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Martin was running out of ways to procrastinate. One might think that being trapped working in the musty basement of a fear god’s temple would make him eager to leave each night, but at the moment the idea of stepping out into the night air seemed far worse. It would be cold outside, bitterly so, and Martin’s cheeks stung just at the thought of it. At least the fear god’s temple basement was warm . He closed the last binder and rubbed his eyes. The files inside were freshly organized, as were the others stacked on his desk, as was the break room cupboard… The only work left to tackle would be to start researching a new case, and that would just fill his walk home with glances over his shoulder and phantom breath on his neck.
Martin wasn’t sure if thinking about the things that go bump in the night made them more likely to appear, but it certainly made the trip less pleasant.
Part of him wished he could simply spend the night at the Archives. The time he’d spent living there was awful, but at least it would save him the cold and creepy walk home. He’d even have company—now that Jon wasn’t in hiding or abducted or on a trip in some far-flung country, he spent every day here, never leaving before anyone else. Some nights Martin was sure he didn’t leave at all. Like old times some baffling corner of his brain would pipe up, as if it were something to be nostalgic about. (But it was, something deeper answered. Because things were simpler, then; Jon was around, then.) He should drop by and say goodbye before he left; he’d gotten out of the habit of it, with how much Jon had been gone. Take advantage of it while I can was shoved aside with a vengeance as he pulled on his gloves and coat. Martin forgot his scarf at home this morning--another reason to dread the walk home.
The door to Jon’s office was shut, but the light was on and the rich sing-song of his statement-reading voice was absent. He wouldn’t mind an interruption in between projects, certainly. Martin didn’t give himself a moment to reconsider (or pay attention to the familiar butterflies in his stomach) before turning the handle and poking his head through the door.
“Hey, Jon? I’m heading out--sent out all the inquiries, but I don’t think we’ll hear back on any of them till tomorrow. So, um...see you then?” Damn, he’d started out strong, too. He summoned a smile, only then letting himself take a good look at Jon.
Jon was hunched in his chair behind his desk, sat at an odd angle away from the door so that he had to twist to look up at Martin. He wore his coat and scarf, along with a frown--the worried-frown, Martin knew immediately, not to be mistaken with the thoughtful-frown (common, made him seem grumpier than he was) or the sad-frown (rare, distressing).
Well, there was always a lot to be worried about, so that didn’t narrow it down much. “Jon, you okay?” said Martin as he stepped inside.
The worried-frown shifted to a nervous smile, but the crease between his brows stayed put. “O-of course,” Jon answered, tugging at the bulk of his coat. He cleared his throat, then added, “Everything’s alright, Martin. It’s late--shouldn’t you be getting home?”
It felt like he heard those words a hundred times before, and it was almost as easy as breathing to say shouldn’t you back. Something kept him back this time--something about not falling back on old patterns. “You look cold, Jon. Want me to check on the heat?”
Jon shifted to angle further away, still hunched oddly. “You don’t need to dote --” he snapped, then cut off with a wince. “I’m, I’m alright, Martin, really. No need to worry.”
The sudden gentleness in his voice was enough to throw Martin off balance. He fought the urge to flee and process this. “You’ve said the same when something’s horribly wrong,” he said with a (not too forced?) chuckle, “but I’ll trust if there was you wouldn’t hide it from me.” A low blow, maybe, but things had changed , right? Something had changed since Jon came back (and back, and back)?
Jon worried a lip between his teeth (Martin reflexively glanced away, not needing that kind of distraction right now). “Martin, wait, wait--” His expression softened to something just shy of a smile. “Nothing’s wrong. I, I just-- Well, it was cold out, you see, and--” Jon swiveled his chair back towards the door, hunching sheepishly over a dark object on his lap.
Martin stifled a peal of startled laughter. “You snuck a cat into the Archives. Jon. You snuck a cat into the Archives ?”
“It’s cold out!” Jon protested. “She, she was hiding in the bushes, and freezing temperatures are dangerous for cats! It’s certainly below that, tonight--”
Martin circled the desk as Jon rambled. It was, in fact, a cat, with a bit of one ear missing and soft black fur. It huddled in the tent Jon made of his coat, nosing beneath his scarf and leaving patches of hair on his shirt. It stared up with bright green eyes as Martin approached.
Jon’s lecture on the care of cats during winter trailed off as Martin crouched by his chair and reached a hand for the cat. It ducked out of reach and nearly slid off Jon’s lap, claws curling into his trousers and leaving little pulled threads in their wake. Martin winced and braced to be snapped at, an old reflex that reached back long before the Institute.
“Wait, wait--” Jon’s voice had gone feather-light, and Martin was glad he’d bundled up already so he could blame the sudden flush of his cheeks on the heat. “Hold your hand out first, let her smell it.” Martin did so, moving slowly, and waited. The cat turned in place in Jon’s lap and just eyed his hand, making no movement. “Just wait,” Jon prompted in that same soft voice.
“Never had any pets,” Martin said, half to keep his mind off of how weak that tone made his knees feel. “Dogs are easier to figure out, you know? People are always walking them, so they’re easy to get to know, but cats tend to stay out of reach.”
“Oh, they will, to start; it takes some patience. Despite their reputation, cats like affection as much as anything; they just need it to be on their own terms. Not much different than a person, really.” The words sounded oft-rehearsed, and Martin knew he wasn’t the first to hear them, but was admittedly paying more attention to the hint of a smile on Jon’s face. “They’re much more loyal than they get credit for,” Jon went on. “Before you know it, they’ll be shoving their face in yours and demanding attention at the most inconvenient times possible.”
Martin nodded, half-holding his breath as he extended his hand again, slow and careful. The cat eyed it from beneath the shelter of Jon’s scarf before creeping forward. Its whiskers tickled Martin’s fingers as its nose hovered a hair’s breadth away--he could feel the soft whuff of air against his fingertips as it sniffed. Finally, it turned its head and bumped against his hand with surprising force. Martin let out a startled laugh.
“There we go,” said Jon, and that was a smile, and when his eyes met Martin’s there was a softness to them that did funny things to Martin’s pulse. “She was hiding in the bushes just outside, and I thought...I could at least let her warm up, before taking her to see if she’s microchipped in the morning.” His fingers curled into the plush black fur--the burned hand, Martin noted--rubbing slowly as if trying to coax the memory of softness into the scar. ...Or that could be Martin projecting his daydreams. The cat rumbled a purr, and Jon’s eyes lit up.
“Spending the night, then?” said Martin.
“The cot’s still set up,” Jon shrugged, as if he’d actually use it. Martin’s skepticism must have shown on his face, as Jon added, “Don’t worry, I do plan to rest. Believe it or not, I was on my way out when I found this one.”
“You’d better,” Martin chided with no real force. Jon just gave a soft hmph , and then a hiss as the cat tried to knead his legs. It craned its neck to bump against Martin’s hand again, and he beamed.
“A cat in the Archives,” said Martin, sing-song. There was some hidden poetry in the thought, he was sure, something about sheltering something soft and innocent in the shadow of malice-- He’ll write it down for later. “A cat in the Archives, after all the trouble you gave me for the dog.” Martin grinned at Jon, only to see his fragile smile shift rapidly to a frown--the guilty sort, this time. Martin’s stomach plunged.
“O-oh, that, I’d-- Well, not forgotten , but don’t hold it-- I mean, that is…” A note of misery was taking root, and it took all of Martin’s willpower not to blurt out It’s alright like he’d done a hundred times before. The sudden tension was an unwelcome change, but...it hadn’t been alright. It made him nervous and scared for so long, lit a fear of losing the ability to support his mother under him, tinged coming to work every day with dread. Ironic, in retrospect, and yet…
Jon cleared his throat, staring at the corner of his desk as he soldiered on. “What I mean is, I am sorry. For giving you a difficult time for a, a simple mistake. And...everything after. I was under a lot of pressure, and...well. I took a lot of it out on you.”
It wasn’t the first time Jon had apologized. When Jon returned from hiding, dazed and injured and blaming himself for all the wrong things, Martin had tripped over himself to reassure him. But this time he needed this, like ice on a bruise. It’s fine was too dismissive, I forgive you felt too dramatic. “I’ll let it go,” he answered, and hoped it didn’t make him sound like an arse.
Jon’s eyes flicked up to meet Martin’s. He seemed to just now realize how close Martin was, and his muttered “thank you” was barely audible. One hand awkwardly patted Martin’s before darting back to the safety of the cat’s fur. His hand was soft, almost unnervingly so, and as the breath caught in Martin’s throat he shoved the memory of why it was like that out for how do I get that to happen again .
The cat did, in fact, prove to be surprisingly affectionate, as if determined to prove Jon’s endorsement. It probably did have an owner, with how comfortable it was around people. Once the initial skittishness faded she was content to bask in the attention, batting now and then at bits of paper Martin found on the floor. His knees were protesting more than they had a right to for anyone under fifty, but Martin refused to acknowledge them.
“You probably shouldn’t stay too late,” said Jon at length, and it couldn’t just be Martin’s imagination that it sounded wistful .
He was right, probably. It would only get colder out as night fell, the shadows deeper. But if Martin had already lingered as long as he had organizing binders, of all things, he could let himself have this. “The trains are running for a while yet,” he shrugged. “And you’re hogging the cat. There’s more room on the break room couch, you know.”
“I am not hogging her , she just likes me best,” Jon scoffed, but was already coaxing the cat into his arms to stand, eyes alight.
Martin did make it out before the last train, with the scarf Jon insisted on lending him bundled round his neck. Jon pressed him to concede that the cat did, in fact, like Jon best before he left. Martin couldn’t fault it. It was very easy to love Jon.