Archive of Our Own ^beta

When Martin misses his first heat while living in the archives, he doesn’t think much of it. It’s not unheard of for stress to make someone skip a cycle, and God knows he’s been under plenty of stress lately. Mostly he’s just grateful not to have to tough out a heat while living in a place with only the barest illusion of privacy. It's fine. It’s probably nothing.

When Martin misses his second heat, he starts to get a bit concerned. Especially because, while the heat itself is mysteriously absent, the aches and moodiness and weepiness that usually come along with a heat are very much present. Just without all the fun horny parts. That...kind of sucks. What the hell, ovaries.

By the time his third heat comes and goes without the slightest uptick in temperature, Martin is firmly in not-thinking-about-this mode. Martin is already functionally homeless and living under the daily threat of being murdered by worms, okay, he cannot mentally deal with yet another fucking problem. He just can't. So he doesn't.

(Ha. Fucking problem. Hardy-har-har.)

Then, one morning, when Martin wakes up feeling, uh, tender, in the chest area, with mysterious dots of wetness on the front of his sleep shirt, right on top of his nipples, he finally relents. He grabs his phone and starts doing some serious googling.

And then he wants to scream, because there is, in fact, a word for what he is currently experiencing. And it’s a word he really dislikes, because it makes him feel like the worst sort of type O stereotype, melodramatic and histrionic and manipulative. And apparently there's nothing to do but wait it out, because, while there are suppressants for heat, and abortions for actual pregnancy, there is no medical treatment for a hysterical pregnancy.

Or he could also call it a phantom pregnancy, if he was trying to be diplomatic about it, but, y’know what, hysterical fits. Hell, they could call it an attention-seeking-piece-of-shit pregnancy and Martin probably wouldn’t argue, because he’s read plenty of romance novels in his day, okay, he knows this trope. Martin had a bit of a shock, recently, and now his stupid caveman DNA has told all his stupid glands to start producing stupid hormones, and those stupid hormones are making his body go “Look at how harmless I am, all soft and round and nice-smelling! You wouldn't hurt me, would you? You wouldn't hurt the potentially valuable baby I'm carrying, not when there's a possibility you could adopt it, or sell it, or sacrifice it to the pagan gods, or whatever, I don't know, I didn't pay that much attention in history class!”

(Martin is just now realizing how much of his knowledge of history is based solely on half-remembered plot points from books featuring sexy dukes and ripped bodices.)

Anyway, the point is: it sucks. That's all there really is to say about it. Now that he knows what's going on, a lot of the stuff he's been experiencing these past few months - stuff he'd originally just chalked up to stress - is suddenly starting to make a lot more sense. He’s gaining weight, and his tits hurt, and his mood swings are starting to get insane, and it’s all for the purpose of emotionally manipulating some hypothetical ancient warlord that doesn’t actually exist anymore, okay, Jane Prentiss and her army of worms will absolutely not give a shit about Martin’s imaginary baby when she comes to finish the job. Mother nature has missed the mark this time.

The worst part, though. The worst part is, for just about everyone else Martin encounters, it is working. It’s working better than any deliberate trick or scheme Martin has ever tried. People have started carefully sidestepping him in the hall, when he ventures into the upper levels of the institute. People in the street part around him like water on the rare occasions he actually leaves the building, leaving a respectful two foot bubble around him, no matter how crowded it is. Hell, the last time Martin had snuck out to grab a sandwich from the shop across the street, the cashier had insisted that it was on the house.

(Martin had turned red, mumbled thanks, and reluctantly concluded that he could never show his face at that particular establishment ever again.)

It would almost be enough to make him feel powerful, if that power didn’t come in literally the most pathetic form imaginable. Like the way he cries at the drop of a fucking hat now. Like how, last week, when Jon had gotten a bit sharp about some filing Martin was behind on, Martin’s eyes had started to water against his will, and Jon’s demeanor had abruptly shifted from irritable to openly terrified. And then Jon had dismissed Martin from his office and refused to say another word to him for three days.

(Martin...isn’t actually sure if that’s an improvement? It might be nice if Jon could find some middle ground between “unrepentant bastard” and “total cold shoulder,” is all he’s saying.)

(And Martin is not feeling rejected right now, that’s not what’s happening here, shut up.)

Martin tries to maintain plausible deniability for as long as he can, because he really, really doesn’t want to have to explain this to anyone. Given the choice, he would prefer to go the rest of his life without discussing it with a single living soul. His jumpers disguise how he's thickened up a bit in the middle, for no good reason, because, he can't emphasize this enough, there is no baby in there, and he’s shamefully conceded to the necessity of wearing nursing pads, to help with the, uh, other situation, but there’s nothing to be done for the fact that his smell has changed. Probably more than he’s even aware of, since the nose-parts that do that sort of work are pretty much vestigial, for his type of person. Soap and deodorant can only do so much, especially when you’re living in a place without proper shower facilities.

Unfortunately, the situation stubbornly refuses to resolve itself. Martin realizes he’s reached a turning point on the day he walks through the door of Jon’s office, cup of tea in hand, and Jon looks up and...immediately makes a weird expression, curling his lip up over his front teeth. Martin's first thought is oh, great, what did I do now.

Followed immediately by oh, God, is my boss flehmen-sniffing me? Is this really happening?

So, because Martin is feeling a tiny bit belligerent today, thanks, hormones, he widens his stance slightly and gives Jon a Look. Seemingly realizing that he may have just sunk to a new depth of rudeness, even by his standards, Jon clears his throat and schools his face, looking away.

“Martin.” Jon begins, steepling his fingers in front of him on his desk. “Is there anything you want to...talk about?"

There’s a long, loaded silence.

"...no?" says Martin, while his body is still making up its mind about whether it wants to punch Jon or burst into tears. Or possibly do both. In any order.

“...right.” says Jon, after a silence that was somehow even more uncomfortable. “Well. Back to work, then.”

“Right.”

Martin doesn’t even want to know what his coworkers think of this situation. They all know he’s single - even if his awkward reticence about his non-existent social life wasn’t enough of a clue, there’s no way they could fail to smell it on him - so God only knows what kinds of assumptions they must be making. The possibilities are uncomfortable at best and downright upsetting at worst.

And meanwhile, the hormones are continuing to make him crazy. Like when he goes on a grocery run, and sees a stuffed animal while he’s passing by the kids' toys section, and has to suppress the urge to pick it up and cuddle it to his chest. He suppresses this urge because he knows if he does pick it up, there’s a good chance he’s going to start blubbering like an idiot in the middle of Tesco, and that is so not a good look on a grown man.

(And then he gets to learn what “let down” means, after a google search that basically amounts to “why does looking at cute thing make milk come out???”)

(After an additional followup query, which is basically the word “why” followed by several question marks, google informs Martin that being able to wet nurse other people's kids is a good way to ingratiate yourself into whatever caveman tribe has kidnapped you. Great. Fantastic. Martin will be sure to let the cavemen know, if he sees any.)

And then there was that time he woke up in the middle of the night, and the thought came, unbidden, What if I don’t love the baby after it's born? What if I end up like my mum?

And then Martin had to spend ten minutes snotting all over his pillow before his brain woke up enough to remind him that there is no actual baby, how many times must he say it, self? (And then he had to cry about that for a while, because apparently this experience is uncovering all kinds of new parts of his mind that he really didn’t want to know about.)

There was also a downright mortifying incident that occurred when Tim and Sasha were having a mild disagreement over something in the other room, rumbling and grumbling at each other as they bickered, and Martin’s body abruptly decided that it just couldn’t deal with any more noises today, nope, it’s quiet time now. It chose to express this sentiment, to the surprise of everyone present, via a snarl so loud he thinks it might have registered in the Richter scale.

And then Tim and Sasha got very quiet indeed, and walked on eggshells through the archives for the rest of the day. While Martin tried not to cry about it. Of course.

(Jon’s office was also suspiciously quiet for the rest of the day, despite Jon’s stated intention to spend most of the day recording statements. Martin isn't sure how he feels about that.)

(Martin knows what he wants to do about it, though. Can you guess? The answer is crying. The answer is always crying.)

However, to Martin’s very guilty surprise, not all aspects of his current situation are bad. For example: today he's standing in the break room, sipping a calming cup of chamomile tea. Eyes closed, breathing slowly in and out, focusing on the smell of the steam, the warmth of the cup in his hands. Trying to find a place in his mind where he can feel a bit less frazzled, even if it's just for a few short minutes.

Martin gradually becomes aware that he's being watched. He opens his eyes to the sight of Tim hovering on the other side of the room, looking at Martin with a weird expression. He’s smiling slightly.

"Can I...help you?" asks Martin, suddenly feeling irrationally self-conscious. (Self conscious about what? Drinking tea in the break room, like he’s done a million times before?)

“Can I hug you?” says Tim, in a vague sort of voice, like someone talking in their sleep. Then, seemingly realizing what he just said, he backtracks. “Uh, shit, sorry, I didn’t mean-”

“Yeah? If you want?” Martin interrupts him, trying not to sound too eager, because, let’s be real, there is literally no situation on Earth that would make him turn down a request like that. Especially not from Tim, with his handsome face and impressive biceps and cheery demeanor.

“What? For real?”

“...sure. Why not.” Is he playing it cool? Is this what cool is? Martin has no idea, he's never been cool in his life.

Martin carefully sets his mug aside just in the nick of time, because Tim wastes no time in closing the distance between them and enveloping Martin in a hug, a real, proper bear hug, and oh, those are nice arms, yes, that’s a good, firm grip. Strong. Good genes. Tim would make a good dad, wouldn't he, and that's a totally normal, non-creepy thing to think about your coworker, alright.

Martin hears footsteps approaching from behind him. He can tell by the weight of the steps that it's Sasha, and he can tell from the sound of the floor that she stopped just outside the threshold of the doorway, not stepping from the linoleum tile of the hallway to the slightly differently-textured linoleum tile of the break room. Martin gets the feeling that she's staring. Tim doesn't loosen his grip, but he does peer at Sasha over Martin’s shoulder, bouncing slightly on his toes.

“Sasha!” Tim hisses, in an exaggerated stage whisper, “He said it’s okay!”

“Oh, good!” says Sasha, like Tim’s just dropped off an important piece of paperwork on her desk that she’s been eagerly awaiting. And then she comes up behind Martin, and, okay, when Martin agreed to this, he didn’t know he was agreeing to a hug party, but that’s, uh, fine? This is fine. Totally cool and normal.

And then Martin has two warm, solid bodies turning him into a Martin sandwich, pressing him tight on both sides like he's a panini and they're making sure they get those good grill marks, and actually, this is a great idea, holy shit. Sasha is so smart. He bets her babies would be smart, too. If. If she ever sired any. Hypothetically.

So they just...do that, for a while. Martin isn't sure how long, because Martin's stupid, needy lizard brain has apparently decided that it no longer has a use for the concept of time. It's too busy basking in the warmth and security of being held by two trusted sets of arms. Martin suspects that he's not the only one currently in lizard mode, though, judging by the way Tim and Sasha keep inhaling deeply and then happily sighing it back out. They’re breathing Martin in like he's a pile of clean laundry, or a tray of cookies warm from the oven, or a freshly-mowed lawn in springtime.

Martin wonders what it's like, from Tim and Sasha's perspective. He hopes it's nice, he thinks dreamily. Martin wants to smell good for them.

And Martin’s body may have just taken that as its cue to up its game, because he just heard a slight intake of breath from both Tim and Sasha. And then, in a searching sort of way, Tim starts to nose his way into the vicinity of the underside of Martin’s jaw, near his pulse point, right where one of the primary scent glands lives. Tim sort of...snuffles at it, a bit, which is. Which is fine. Made some tingly things happen downstairs, admittedly, but that's Martin’s problem, it's his fault for reading too much into things, he needs to get his mind out of the gutter-

And then Tim darts his tongue out to lick, a warm, wet flick against that apparently very erogenous spot, and every warm and cozy feeling in Martin’s body abruptly turns into a hot and sexy feeling. All of Martin’s hairs stand on end at once, and there's a domino effect of various other things stiffening up, and oh, God, it was his neck that Tim touched, so why the hell did he feel that all the way down in his nipples, that doesn't even make sense-

"Whoah, o-kay, I think that's enough!" Martin laughs, high and nervous, as both Tim and Sasha spring back from him.

"Right, right, sorry," says Tim, looking appropriately abashed. The three of them scatter, avoiding each other's eyes, and each go find something to do that conveniently doesn't require them to be in the same room as the others.

(From then on, despite that initial bit of awkwardness, Archival Assistant Hug Time becomes a Thing. At least once per day. On the unspoken condition that Tim and Sasha refrain from getting Martin wet during business hours.)

(Martin doesn't feel quite brave enough to pitch the idea of them getting him wet outside business hours.)

(Later on, when Martin is having, uh, private time, he experimentally tries touching the spot on his neck that Tim had...gotten acquainted with. It's not the same.)

Conveniently enough, it turns out that a regular prescription of Tim-and-Sasha hugs also does a stellar job of calming down Martin’s mood swings, because the world is a less sad and rage-inducing place when you're getting cuddled often enough to appease your stupid, clingy instincts. Martin is guiltily grateful, even as he carries around the constant awareness that the comfort he’s luxuriating in is based on a lie. He'll take what he can get. Alternating constantly between crying angrily and crying pathetically was kind of rough on the psyche.

(Wow, what a surprise, thinks the self-deprecating part of Martin's mind. A type O guy wanting a bunch of people to coddle him and cater to his whims and indulge his bullshit. Who would have thought.)

While Martin’s mood continues to steadily improve, in direct proportion to how much time his coworkers spend holding him tenderly instead of doing their jobs, Jon, for whatever reason, actually gets slightly more grumpy. Who even knows why. Archival Assistant Hug Time always occurs during Legally Mandated Break For Full Time Employees Time, so it's not like he can claim it's hurting their productivity. And it's not like they're actually...doing anything that's against the rules. Technically. Maybe Jon just can't stand the sight of Martin being kind of happy for a change.

(Martin doesn't really believe that. Jon isn't that big of a dick. Maybe it's wishful thinking, but some part of Martin has always kind of wanted to believe that Jon is a big softy, deep down.)

(Though, admittedly, a pretty big piece of evidence has recently emerged for that particular theory. Namely, the fact that Jon's reprimands of Martin have been...unusually toothless, as of late. Have been ever since Martin inadvertently threatened to cry on him, as a matter of fact. Martin tries not to contemplate this fact in too much detail, because thinking too hard about it makes his face get hot.)

(And, because that's apparently just where his mind goes nowadays, Martin finds himself wondering what kind of dad Jon would be. He's prickly, sure, but Martin has seen him be gentle, when dealing with statement givers who were truly distraught. Hell, Martin was one of those statement givers, not too long ago. It appeals to him, on some level, the idea of tense, irritable Jon letting his guard down. Relaxing his bristly hackles. Softening out his sharp edges. Being sweet to their babies.)

(...his babies. Jon’s hypothetical future children that are none of Martin’s business whatsoever, and he really needs to drop this train of thought, because it is going in some weird directions.)

It's somewhere around this point that things start to get out of hand.

Martin notices the smell first. He's making his routine morning trek from document storage to the break room, full of groggy intentions of microwaving some breakfast and brewing up a cup of something caffeinated, when he turns a corner in the hall and is suddenly punched in the face by a noseful of Jon. Martin stops, backtracks, and gives the juncture of the two walls a dubious sniff, bending down slightly to bring his nose to the place where the scent is strongest.

Martin may not have a type A olfactory system, but even he can notice a blatant scent mark when it’s literally right in his face. Huh. That's...weirdly inappropriate for the workplace.

It's a few more days before Martin manages to catch Jon in the act. The mysterious scent marks only seem to materialize during the hours Martin is asleep, so he sets his alarm extra early, drags his grumbly arse out of bed at an ungodly hour, shuffles down the hall in his sleep clothes, and- yes, there he is. There's Jon, standing in the open doorway of his office, rubbing his cheek against the doorframe.

It takes a few seconds for Jon to notice Martin watching him. When Jon finally does look up, he freezes mid-rub. Then he straightens up and gives Martin a haughty look, like he's daring Martin to comment.

Martin has absolutely nothing to say about this situation, so there's a brief, awkward standoff. Then Jon gives a dismissive sniff and turns away, disappearing back into his office in an almost pointedly casual manner, like he's trying to make it clear that he's not retreating. Martin just...continues to stand there. He stands, and stares, and questions his life choices.

Martin starts to notice them everywhere, after that. He smells Tim on the corner of the fridge in the break room. He smells Sasha on the banister of the staircase leading down into the archives, all the way down the banister, like she marked her own hand and then ran it along the banister as she was coming down the stairs. He smells Jon lots of places, like Jon, as the boss of this department, is refusing to be outdone by his underlings. The marks appear everywhere except Martin’s actual desk and Martin's makeshift bedroom in document storage, which has apparently been declared some kind of sacred neutral zone.

And then they have to establish a rota for who gets to do the weekly sweeping and floor-mopping and supply-restocking for the archives, because the institute’s janitor is type A, and he apparently refuses to come near the place now. At no point do any of Martin’s coworkers address why this is the case.

(Martin, at least, is exempt from these new archival janitorial duties. None of the others address this fact either.)

Then there's the overtime. Based on some unfathomable, unanimously agreed-upon schedule that Martin never actually hears them discuss, all of Martin’s coworkers appear to be taking it in shifts to either come in to work unreasonably early or stay at work unreasonably late. Jon, surprisingly enough, expresses no objection to the fact that Martin is the only remaining member of the archival staff who is still working a normal nine-to-five schedule. (Well, as normal as your schedule can be when you're literally living in your place of work.)

Martin even tries to corner Tim about it, one day, because Tim is somehow the most approachable person in their group, despite having a face that looks like it belongs on a magazine cover. Tim just gives him a slightly manic grin and says, "Oh, you know, lots of work to do!"

And then Tim turns around, narrowly avoids tripping over one of the uneven spots on the floor, and power walks away, while Martin watches with baffled despair.

(Martin can't help but notice that their new schedule has the effect of minimizing the amount of time Martin spends alone at the institute. This fills him with some twisted-up combination of shame and pathetic gratitude. The presence of familiar people, their movements faintly audible through the walls, is a lot more reassuring than the feeling of a corkscrew clutched in his fist. He sleeps easier now.)

(Martin also notices that Jon stays the latest, and comes in the earliest. But he did that a lot before, too, Martin reminds himself. It probably doesn't mean anything.)

(Martin kind of wishes it meant something.)

Various new bedding items also keep mysteriously appearing around Martin's cot. Mostly blankets, which range from plain knitted cotton to fluffy microfiber to an honest-to-god king-sized duvet that Martin could probably use as a mattress if he folded it over a few times. Unfortunately, everything is brand new, so it doesn't smell like much. Martin still appreciates the gesture, because there's some part of him that currently feels very strongly about the virtues of sleeping in a big pile of things.

(And...he doesn't know why he thought "unfortunately," just now.)

(He's lying. He knows.)

And then there's the food. The food is...a lot.

It doesn’t even happen gradually, like they’re trying to be subtle about it. Martin just opens the break room fridge one day and finds it stocked like four people are living here full time, rather than one. Same with the cabinets. It almost makes Martin want to laugh, in a gallows humor sort of way, because he’s familiar enough with his coworkers’ eating habits that he can pretty much identify the origin of every single thing he sees.

There are Tim's fresh fruits and veggies, which he'd better be planning on helping Martin eat, because there's no way Martin can tackle all of this before it goes bad. Also, protein shake powder, for some reason. Does he think Martin is training for a marathon?

There’s Sasha's eclectic assortment of foodstuffs, like she was picking things for interest more than taste. (Martin didn't even know they made green tea flavored kit kats.) (He also has no idea what you're supposed to do with jalapeño pepper jam.)

And then there are Jon's practical staples. Microwaveable rice and pasta and oatmeal. Dried fruits and nuts and meats. Things that are filling, and easy to eat when you don't have a lot of energy, and easy to cook when all you have is a microwave. Some of the brands are a bit fancier than what Martin normally buys, but it's all pretty much in line with the stuff Martin normally eats, which is...kind of touching, actually.

Martin also notices that none of the offerings include peaches, or canned fruit of any kind. This, predictably enough, makes him want to cry.

It's simultaneously enormously heartwarming and enormously embarrassing. At the same time, though, some bitter, unworthy thing in the back of Martin’s mind almost wants to resent them for it. Wants to ask why they’ve chosen now to start caring, when he’s been living here for months. He knows that’s not really fair. They did care before. They just...cared on a normal, coworkerly, kinda-sorta-work-friend-ly level. This is beyond caring. This is instinct bullshit. And Martin needs to put a stop to it, before it goes any further. He should have put a stop to it ages ago.

It was just...nice. Feeling valued, for a little while. Even if it was fake. But when Martin finds a bottle of prenatal vitamins sitting innocently on top of the small floor cabinet in the restroom, next to his toothbrush, he knows he has to say something.

Martin wishes he had literally any excuse to keep procrastinating, but fate seems to be scowling down on him today, because the next time he enters the archival assistants’ bullpen, all three of his coworkers are there, holding some kind of whispered conference that apparently doesn’t require Martin’s input. Martin takes a deep breath, looks at the three people he's basically brainwashed into giving a shit about him, and steels himself. "Guys. I need to tell you something."

All three eyes snap to him immediately. Martin squirms where he stands. God, this is horrible. Why did he let it get this far. He’s almost tempted to tell them he had a miscarriage, or something, but no, no, no, this situation is bad enough without piling on even more lies. Martin braces himself for the plunge. “There’s...not going to be a baby.”

There’s a long, torturous, taken-aback silence.

“Oh,” says Jon, in a tone of voice Martin has never heard from him before. He sounds almost timid. “Are you...oh, good lord, that’s none of my business, I’m sorry-”

Martin grits his teeth with frustration. “No, I just. Look. There’s no baby, okay? There was never a baby. It’s a hysterical pregnancy. My body's faking it.”

This silence is somehow even worse. Martin wants to die.

"That...happens?" says Jon. All three of them look utterly nonplussed.

"Yeah? It's a...stress thing." Martin cringes from their wide, baffled gazes. Shit, he can feel his voice trying to crack, he’d better not be getting ready to start crying. "It's not like I did it on purpose! I didn't think it was going to go this far, and I kept hoping it would just go away, and-

"Hey, hey, hey, easy, you're okay," Sasha, in a way that makes Martin want to lean against her and whine at her and see if he can get her to pet his hair, which is not helping, focus, Martin.

Jon raises his hands defensively, in response to the serious evil eye that both Tim and Sasha are currently directing at him. “I've just...never heard of it before, is all. I've seen plenty of people under stress, and I've never seen this happen.”

Tim, however, is rubbing his chin. "Actually, I think that happened to my cousin, now that I think about it. She left her boyfriend, then got ghost pregnant right after. Gave them both a scare."

Sasha huffs a slight laugh. "Heh. Ghost pregnancy. Sounds like something you'd see in a statement."

Martin shifts awkwardly from foot to foot. He still feels like he should be justifying himself, somehow. “I, uh, looked it up. It only happens when there’s, like...a lot of stress. It's meant to make whatever's after you more...sympathetic, I guess?”

“Oh, Martin,” says Tim, in a small, sad voice, proving Martin’s point.

There's another one of those horrendous silences. Martin wonders if he should be drafting a resignation letter. He’s really not sure how he’s going to be able to look any of them in the eye after this.

“...it's still hot, though,” says Sasha, immediately turning Martin’s entire world upside down.

Tim and Jon shoot her simultaneous scandalized looks, and exclaim a simultaneous, scandalized “Sasha!”

“What? I'm just saying what we're all thinking!”

Are they all thinking that? Martin isn't hearing any denials here. Lots of carefully averted eyes, and awkward fidgeting, but no denials. That's. Uh. That's. Um? It's...oh, shit.

Martin hadn't even considered the idea that they would still want anything to do with him, once he burst the bubble of their...weird instinctual caretaking thing. He definitely hadn’t considered the idea that his awkward, hopeless, one-sided three-way crush might not be quite as one-sided as the thought. And now they're all just...looking at him, like he's a judge and they're awaiting his verdict. Should he-? Do they expect him to-? Oh, Christ. Martin doesn't know what the etiquette is here.

Martin doesn't dare make eye contact with anyone in particular, lest they assume he's choosing one person and excluding the rest, so he addresses his question to the wall. "Um. Do you guys want to-"

"Oh, thank God," says Tim.

"Hell yes," says Sasha.

"Yes, yes, that would be- yes," says Jon.

“I. Uh. Wow. O-okay,” says Martin, as he tries not to break down into hysterical giggles, because all the tension that he’s been building up has to go somewhere, and his body has apparently decided that crying is no longer in vogue. “Shit. I’m not sure what we should...or, where we should-?”

"My flat is closest," says Jon, in a strangely intense way, like he's expecting the others to argue with him over it. They don't.

They all clock out early.