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Sometimes Martin envies type A people their extensive vocabulary of subvocalizations. They get to use their subvocal suite to communicate perfectly reasonable things, like back off and that's mine and hello sexy. Unlike Martin, whose subvocals exist for the sole purpose of making him sound like the biggest, whiniest baby. Especially when he's coming up on a heat.
Martin keeps it under wraps as best he can, but there's only so long he can hold it in. So, sometimes, after a long workday, Martin double-checks that everyone else has left the archives, makes sure the door at the top of the stairs is locked, and lets loose a bit. Throws himself a little pity party. He's entitled to it. He's earned it.
Specifically, it's the kind of pity party that involves relaxing the muscles of his throat, feeling the vibrating thrum building up behind his teeth, and exhaling out a mournful trill of hello? I'm here? Is anyone there? I'm here. I'm all alone.
It's a stupid, borderline masturbatory habit. Martin knows it is. But he's been doing it ever since he was a little kid, muffling self-soothing purrs into his pillow while trying not to wake his mum up, and it's hard to give up a coping mechanism you've been leaning on for that long. He knows. He's tried.
He tries to tell himself it's cathartic, like crying at a sad movie, or complaining about bad TV shows online. Maybe it is. Or maybe he just has a bit of a masochistic streak. Either way, it's hard to stop himself when he gets on a roll.
Hello? It's me. I'm sad. Someone take care of me. I'm alone.
Martin keeps up his pitiful commentary while he microwaves his dinner in the break room, because he's good at multitasking, and if Martin couldn't be pathetic and get stuff done at the same time he'd never get anything done. The warbly thrum of his serenade of stupidity echoes out the door and down the hall, a slowly fading refrain of alone, alone, alone.
Martin gradually warms to his theme, like an operatic soprano singing scales before a concert. As he goes on, the caregiver calls gradually start bleeding into the heat calls. That's when things get really embarrassing.
I'm here. I'm all by myself. I'm horny and sad. Help me? Won't someone please touch me?
The microwave dings. Martin takes out his beef and potatoes with a little melodramatic flourish, like he's singing in the shower, and croons out, It's me. I'm sad. I'm fertile. Someone pay attention to me. I'm just a little thing. I'm soft. Someone come love me.
A beat passes, while Martin peels the plastic off the top of his ready meal. Then, to Martin’s absolute, soul-curdling horror, he hears a distant hello?
Martin freezes in place. Every fiber of his being is vibrating, ears straining towards what he can only hope was an echo.
Hello? Where are you? Are you there?
Definitely not an echo. It's a low, gravelly type A subtone, miles different from Martin’s high-pitched chirps and trills. And, worst of all, it's a familiar subtone. God fucking damn it. Martin really can’t catch a break, can he.
As the sound comes closer, vibrating gently off the walls, Martin does the only reasonable thing: he flicks the break room light off, shoves his food into the fridge, steps into the corner where the fridge shields him from the line of sight of the door, and hopes fervently that Jon assumes he just experienced some kind of vivid auditory hallucination. Or a haunting. A haunting by a sad, horny ghost. That ought to be right up the Magnus Institute’s alley, right?
Martin holds his breath as he hears Jon pass right by the break room door, walking slowly, still making hesitant, coaxing rumbles.
I'm looking. Who's there? I'm non-aggressive. Hello? Are you okay?
The tone of burbling appeasement in Jon’s voice makes Martin’s stupid mammal brain want to sing out a response. Martin seizes his vocal cords in a stranglehold and stays silent.
I'm worrying. Where are you? Won't you come out?
The sounds fade out, and for a few minutes, Martin dares to hope that he's gotten away unscathed. Maybe Jon will just...go get whatever he left in his office, or whatever the fuck it was that made him return to work at 9:34 PM on a Tuesday, and leave Martin in peace.
Then, to Martin’s everlasting despair, the door at the opposite end of the break room opens, and the fluorescent lights flick back on. Jon has a clear view of Martin from that side of the room, standing with his back up against the side of the fridge, eyes wide and heart pounding. And now Jon is looking at Martin like he belongs in a looney bin. Which, as a twenty-nine year old man playing hide and seek with his boss in his workplace in the middle of the night, Martin probably does.
"Uh. Hi, Jon," says Martin, in a completely unconvincing attempt to sound casual. This attempt is hindered considerably by the fact that it comes out alongside a humiliating sub-audible wail of nooo. Leave me alone.
Look, it's hard to get the lid back on once he's taken it off, okay?
"Martin," says Jon, still looking completely baffled, as if he isn't the one who just came back to work hours after closing time, for the sole purpose of ruining Martin’s life. "What on Earth?"
"What do you mean what on Earth? I live here now, in case you forgot!"
"...behind the fridge? In the dark?"
Stoopp. I'm small. Don't be mean to me, Martin’s subvocal apparatus has the audacity to say, to a man Martin outweighs by at least thirty kilos, and whose head is level with Martin’s chin. Martin drags a hand down his rapidly reddening face and prays for mercy.
"Oh my God. I'm sorry. It's not normally like this. I'm just- it’s that time of the month, okay, sometimes it just...gets like this."
"...I see," says Jon, in a carefully neutral tone that's probably Jon’s best attempt at being tactful.
Meanwhile, Martin’s entire subvocal suite is gearing up for a proper type O temper tantrum. I am small. I am a BABY. How dare you. How could you do this to me.
Jon listens with slowly elevating eyebrows. Martin buries his face in his hands. "Shut up. Don't you say a word. I mean it."
"I wasn't going to!"
"Well. Good." Woe is me. I am a small, sorry thing. Won't someone please knot me.
"...I don't believe I can accommodate that request."
"What did I JUST say-!"
Jon raises his hands placatingly, and hums out a contrite I'm sorry. I'll be good. I am nice. Look how nice and non-threatening I am.
"Oh, don't you give me that," Martin grumbles, glaring daggers into the patch of wall next to Jon’s face. I will bite you. Please hold me. I'm very sad.
Jon averts his eyes awkwardly. "Ah. Maybe it would be best if I just-"
"Uh, yeah, probably." Don't leave. Go away. I hate you. Let's cuddle.
There's a brief pause, in which Jon seems to be struggling to gather his thoughts. When he starts speaking, he has the gall to be audibly trying not to laugh at Martin’s histrionics. "Martin. You're- you're sending some very mixed messages, here."
"I'm going to go jump off a bridge. Actually, no, I'm going to throw you off, then jump. Will you please just go?" Woe. Woe is me. I'm so alone.
Jon hesitates in the doorway. And then, somewhat tentatively, he rumbles out a soothing, oh. Baby. Poor baby.
"I am not." Yes! It's me! Love me. I'm soft.
Hush. All is well. All is safe. You're okay. The pacification subtone is deep and resonant, a comforting thrum that feels like it gets all the way into the center of Martin’s bones. It presses against Martin’s ears like a warm mug of tea in his hands, and the effect on Martin’s deprived brain is so strong it makes his eyelids flutter with drowsiness.
Martin’s subvocal apparatus makes one last, perfunctory effort, a faint oh. Sleepy. and then finally goes quiet. Martin sways slightly where he stands. Martin, as a secret connoisseur of type A audio pornography, distantly notes that the real thing is much, much more potent than anything he’s ever heard out of a set of headphones.
“Did that...help?” says Jon, with an attitude of slight discomfort, like he’s not sure if he’s overstepped a boundary.
“...yeah. Thanks.”
“Right. Well. I’ll just.”
“Yeah. I’ll, uh. See you in the morning.”