “You both suck at emotions,” Martin mumbles, and sniffles. Hopes they hear the forgiveness in his words. Though he still doesn’t know what the fuck is actually going on.

His parents both exhale softly. Elias presses him a little closer. Peter rubs his arm.

“I’ll be gone for a good long while after this, darling,” Peter whispers.

“Shut up, Peter/dad,” Elias and Martin answer in tandem.

Martin lifts his head with a watery smile. Elias’ face is close. His gaze does not burn as it usually does and his eyes are wrinkled. Turning his head to look at his dad, Martin’s surprised to see that Peter’s lip is bleeding slightly.

Martin exhales slowly, shakily. “You’re both idiots,” he adds and pretends he’s not still on the verge of breaking down.

Both men stay with him until the now sixteen year old boy falls asleep.

It’s not a bad thing.

In the first two years of Martin living with his new parents, they divorce each other two more times. They remarry once. Apparently, the second divorce didn’t even go through before they’d made up.

Martin may have had a hand in that.

Eventually, the constant dread of being abandoned fades. It helps that both of his parents make sure to spend exactly as much time with him when they’re married as when they’re not. The only difference is the amount of venomous looks and passive-aggressiveness.

In the end, Martin just accepts it.

(Also, Elias finally convinces him to go see a therapist. The more Martin goes, the more thankful he is for that.)

After his junior year teacher asks Martin what he wants to be when he’s older, Martin lies awake in his bed. He wonders if he should study law. Maybe he could help his parents with their divorces. Delay them, maybe, so they’ll have made up before the papers even come through. Or he could study psychology. He’d write his master thesis on his parents’ marriage.

Suddenly, Martin realizes what exactly he’s thinking and discards those ideas immediately. He’ll stay the hell away from that rabbit hole, thank you very much.

Anyway.

As long as they care for him, they can be married or divorced all they like.

Martin’s usual I’m home is barely audible as he nibbles on the remains on his (whole-grain, yes, father) sandwich. His boxing teacher is sick, so he’s home early and looking forward to seeing his dad again. Peter has been at sea for the past six weeks.

Throwing his bag in the hallway, Martin opens the door to the living room with a smile.

And freezes.

He only sees flashes. Elias is wearing five inch heels. Martin would be impressed if he wasn’t too busy being mortified. His father’s pants are far too tight. Peter’s chest is bare, something he did not need to see. And is that– is that rope?

“Elias! You would keep an Eye out!”

“Don’t look at me! Your damn fog blinded me!”

Martin turns around and walks right back out.

Seventeen is surely old enough to drink he tells himself and heads straight to the liquor cabinet.

School becomes better.

His classmates are pretty okay. The teachers are helpful. Martin still deals with performance anxiety – anxiety in general, to be honest – but the school has a program to help with that. Therapy is… good. Not nice, but good.

He even makes friends. Eve and Huan are two classmates who also prefer to sit unobtrusively in the middle rows. They’re quiet, but kind. They’ve known each other since last year and when Eve smiles at Martin during lunchtime he finally dares to go sit with them.

His new friends show him memes. They like poetry as well. Eve is a gamer and far too obsessed with Dungeons & Dragons. Huan reads a lot of books and is really into chess. They both think it’s cool Martin boxes. They don’t mind that he fades into the background, sometimes.

Martin gets bullied exactly once.

The guy is, ironically, named Chad. Martin knows he’s insecure because of his father’s lack of affection, though he’s not sure how he knows that. It must be all the psychology books Elias reads and discusses with him. Still, this does not excuse the way he presses Martin up against the lockers one afternoon.

Chad spits in his face, snarling. “Heard your fathers were faggots, fatty. Is that why you’re in the special class?”

Martin thinks it’s quite appropriate to punch him in the face in response.

What is less appropriate is the way his father storms into the school thirty minutes later. He might seem calm, but his eyes are blazing and his mouth is a thin line, and Martin knows he is seething.

Elias disappears into the principal’s office. Fifteen minutes later, he reappears with a haughty look and escorts a baffled Martin out of the school for ice cream.

Martin receives an officially apology from the school the very next day. He’s not sure what they’re apologizing for, seeing that Martin is the only one who actually threw a punch.

Chad is never heard from again. The way dad smiles that night at dinner makes Martin wonder. The way Elias is looking at Peter in that moment makes Martin decide to leave well enough alone and go for a long, long walk.

The air is fresh in his face. It’s foggy that night, but it does not feel uncomfortable.

His fathers might not be entirely human.

It’s not a bad thing.

Huan is friends with Arthur. Arthur is really cute.

“Dad. Father.” He stumbles over the words, though not because of unfamiliarity. Both of his parents look at him inquisitively, even Peter.

Martin fidgets. Takes a breath. They accept you as you are, he reminds himself, the echo of his therapist’s words calming him down just enough.

“I think I might be,” his voice raises an octave, “gay?” It comes out more of a question than a statement.

Elias opens his mouth, no doubt to go through some correct and well-worded response, but Peter beats him to it.

“Nice,” his dad compliments like he’s won a competition, and takes another bite.

Elias stares at Peter, then turns back to Martin. Something softens in his face. His lips twitch. “They say imitation is the highest form of flattery,” he deadpans.

Marin buries his face in his hands. “Father,” he groans, “that’s not what this is about!”

Peter just laughs.

His eighteenth birthday is nerve-wrecking.

He actually has a party. Of sorts. It’s Eva, Huan and him going to the local poetry slam. They make jokes, talk about words, and Huan even dares to get up on stage while Eva and Martin cheer him on.

They meet nice people. They don’t dance, but they do drink wine.

It’s like he’s just a normal guy. It feels amazing.

The morning after – a Saturday, God bless – Martin wakes with only the barest headache. Two glasses of water and a shower later he feels fine. The now eighteen year old hesitates on top of the stairs, the sounds of brunch being made coming from downstairs. It re-awakens the nerves he managed to bury the night before.

Martin knows that he’s now legally an adult.

This means his parents are not actually obliged to… have him in their home anymore.

Confront it, he thinks in his therapist’s voice, even though he finished therapy months ago.

Martin walks downstairs, trying to look as casual as possible. His parents sit at the kitchen table with an elaborate serving of breakfast before them.

“Happy birthday!” they chorus, Elias cheerfully and Peter trailing off halfway through. It’s the first time Martin lays eyes on the captain for weeks.

“I’m glad you had such a good time yesterday,” Elias chats as Martin smiles – still a little hungover – and takes a seat at the table. He’s actually not that hungry. “Huan’s poetry is very good. And did you know those nights are a regular thing? Every last Friday of the month, if you really liked it.”

“Thanks, father,” Martin says, both used to Elias being overbearing and knowing things he really shouldn’t.

“We have presents,” Peter adds casually.

Elias presents his before Peter’s finished talking with a smirk thrown towards his husband.

They got re-married two months ago. Martin was the only witness and thoroughly unimpressed with the whole ordeal. He suspects it was purely for his birthday, as Peter disappeared two weeks afterwards and hadn’t returned until today.

Shaking his head as he accepts his father’s present, Martin smiles slightly. He carefully tears away the paper to reveal a beautiful notebook. It’s clearly expensive. It’s also custom made – on the left bottom corner are the letters “EB. PL. MB.” in cursive. It comes with a matching pen and a lock.

“For your poetry,” his father adds, and Matin cannot help the swell of affection in his chest. Fuck it, he decides, and raises from his chair to give Elias a hug.

Elias pats him gracefully on the back, seemingly at ease with the contact, but he doesn’t fool Martin. “Thank you.”

Martin releases his father. When Peter stays silent, Martin turns towards him with a raised eyebrow, expectant.

“Oh, ho, demanding!” Peter jokes. “Just like your father. Elias, how could you corrupt our darling son so?”

Elias raises an matching eyebrow. The two expressions look uncannily alike. Peter can’t help but snort.

“Okay, okay. Well, Martin, my gift is not physical – but it is a miracle. You see, I finally convinced Elias to let you visit the Tundra. And, if you like it – and nothing goes wrong,” Peter adds under his breath like a complaint before brightening once more, “you can even sail with us for a week. If you’d like!”

Martin’s face breaks out into an enormous grin. Not just because of the present – although he’s been dying with curiosity about both his parents’ work by this point – but mostly because of the fact this implies they’ll keep him.

He makes sure to focus on the ever-present crack of loneliness his mother left in him before engulfing his dad in a hug. Peter’s eyes widen in surprise. He accepts it with only a token protest.

The rest of breakfast is nice, though there is still an undercurrent of something.

As dinner goes on, Martin’s earlier thoughts return.

Maybe they’re kicking him out after all. After all, a week on the Tundra is something he doesn’t need to stay in this home for. They’ll probably help him with finding a new place as well. They’re nice like that. They’ll visit. Weekly, at first. Then monthly. Then it will be busy at work, or at sea, or the next divorce would actually have them fighting. And then they’ll forget to visit, but promise to come by next week, but only without the other, and then it’ll be next month, next year…

The last bite of pancake is like swallowing lead.

“So, Martin,” Elias asks intently. “Before we start the rest of the day, Peter and I have something to ask you.”

Peter leans forward, eyes trained on Martin, present in a way he rarely is.

The world around them seems to fall silent.

Martin swallows. Here it goes. He’s thought about it. They have enough money, and if the pattern continues, they won’t mind spending it on him. He can handle it. It’ll be okay.

(He can’t. It’s not.)

Where would you like your new apartment to be, they will ask. Or maybe more generic, where do you want to live now. Or maybe it’s even a simple it’s time for you to leave this house.

But no. Elias said it was a question, and Elias never lied. Not like that. Martin takes a breath. Gathers all his courage.

The air is thick with anticipation. Elias and Peter have both stopped eating, leaning towards Martin, all their attention on him. It presses on his shoulders, unnaturally heavy.

“Martin,” Elias begins carefully and Martin opens his mouth at the same time.

“Who is your favourite parent?”

“I’d like to stay in London, please.”

The two sentences overlap. The room is silent for a moment.

Martin slaps his hands in front of his mouth. His dads stare at him, uncomprehending.

“Huh?” Peter eventually manages.

Martin buries his face in his hands.

“You thought…” Elias begins slowly, understanding drawing in his eyes. “You thought we were going to kick you out. Because you’re eighteen, now.”

Martin presses his face further into his hands.

Peter frowns. “Is that even allowed?”

Elias nods absently, answering Peter out of reflex. “Legally, yes. But that’s not important. The important thing now is to–”

“Reaffirm his place in the family,” Peter mimics Elias’ familiar phrase, “yeah, yeah.” The long-suffering yet fond expression on Peter’s face makes Martin smile through the confusion and anxiety constricting his throat.

“I mean, we’ve spend all these years together, we won’t just suddenly drop you.” Peter sounds bored. “You’re a part of this now,” he continues almost impatiently, then freezes at his own words. “You’re a part of us now,” he repeats blankly, staring at Elias.

Elias, for his part, shakes his head in disbelief. “We never actually discussed what would happen after the be– after Martin turned eighteen. We haven’t even stopped to think about the risks or the potential attachments. Even as time progressed and we clearly got more involved than we planned to. We’ve just not,” his voice raises just a little bit, “not thought about it. Beholding bless us.”

“Fucking idiots we are,” Peter agrees, placing himself between Elias and Martin and drawing them both close.

Martin is still not entirely sure what was happening. Decides, as he has so often done, that as long as his parents care for him, it doesn’t matter. He swallows, feeling a little nervous. In for a penny, in for a pound. One of them has to be the emotionally capable person in the family.

“For the record,” he starts, and feels both men turn their attention to him. “I love you both equally.” His throat is just a little dry. “Not gonna choose.”

There is a moment of silence before both of his parents hug him closely. They do not reply to his declaration.

They do not have to.

“Figures,” Peter mutters sullenly. Elias swats him on the head.

Martin decides that it is not a bad thing.

(His eighteenth birthday is amazing.)

Chapter Text

379.

Martin has never actually been to the Magnus Institute.

Well – technically, that’s not true. He’s been there twice. But only after hours, no soul in sight, the emptiness of the halls a comforting weight.

His father had dragged him there in response to Martin finally seeing dad’s workplace. He visited the Tundra years ago, for his eighteenth birthday. Three days in a row, exploring the empty deck, scratching the surface of the metal cages, looking out over the docks on one side, the sea on another. Peter had actually taken him up to the captain’s quarters, shown him the wheelhouse, all the controls of the ship, stroking it lovingly in the meantime.

It’s a fond memory, even if Martin wasn’t allowed to actually go on a voyage with his dad. If that was because of the danger for him or the danger to Peter, Martin never quite figured out.

Anyway. Today, Martin visits the Magnus Institute during opening hours. Which means he’s going to meet people that work for his dad. They probably don’t even know Elias has a son, never mind that it is him.

It’s nerve-wrecking, nonetheless. But he needs the book for his research, the final source for his Masters’ thesis. So in he goes.

“Martin Blackwood,” he stumbles out at the receptionist’s desk. The woman behind it looks stern, dark eyes and dark skin and muscled arms.

She smiles at him and her face lights up. “Ah, yes, Martin,” she continues, and rummages in the drawers for a visitors pass. “Suzanne couldn’t make it today, so Sasha James will be receiving you instead. Is that alright?”

Martin nods, hiding his uneasiness. His father probably knows he is coming today. Martin doesn't mind that – Elias knows everything. But fixing an escort? He’s not a child. Anymore.

“You know where the library is?” the woman asks him, and when Martin nods, she waves him through.

Martin passes several people on his way to the library. He doesn’t meet anyone’s eyes. It feels uneasy to be here, like he’s deceiving them. The paintings’ eyes are piercing. Martin gives one of them an exasperated look.

The library is as beautiful during the day as it is during the night. The difference is that there are actually people in it, now. It’s not busy, not really, but there are still more folks around than Martin expected. It feels a little surprising, but not overwhelming. It’s his father’s territory. He’s safe here.

Or as safe as one can be, given the circumstances.

One of the employees is waiting on him. “Sasha James,” she says kindly, holding out a hand. “You must be Martin Bloodwout.”

“Blackwood, actually,” he corrects her shyly and shakes her hand with a smile.

“My apologies,” Sasha says, “Blackwood. You want some coffee?”

Martin nods and Sasha fills the silence with friendly chatter as they walk. They end up in a small office off to the side with two cups of steaming coffee. Sasha lays down several papers in front of her.

Martin isn’t sure what exactly is going on here. He doesn’t let it show, just goes along with it, as has served him well over the years.

“What do you think of the Magnus Institute?” Sasha asks with a kind of formal curiosity. Maybe she does know.

“It’s absolutely lovely,” he starts truthfully. “If a little intimidating, at times. But there’s just so much knowledge.”

The next half an hour goes by swiftly. Martin talks about the beauty of the Institute, the importance of knowledge, of having a critical mindset. Sasha asks more questions: about his motivation, personality and, somehow, about his degree in parapsychology.

Martin does not have a degree in parapsychology. He does have two not-quite-human parents and far too much knowledge about a variety of subjects, so he sort of manages. At this point it’s become clear to him this is not just a chat with the boss’ son. But now he’s in too deep and too uncomfortable to say anything about it.

Must be his dad’s influence.

In the end, Sasha shakes his hand and congratulates him. “We’d like to offer you the position as junior researcher,” she says formally and Martin’s brain goes oh. “Congratulations.”

Martin shakes her hand with the fake smile he has learned from his dad and tries not to panic.

This is probably not a bad thing.

Right? Right?

Oh boy. Oh boy oh boy oh boy.

Sasha goes on about a grand tour, chattering how they’ll start at the top and to fix the paperwork, then show him the rest. Sasha is actually a researcher herself, she explains, though she won’t be working in Martin’s team. But Suzanne from HR was sick today, so Sasha filled in for her.

It barely registers in Martin’s mind. The words fade in the mix of panic, confusion, and curiosity as the duo ascend the stairs. The stairways are decorated lavishly, golden carvings and plush crimson carpets and fancy paintings. Martin feels eyes on him the whole time.

He rubs the rings on his fingers nervously.

“Hi, Rosie,” Sasha greets as they finally enter the top-floor lobby.

“Hi,” a pretty woman chirps in a friendly manner. Her desk is very neat. Elias speaks of Rosie with a hint of approval in his voice, which basically translates to perfect employee.

“Martin Blackwood,” he says as he squares his shoulders. He meets Rosie’s eyes with a smile. There is no hint of recognition at his name, nor at his appearance.

Elias appears to be a private person. That’s a bit funny, Martin thinks wryly, seeing how he never manages to keep his nose out of other people’s business. Or shut up.

“New junior researcher,” Sasha explains. “Just giving him the tour, starting with the Big Boss, fixing the paperwork as we go.”

Rosie nods, waving a hand. “He’s not busy at the moment, so go on ahead.” She swivels around in her chair as she says this, pressing a red button. “Mr. Bouchard, a new employee here to see you.”

Sasha waits for the “Thank you, Rosie,” before knocking on the door. The golden nameplate spells out Head of the Magnus Institute in neat cursive.

So pretentious. Martin is grateful Sasha doesn’t turn to see the pained look currently on his face.

Elias’ office is lavishly decorated, filled with various trinkets that mostly look expensive and eccentric. Typical. Martin spots a few old bones, a big fancy portrait, an handmade emerald rug. The mahogany desk is well-taken care of and imposing.

“Sasha,” Elias greets them, locking eyes with the woman even as Martin feels Eyes on him.

“Mr. Bouchard,” Sasha says politely, “this is Martin Blackwood. He’s the new junior researcher. I’m currently giving him the tour,” she adds with a touch of hesitance, “and thought we might as well get the papers signed as we go.”

Elias looks at Martin. Martin stares back, trying to communicate I don’t even know what’s going on how did this happen s o s with his eyes.

His father’s lips twitch.

“Thank you, Sasha,” he says, not unkindly. “Before you whisk away dear Martin for a tour, however, I would like to speak with him privately. I prefer to get to know all my new employees before signing the papers. Do not worry,” he assures gently as Sasha tenses up, “I know you were not aware of this. You did an admirable job replacing Suzanne today.”

“Oh. Okay,” Sasha says a bit uncertainty before straightening at the subsequent praise. “I’ll just take my leave, then. Martin, come find me later, okay?”

She shoots him a confident smile and Martin feels himself returning it, be it a touch more shallow.

The door closes behind her. Martin and Elias look at each other for a long moment.

His father starts laughing. Softly, of course, and with dignity, but laughing nonetheless.

“I don’t even know,” Martin sighs, dropping himself into the nearest chair. “I was just here for my thesis, I swear.”

Elias calms down, though the amusement in his eyes is still very much there. “I was watching you the whole time. It’s the most fun I’ve had all week.”

“Glad you’re enjoying yourself,” Martin mutters, a spark of amusement in his voice. It is kind of funny. “Anyway, this was all a dumb mistake. I’ll see myself–”

“It doesn’t have to be,” his father interrupts.

Martin’s eyebrows raise. “What?”

“If you want to,” Elias continues, sounding more sure of himself as he goes, “you could work here.”

Martin thinks his eyebrows are not visible on his face anymore. “What do you mean?”

“Why not?” His father’s gaze is piercing. “You are curious enough. You have enough knowledge,” his smile turns wry for a moment, “even first-hand experience with the paranormal.”

“I want to write poetry,” Martin says, the words only sounding a little bit like a whine.

Elias sighs. “Don’t tell me you’ve let your dad’s spiel about,” and here he mimics Peter’s cheerfully cadence expertly, “a lone wolf writing stories no one will ever read charm you.” His father clears his throat disapprovingly.

Martin shrugs. Honestly, he hadn’t figured out quite what to do yet after finishing his masters degree. Especially since his parents had been quite stubborn in keeping up his monthly allowance.

Besides, dad’s idea has a certain charm.

“No, Martin,” Elias says, shaking his head and getting his laptop. His hands move quickly, efficiently, fingers flying over the keys. “That simply won’t do. You’ll need to make something of yourself, darling. You can’t just wither away, forgotten, no matter how happy Peter looks when he talks about it. That’s not healthy for a growing boy.” The last part is mostly directed at Elias himself.

Martin sighs. “I’m not a Slytherin like you, father,” to which Elias chuckles heartily. “I’m not that ambitious. But I won’t join dad on his ship, don’t worry.”

The pair fall silent for a moment as Rosie comes in, handing Elias a few pieces of paper and shooting a look at Martin in the meantime. He tries to smile reassuringly.

When she’s gone, Martin turns back to his father. “What normally happens in these interviews?”

Elias waves his hand. “Oh, I See if people are suited to work here. If they’re touched by the Powers, if they have the right amount of fear, possess some sense of decorum.” He sounds distracted as he rifles through the papers, dotting a few numbers on lines here and there. “That sort of thing.”

“So all of the other interviews are a farce,” Martin responds, amusement colouring his voice.

Elias shrugs, setting his pen aside. “Not quite. They weed out the true idiots, though I always keep an Eye out whenever a new person enters this building. But it is true that I have the final say. It’s my Institute, after all.”

The possessiveness in his voice is audible. Martin does not get a chance to mull it over before the papers are shoved in front of his face.

“Sign these,” his father instructs. His mannerisms remind Martin of the time that Elias managed to get Peter sign their new marriage contract by shoving it under his nose at dinnertime.

Martin shoots him a very sceptical look, reading the contract carefully. He eyes the Institute’s logo with suspicion. Vigilo. Opperior. Audio.

The salary is far too high, though that is not what surprises Martin. The surprise is that he can find nothing untoward in it. Not even a hint.

“Is this the same contract you give all your employees?”

Elias eyes dance. “Not quite. Let’s just say you are already bound to me and the Eye enough as it is.”

Martin cocks his head, thinking of snatches of conversation picked up throughout the years. “I could quit at any time?”

Elias nods, smirking. “Perks of being the son of, so to say.”

Martin huffs, shaking his head. “And I suspect we won’t be flaunting that little fact?”

“Would you prefer we do?”

“No.” No, he’s quite sure about that. This will be awkward enough as it is. Besides, Peter taught him head-in-the-sand really is the best tactic to start with. See which way the cat jumps.

Taking a last long look at the papers, Martin sighs. Why the fuck not. It’s probably not a bad thing.

“Dad is so going to divorce you for this,” Martin mumbles as he sings the papers with a sense of inevitability.

“Don’t worry,” Elias reassures him, “Peter and I are currently quite content. He’s not going to divorce me.”

Peter divorces him.

(It only lasts a month, so it is a token protest at most.)

502.

As you grow older, you start to get to know your parents in a different way. As people.

Elias is sitting in the loveseat of the living room, alone. Peter has been at sea for five weeks. His father stares at the wall, gaze trailing along what he claims to be the original plans of Millbank Prison, the place on which the Institute is built. The wine glass in his hand is empty. His usual three-piece is replaced by a soft-looking blue jumper and black trousers. His father does not move. His eyes are far away.

Martin mentally changes his plans. He’ll go to boxing class tomorrow, he thinks, and disappears into the kitchen. He returns with a bowl of healthy snacks, making care to not make too much noise.

Elias hasn’t moved a muscle, still as a statue.

Picking up his chosen DVD, Martin settles on their favourite couch and puts on what he thinks is the most factually incorrect documentary about fish that he knows of.

It’s not long before the couch dips and another warm body settles next to him.

“Antarctic fish do not surround themselves with their own snot to protect them from the cold – that’s a parrotfish, and they do it to ward of predators,” Elias starts derisively as if in the middle of an conversation.

Martin smiles and makes room for him. The older man settles in further. His father absentmindedly grabs a handful of nuts, chewing them thoughtfully as he frowns at the overly large TV-screen.

“Actually, the reason Antarctic ice fish survive at below zero degrees Celsius is because they have a certain kind of antifreeze in their blood. What kind of subpar information does this program think to convey?”

Good to have you back, Martin thinks, and burrows a little bit into his father’s side. The other man yawns, the gesture oddly vulnerable. The dark circles under his eyes make Martin frown.

Elias throws an arm around his shoulders and squeezes. Martin settles comfortably against his father’s chest.

They finish two documentaries that night.

Afterwards, Martin makes sure to write a postcard to his dad. Miss you, it says, and Martin makes sure to feel as sad as he can when writing it.

499.

Living on his own means that Martin sees his parents less. He does try to be home on the weekends, whenever he can. This is actually most weekends, save for the monthly poetry slam and subsequent sleepover with Eva and Huan.

This also results in Elias and Peter actually planning in family quality time once in a while. Or, well, Elias pencils it in, mostly because he can’t resist a good, tight schedule.

Family bonding time consists of expensive dinners, watching documentaries while his dad dozes off, and playing board games. Martin very carefully vetoed certain board games. It hasn’t even led to a divorce once. Yet.

(Martin counts it as one of his greatest achievements.)

His parents still spend about a third of the time divorced. Yet even then they make sure to spend time with him.

His father makes appointments as least two weeks in advance. Elias’ idea of father-son bonding time is sitting in a café, or on a bench in a busy street – as long as the weather is good – studying strangers.

Martin has to guess about passer-by’s secrets. His father tells him if he is right. He elaborates most of the time, spanning into a long-winded story that almost inevitably ties into recent Institute goings, Peter’s recent ‘awfulness,’ or back into a question about Martin’s life and studies.

His father has some very interesting philosophical and ethical viewpoints. It makes for unique essays, even if Martin’s professors look at him strangely sometimes.

Peter’s idea of fun bonding time is very different. First of all, his dad just spontaneously turns up sometimes, dragging Martin along no matter his previous engagements. He’s even missed an exam once. “Don’t worry,” Peter had reassured him later, “I’ll buy you a new one.”

Martin had shaken his head with a smile. “That’s not how it works.”

Second of all, Peter takes him to a different place every time, throwing money around like it’s no big deal.

It goes like this: his dad asks him what he wants to do. Martin thinks of the most outrageous activity he can think of, wondering is this is finally too much. It never is. Peter always nods, smiling vapidly, and off they go.

Canyon swing-lining. Coasteering. Cliff-face camping. They even go volcano boarding once, though Peter complains about the heat the whole time.

Martin makes sure to never choose an activity with too many people, nor does he question the way his father asks him to close his eyes and hold him close as the world goes cold and bleak and a journey of hours turns into seconds.

After all the lonely places he and his dad have visited in his youth, it’s not even that bad.

And if strangers sometimes burst into tears as Elias studies them like insects;

If Martin becomes worryingly familiar with the cold numbness clinging to his skin and the never-ending feeling of scrutiny;

If a noisy tourist disappears in the fog just as she is about to ask Peter about his darling son;

Well. Nobody’s parents are perfect.

Martin decides it’s not a bad thing.

401.

His new co-workers are nice.

Martin meets Sasha a few more times, even though she’s in another division. He gets to know his other colleagues, though none of them make a very lasting impression on him.

Except one.

Jonathan Sims. Call me Jon.

Jon is…

Jon is amazing.

The first time Martin lays eyes on the man, he’s walking hurriedly and flipping through a book, pen clutched between his teeth. His eyes devour the pages, dark hair barely keeping itself from falling into his face, glasses perched firmly on his nose.

Somehow, Jon’s very presence lights up the dark hallway. Martin stills in the middle of the corridor. He can only watch as this captivating man comes closer.

“Aha!” Jon shouts through his pen in victory, triumphantly pressing his finger against a passage in the book.

A certain part of Martin rejoices at the honest joy on Jon’s face.

Then Jon collides with Martin, who is still frozen. Both of them take a startled step backwards. Jon looks at him with surprise that quickly turns to shyness, redirecting his gaze towards the ground.

“Apologies,” he mumbles awkwardly and oh-so-charmingly, pushing on quickly as if nervous to be around another human being.

A different part of Martin rejoices at the self-consciousness radiating from the man.

All parts of him agree that his new colleague is really quite beautiful.

Martin himself is not quite aware of the precise reasons why his stomach flutters, why a blush rises to his face, why his heart beats a little faster.

Looking back, he thinks he was a little bit in love with Jon from the start.

713.

His dad has been at sea for the past four months without a single visit; it’s the longest he’s ever been away from Martin. His parents have also been married for almost a year now, something that fills Martin with pride. These two facts may or may not have something to do with each other.

So Martin makes sure to arrive home a little earlier that Friday, sure his father is still at the Institute, that his dad will linger at the docks. He has gone shopping with a plan, determined to be the one to cook a nice meal for his fathers for a change.

Hands full, he opens the living room door cheerily, a spring in his step as he–

Not again.

“AGH!” The groceries clatter on the ground as Martin throws his hands in front of his face. “Why,” he shouts blindly, “do the two of you not know the concept of your own bedroom?!”

“Wait!” his fathers shout in unison, and Martin takes a step backwards, ready to flee. “This is not what it looks like,” Elias says quickly, while at the same time Peter cheerfully goes, “Not a weird sex thing, promise.”

Martin freezes. His parents never directly lie to him. They wouldn’t start doing so now. He peeks between his fingers, casting a look full of trepidation at where his parents are standing.

It’s not as bad as he feared. He’d spotted the two of them kissing – something they rarely do around him – and a flash of something else and deduced the worst. But both of them are still fully clothed and neither of them is looking particularly debauched.

“I still don’t know what exactly is going on here,” Martin says sceptically.

Peter shrugs, playing with the lace in his hands. Elias doesn’t quite meet his eyes, the dark steel bones of the corset stark against the white of his dress shirt.

“It was actually quite common for men to wear underbust corsets during the 1800s,” Elias tells Martin stiffly.

Right. Martin can remember that from one of his father’s many lectures. Corsets were considered normal for higher-class men, straightening their posture and helping with their back problems, which were quite common back in the day.

“Okay,” Martin says slowly, “but you can’t blame me for making… assumptions. I mean. It’s happened thrice by now!” He shivers with mortification at the thought. Though nothing was as traumatizing as that first time with the heels and the – nope nope nope.

“Martin,” his dad says cheerfully, “sex is a very natural thing–”

Martin waves his hand, and Peter falls silent. “That’s not it,” he sighs. “One of you is near-omniscient. The other has the ability to disappear at will. And it still happens.”

His parents look sheepish. Martin pinches the bridge of his nose.

“Anyway,” he continues bravely, gesturing again at his parents, “why do you have to do this in the living room?

“This just came in,” Peter explains airily, hands deftly working at the lace, pulling harshly one last time and tying the whole thing with a neat bow. Elias doesn’t flinch. “It’s just to see if it fits.”

Martin has to smile at the way his dad pretends not to pay attention yet does not falter in his movements, once. Peter pulls his hands back. Martin cocks his head, studying Elias. “It looks nice,” he offers.

Something in the line of Elias’ shoulders relaxes, and it is only then Martin realizes he was tense at all.

“Still,” Martin continues, picking his groceries back up from where they’d fallen, “next time, just do these things in your bedroom and save me the heart attack, please.”

“So demanding,” Elias quips, but it lacks bite. Peter just chuckles.

When Martin serves dinner that evening, Elias is still wearing the corset under his suit jacket. Martin gives him the biggest piece of meat.

Peter pouts.

487.

Martin tries not to smoke. He really, really does.

But his parents’ bad habits are hard to shake off. Especially now, just two weeks into the job, terrified that at any moment someone will jump out from behind a library shelf and accuse him of nepotism.

When he steps out into the fresh air at the back ally of the Institute, someone else is already there.

Martin buries his yelp of surprise in his favourite scarf. The soft and lumpy thing curls around his shoulders comfortably, the bleak blue-and-green pattern oddly cheerful.

“Oh. Hello,” Jonathan Sims greets him, cigarette freshly lit.

“Hi,” Martin stumbles, backtracking. “I can… I can leave, if you want?”

Jon studies him for a long moment, then shrugs.

Martin debates with himself for just a moment. In the end, he decides to stay. He’s an okay guy, Martin knows. Valued, as his father would often repeat, sometimes unnecessarily. Why else would his parents put all that effort into him?

Besides, looking closer, Jon looks terrible. Maybe he can help.

“You okay?” Martin asks, trying to adopt the caring but non-invasive tone his father is so practiced at.

Jon’s eyes flicker towards him for a long moment, taking a deep drag from his cigarette. They’ve spoken a few times since bumping into each other in the hallway. Martin wouldn’t call them close – but he would call them on friendly terms.

Jon seems to make a decision. The way he runs his hand through his hair and rubs his temples fits with the dark circles under his eyes.

“Have you ever seen a Leitner?” Jon asks blandly.

Something tells Martin this is a much more loaded question than it seems. He mulls it over, thinks about the closed-off section of his father’s private library.

“No,” he answers eventually, but continues quickly. “But I do know what they are. Evil books. Literally life-threatening. Stay away at all costs.”

It is supposed to be cheery, light-hearted. It doesn’t quite hit that note. Jon still chuckles humourlessly.

“Have you?” Martin asks hesitantly.

“Yes,” Jon answers. Takes another deep drag and does not elaborate.

They stand there in silence. It’s not a bad thing.

543.

Martin has only been down to the Archives once.

He knows, from how often his father and dad both complain about Gertrude Robinson, the Archives are a Thing. An important Thing, capitalization and all. Still, when he descends the stairs, Martin is flabbergasted by the absolute mess he encounters.

“It’s a shithole,” Martin complains out loud to Jon later that day, meeting each other for their now daily smoke-break.

Jon snorts. “It’s idiotic,” he agrees, staring off into the distance. “I don’t understand why Mr. Bouchard lets an old woman like that run a wealth of knowledge like that.”

Martin chuckles awkwardly. “Me neither,” he agrees, though he doesn’t add he also doesn’t want to.

636.

Gertrude Robinson is gone. For good, this time.

Elias is not sure how he feels about this. Peter is of course very happy about it, and rewards Elias accordingly. So Elias supposes he is glad.

Jonathan had accepted his new role as Archivist with just enough eagerness and curiosity to hide his trepidation. Now all that was left was a final meeting to sign the papers and formalize the agreement.

All in all, Elias is in a pretty good mood.

His mind is still on yesterday night when he arrives at the office the next morning. Elias feels languid, satisfied in a way he rarely is. Maybe Peter and him would manage to stay married for longer than six months this time.

Martin would certainly be pleased.

Rosie nods as Elias absentmindedly orders her to transfer Jon’s three requested staff-members from wherever towards the Archives. His mind is completely focused on Jonathan. His new Archive. Currently on his way to his office, even though the meeting is not in another thirty minutes.

So eager.

He’ll do perfectly.

It’s only afterwards, papers officially signed and Jon appropriately flustered, that Elias turns his attention to Rosie.

“I’ve transferred Jon’s chosen staff and informed them of their new positions by e-mail,” she says matter-of-factly. Elias hums, pleased. Ever the efficient assistant. It doesn’t really matter who the Archival Assistants are, after all. All the Institute staff is hand-picked by him. All are suitable to be sacrificed for the sake of his Archive.

Still, it would become him to at least pretend to be interested. “Who did Jon choose?” he asks politely.

“Sasha, from Artifact Storage,” Rosie begins, and Elias hums in approval. A little experience in the team won’t hurt. “Tim, from Research. A nice guy,” she adds, and Elias mentally shrugs. Brother lost to the Stranger.

“And Martin,” Rosie finishes, and Elias freezes. “Also from research. Apparently he and Jon are friends.”

What.

“Huh?” Rosie asks, and Elias realizes he said that out loud.

“Thank you, Rosie,” he manages stiffly, “excuse me.”

With that, Elias makes his way to where he Knows his son is working. Elias’ Eyes are already on him through the cover of a strategically placed book.

He tunes in just in time to see Martin open the e-mail on his computer screen. To see Jon approach him with a smile on his face.

Martin turns to meet Jon before he hears him, and Elias feels a flash or pride mixed with worry at the display.

Pride, because of the smallest flash of Knowing. Worry, because of the look on Martin’s face.

Elias leans against the wall and fumes. He knows that look. He’s seen it in the mirror often enough.

Martin is not going to change his mind.

Peter is not going to like this.

(He doesn’t.

Elias may be angry, but Peter is positively seething. Blames him, maybe rightly so.

His husband displays more emotion than he has in months. Elias watches hungrily, soaks it all in, reflects on how much more Martin has brought into their lives.

Elias knows Peter’s reaction is only because of his worry that he’ll lose Martin to the Eye. That something will happen to him just like it did to all of Gertrude’s assistants. He loves his husband enough that he does not verbalize the attachment, even in his anger. He knows the One Alone will feast on Peter’s fear and sense of loss, just as the Eye is now feasting on his husband.

When Peter divorces him that night, Elias does not protest.)

100.

“Martin.” Elias calls his name with intent, one evening during dinner. Martin startles, caught up in worries about exams and Eva’s upcoming eighteenth birthday.

“Huh?” he says with his mouth full.

Elias tuts disapprovingly. “Have you thought about what you want to study at university?”

Martin swallows, shaking himself awake.

“Yeah,” he says causally, shaking of the fog that was lingering around his thoughts. He’d been anticipating this question. “I was thinking about parapsychology,” he says, doing his best to keep his amusement out of his voice.

Both his parents stop moving. “Why?” Peter asks lightly.

Martin shrugs, deliberately taking another bite and swallowing it before answering. “You know, it sounds kind of interesting. Broaden my knowledge. Explore the unknown. Besides, it might finally help me understand what kind of freaky shit the two of you deal in.”

His parents do not answer. Martin bites his lip to stop himself from laughing.

“If this is about that one time you walked in on Peter and I–” Elias starts seriously.

“Ack! No, father, it’s not about your sex stuff!” Martin boxes his ears in defeat. “Oh, no, I’d almost repressed that trauma,” he murmurs to himself, voice getting louder, “why did you say that!”

Peter is laughing, the sound echoing hollowly in the room.

Martin sighs and puts his hands over his eyes instead. “I debated studying psychology to make sense of your twisted relationship,” he complains teasingly, unknowingly imitating his dad, “but decided to save myself the inevitable migraine.”

Peter is still chuckling. “Probably for the best,” he says, and sounds almost fond.

“Anyway,” Elias continues, and when Martin looks at him his cheeks are tinged red. “You mentioned studying parapsychology?”

Martin looks at him curiously, keeping his amusement firmly under wraps. “Yeah. I mean, I know you two are not quite human, so there’s more to the field than it seems.”

“Really,” Peter answers. His eyebrows are raised high.

His parents are throwing each other uneasy looks. It’s not subtle. Martin frowns. “Did you guys really think I didn’t have any clue of what was going on?” At his parents’ neutral expressions, Martin face scrunches up in disbelief. “Really? I’m not stupid, you know. You guys are not exactly subtle.”

Peter shrugs. “We prefer to live in ignorance.”

“Never,” Elias hisses sharply, then pinches the bridge of his nose. “I might have overestimated my own subtility.”

“To be fair,” Martin responds cheerily, “you are the subtle one of the two of you. You don’t literally disappear at random times, for example.” He can’t resist imitating his dad’s airy countenance as he speaks. “But it was hard to miss when you stormed into my school thirty literal minutes after Chad bullied me, picked me up after a poetry slam I did not mention,” Martin holds up a finger with every example, “asked about a crush I never–”

“Yes, yes,” his father sighs in defeat. “I get it. But now you’ve made me curious.”

“Oh, no,” Peter says under his breath.

Martin leans back, ignoring his dad, thinking it over. “You are both connected to some kind of power,” he muses aloud, “though it’s not the same one.”

“Father,” Martin starts, and Elias gives him his undivided attention. “With you, it’s knowledge. You know a lot of things that you shouldn’t, like you have constant access to the worlds greatest library in your mind. But it’s more than that. It’s live, somehow, knowing things are happening as they are happening. Curiosity and eagerness to learn are important values to you.”

There’s more to it, Martin is sure, but he’s never really made an effort to throw himself that deep into the rabbit hole.

“Dad, on the other hand,” and Peter leans forward with a glint in his eyes, “is all about solitariness. Being alone, introverted, never meeting too many people. The beauty of isolation, numbing yourself from painful things, closing yourself off from people who don’t matter. It sounds unhealthier than it is. For me, at least.”

Martin suppresses the urge to preen. Maybe he’ll finally get some answers.

His parents are staring with him with indecipherable expressions on their faces.

“I’ve…” Elias beings, but trails off. Looks at Peter.

Peter looks back just as helplessly. “He’s not wrong, per se,” and does not finish his sentence.

Another moment of silence. Peter strokes his beard. Elias scratches at his chin.

“Did I say something wrong?” Martin says nervously.

“No,” Elias responds quickly, shaking his head. “It’s not that. It’s just that neither me nor your father have ever heard our, ah, patrons described so…”

Peter finishes his husband’s sentence, “…kindly.” The shiver in his voice echoes strangely. “From someone who isn’t an Avatar himself.”

Martin frowns. Avatar? “Is that a bad thing?”

Peter shrugs. “Nah.”

Elias frowns, thinking it over, turning his knife over in his hand. “I’m not quite sure,” he eventually says. “Your case is quite unique. You see, son,” he adds absentmindedly as warmth fills Martin’s chest, “now that the secret is out, so to say, we might as well throw our cards on the table.” Elias’ eyes glint. “Information is power, and I intend to make you strong.”

And so Martin learns about the Dread Powers.

The Eye; the Beholding; the Ceaseless Watcher.

The Lonely; the Forsaken; the One Alone.

His parents do not tell him all of it. Far from it, he’s sure about that. Martin doesn’t know if it is because of their different patrons – at a few tense moments during their spiel both Elias and Peter shoot each other suspicious looks – or because they think he’s not ready to know. Or maybe they want to protect him.

He doesn’t really care. It’s still nice to learn these things. To finally have a framework for all the paranormal things that happen around him and his family.

To learn that both his fathers serve an evil Fear entity, well.

No family is perfect.

It’s not a bad thing.

(In the end, Martin goes off to study philosophy. It matches well with his poetry, curiosity, and aversion to human contact. He wasn’t ever really serious about parapsychology in the first place. He doesn’t think he would’ve learned a lot, not with him already having so much first hand experience.)

650.

Jon wipes his hands on his trousers as he shakes the hand of the Head of the Magnus Institute – his new boss. Direct boss. Call me Elias now, Jon. We’re going to be working together from now on.

When he was called into Mr. Bou– Elias’ office, Jon was not sure if he was going to be fired or not. It was only two days after he had started his new job, for God’s sake! Maybe he shouldn’t have been quite so angry at the state of the archives. But he couldn’t help it. It was just… disrespectful.

It turned out Jon was worried for naught. Elias had only called him into his office to inform him about the transfer of his requested assistants; Tim, Sasha, and Martin. It was good news, especially the latter. Martin was the only person in the Institute Jon had actually struck up a friendship with.

Elias places a surprising emphasis on treating his assistants well. Keeping them safe, he says twice, even though Jon does not know what dangers could possibly lurk in the Archives. Dust allergies? Papercuts?

Even so, Elias seems genuine in his concern.

It’s reassuring to witness. A little bit of humanity from the usually untouchable boss.

913.

One day, when walking home from his new job as an Archival Assistant, Martin feels watched.

It is nothing like the comforting weight of Elias’ ever-present gaze. This is different, like a thousand needles pressing against his skin, not hard enough to break but definitely enough to bother.

Martin frowns and looks around.

His left hand tingles. His eyes fall upon a woman, standing in the shadow of an ally. Her face seems to be moving.

Martin swallows and makes a sharp turn.

His right hand tingles. The fog creeps up around him, and Martin makes sure to step towards it.

He gets home safely.

The next day, worms start seeping into the archives.

225.

“What is this?”

Martin looks at his parents in confusion. Both of them are standing in front of him, stiff and formal. It looks kind of funny.

“Son, you are going to be living on your own as of next week,” Peter states like a deceleration. Martin frowns.

“I know,” he replies slowly. Elias and him spent far too long going over far too expensive apartments accompanied by an ever-present fog.

He’s a college student now. It’s time.

(He’ll always be welcome back home.)

“You are not a normal child,” Elias muses aloud.

Martin rolls his eyes. “Is there a point to this?”

Peter chuckles hollowly. “Here,” his dad says and pushes a box into his hand. “We’d like for you to wear these from now on.”

Martin cocks his head and opens the box.

Two rings lie there in soft crimson velvet. One of them is golden, soft and intense, dotted with stylized eyes and a large eye in the centre, inlaid with an emerald gem. The piece of jewellery draws his gaze in a way Martin suspects is not quite natural.

The other ring seems to be not quite there when Martin doesn’t focus on it. The silver is pale, cold against his skin, only the barest etchings of waves visible.

“These are for your protection,” Elias explains with a touch of pride in his voice, “and are quite unique.”

“It costs us a lot of money,” Peter adds under his breath.

Elias continues like Peter hadn’t spoken. “We are not sure what will happen if you come into contact with another Power,” and here Peter scratches his beard uncomfortably, “as you are unusual enough as it is. There is a balance in you that is very rare. It’s fascinating.”

Martin files his father’s words away for later, putting them out of his mind for now. Instead, he touches the rings with care. He slips them on after only a moment’s thought.

The Eye on his left; the Lonely on his right.

They fit perfectly. The moment between slipping on the golden ring on his finger and not yet wearing the silver one, Martin feels his skin tingle unpleasantly. Luckily, the second ring takes the sensation away.

“Beholding will help you see,” Peter explains shortly, “and Forsaken will help you hide. Do not mistake them for benevolent. Never forget their true nature.”

The worry in his voice rings mostly hollow.

But only mostly.

His parents step closer, each squeezing a shoulder before stepping back and making themselves scarce.

Must’ve met their emotional quota for the day, Martin reasons. He smiles.

It’s not a bad thing.

703.

Rosie frowns as she looks at today’s calendar.

Friday is usually the day Elias keeps available for personnel issues. And paperwork, of course.

There are only three appointments in his agenda today. A blocked hour around lunchtime, which the Head of the Institute will spend mingling in their canteen. A two-o-clock meeting with the Head of Security concerning the recent tension between two staff members.

And, so low on the list she almost misses it, there is a third appointment. Martin Blackwood’s performance review.

17:30 on a Friday afternoon.

Even Rosie herself is usually long home by that point.

She bites her lip. Only very rarely does someone actually get fired around here. But why else place their appointment on such a graveyard timeslot? Martin is nice. A bit silent, sometimes fading into the background, but always interested in your day or asking about your hobbies. He’s never hesitated to offer a helping hand.

She knows Elias can be quite harsh when he feels like it. Her boss has a well-hidden preference for dramatics that emerges at the oddest moments.

Rosie hopes Martin will be okay.

(She pretends the appointment is not the reason she stays late that day.)

Hours later, Rosie is busy typing away behind her desk when a voice startles her.

“Good afternoon,” suddenly comes from her right. She looks up. It’s Martin.

“Oh, Martin,” Rosie answers with a smile, “didn’t see you there.”

Martin shrugs. “It happens. Is E– Is Mr. Bouchard ready?”

Rosie nods. “Yes,” she tries to say brightly.

“Thanks,” Martin replies casually and disappears behind the expensive wooden door.

Rosie stares after him for a few minutes, a low hum of worry in her stomach. She really hopes Martin will be okay. After uselessly attempting to finish her notes from yesterday’s meeting, Rosie decides she’ll bring in some tea for the two of them. She does that often, having an impeccable sense of when her boss needs it.

Right now, she’s not sure it’s as welcome as usual, but she is just a little too worried about Martin.

She prepares Elias’ tea just the way he likes it and arranges a variety of flavours for Martin. Rosie gathers the supplies and her courage, and moves towards the office door.

It’s barely been five minutes. They’re probably still in the introductory phase. It’s a good time to reassure Martin he’s not alone.

“Mr. Bouchard?” Rosie knocks, once, holding her breath. The only sound faintly audible through the door is…

It can’t be.

Rosie opens the door and is greeted by the sight of her employer, laughing. Elias’ eyes are alight with mirth, a hand shooting up to cover his wide smile. “Really, Martin,” he’s saying, eyes flickering to Rosie before settling back on that poor junior employee, “where did you learn that. I am simply shocked.”

Rosie looks at Martin. The poor thing is hiding his face in both hands. Rosie bristles. She can understand that the Head of the Institute needs to make difficult decisions, but this is just bullying.

It’s unlike him.

Elias isn’t done. “I don’t know who raised you,” he continues and if the context was different Rosie would call his tone teasing, “but I really must have a word with them.”

Rosie’s hackles rise. She opens her mouth. This is not how one should treat their employees.

“You want a mirror? You look in it often enough, already.”

Her mouth snaps close.

Martin straightens in his chair. His face is not wrecked or tear-strained, as Rosie feared, but instead shows a mixture of fondness and exasperation.

“I do not,” Elias says, affronted.

Martin just raises an eyebrow. Then he startles and turns to look at her.

Rosie has frozen, staring at them with wide eyes.

“Oh,” the junior researcher replies, and he sounds so apologetic that Rosie can move again. “I’m… Apologies, I did not know you were there.” The last words are accompanied with an accusing look at Elias.

Elias, for his part, simply smiles, eyes still dancing. “Rosie,” he says warmly, “I’d like for you to officially meet my adopted son, Martin. It’s not something we’d like to become public knowledge, but I trust you.”

The matter-of-factness of his delivery does not bely the way his words warm Rosie’s heart just a little bit.

Working with someone so closely inevitably means you form a certain attachment; a partnership, though not romantic by any means. Rosie holds Elias’ opinion in high regard. She does her best to please him. To hear the respect returned is nice.

The dramatic bastard.

“Oh,” she answers in lieu of voicing the thoughts now flickering through her head, “thank you, Mr. Bouchard. And nice to meet you, Martin – again,” the last part added with a little bit of a smile. Martin gladly returns it.

Scratching his head, the heir apparent leans back into his chair. “Yeah. It was never exactly the plan to start working here,” he chatters.

Rosie hands him his tea and turns to do the same for her boss. Elias’ eyes are focused on the boy. His face is more relaxed than she’s ever seen him.

“But when it worked out that way, I didn’t want people to see me as the son of,” Martin finishes and Rosie hums in agreement. “Luckily, father and I often think alike, no matter what dad likes to believe.”

“I understand your decision,” Rosie adds kindly, mentally crossing off some questions she’s had about Elias’ private life for a while now.

Martin smiles brightly at her.

“I’ll leave you to it, then.”

Rosie goes to sit back behind her desk feeling completely baffled. Father and son. She did not see that coming.

When the two of them exit the office ten minutes later Rosie barely recognizes her boss.

The ever-present straight line of Elias’ shoulders is gone, posture relaxed in a way she’s rarely seen him. His suit jacket is on, but not buttoned tightly, overcoat casually slung over one shoulder. Elias opens the door for Martin as they come through, the younger man mid-sentence, gesturing wildly.

As the pair stroll down the abandoned Institute hallways, Martin does not hesitate once in his story – something about a trip to an abandoned rollercoaster park – confident his father is listening. Both of them smile at her warmly as they walk by.

Looking at their retreating forms, Rosie’s eyes linger on the way Elias bends ever-so-slightly towards his son. How the hint of a smile is visible on his face as they turn the corner.

If you’d asked her this morning if Elias Bouchard would be a loving father, she’d have chuckled awkwardly and avoided the question.

She would’ve been wrong.

It seems that even now her boss manages to surprise her.

It’s not a bad thing.

115.

The harsh wind whips at Martin’s skin.

He shivers, pulling his coat closer against him, then corrects himself and thinks of his parents. The air immediately becomes a little warmer.

“He’s in his quarters,” Tadeas Dahl, his dad’s first mate, says as Martin steps off the creaky wooden board and sets his first foot on deck of the Tundra.

Looking around, Martin doesn’t see a soul except the first mate. There are several vast iron containers around them, most of them rusted close.

“You sure you’re looking for Peter Lukas?” Tadeas asks him once more, giving him a once-over.

At eighteen, Martin knows he doesn’t look like much. Tadeas probably means well. He still doesn’t appreciate the scepticism. Martin gives Tadeas the most vapid and aloof smile he can. He’s learned from the best.

Tadeas stills, and narrows his eyes.

“I’ll find him myself,” Martin adds cheerily, and sets off into the ship.

It’s early in the morning and the fog is thick around them. Natural fog, not dad-fog. He wanders the corridors of the ship with wide eyes. All the doors look exactly the same. The floor is bland and uneven, creaking underneath his feet. The rails are rusty, paint flaking off.

“Hi!”

Martin startles, looking up. Behind him, a man emerges from one of the cabins, a friendly smile on his face.

Peter Lukas’ son frowns.

“We don’t often get visitors on our ship,” the new guy says. He’s very friendly. “Are you a new hire?”

Martin just shakes his head. The fog is thick around them. The familiar numbness of his tongue urges him to stay silent.

“I’m Sean Kelly,” the man introduces himself.

Martin cocks his head. “You work here?” he asks after a long pause in which he fails to introduce himself.

Sean nods. “Yeah. It’s okay.”

Martin purses his lips. “You don’t seem to fit in,” he observes, unsure where the words are coming from.

Sean pales. He retreats back into his cabin, quicker than he’d appeared.

Martin frowns. Whatever. This is his dad’s ship. He’ll behave. Avoid further human contact.

Wandering along, Martin takes the stairs and follows the hollow pull in his chest until he stumbles into the steering cabin. The glass walls should be able to look out over the whole dock. Instead, its vision barely reaches the lower deck.

“Martin,” a familiar cheery voice beckons, and suddenly his father is there. Droplets of water cling to his beard and clothes even though they are inside and it hasn’t rained in days. “There you are! Finally, after all these years, my son joins me in my sanctuary.”

Peter mimics whipping away a tear.

Martin rolls his eyes and does not step forward for a hug.

“And? How do you like her?” Peter asks in his most aloof manner, turning away from Martin to look out into the fog.

“She’s depressing,” Martin can’t help but state. It’s true.

It also makes his father break into a rare and genuine smile, the wrinkles at the corner of his eyes disappearing.

“She is, isn’t she?” he responds happily and pulls Martin into a hug.

800.

After the whole drama is over, Martin and Jon end up in their usual place. Unlike their usual ritual, there are no cigarettes to be seen.

Jon is the one to break the silence.

“Is that a… regular thing?” he asks hesitantly. “The divorce?”

Martin shrugs. “It’s more like a game,” he explains, reflecting on his life as he does so. “Officially, before they’d adopted me, they had been divorced six times and re-married all of those. But those are just the ones the paperwork went through on. Unofficially, you can add three more divorces and one more wedding to that.”

Jon looks at him.

“I don’t even know, at this point,” Martin says with a certain giddiness to his voice, adrenaline still running high. “Just last year they tried to get married – one of their more elaborate plots, a noir-themed thing with custom made suits and desserts and tablecloths and I don’t even know what else.”

Jon’s eyes are disbelieving. Martin wishes he was joking.

“On the day of the wedding, they discovered they’d never actually submitted the papers for their last divorce. In other words, they were still married. Peter didn’t mind, but Elias threw a whole fit about it, saying it didn’t count and this ring was ugly anyhow. Which offended Peter, who’s really touchy about his sense of fashion, which in turn offended Elias – anyhow, that day we ended up at Mrs. Watcher, the family’s divorce lawyer, instead.”

“That doesn’t sound real,” Jon says, flabbergasted.

“I know! And who was the one who had to inform the guests of the change of plans?”

Jon looks at him.

Martin beams. “Yep.”

“It’s…” the new Head Archivist begins. Trails off. “I don’t have words for it, honestly.”

Martin raises his hands in the air. “It gets worse. One time they tried to get divorced only to realize they weren’t even married at that point. Which resulted in them getting married for the sole reason of getting divorced.”

Jon makes an incredulous noise. Mutters rich white people under his breath.

Martin snorts. “I know. I was there. They literally dragged me to act as witness, signed the papers, then marched straight up to their divorce lawyer three doors over. Mrs. Watcher and I have a strange relationship by this point,” Martin adds absentmindedly, thinking fondly about his family’s loyal if exasperated divorce lawyer.

“It sounds like a movie. Or a really bad rom-com,” Jon adds, disbelief colouring his voice.

He looks at Martin. Martin looks back. The shared mental image is palpable.

They break down at the same time.

The pair of them spend a good two minutes dissolving into fits of frantic laughter, catching each other’s eyes every so often and starting all over again.

It feels good.

When they eventually calm down, Martin’s shoulders feel lighter.  The moon shines bright on the ally behind the Institute, illuminating Jon’s face in a way that makes Martin’s throat constrict.

“What’s it like?” Jon asks, hesitant at first but bolder as he goes on. “Growing up with them?”

Martin leans back against the wall, eyes on the gentle curve of Jon’s lips.

“I didn’t actually get adopted until I was fifteen,” he blurts. “It’s probably for the best.”

Jon chuckles. The sound fills Martin with a nervous kind of warmth. “Probably.”

Martin can’t help but smile in agreement. “They’re not normal parents, far from that. Elias is the most traditional housewife-y of the two,” he says and shuts himself up immediately after. Shouldn’t have had that third glass.

The way Jon is laughing again, however, makes Martin go on, starting to submit to the giddiness himself. The earlier mirth is still dancing in his veins.

“It’s true!” he exclaims, “Elias always asks about my day, drags me to the stores whenever he thinks I need something, nags dad about cleaning up after himself, and secretly is a great cook. Although father also has no concept of privacy, a huge ego, and a twisted sense of morals – they both have, for that matter.”

Jon gestures him to go on, and Martin feels weirdly flattered. Having Jon’s attention is nerve-wrecking, but not in a bad way. It makes his stomach flutter.

“Peter is gone for three-fourths of the time. Still he always manages to be there just when I need him. Or just need a break. Dad likes to take me on weird trips and show me places he thinks are beautiful. It’s a source of calm in a stressful life, especially since I’ve started working. He’s a captain, by the way, so we often don’t see him for weeks.”

Jon hums.

“Neither of them are great at emotions, though Elias has devoured so many psychology and pedagogy books he sounds like a manual sometimes. He tries, though, just like dad, even if dad never comes further than giving me an awkward half-hug.” Martin sounds far too fond, he thinks. He blushes, realizing how much he’s ranting.

“It sounds nice,” Jon says, and Martin raises his eyes shyly. Jon is staring off into the distance.

“It is,” Martin answers simply.

“Why didn’t you tell us earlier?” Jon asks, amusement still colouring his voice. “We could have had so much fun with this,” he adds, clearly thinking of Tim.

Martin shrugs, hunching his shoulders. “I didn’t want anyone to think bad of me. Or to only see me as the son of. I’m very different from my father and dad both, and though I love them, I don’t agree with what they do like, seventy percent of the time.” He scratches his head awkwardly. “I was afraid you guys wouldn’t want to be friends with me if you knew.”

Martin stares at the ground. It’s still wet from the rain earlier this evening. The start of the party seems like days ago instead of hours.

There is a moment of silence. Then movement, in the corner of his eye.

Jon has stepped closer, expression neutral, though there is a spot of colour on his cheeks Martin swears hadn’t been there before. The Head Archivist lays a hand on his shoulder, hesitantly, but more firmly when Martin flushes at the contact.

“Don’t worry, Martin. All of us want to be friends with you.”

The two of them stare at each other for a long moment. Martin thinks he could get lost in those eyes and happily never speak to another human being again.

Jon coughs, stepping back, but not entirely.

“This does explain why Elias was so adamant about me treating my employees well when he hired me,” the man muses aloud.

Martin’s spine straightens. “Oh,” he says, “I almost forgot. You guys don’t really know anything, do you?”

Jon’s brow furrows in offence. Martin can’t help but be charmed. “What do you mean?” the dark-haired man asks sceptically.

“We should get Tim and Sasha as well,” Martin explains. In a fit of bravery he grabs Jon’s hand to tug him inside. “I have a few important things to tell you.”

Jon lets himself be pulled along with only the slightest blush.

799.

Martin didn’t even know the Institute had a space like this.

Even after standing in it with his colleagues – his friends – for half the evening, Martin still doesn’t quite believe it. Why hasn’t Elias showed him this earlier?!

Because he loves his secrets, Martin answers himself with a fond huff.

The room could easily house a hundred people. The northern wall is lined with tall and imposing bookcases filled with a variety of old books, the colourful bindings blending in well with the rest of the room. The large wall opposing it holds several paintings and portraits of a variety of long-dead people from all over the world.

One side of the room is a bar. The other has an ornately decorated double-entrance door. The bar is busy, with the free booze and all that, but not crowded. The type of people at this gathering are not the ones to start binge-drinking – not overtly, at least.

There’s a little space between where the bar ends and the bookcases begin. This is where the Archival staff have nestled themselves for the duration of the annual Institute Christmas party.

Martin had been the one of the first people to arrive. The third one, to be exact, not counting the staff. He’d let himself be dolled up, too busy sharing fond looks with his dad to really put an effort into stopping Elias. If we’re going to do this, Elias had said, we are going to do it right.

So there Martin was, tailored charcoal grey suit matching nicely with his ginger hair and emerald tie. When his dad pressed a pair of silver wavy cufflinks in his hand when Elias was not looking, Martin shot him an amused smile. His rings were warm around his fingers.

When he looked in the mirror, Martin surprised himself by thinking nice. His usual broad and bulky form looked smoother, somehow, his pale complexion gaining a healthy sheen.

(He’d drawn the line when his father went for the hair-care products. Martin wanted to look nice for the party, for– for his co-workers. He didn’t want to look like a stranger.)

And on they went.

There is a tight ball of nerves in his stomach that won’t go away, even as Rosie meets them outside of the ballroom (ballroom, freaking ballroom) that serves as a venue for the Institute’s larger events. Martin smothers a laugh as Peter awkwardly shakes Rosie’s hand. The woman looks positively thrilled to finally meet the husband.

His dad is uncomfortable with the attention.

Elias simply watches.

After giving Martin a quick hug and asking Peter a friendly question to which his dad stammers a very awkward response, Elias rescues them all from the situation and opens the doors to the ballroom.

Peter quickly follows, Martin and Rosie trailing behind, exchanging pleasantries. There are no actual guests yet; Elias prefers to be on time.

Peter calls it the best part of the party.

Eventually, people start dripping in. Institute employees, donors, other connections – both the normal and paranormal kind. Some of the Institute employees throw Martin a strange look, standing there smiling next to his parents, but none dare to say anything.

Elias is the perfect host.

The man makes a show of knowing everyone’s name, hobbies and life story. Peter fades into the background contently; most of the guests don’t even notice him, never mind are brave enough to shake his hand.

Martin is catching up with Rosie.

“So Alex is staying home with the kids, tonight. The oldest has just started puberty and is becoming quite the handful. Luckily Alex doesn’t mind,” Rosie chats.

“Aren’t you guys celebrating your fifteen-year anniversary next month?”

“Yes,” Rosie starts enthusiastically, pausing as one of the Institute’s non-paranormal donors breaks off from Elias to shake both their hands. Both Rosie and Martin offer their names, a friendly nod, and on the man goes.

“We’re thinking of going to Florida,” Rosie continues. “We’ve always wanted to visit The Wizarding World of Harry Potter. The kids seem to be into it as well.”

“Oh,” Martin says, suppressing a shiver at the idea of all those people. “Sounds nice,” he adds unconvincingly. Luckily Rosie is too caught up in her giddiness to notice. Martin takes a sip of his wine, taking care to not drink too much.

The door opens. A familiar form enters the room and Martin flushes.

Jon looks beautiful tonight. The deep purple dress shirt is well-made and neatly pressed, pale beige pants making him look even more graceful. Even the way that Jon nearly stumbles over his own feet as he descends the short (and unnecessary) stairs into the room itself doesn’t take away from the effect.

Martin realizes he is staring when Jon’s eyes finish exploring the walls and other guests and land on him.

Jon raises his eyebrows.

Martin’s cheeks colour and he quickly turns back to Rosie, who is watching him with a knowing smile. “Big day today?” she asks conspiratorially. “You look ready for it.”

“You could say that,” Martin says, throwing a look towards his parents who are still standing next to them. “And I hope so. I don’t feel ready, honestly.”

Elias is shaking the hand of a younger couple, elegantly dressed in a way that screams wealth. His father is making full use of his charm, but Martin reads condescension in the arch of his shoulders.

Martin debates what to do, the ball of nerves in his chest swelling. When he throws a look at Jon, he’s surprised to see that Tim and Sasha are walking in as well, waving at Jon as he turns around.

Maybe it’s best to just rip off the band aid, Martin muses, turning his eyes back towards his father.

“That sounds fascinating,” Elias says genuinely though his eyes imply otherwise. “You must simply meet my husband, Peter Lukas; he’s actually been to Antarctica himself.” His father turns sideways, pinning Peter in place with his stare, the unnatural bleakness around the sailor disappearing without a trace.

The couple startle at Peter’s appearance but step forward eagerly. As they do so, Elias makes his exit with a smirk, ignoring the dark look his husband shoots him.

Nope, Martin thinks, and makes his way to the bar. Time for another drink. The band aid can stay on for now. Ignorance is bliss.

He joins the other Archival staff in their corner after thanking the barmaid for the wine, listening to her chatter on about the beautiful ballroom. “Hey guys,” he greets the trio with a smile.

“Martin!” Sasha says happily, curls bouncing, throwing an arm around him and squeezing him tight. “You look amazing!”

Tim comes up to him, slapping his shoulders. He’s in a suit, sans waistcoat, and pulls it off far better than Martin does. “You do. Is that a three piece? Fancy!”

Martin flushes, murmuring something about how it’s the occasion. He raises his eyes shyly to meet Jon.

Jon is looking at him strangely, like he’s deciphering a mystery. “Were you talking to Elias’ assistant back there?” he asks sharply.

Martin bites his lip. “Rosie is actually a very nice woman. Really likes Harry Potter. She’s going to visit the theme park with her family, soon.”

“That’s great,” Tim cuts in, shooting Jon a reproachful look. Jon flushes slightly, looking down as Tim starts describing his obsession with everything Lord of the Rings back in high school.

Martin is chuckling at Tim’s story about answering a test in Elvish when Jon speaks up once more. “You do look nice, Martin,” he says quietly.

Martin swallows. Takes a breath. “Thank you,” he manages, and does not stutter. “You do as well.” Apology accepted.

Jon smiles at him, a tiny thing that’s creeping out from his usual serious visage.

Martin is thankful for the wine. His mouth is suddenly very dry.

“So,” he starts, “this is the first party I’ve been to. What usually happens at these things?”

Tim and Sasha shoot him matching grins.

Two hours later – and several tales of drunken research staff, arrogant socialites and one occasion when someone from Artifact Storage somehow spiked the punch with something that messed up everyone’s sense of direction, so much Elias had to fix every single attendee an escort home (which Martin resolves to ask his father about later) – most of the obligatory visitors have left. The uninterested donors, the honoured guests, the people that just wanted to make an appearance only to not be rude.

Martin has been keeping an eye on Peter and Elias the whole time. They have made an agreement, after all, and Martin intended to make them honour it. With force, if necessary.

It is with a little bit of worry that he watches Elias drag Peter into conversation after conversation until eventually Peter just straight up disappears into the Lonely for a good fifteen minutes.

That doesn’t bode well.

But maybe Martin had been worried for nothing. His parents have disappeared from the room since exactly thirty-eight minutes ago.

Thank god, because their whole passive-aggressive foreplay routine had been getting on his nerves. Martin estimates they’ll return soon, doesn’t think too hard about how much he knows of his parent’s sex life, and ah. There they are.

“Last year,” Tim says while taking another sip of his wine, and Martin pulls his focus back towards his friends, “my friend and I went kayaking. We went all the way up to Canada, befriending one of the locals. Turns out she was Sasha’s childhood best friend!”

Maybe not yet, Martin muses, letting Tim’s story flow in and out of his ears. He recognizes the way the shadows cling to one of the ghastly-faced guests both Elias and Peter are currently in deep conversation with. Peter even seems to be talking to him willingly.

Not yet.

More stories are swapped. Sasha leans further into Tim’s side. Martin drinks a third glass of wine, unable to say no to Jon.

The night is almost coming to an end by the time Martin spots his parents talking to each other intently on the side of the room.

Finally. The perfect time for some awkward (re-)introductions.

Tim and Sasha are making noises about going home, shooting each other meaningful looks as they do so.

Band aid, Martin reminds himself.

“Come,” he tells the others, who startle at his sudden resoluteness, “there is someone I’d like you guys to meet before we leave. Someones, I guess.”

“Who?” Jon asks curiously. Martin doesn’t answer, trying to delay the inevitable just a little longer.

The three Archival staff members follow Martin curiously as he leads them towards his parents. Elias and Peter lean against the bookcases, just a little bit away from what’s left of the guests.

Elias is gesturing dangerously with his wine glass.

Sasha whispers “Elias?” questioningly.

“I know that sailor guy from somewhere,” Tim wonders aloud.

Jon is silent.

Martin’s attention, however, is on the curve of his dad’s shoulder, the set of his father’s mouth.

Oh no.

The group comes closer. His parent’s conversation become audible.

“Peter,” Elias says lowly, dangerously, and Martin presses his lips together. That’s not good. That’s his serious voice.

Peter smiles vapidly.

“You have embarrassed me at the annual Institute Christmas party for the last time,” his father continues darkly. “I want. Another. Divorce.”

Each word is punctuated by a narrowing of his eyes, a swish of his wine glass.

Behind Martin, he hears three people gasp. One of them – he thinks it’s Tim – actually whispers gasp aloud.

“Please,” Peter answers, and his voice is dripping with ice. Whatever he’s going to say next is not going to be good. “Do you really think–”

“No.”

Martin steps forward. His parents startle, fall silent, and turn towards him. “Just, no.”

They both look at him with narrowed eyes.

“Martin,” Sasha hisses behind him in alarm, “that’s the Head of the Institute.”

“I don’t think this is something for us to interfere in,” Tim whispers urgently at the same time.

But Martin pays them no heed. Instead, he meets his parents’ eyes, making sure they see the anger in them. He doesn’t care about the divorce; it had been due for a while, honestly.

Martin cares that they do it like this. Right now.

And it’s not even a serious threat.

He knows this because ever since his sixteenth birthday his parents have always made sure to be married the day of his birthday – even his twenty-fourth one, for which they held the ceremony the day before and broke up again the day after. Martin only loved them even more for it.

His birthday is next week.

“It’s my birthday next week,” Martin says cheerfully, pointedly imitating his dad.

“Huh,” Peter answers just as vapidly, “is that so? Elias, dear, aren’t you the one who keeps track of these things?”

Martin crosses his arms and taps his feet impatiently.

Elias is silent for a moment, holding his son’s stare, before giving in. Pinching the bridge of his nose, mumbling a barely-audible fuck. “I was busy,” he snaps defensively.

“What is happening?” Jon whispers in the following silence. Martin feels his cheeks heat up but decides to press on as if no one had spoken at all.

“You know what would be a nice birthday present?” he adds casually as he twirls around, shooting his colleagues a look as if asking a genuine question. It’s fuelled by sheer frustration, the desperation of why none of these things can ever just go well.

Maybe he’s inherited some of Elias’ flare for dramatics.

Martin whirls back around with force, pinning his parents in place with his eyes. The golden ring on his left hand tingles.

“If my parents would stop embarrassing me at their own goddamn Christmas party.”

The silence is deafening. Both Elias and Peter look at him, eyes wide.

Peter recovers first, always better at letting go, rounding on Elias with an air of superiority. “You see, Elias, what you’ve done to the poor boy-”

“No, dad,” Martin cuts in, pointing a finger at him. “This is just as much your fault as it is father’s. It always is. So quit it. It’s,” he throws his hands up in the air in frustration.

His birthday is next week. Their whole argument is a farce and they know it.

“I don’t care how much you divorce each other again,” Martin continues, on a roll now, “I care that I wanted to finally properly introduce you to my friends and you act like children. You’ve been needling each other all evening, disappearing to god-knows-where, then talking to Rayner of all people–”

“Martin. Darling. Now hold on,” Elias tries, holding up a hand placidly, but Martin is unerring.

“And don’t you start as well,” he says and turns his accusing finger on his father. “You’re always on about workplace decorum and appropriate behaviour. And then you act like this?” Martin throws his hands in the air in exasperation.

“This is amazing,” Tim voice is filled with admiration. “A work of art.”

“I think I’m dreaming,” Sasha adds with wonder.

“What is happening,” Jon repeats.

There is a pointed silence in which no one answers those questions.

Peter is the first to give in, ever impatient. “You’re right, Martin. I’m a horrible dad, I shall just–”

“You shan’t,” Elias interrupts Peter pointedly, giving him a Look that cuts through any fog that was starting to gather around his husbands’ feet.

Then he turns back to Martin. “My apologies. Let’s try this again, shall we?” he adds cheerily, turning towards the Archival assistants with his most charming I’m-a-harmless-bureaucrat smile.

It doesn’t really work.

“I’d like to introduce you all to my husband, Peter Lukas. We are also, coincidentally, Martin’s parents,” Elias says formally, determined to holding on whatever dignity he had left after just being lectured by his son at his own Christmas party.

“Adopted,” Martin feels the need to add, for the first time in his life glad there is no genetic relationship between them.

Peter gives the trio of Archival staff a cheery wave. “Hi,” he starts, and does not say anything more.

Martin and Elias raise an eyebrow simultaneously. Their expressions are uncannily alike.

“You know, I can actually believe this,” Tim says as he slowly walks forward. “This is kind of awesome, actually. Now we have boss, double boss, double boss’ husband, and double boss’ son.”

“That’s just giving ourselves a headache,” Sasha says, visibly trying to collect herself. Jon crosses his arms, eyebrows raised high, looking like he’s barely stopping himself from firing off a volley of very invasive questions.

“Nice to meet you all,” Peter adds reluctantly at Martin’s and Elias’ matching glares.

Three pair of eyes swivel towards him. Martin winces in sympathy, then corrects himself. Serves his dad right.

“Right,” Elias says, usual charm faltering under the awkwardness palatable in the air.

No one says anything for a moment.

“Sooo,” Martin begins, turning around slowly, “anyone else want to get out of here?”

“Yes.” “Don’t mind if I do!” “Thank god,” Jon, Sasha and Tim answer simultaneously.

The four Archival assistants make a hasty exist, shooting each other – and Martin – unsubtle looks.

“That went well,” Martin hears Peter remark casually behind them as they flee through the double doors of the ballroom.

Elias just sighs.

332.

When Martin returns home he is surprised to see two coats already hanging by the door. It’s three o’ clock on a Friday. Martin mentally checks his calendar. His exams aren’t for another two weeks, and the paper for his favourite course Capitalism and Beyond is only due on Sunday. (He’s had some fascinating discussions with his father about that course.)

No birthdays, no holidays, his parents still in the honeymoon phase of their fourteenth– fifteenth, maybe? – marriage.

“Hello?!” Martin shouts through the house, just to be sure.

“Martin!” Peter’s jovial voice echoes from the kitchen, apparently back from sea. Martin relaxes and swings his backpack over his shoulder, stepping into the kitchen.

He stills in surprise at the threshold.

There is a large cake on the countertop. Martin counts five layers, alternating between a cool blue and warm hazel-green, uncannily matching his dad’s and father’s eyes respectively. The cake is painstakingly decorated with a variety of figures, objects and numbers that all hold some kind of meaning to Martin. Books and pens. A ship. A boxing glove. A variety of rings.

At the very top stands a figure that looks very much like him, down to the miniscule freckles on his face, beaming proudly into nothingness. He’s surrounded by fog that somehow manages to give off the impression of a giant eye, the small Martin standing in its pupil.

In front of the cake stand his parents. Peter is looking fondly at his husband. Elias is beaming, proudly, still clad in an apron dotted with specks of icing.

Martin mirrors his dad’s look at he thoroughly inspects the cake his father has expertly make.

Elias really is a very good cook.

“Happy five-year anniversary!” his father says joyously, elbowing Peter in the ribs as his dad echoes the statement obediently.

Martin chuckles, though he’s a little confused. “Haven’t you guys been married for longer, by now?” And to think of it, the cake seems to mostly revolve around him.

Elias shakes his head, dropping his arms and huffing uncharacteristically. “No, Martin, this is for you!” His voice is full of glee. “Well, for us. Today, it’s been exactly five years since we’ve adopted you, and your dad and I wanted to celebrate that.”

Oh, Martin thinks. Opens his mouth. Closes it.

His mind is strangely empty.

“I’ve made you a scarf,” Peter continues cheerily as if Martin has reacted like a normal person would. “All by myself. Kept me busy enough,” and holds up his arms, revealing a strange lump of cloth that looks very soft.

Its colours are a little bit bleak, ever-so-slightly mismatched with the cake, giving it an off feeling.

“You see, Martin,” Elias says solemnly, “Peter and I have been very pleasantly surprised by how much joy you have brought into our lives. We honestly didn’t think being parents would be so fulfilling, or so well-suited to us; but we also attribute that to the fact that you are a very capable young man who simply fits nicely into our lives. And all that it entails,” he adds meaningfully.

Peter nods solemnly. “What he said.”

“And,” his father continues as if uninterrupted, fingers twitching slightly, “we love you.” A strange look passes over Elias’ face, though it passes quickly. “And we hope you have come to think of us as your parents as much as we think of you as our son.” His father finishes his speech with a nod, as if complementing himself at a job well done.

“Yeah,” Peter adds, “what your father says. Agree, and stuff.” He coughs. “Love.” There is a notable lack of fog seeping through the open window.

Martin’s backpack slips off his shoulder. He feels his eyes water; there is a surprising absence of shame in his gut.

The son of Elias Bouchard and Peter Lukas does not hesitate to throw himself into his parents’ arms. Peter lets out a soft oomph but is quick to return the hug. Elias’ hand shoots out to prevent the two of them from knocking into the cake, and is swiftly drawn into the bear hug as well.

Martin breathes in deep, the scent of salt and cedarwood filling his nose.

“I told you this would happen,” his dad grumbles as he leans his chin on the top of Martin’s head.

“Shut it, Peter,” Elias grumbles as he leans back into his husband’s chest, stroking Martin’s hair with a smile.

Martin might be trembling slightly, memories and feelings from the past years resurfacing with a vengeance.

Flashes from his youth; his biological father’s retreating back, the fiery, accusing stare of his biological mother whenever he cooked dinner for them. The trembling of her hand on her hospital bed. The bleakness of the orphanage.

But they only resurface briefly.

They’re quickly replaced with memories of his most recent years. His father’s fond stare after Martin’s devoured another book. Waving his dad goodbye as the Tundra sets off. Holding back a fond smile at his parent’s renewed vows, both of them looking lovingly in each other’s eyes.

Elias stroking his hair after Arthur turned him down. Peter watching proudly from the back of the stands as Martin wins his first boxing tournament.

When Martin thinks of his parents, his biological ones are nothing but a hurtful footnote in his life. Peter and Elias have filled the gaping hole of loneliness and invisibility with determination, stubbornness, and – in the end – with love.

Martin is absolutely sure that it is not a bad thing.

Chapter Text

294.

As Martin makes his way home from the pub, he feels woozy. Not quite there.

Part of it is because of the alcohol, all of his college friends needing to unwind after an exam week full of writing pages and pages about ethics and capitalism and critical thinking and more. Part of it is the lateness of the hour, the exam at 8 in the morning and drinking ‘til 1 o’clock in the night not matching well.

Most of it is because he’d finally done it.

He kissed Kiaan. His crush. His first kiss.

As Martin walks home – no thanks, I’ll be fine, it’s only ten minutes – he is smiling, lost in the memory of soft lips and tanned skin and brown eyes.

Maybe that’s why he doesn’t notice the car pulling up next to him.

“Excuse me,” he hears from his right, and his hazy vision focuses on the sleek black vehicle. The tinted window pulls down, revealed a smiling non-descript man. Part of Martin feels suspicious, but then his eyes land on the bright yellow ‘Taxi’ sign and he relaxes.

“You need a ride, young man?” the taxi driver asks.

Martin stills, scratching his chin. It’s tempting, but…

“My dad told me to nev’r step into the car with strangers,” he says honestly. The world wobbles, and Martin leans against the taxi for support. “He also told me never to talk to strangers at all, or make any kind of effort to turn a stranger into a non-stranger. ‘xcept when dealing with the Stranger.” He laughs out loud at his own joke.

There is a sound behind him, a door opening. Martin is too busy laughing.

The taxi driver is smiling as well, but it doesn’t look genuine.

Martin’s laughter trails off. The earlier unease in his stomach returns. The Eye on his left hand burns.

“I think I’mma gone go,” Martin blurts, taking a step backwards – straight into the arms of another person. “Wha’s happe-”

A lot of things happen very fast.

A hand om his mouth, cutting him off. His body thrown into the back of the taxi, doors pulled shut behind him. A wet cloth in his face and then it all fades to black.

When Martin comes to, the first thing he notices is his massive headache.

Never again, he thinks as he remembers the fourth round of shots and opens his eyes.

Fuck.

The room he is in nondescript and bare. The only pieces of furniture in it are two chairs. One of them he is currently bound to, held upright with rope. The other is in front of him. Empty.

Fuck.

Panicking, Martin cranes his neck to look at his body. He is still fully clothed, doesn’t seem to be harmed–

His rings are still on his hands. Both of them.

It is just enough to keep him from a full-blown panic attack.

Okay, Martin, calm down. Think.

His rings have a certain amount of power, yes, but they are a far cry from what an Avatar can do. He can’t send the knowledge to his father, or disappear into the Forsaken– if Martin would even survive that trip alone. Furthermore, any Avatar of the Fears could have done this, the Eye and Lonely notwithstanding.

Considering he is still in one piece, the Desolation, Slaughter or Flesh are unlikely. Nor does he think the Hunt would leave him alive after catching him.

The Stranger is a favourite enemy. The Dark is also a possibility, though there is light seeping in from behind the curtains of the sole window of the room. Maybe the Spiral? But then he would’ve been in a far more twisted environment.

Or maybe this is just the beginning, and whomever has caught him is waiting for him to be awake before starting the fun.

There’s no fear to be harvested from an unconscious person, after all.

Fuck, Martin repeats to himself, feeling the earlier panic rise once more.

The door opens.

“Finally awake, I see,” the taxi driver says with a faux-friendly smile. The effect is ruined when two other figures follow him in, faces hidden behind black cloth. Both of them carry a gun.

Martin presses his lips together and glares.

“Now, now,” the not-taxi driver says, taking a seat, “there’s no need for that. If you cooperate we won’t need to hurt you.”

Martin glares some more. He tries to do what his father could, to pierce the man’s mind, gain something that might assist him here. But nothing happens.

The shorter henchman of the two – probably a woman, from her gait – hands the taxi driver a few documents. The man flips through them casually.

“Let’s see… Martin Blackwood, correct? Son of Peter Lukas and Elias Bouchard?”

Oh, Martin concludes, I see.

He is bait.

“Who are you,” he can’t help but ask accusingly.

The man smiles, half-hidden by his beard. “No one important,” he says, “but you can call us The Collective.”

The Stranger. Or the Corruption, maybe, though he’s seen no hints of insects. “Okay.” Martin tries to talk confidently, his voice climbing in height as he speaks. “Just be straight with me. Which one do you serve? Stranger? Corruption? Web?”

Maybe it is all of them. Working together against a common enemy.

To hell with it, Martin thinks. If this is happening, he’d give as good as he got. He takes a breath and focuses on the familiar feeling of his rings. His voice drops lower, the Eye on his hand tingling. Surging forward, teeth bared in a snarl, Martin feels like a cornered animal lashing out. “Who dares challenge the Ceaseless Watcher and the Forsaken as one?”

Something flickers over the leader’s face before it smooths out. “I don’t know what you’re on about, kid,” the man says, expression blank. “The Collective only has one goal.”

Here it comes.

“Do you have any idea of your fathers’ net worth?”

Wait. What?

“Huh?” Martin says dumbly.

“Rich kids,” the smaller of the two henchmen spits out derisively. Definitely a woman. Henchwoman.

“Elias Bouchard, Head of the Magnus Institute, last living member of the Bouchard family, originating from France. Current net worth estimated at 2.7 million euros.”

Martin just stares.

“But that’s just the bonus. The real treat here is your other parent.” Another page flips. The man keeps talking. “Peter Lukas, heir of the Lukas family. Lukases are renowned for their shipping company, investments, and tax fraud. Nothing ever proven, of course. Nor could they explain how their competitors simply seemed to disappear by the dozen. Current net worth,” cue a dramatic pause, “estimated 675 million euros. And that’s just Peter Lukas himself.”

Martin stares some more.

“It’s fucked up,” the third henchman says, who hasn’t spoken until now. The anger is visible in his voice, fists clenched around the handle of his gun.

“That it is,” the leader says placidly, “and so we aim to fix that. Your parents will be sure to pay a pretty penny for your safety. Assuming they love you more than their money, of course,” he adds snidely.

Martin is still staring at them.

“Your parents have four days. Today, we’ll send them our demands. If by tomorrow night we haven’t received our money yet, well,” and here a cruel grin appears on the leader’s face, “you lose a finger. Another day, you lose a hand.”

Behind him, the henchwoman grips her gun menacingly. The man lays a hand on the knife on his belt.

“Another day,” the leader continues, “and… Well, let’s not talk about that, shall we? Let’s just say– why are you smiling?”

It is true. Martin is smiling, and he can’t stop.

For the first time, the leader looks unsettled.

“Okay.” Martin can’t help the touch of glee in his voice. “So, you’re basically modern Robin Hood. Which I totally agree with, by the way, I didn’t even know Dad had so much money. That’s just bullshit.”

“…yeah,” the leader says evenly.

“But that’s it?” Martin asks, relief unfurling in his chest. “You don’t want to turn me into a living flesh hive? Take away my free will? Strip me of my skin and turn me into a doll?”

“The fuck,” the henchwoman says plainly.

“I told you those theories were true,” the henchman hisses.

“…let’s give dear Martin some time to process this,” the leader says, clearly thrown off track.

They leave, locking the door behind them.

Martin laughs, and laughs, and laughs.

It is only a little later Martin realizes this revelation does not actually solve anything.

It makes him far less terrified, yes, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t still in danger. Or his parents. For all their freaky powers, they aren’t actually immune to physical harm. Or guns.

He’s seen Peter cut his own finger while cooking often enough.

Furthermore, no matter how hard he concentrates on the rings, apart from a little fog creeping up at the corners of the room and the knowledge that there are exactly 166 pieces of laminate flooring in this room, it doesn’t do much to help him. Still, this does mean there is nothing blocking his parents’ more unusual resources from finding him.

And, because Martin suspects his father of checking up on him every single morning, afternoon, and evening, the probability is high Elias knows he is kidnapped by this point.

Though Peter is still at sea, Martin vaguely remembers. Or is he?

He actually doesn’t know a lot about how exactly his father’s Beholding works. Could he see where Martin is through his eyes? Is it a bird’s-eye view? Could he know Martin’s location?

Assume the worst, Martin reasons, go from there.

His father knows only this day that he is kidnapped. His dad is still at sea. His father does not know where Martin is.

What to do, what to do. What could he do, in his position?

Martin is still mulling the question over when the door opens once more. This time, it is only the woman and the fake taxi driver, who Martin has dubbed the leader in his head.

The woman is filming him.

“Say hello to your darling parents, little boy,” the man says dangerously as the woman aims the camera to show Martin’s bound and slumped-over form.

“Fuck you,” Martin spits angrily and the man laughs. Something about the way he smiles, the way the woman with the camera is stroking her polished knife with her free hand, makes something go dark inside of him.

Martin goes rigid. Both his rings burn–

The fog at the corners of the room creeps up, barely obscuring his hands. Even as Martin adjusts his stance to look desperately at the camera, he feels his fingers start twitching. It is not intentional. He does not resist it.

Five-two-zero-four-two-four-seven-two-

“Father,” Martin cries as the woman makes a motion to avert the lens, dragging the attention back to him as well as he can. “Dad, please! Help!”

The leader tuts. “Now, now, Martin, don’t make it harder on your dear parents,”

zero-five-nine-seven-

“you’re in enough danger as it is,” the man finishes grimly. Martin widens his eyes. Just a little longer,

seven-seven-three-stop.

“Please,” Martin continues, gaze turning hard again and fog dissipating around his hands, “make these bastards tremble.”

The woman turns the camera off quickly.

The first day comes to an end, and his parents have not arrived yet.

Another person, clad in black and completely silent, feeds Martin two glasses of water and a piece of bread. Martin gives in and eats. He needs his strength. He does not know what kind of conflict this thing will come to, but he wants to be ready for it.

Not that he thinks his parents are particularly violent people. His dad would probably just throw all of them in the Forsaken, amount of loneliness be damned. His father, though… Elias may prefer to watch, but somehow Martin can see him brutally murdering someone. Maybe with a pipe.

At some point, Martin falls asleep. Wakes up. Gets fed again.

God, being kidnapped is boring. How late could it be, by this point? At least noon, on the second day. What had his kidnappers said? They’d start with a finger.

Once again, Martin feels a little thread of anxiety worm its way up to his chest. What if his Fear-entity guided plan has not worked? What if Peter is too far away at sea, if Elias is only now getting the video? What if his father can’t see him at all?

Martin shivers. He feels cold, colder than before, the scenarios tumbling over each other in his head.

His fingers feel a little numb.

Wait. That is not because of his fear. The room is actually getting colder.

Dad?

It is only a minute after he dares to think that when the door to his room slash cell bursts open.

“With me,” the leader snarls, knife in one hand and gun in another. A cold barrel is immediately pressed against his temple as the knife slides through rope.

Martin is hauled upright with force, the only thing holding him upright the iron grip around his upper arm. His whole body tingles from where the blood is again flowing freely.

He can’t stand on his legs. His head is dizzy.

“Whuzut,” Martin mumbles, making a noise of pain as he is dragged from his room by force.

They stumble into a scene that might well be pulled straight from a horror movie.

Apparently his cell-slash-room is connected to some sort of living room, playing cards still on the table. It might be large, but fog covers the whole room, so thick the walls are barely visible. There are several figures visible on the floor, most of them with their weapon next to them as if dropped.

As Martin watches, one sobbing figure he thinks might be a henchman is swallowed up by the fog. His sobs are cut off immediately.

And in the middle of the room, forms outlined by the light coming from the now-broken door;

Father. Dad.

Elias’ eyes are blazing. The gun in his hand is still smoking, aimed at the hench-woman standing close to Martin and the leader. She is holding her head in both hands, still shaking even as she lets out her last breath and tumbles to the ground. Blood splatters around the floor.

Peter’s eyes, on the other hand, are cold as the grave. Turning from the now-swallowed man, he aims his gaze at the leader, and the fog obeys his command. His dad is bleeding from a bullet wound in his shoulder. Martin gasps in surprise and fear. The cold steel against his temple presses harder. Martin can feel the hand holding him upwards trembling.

“Don’t come any closer!” his kidnapper shouts, voice climbing higher, eyes wild. “I’ll pull the trigger!”

Peter puts up his hands in the air immediately, though his face is unmoving.

Elias’ attention is on Martin, not even sparing the kidnapper a second glance. “Good job with the coordinates, Martin,” he says warmly, though the tension in his voice is clearly there.

“Drop the gun!” the kidnapper shouts at Elias.

Elias takes in every detail of Martin’s trembling form, gaze traveling up his whole body. Peter’s eyes are stark on the kidnapper’s face.

Eventually, like an afterthought, Elias lowers the gun.

“Good,” the kidnapper says “good. Now you’ll just let us through, and-”

“I’m okay,” Martin cuts him off.

The frantic glint in his father’s eyes settles. His dad’s rigid posture relaxes ever-so-slightly.

The fog thickens.

Only then does Elias move his gaze to the leader.

“You are very lucky that my son seems to be physically whole,” Elias says calmly, lethality practically dripping from his voice. His eyes darken. “In return, we will grant you a quick death.” He smiles. “Though not a peaceful one.”

Drop, his father’s voice echoes in his head, and Martin lets himself go boneless. Behind them, the fog surges forward, wrapping its tendrils around them both.

At the same moment, the kidnapper starts trembling, pushing his hands in front of his eyes.

Martin falls to the ground.

The sound of a gunshot, echoing strangely. The vaguely familiar numbness of the Forsaken wrapping around him. Cries of agonizing terror, the sound of a body hitting the floor.

More gunshots. Like a hammer. Bam bam bam bam.

Cold arms around him, pulling him backwards.

Martin gasps for air as he is pulled out of the One Alone, his dad guiding him out with ease. The fog clears.

His kidnapper is the only body left in the room. He isn’t breathing.

The corpse is littered with bullet holes. Elias puts the gun back in his suit jacket with an unnerving glint in his eyes.

“Got it out of your system, darling?” Peter asks in a tone that was not quite airy.

“No one touches what is mine without my permission,” Elias snarls in response, his usual mask slipping as he turns his back on his son’s would-be killer.

“Let’s get out of here,” Peter says, meeting Elias in the middle and wrapping the three of them in his embrace once more.

Though they once again travel through the Lonely, the way his parents clutch at Martin makes him feel anything but alone.

Later that night, after many questions and fussing and a well-paid private doctor and Elias fixing the most nutritious meal he can think of, Martin finally allows himself to relax.

The rest of the evening is silent, save for the chatter of the TV screen. His parents watch him like a hawk. It should be unnerving.

It isn’t.

Only when he is finally back in his room, tucked in safely with both his parents next to him, refusing to leave him alone for the night, does Martin allow himself to cry.

A week later, during dinner.

“You know,” Martin says thoughtfully, “I only recently realized exactly how much money you guys have. Especially you, dad.”

His parents trade a look. Peter breaks away first, shrugging. “I guess,” he says, “it’s not really that important compared to serving your God.”

Martin barely stops himself from rolling his eyes. “If that is so,” he says casually, “why don’t we do something useful with the money? We could give it to charity. Or start one of our own! Maybe we could help educate orphaned kids?”

This time, when his parents look at him, there is true horror in both of their faces.

Martin blinks innocently and smiles.

Chapter Text

876.

“My parents are having a divorce.”

Martin knows he doesn’t exactly have a normal frame of reference for these kinds of things, so he stays silent as Sasha finally shares what is bothering her.

“They only told me yesterday.” Sasha wrings her hands, staring at the tiled floor of the Magnus Institute. “It’s probably for the better. They already live apart. They’re still on good terms, but.” She is quiet for a moment. “It… it forces me to face that they’ll truly never make up. They’ll never get back together again.” Sasha blinks, moisture in her eyes. “I knew this was coming but I still hoped, you know?”

“I’m very sorry to hear that.” Tim puts a hand on Sasha’s shoulder. The four of them are sitting in the Archival break room, the fluorescent lights above them flickering slightly. Martin has made them all tea. “These kinds of things are never fun. It can be for the best and be awful at the same time.”

“Yeah,” Jon agrees. “It sucks. Let us know if we can, uh, help. Or anything.”

Martin can kind of guess the appropriate reaction by now. “Thank you for sharing this with us, Sasha. It must be hard for you.”

From Sasha’s grateful smile, it seems to be the right thing to say. “Thank you guys.” She sighs deeply. “And you know what’s the strangest thing?” She barks out a short laugh, sounding a little like a sob. She brushes her curls to the side and looks at them with a hint of incredulity. “They asked me to find them a divorce lawyer!”

“Wait, really?” Tim frowned. “That’s kind of strange. Why make that your problem?”

“My mother has been ill for some time. I told you, right?” Sasha looks at Tim, who nods. “She’s always very tired, and everything around the divorce takes up a lot of energy. My father distrusts and kind of ‘stuffy, posh office type’ – his words, not mine.” She rubs her eyes. “Neither of them are eager to delve into it. And they’re used to looking at me to solve those kind of things for them.” Sasha folds her arms, curling in on herself. Tim rubs her back in support. “They asked me to find them one, and they’ll handle the rest. But where the hell do I start looking for a divorce lawyer? Google?” She groans. “It’s exhausting.”

Martin is silent for a while, unsure if he should speak up. But when nobody says anything, he thinks why not. “If you’re looking for a divorce lawyer… I could help.”

“Really?” Jon looks at him, curious. “How?”

“I know one.” Martin smiles sheepishly, and doesn’t elaborate how. “She’s really nice, and capable, and her office is close to the Institute.” He looks at Sasha. “I could… make an appointment for you, if you want?”

Sasha looks relieved. “Thanks, Martin. That would be great. I trust you. Honestly, I just don’t want to think about it too much. And it’s one less thing to worry about.”

Martin smiles, happy to help.

One week later, the four of them are sitting in Amanda Watcher’s waiting room. The walls are a tasteful green, the chairs a cool grey. The door to Amanda’s office has a gold plate on it that says Mrs. Watcher, Esq.

“Hi Martin.” The four of them look up as a young man enters the room, dressed in a nice suit.

“Hi Keith,” Martin says, standing up and shaking the man’s hand. “It’s good to see you again.”

“Same to you! Are these your friends?”

“Colleagues,” Martin corrects him, not wanting to overstep. “But… yeah.”

Keith turns to the other three with a smile. “Nice to meet you all. I’m Keith Richardson, Mrs. Watcher’s personal assistant.” A chorus of greetings meets these words, from uneasy (Sasha) to polite (Jon) and cheery (Tim). “Would any of you like something to drink?”

With a quick look at his friends, Martin says, “No. Thanks, though. Also for seeing us on such a short notice.”

“It’s no problem,” Keith says warmly. “You know we’re always happy to help.” He leans in slightly with a conspiratorial smile. Martin sees Jon stiffen. “Honestly, it was about time, wasn’t it? Did you know I’d actually pencilled in this meeting just in case it was needed.” Keith flashed a grin. “and I was right.”

Martin chuckles. “I don’t know if that’s funny or kind of depressing. Although I’m actually not here for that.”

Keith’s eyebrows shoot up. “Oh, really?”

Martin shrugs. He sees his friends’ questioning looks, and waves his hand in dismissal. “Uh,” he says, trying to figure out what to say, when the door to Amanda’s office opens.

“Martin!” Amanda smiles brightly. Her lips are painted red, her brown skin tanned from her recent vacation. Her hair is short and dyed white, and her red heels match her lipstick. One look at this woman makes clear this is not someone you want to mess with – yet her smile is warm, open and inviting. “It’s so good to see you again!” She kisses him on the cheek, and Martin smiles back, feeling like a favourite nephew. “Come in, come in.”

In the background, Tim whispers to Jon, "Are divorce lawyers always this cheerful?”

“I don’t think so,” Jon whispers back. “Maybe she just likes Martin.”

“He’s a likable guy.”

“Yeah.” Jon sounds a little shy.

“How have you been doing, Martin?” Amanda asks as she leads the group of them into her office.

“Good, actually,” Martin offers. “Dad took me paragliding last weekend. It was pretty cool – in both senses of the word. How was Spain?”

“Lovely,” Amanda says, pulling another chair from somewhere for Tim to sit on. “The kids had a great time, and the wife was happy, so I was, too. Are these your colleagues? From the Institute?” When Martin nods, Amanda’s eyes dance with mirth. “Which one of you is Jon?”

“Amanda,” Martin hisses.

“Oh, uh, me?” Jon raises his hand. Behind him, Tim tries to hide a smile.

“Very nice to meet you, Jon. I’m Amanda Watcher.” She shakes Jon’s hand with an innocent smile. “Then you must be Tim and Sasha.”

Tim gives her a mock salute. “Ma’am,” Sasha says, a little out of her depth.

“Please take a seat,” Amanda says, as she takes a seat behind her desk. “Martin, it’s so nice to finally meet your friends. Sometimes, my clients take some friends or loved ones with them as support – but I can’t stop myself from asking if they have accompanied you here not to support you, but to celebrate.” Her voice is playful. “It is the big 25, after all.”

Martin frowns genuinely confused. He can feel the others aren’t much better off. “The big… 25?”

“Oh, right. I suppose you haven’t been keeping count the same way I have.” Amanda pulls open a desk drawer. From it emerges a very thick file. She puts it on the desk with a loud thump. “As soon as you called for this meeting, I started preparing some of the paperwork. Our usual, of course, in case there was a strict deadline. You know how those two get.” Amanda takes the two top files and lays them down, side to side. “Drafts. I don’t know if it was Peter or Elias this time, although my money is on Peter.” She taps the left file, then leans in a little. “You know, Keith and I actually have a bet about whether the twenty-fifth would be happening this year. You just won me some very high quality coffee, Martin.”

“I don’t understand what’s going on here,” Sasha interrupts them, trying to be polite.

Amanda falters. “Oh, my apologies. I assumed Martin had explained…”

During Amanda’s whole speech, Martin had been torn between amusement and awkwardness. The amusement had won, and now he can’t stop himself from barking out a short laugh. “I’m sorry, Amanda. It’s my fault.” His eyes crinkle cheerfully. “I’m not actually here for me, or my parents. I’m here as a friend of Sasha’s. Her parents are getting divorced.”

Amanda stills, then pales a little. “Oh. Oh, no, I’ve been very unprofessional, then. My deepest apologies – I assumed…”

“No, no,” Martin cuts her off, waving his hand. “It’s alright, it’s really all on me. Honestly, I totally understand.”

Amanda shifts uneasily, and tries to say something else, but Jon is faster. “Excuse me, Mrs. Watcher, but what exactly did you mean by ‘the twenty-fifth?’

“Peter Lukas and Elias Bouchard’s twenty-fifth divorce,” Amanda explains. She pats the thick file in front of her. “I’ve done all twenty-four of them, so far. And Martin has been here since the, what, seventh?”

“Eight, actually,” Martin corrects her cheerily.

“Your parents have been divorced twenty-four times?” Jon asks, voice pitched high in incredulity.

“And re-married twenty-four times, too?” Tim adds in, his face lighting up like he’s just found the crazies conspiracy theory he could think of online.

“That’s not even counting those that didn’t go through on paper,” Martin says, like he’s telling a joke. He’s aware how it sounds.

Jon, who Martin has never heard curse before, says, "What the actual fuck."

Tim snorts. Loudly.

“Oh my god,” Sasha mutters. “Rich people.”

“Tell me about it,” Martin says with a sigh. “And that’s not even touching the, you know.” He waves his hands in the air. “Other stuff.”

Tim is clearly trying not to laugh. “I work for a crazy person.”

“You only figured that out now?” Jon adds.

Tim turns on Jon with a big grin. “Was that a joke, boss?”

Martin, who has gotten his phone out and is texting his dad did you know you have an anniversary coming up, looks up. “I mean, we work for the Magnus Institute.”

“This is seriously weird,” Jon says. “And I’ve seen some weird things.”

wht u mean?

Martin shrugs. “I mean… they’re Peter and Elias. They’re very good at pretending to be normal, but they’re really not.” your next divorce is going to be your 25^th. it’s a party!

Sasha is shaking her head. “I’m not even going to try and understand.”

plz no. E will make whole thing of it

Martin snickers. Peter isn’t wrong. His father loves things like dates, anniversaries, and numbers. “That’s probably a smart decision,” he says to Sasha.

Tim peers over his shoulder. “Who are you texting?”

got 2 prevent that  

r u @watcher?

yeah, Martin texts back. “My dad,” he says out loud. “Peter,” he then clarifies.

can u file 4 divorce

“Dad,” Martin groans aloud.

“What is he saying?” Jon asks.

Martin sighs, then turns to Amanda, who has wisely been keeping silent this whole time. “Which one of those was the one for when Peter instigates the divorce?”

only because you’ll make Amanda win a bet. and if you promise you’re coming to Eve’s birthday dinner next week and stay at least an hour.

or?

“This one.” Amanda taps the left file.

I’ll tell father, so you won’t be able to sneak it past him as part of institute correspondence next Friday afternoon when he’s tired.

evil

deal

Martin shakes his hand fondly. He takes the file from Amanda’s desk. “Maybe you can explain the, uh, normal course of a divorce to Sasha and the others, Amanda? I’ll go sit with Keith in the waiting room and check this over.”

“Martin,” Jon says. “Did Mr. Lukas just divorce Elias. Our boss. Over text. To you.”

Martin shrugs.

Tim puts his face in his hands. His shoulders are shaking with silent laughter. Sasha looks disturbed. Jon looks strangely fascinated.

Amanda hides her smile behind her hands, trying to stay professional.

“Martin…” Sasha reaches out for him. She’s frowning. “I don’t care if they are rich and, ah, strange. They are your parents. They’re putting you through this whole charade for over twenty times! This must be horrible for you.”

“Don’t worry. It’s not like that,” Martin quickly tries to reassure her. “It’s… well, it’s difficult to explain, but let’s just say that their divorce or not-divorce doesn’t really change anything for me. They’re my parents whether they are married or not. They pretty much treat me the same.”

Sasha looks sceptical. “It’s still a divorce.”

“It’s really alright,” Martin repeats, touched by her concern. “Every family has their strange things, and this is ours.” He shrugs. “It’s not a bad thing.”

“Alight,” Sasha says. Her shoulders relax. “If you say so.”

“It’s still weird,” Jon says, as Tim wipes his eyes.

“It is,” Martin says, and he smiles.