#if you don’t know how to find artifact storage ask the person at the reception

[artinartifact]

Reminder! Books containing powers (or ‘Lietners’ as those in UK call them) does NOT belong to the library!

If you have a book containing a power, go directly to us in artifact storage. Do NOT wait unless you want a possible horrible death.

[playfullyevil]

TMA fic - Comfort Food

Martin fluff

Hugs need to happen before the bad things come next week.

Martin had gotten rather good at avoiding eye contact with anyone who happened to be wandering the Institute’s halls as he made his way into work.  Walking through the main door, he cast his eyes to the floor, ducking the gaze of the person behind the reception desk.  He made his way to the recessed door along the left-hand wall and the stairs beyond. 

He used to be so social, stopping to chat at the reception desk, sometimes he even brought pastries.  Occasionally, he would pop in on the research department to say hello and check in on anything that may due to be archived.  At any other job, Martin Blackwood would have been known as, “friendly but a bit odd.” Among the institute staff, you had to be especially strange to be labeled “the odd one”.  The institute collected those sorts of people, or converted them. As an employee of The Magnus Institute, Martin was simply “the friendly one”. Not anymore, not since...

His once open, youthful face, with bright eyes and a quick smile now blank and dead eyed as those working in artifact storage. He had always been pale but now could be accurately described as ashen. A seemingly boundless optimism had fueled him through all his years in the institute including his stay in the archives, the incident with Jane Prentiss, and even its aftermath. All of that had reached its end with the disappearance of the head archivist.

Settling at his desk, the archival assistant took stock of the papers piled on his desk and sighed. No matter how hard he worked, it seemed he could barely make a dent in the chaotic shelves. He missed doing proper research on the statements, when he had the time to go out and conduct the occasional interview.  Really do the job thoroughly. 

There just wasn’t the time for that anymore and he rarely left the institute's basement.  Elias wanted the archives properly organized and he wanted it done yesterday.  Sometimes, Martin could do a bit of googling to verify or cross reference the occasional fact. More often than not the statements were recorded with only the sparse notes already included in the files. If there even were any.

He had weeks ago stopped asking Tim for help, not that he could reliably find the man. It didn’t look like he had been to his desk today, but it was early yet. His coworker had been showing up to work less and less. When he was in, he spent most of his working hours moving papers from one box and back again, on autopilot. More and more Tim would disappear into the storage room to lay on the cot there, staring blankly up at the ceiling. 

A flash of fluorescent pink caught Martin's eye from under a file folder. He shifted it aside to reveal a note written in flowing script. 

Martin,

You haven’t been by to see me in a while, we should catch up.  Meet me for lunch?

-R

The large, cursive R trailed off into a swirling floral pattern at the bottom of the note.

For anyone not assigned to the archives to make their way down here was a rarity. The archives weren’t a musty basement but a warm, welcoming place they are not.  There were enough strange things that go on in the rest of the building that few people deliberately seek out the creepier areas below ground level.  

Rosie usually kept herself busy on the third floor with the rest of the research staff.  Martin wasn’t sure if he had ever seen her down in his little corner of the institute. Obviously, she knew her way around as she was able to find his desk and leave a note without any difficulty. 

It had been at least two months since Martin had last taken lunch in the company of another person.  He’d barely been up to the canteen since before Christmas, preferring to eat at his desk. If he ate at all. He had skipped breakfast and the thought of lunch made his stomach voice its displeasure.  Martin affixed the sticky note to the clock on his desk and got up to make some tea.

Buried in work time lost its meaning, speeding by while at the same time passing in long, draw out stretches.  Boxes brimming with chaotic folders piled to the left of the desk were gradually, but steadily making their way to the organized stack on the right.  Statements were skimmed, supplemental material glanced at, and verifiable facts were typed into a search engine.  Most ended up in a box marked for the discredited section.  A yellow sticky note declared it the “Pile of Nonsense”. A few made it into a stack earmarked for further investigation and eventual recording attempts. First digitally, but if all else failed, out came the cassette recorder.

Martin was reading through the account of Rachel Tyler when a polite cough drew his attention.  Looking up, he saw Melanie standing in front of his desk. “Anything interesting?” she said nodding her head toward the paper in Martin’s hand.

“What? Oh, Ms. Tyler seems to believe the coffee shop that opened up near her office is run by witches.”

“Witches? The broom riding kind or the child-eating kind?”

“The kind with ‘satanic glyphs marking their pale skin and ornaments to their dark master embedded in the flesh of their face,’” Martin read aloud.

Melanie’s hands shifted to rest on her hips, “Sounds like a stuffy, old lady upset that the kids making her coffee don’t share her delicate sense of aesthetics.”

“Likely so, ‘The music pulses from the speakers in a dark rhythm that attempts to hypnotize the clientele.’” Martin continued. “Must not have been very effective hypnosis, the shop closed in 1989.” He closed the file and slid it into the box on the right.

“Too bad, sounds like a fun place.”

“Must have been ahead of its time.”

“Must have.” Melanie agreed, “Oh, before I forget, there was a woman up in the lunchroom asking after you.”

Martin’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “What?”

“Rosie, I think she’s called.”

“Oh no," he groaned, looking at the clock. "it’s nearly two.” 

“Well she was still up there a few minutes ago.  If you hurry you can probably catch her.”

Martin briefly considered the pile of work in front of him when his stomach made a conspicuous gurgle. Melanie raised her eyebrows at the noise before heading off to her own work. Getting up, he pushed in his desk chair and headed up the stairs toward the canteen. 

The lunchroom was empty except for Rosie, who was sat down at a table near a window.  She spotted him as he entered and waved him over with a warm smile.  “Martin, come over and have a seat.  I made lasagna last night and have far too many leftovers.”

He hurried across the open space toward the table and slid into the seat. A rare sunny day was pouring light in through the window and Martin squinted at its brightness.  He’d been working in a basement for over a year now and his eyes were out of practice dealing with this quantity of natural light.

“Christ, you look like hell.  You really haven’t been taking care of yourself very well lately, have you?”

The archival assistant looked down sheepishly and raked his hand through his hair. He idly wondered when the last time he’d actually run a comb through it. 

“Sorry, it’s just been a rough week,” he mumbled.

“It’s more than that,” she insisted. “I’ve barely seen you the last couple of months, no one has. I know things are… strained down there but you don’t have to avoid me.”

“I didn’t want to be a bother…”

“Nonsense! You’re no bother. Here, eat.” The older woman pushed a plate piled with lasagna toward him. He reluctantly picked up the fork and began toying with the food, eventually bringing a bite to his mouth. It was delicious, a perfect balance of pasta, sauce, cheese, and spice.

“Go on then,” she encouraged. “I’ve got a container for that Tim of yours too.

Martin choked on his food and stuttered out, “Tim's not! H-he’s not my, my— anything!”

“That’s not what I meant but that sounds like a conversation for another time.” She flashed a conspiratorial smile before knitting her brow in concern. “I worry is all, you’ve been skulking around like a kicked dog. I won’t make you talk about it if you don’t want to, but I need you to understand that I’m here for you if you do.”

“I, I uh, thanks,” he said quietly, speaking more to his plate than to Rosie.

“You’ve had a rough go of things this last year and it’s okay to need help dealing with that. I’ve spent my share of nights on the couch in my office but living in the basement of this old building couldn’t have been easy." She gestured to the abstract molding that gave the suggestion of eyes. "Even during all that you still managed to be your cheery self.  This has obviously hit you much harder and I want to help if I can.”

Silence hung in the air for several minutes broken only by the quiet sounds of Martin eating.  Not an awkward silence but one shared by people comfortable enough with each other they don’t feel the need to fill every empty space with words.

Eventually, Martin spoke up, “Thank you for the lasagna, it is really very good.”

“Thanks,” Rosie smiled, “it would seem that, despite my best efforts, I have become my mother after all.”

Martin looked up from his plate with a questioning look.

Rosie shook her head, “She had a habit of trying to solve problems by cooking them away.  Anytime someone she knew was upset she would be in the kitchen baking sweets. Which reminds me…” She reached down under the table to retrieve a container.

“Oh, you didn’t have to do that.”

“Martin dear, I baked these because I wanted them.  Believe me, I have a bigger tin in my desk right now and even more at home.  Save me from myself and take the damn biscuits.”

“If you insist.” Martin saw right through Rosie’s “justification” but he also knew better than to argue the point. Besides, Rosie was an excellent baker.

“Thank you.”

“Thank you.” Martin said, “Thank you, for everything. The biscuits, the lasagna, the… everything.  I really should be getting back, there is so much work to be done.” He stood up and began to stack the containers Rosie had given him.

The older woman had risen from her chair and walked over to Martin.  Her arms slightly open, offering a hug but giving him the space to decline should he wish.  He hesitated briefly but stepped forward and wrapped his arms around her soft frame.

Surrounded by her warm presence, Martin felt safe for the first time in as long as he could remember. Something broke in his chest and he felt himself start to cry softly into her shoulder. He didn’t realize he’d been drowning until she offered him the life raft and Martin clung to it desperately. Rosie gave him a little squeeze but did not let go then began to rub circles into his back. 

Martin wasn’t sure how long they stayed like that.  Pent-up stress and grief bled out as tears into Rosie’s blouse.  She made no move to pull away even as he began to shake and make ugly sniffling noises. The older woman just held him, murmuring reassurances to the crying man.

Taking a shuddering breath, Martin gathered the broken pieces of himself and stepped away from the embrace.  He sniffled and wiped at his eyes. “I’m sorry, it’s just that-- I don’t know what… everything is--” he threw his arms up in exasperation and looked helplessly at the ceiling.

“You don’t have to apologize for being a human being with limits.”

Martin grinned sheepishly and huffed out a laugh. “It’s just, this place, it’s…”

“I know. Believe me, I know.” She smiled and scratched Martin gently between the shoulder blades for a few moments. “Are you going to be alright?”

“Honestly? I don’t know, but I do feel much better than before.”

“I’m not sure if a fortress made of pillows will help you endure everything but I’m willing to give it a go if you are.  My office couch may be hideous but it is comfortable and the cushions are sturdy.”

“I will keep that in mind,” Martin laughed and started toward the exit.

“Don’t forget your food,” Rosie called after him.

“Oh, right. Thanks again.”

Rosie handed him several containers of lasagna and a tin of biscuits. “Make sure Tim gets some. I don’t want him to think I’m playing favorites.”

“Will do. You’re the best Rosie.”

“So they tell me.” She smiled and waved her goodbye.

Crossing the main foyer, Martin smiled and nodded to the receptionist as he passed.  He descended the stairs with more bounce and vigor than he had in months.