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The knocking still had not subsided, despite all of Martin’s efforts to drown it out. He’d stuffed towels, rags, even old newspapers to plug up every crack and tiny hole along the walls and floor, and at the very least the sounds of squirming had faded. He’d even covered over his windows for fear that Prentiss’ worms might somehow burrow through. But the knocking rang out clear as day.
Of course it had to be this month that Peter was gone on his stupid supervillain conference. Martin didn’t even know why he went. He hated crowds. Martin secretly thought Peter didn’t even attend the events--it was simply to keep his name out there in the supervillain world that he bothered to register with these things at all. Martin would bet money that Peter was ignoring the actual conference and playing solitaire on his phone in his hotel.
A phone Martin would have liked to call, had he not stupidly dropped his own cell scrambling away from Prentiss.
Stupid. Stupid phone. Stupid Peter, getting ideas about facing off against the Spider and sending Martin to do reconnaissance and not realizing the Corrupted had gotten the same idea in their heads.
Martin was certainly quitting the minute Peter returned to the office. Only a sizable bonus would appease him.
A knock came at the door again, and Martin hurled the book he’d been reading at it, incensed. It thunked against the door in a flutter of pages, and for a moment the knocking ceased.
Then, it came again.
Martin pressed his hands against his face, suppressing an undignified noise of frustration. He hadn’t slept in days with that incessant knocking. Honestly, he’d prefer at this point if Prentiss would finally knock the door down and just fill him with holes already.
“Don’t you have anything better to do?!” Martin asked, glaring at the door.
The knocking, for a moment, stopped. “Not really,” he heard, a faint rattle of a voice through the door. “Next attempt at world domination isn’t scheduled for another month yet.”
Martin swallowed down a groan, thumping his head against the pillow he’d taken into his hands. “So we’ll be here for the next month then?” he asked, dreading the answer.
“Suppose we’ll see how it shakes out,” came the answering reply.
Then, another knock.
Martin retaliated by marching to the kitchen and throwing a frying pan at the door. It made him feel slightly better.
He had to give her this: Prentiss was more patient than he was, and Martin had to deal with Peter Lukas on a near daily basis, so that was saying something.
Several more days had passed. Well. What Martin thought were days, admittedly. He’d covered over his windows with so many layers of fabric that the only lights he had were man-made, and even those were limited to being battery-operated, with his power cut. Needless to say, his flat wasn’t very well-lit at the moment, and it made reading to distract himself hurt his eyes after just a few hours.
And that was something he’d never noticed before--just how many hours there were in a day to fill and slog through. The fear had been what had plagued him the first few nights, keeping him occupied. Now, exhaustion and boredom were vying to kill him.
He’d tried everything he could to drown out the knocking--making noise of his own, shouting, eventually just hoping the neighbors might notice and call the cops. But they either couldn’t hear him, or could, and decided it simply wasn’t their problem, which Martin couldn’t really blame them for.
Martin sat cross-legged on the carpet, staring blankly at his calendar and unconsciously waiting for the next knock. He was doubting whether it was Sunday. Hadn’t it been Sunday the day before? He couldn’t remember. He’d thought he’d marked the calendar, but it seemed he’d dreamed doing that.
He slept at odd hours now, whenever there was a lull in the knocking. He was so tired the numbers on the calendar blurred and switched places, which didn’t seem right.
There came another knock.
“Fuck you,” Martin mumbled.
The next knock seemed somehow scolding.
Martin glared at the door, setting his jaw and flipping the door off, which did nothing but lift his spirits for a millisecond.
“Come on,” he told himself, wrenching his eyes tightly closed and then opening them again, blinking some new life back into his exhausted body. He slapped himself on the cheek for good measure. “You’re not gonna get beaten by worms. You’re better than that. That’s pathetic. Absolutely pathetic power.”
“Hey,” a slightly wounded voice came from behind the door.
Martin ignored it, standing up and ignoring the ache in his neck from a previous, poorly chosen sleeping position. He dug through his flat, searching for anything that might drown out the noise. Ear plugs, if he was lucky. Maybe his mum’s old, rattling CPAP machine. Hell, he’d take an expired bottle of NyQuil to help just knock him out. He just needed some blissful, uninterrupted sleep.
He found an old walkman at the back of his closet, one that Peter had been fond of. One that Martin had stolen from him one afternoon out of spite, after Peter had assigned him a boatload of work to complete over a single evening. One that, he remembered distinctly, Peter had taken through the Lonely.
Martin had never turned it on. One never knew what special brand of evil a walkman was capable of.
Holding it away from his body as if it were liable to explode, Martin slowly and nervously clicked it on.
The battery life flashed. Full, after all this time. Martin only had a moment to be filled with sudden dread.
Then, the walkman rang out with the sound of a saxophone, at such a blaring volume Martin nearly dropped it.
“Oh, no,” he whispered. “No, no, no--”
Oh, oh, oh. Oh, ohhhh, the walkman sang out, so loud Martin had to drop it and clap his hands over his ears. When it clattered to the floor, the cassette compartment opened. The music didn’t stop. There wasn’t even a tape inside, Martin observed with horror.
I feel so unsure, it sang, as I take your hand and lead you to the dance floor.
“Fuck,” Martin said, with feeling.
Martin duct taped the walkman to the front door. It succeeded in drowning out the knocking, at least. But in the moments when the song finally lulled, closing out, he could hear a knock sound again behind the door.
Before the song began again.
And again.
And again.
Martin stared blearily up at the ceiling from his sprawl on his carpet, the music ringing in his ears. He’d taken to counting the little speckle dots on the ceiling to distract himself from the mind numbing passage of time. “I’m never gonna dance again,” he mumbled along with the walkman, as his eyes skirted blearily over the ceiling, “guilty feet have got no rhythm--”
M...Mar...
“--though it’s easy to pretend--”
Mar...Artin...
Martin blinked, furrowing his brow in confusion, almost sure he’d heard something under the music. He waited for a moment, but nothing came save for the sounds of a smooth saxophone. He sighed, putting his head back down. “Tonight the music seems so loud,” he breathed, only slightly in tune, “I wish that we could lose this crowd, maybe it’s better this way--”
MaRtIn!
Martin sat up, whirling to look at the walkman. He’d definitely heard that. Oh God. The walkman knew his name. It was gaining sentience. He stared at it, terrified. “I’m sorry,” he told it. “Oh God. I’ll--I’ll sing along properly if that’s what you want. Please don’t hurt me.”
There was a moment in which George Michael simply continued to sing at him, utterly indifferent to his pleas. But now who’s gonna dance with me? Please, stay--
But then the music crackled, and dipped, and a familiar voice through the walkman suddenly said, in a baffled tone, what?
Martin stared at the walkman in earnest when George Michael’s voice filtered back through. He’d recognized that voice. He thought about it often, embarrassingly enough. “ Jon? ”
The walkman crackled, the music dipped, and Jon’s voice came through again. Martin? Martin, are you alright?
Martin gaped at the walkman, wondering if he’d finally cracked. “Jon? What...what are you doing in my walkman?”
Oh, Jon’s voice came through again, is that what this thing is? Then, Jesus-- his voice crackled, interrupted by Georgie Michael’s like static before coming back through again-- there’s so much interference. Don’t you have any electronics from this decade?
“Uh. My power’s out,” Martin answered dumbly.
Are you alright? Jon asked again. You’ve not been answering your phone. I just... there was a beat of hesitation, in which George Michael sang I feel so unsure.
H-have I done something wrong? Jon asked.
Martin stared at the walkman blankly, his exhaustion making the conversation very hard to follow. “What?”
We had lunch plans, Jon said.
Martin froze for a moment, before whirling to study the calendar again, his stomach slowly sinking.
It’s...it’s fine if you decided you’d rather not, Jon was saying, as Martin stared at the calendar in despair, I just...I just wanted to make sure you were alright--
“It’s Tuesday already?” Martin moaned. “It was supposed to be Sunday.”
He couldn’t believe he’d missed the lunch date.
Well. Jon hadn’t exactly called it a date as such, but dammit, Martin had been excited to find out if it was!
Jon went suddenly quiet, and the silence was filled by the lyrics: I should've known better than to cheat a friend, and waste the chance that I'd been given.
Martin, Jon’s voice came through again, decidedly serious, what’s going on?
“Uh,” Martin said, “I’m, uh. I’m stuck in my flat.”
What do you mean ‘stuck?’ Like your door is jammed?
“No,” Martin corrected slowly, suddenly sheepish, “um. I mean like...I can’t leave.”
The next George Michael lyric sounded very judgmental. Why? Jon pressed, impatient.
“Um,” Martin said, “I might...be trapped inside? By, um...” he sighed, closing his eyes. “By Jane Prentiss?”
You couldn’t have started with that?! Jon’s exasperated voice crackled over the speakers. Stay there.
Martin blinked at the walkman. “What?”
George Michael sang back at him.
Martin stared at it, suddenly and absurdly amused. “Do you even know where I--?”
The speaker crackled suddenly, and with it came Jon’s voice. Where do you live?
Martin rattled off the address for him, smiling, and finished with, “but be careful, she’s--”
I’m always careful, Martin, Jon said flippantly.
“Uh, no, that--that’s so untrue--”
-- to the heart and mind, George Michael suddenly sang, ignorance is kind...
Martin sighed.
George Michael continued to fill the silence.
All in all, it only took about twenty more boring minutes for Jon to arrive. Martin only knew he was there when he heard a shriek behind the door, high and angry. He stood quickly, and then regretted it, reaching out to steady himself on the sofa, blinking back stars. A diet of canned peaches had not left him feeling in tip-top shape.
Martin waited a moment when only silence followed, suddenly nervous. “Jon?” he called, but there was no answer.
A knocking came at the door. Martin’s heart leapt to his throat. “ Jon? ”
He could hardly hear anything over George Michael’s incessant crooning. God, he wished he had a peephole. His doorknob shook.
His lights flickered on.
M...MaRtin...? Jon’s voice crackled over the walkman again. Martin, open the door.
Martin breathed out sharply, relief flooding through him like a wave. His fingers fumbled with the lock, and it took a fair amount of kicking to get the towels out of the way, but the moment he had the door open a crack, Jon was barreling through it, something clattering on the floor behind him.
Jon took Martin’s face in his hands, turning it this way and that, his eyes bright and intent. “Are you alright? Did she hurt you at all?”
Jon’s hands were very warm. That was the only thought in Martin’s head for an embarrassing few seconds. At Jon’s staring, he managed, his face certainly reddening, “uh, no. No, I-I’m fine.”
Jon looked him over for a moment longer anyway, before nodding, dropping his hands. “Good. Good.”
Martin mourned the loss, briefly, but he nervously glanced behind Jon when he heard a slight clank. Through the crack of the door, he could see a fire extinguisher had rolled against the opposite wall, abandoned. There was a thin coating of white foam that coated the floor, and a few unmoving, dead worms.
Martin stared, taken aback, and met Jon’s eyes. “How did you know that would work?” Martin asked.
Jon glanced back at the hallway absently. “Oh,” he said, waving a hand, “I’ve been cataloging the weakness of every supervillain in the city. And their sidekicks’ weaknesses, though they tend to be the same.”
Martin stared at him. “How many do you have so far?”
“Two,” Jon answered seriously.
“Oh,” Martin said, trying to be encouraging.
“That’s actually what I wanted to ask you about at lunch,” Jon said, smiling. “I thought I could interview you.”
“Oh,” Martin said, dejected, though he tried not to make it too obvious.
“I’d tell you mine, of course,” Jon continued. “It’s only fair.” Jon glanced at the walkman, still taped to the door swinging slightly on its hinges. “I didn’t realize this song was so long,” he noted absently. “Do you mind if we turn it off? It's a little loud.”
Martin tried to stifle a sigh. “It won’t let me shut it off.”
“Oh.” Jon looked at it more studiously. “Is it--?”
“Evil? Yeah,” Martin sighed.
Jon hummed, tilting his head and raking his eyes over it. With careful fingers, he peeled the tape away, and took the blaring thing into his hands. He leaned out the door and chucked it down the hall. “There,” he said, leaning back inside and smiling, as George Michael’s voice played faintly in the background, “someone else’s problem.”
Martin opened his mouth, perhaps to object, but Jon took his hand and all intelligent thought vacated his brain.
“Come on,” Jon said, “you must be hungry.”
“Oh,” Martin said, screwing his eyes shut as if he could force himself to be more awake. “I guess I could answer a few questions, but I don’t know if--”
Jon looked at him sharply. “What? Martin, don’t be silly. That’s hardly important. You look like you haven’t had a full meal in days. We’re going to my flat. I’ll make you some food.”
“Oh,” Martin said, blinking at him dazedly. “Are you sure that’s--you don’t have to--”
“Actually I’d like to keep an eye on you for a bit,” Jon said. “Prentiss has a habit of returning to old haunts. You can stay at mine for a few days. If,” he tacked on, suddenly a bit hesitant, “you want to, of course.”
“I’m sorry,” Martin said, “you’re asking me to come to yours? For a few days? And you want to cook for me?”
“Well, only if you--”
“Yes,” Martin said, his heart racing. “Yeah. Yes.”
“Oh.” Jon looked at him, pleased, that little smile back on his face. “Good.”
Maybe it wasn’t a date. Maybe Jon just wanted to be friends.
Or maybe it was, and maybe he wanted to be more. Martin supposed he could more easily figure it out with a few days of carefully collected data. Like more of those little smiles. And that slight flush that Jon got on his face sometimes. And the way he took Martin’s hand.
God, Martin was so screwed.
And he was so excited.
George Michael’s voice faded behind them as they walked to the elevator, hand in hand.