Chapter Text
The book rested idly on Jon’s lap. He wasn’t reading it. The bus was too full of people and the sunshine was too bright and the hellscape in his brain didn’t want to budge, so there he was. How many mornings like this had he had by now? It was becoming a running joke - for Tim, at least, because the man had neither the tact nor the good will not to mock a man already on his knees. That’s how Jon felt, anyway. The nightmares pressed on him like a heavy weight laid across his body, preventing him from moving freely, even so much as to breathe without a sense of tightness in his ribcage.
”You look like shit,” Tim liked to tell him every morning.
It was really setting the mood.
When the bus came to a halt, he packed up his book, closing it from the same page he’d opened it half an hour before. Not today, it seemed. His eyes burned when he stepped out and made his way through the cold street. Snow was falling and the roads were frozen, and he tucked his hands in the pockets of his coat for the time it took him to reach his destination. And then, there he was: grinning, leaning his back to the doorway Jon walked through.
”You look like shit, boss.”
Like a clockwork. Jon gave him a glance and passed him, placing down his bag and starting to undo his coat. Large, heavy bundles of snowflakes had landed on it and were now melting in the library’s warmth. He ran his fingertip through one and watched it turn into water at his touch.
”Have you ever heard of this thing called sleep?” Tim continued - he was like a shadow at Jon’s back.
”No,” Jon told him, ”I’ve never heard of it. Don’t you have work to do?”
”Plenty,” Tim replied cheerfully, ”but since I just came in, I think I deserve a break.”
”You do realise who you’re speaking to? I’m still in a position to fire you.”
”And I’m not really scared of you, Jon, no offence.”
Their eyes met. Then Jon sighed; he didn’t have the energy to deal with Tim Stoker today. He could sleep in the backroom all day if he wanted, he decided, knowing well that the man wouldn’t - he did have something of a work ethic down there somewhere, he just liked to do things the way he liked them, at his own pace and with his own methods.
”Have you seen Sasha yet?” he asked instead.
”Nope,” Tim replied. He’d sat down and dug out an apple from his bag, and he had his long legs stretched out and crossed like he owned the place. ”Haven’t seen her.”
He took a bite of his apple, and Jon’s stomach twisted. He’d missed breakfast again trying to get the last five minutes of sleep before leaving. By now, it was becoming rather evident that he had.
”Tell her to come talk to me if you do.”
And with that, Jon was out of the door again. The morning was quiet, as they usually were, as he made his way around the building. The windows gave out to a cozy if cold view of London in late November, with the streets filled with cars making their way to work around the city and pedestrians doing the same, with students and workers clutching their bags and hiding their hands as Jon had done just a moment earlier. Yet he felt disconnected from them here. It wasn’t a new experience, but he was certain the distance between him and them had grown larger after he’d began to have his nightmares. It was as if he was separated by that veil of sleeplessness, like he was never fully here the way they were. Not present like everybody else.
He rested his weight over one foot and hung his hands by his fingers from the pockets of his trousers. His feet tingled and his face felt numb. He glanced to his side at the chairs set out there for reading, and he really just wanted to take one and lay down his head on the table and give up already, but he knew well what would follow, and he didn’t want that to become a public spectacle. It was bad enough in his own bedroom. Not to mention...
A man had just entered the library. His cheeks were red from the cool air outside and he was hiding his chin underneath a hand-knitted red scarf that hung down over his chest. A patron, no doubt; Jon had never seen him before. Sighing, he pushed himself back into movement - he didn't want to come across as another patron, and he didn't want to make himself appear available in any shape or form if he could avoid it, so he returned to his desk and sat down, pulled forwards some papers and turned on the computer screen beside him. The man who'd just entered made his way between the shelves and disappeared. He didn't seem to need any help, which suited Jon just fine.
The next time he saw the man, he was coming straight for the desk.
"Hi," the man said, his voice sounding breathless and nervous. He had a pile of books with him, which he now placed on the table.
Young adult, fantasy - he had to read a lot, Jon thought, and not one of his choices was worth it. That thought must have been visible on his features, or else his lack of a response came as a surprise, as the man drew a nervous breath and seemed to withdraw a little further away from Jon. It annoyed him. It annoyed him a lot. The majority of the spark he felt within him was no doubt thanks to his state, which hadn't improved since he'd been eyeing the chairs earlier, but as he was checking through the books he could just barely bite his tongue to refrain from commenting on it. What a waste of time.
"So..." the man began over as he was receiving his books back.
"So?" Jon replied shortly. He was trying his best to not sound like the man was personally offending him, but he was.
"I... heard - well, I... I actually read, you know, the - the notice on the door."
Christ. The man wanted a job. That's why he was so nervous. Jon lifted his gaze and took him in, measuring him from head to toe. He looked like he belonged in a library, buried in papers and old books and dust. The thought must have delighted him. That, and - well, he was... he had a kind, soft look about him. Like he'd do anything to please someone.
"I was wondering if I could - apply? Who should I talk to?"
"Me," Jon told him, then fell silent again. His death stare might have not affected Tim anymore, but it certainly seemed to affect this man - he seemed to be holding himself very, very still, perhaps in the fear of squirming visibly. "What's your name?"
"Oh, I'm - I'm Martin. Martin Blackwood."
"Any particular qualifications you'd like to mention?"
Give me ones I could possibly care about, Jon added in his mind.
"Well, it's a part-time job and I was - I was hoping, you know, maybe you'd cut me some slack?"
"So none, then."
"That's not quite... I brought my resume, if you'd like to look at it?" Martin offered.
He then proceeded to drop a book off the table while trying to reach into his bag, and although the curse he muttered under his breath was nearly inaudible, Jon didn't miss it. As he half-way reached up to return the book on top of the pile, another one slid down and disappeared in his open bag. He glanced at Jon and seemed flustered.
"It's here somewhere, I promise."
"I'll be at work for the next seven hours, so take your time," Jon answered dryly.
"Good," Martin said, then immediately backtracked. "I mean - I'll find it in a minute."
"Do you want me to take time?"
"No! I mean, you can, I..." he had his hand in his bag and wasn't looking anywhere near Jon, who dared to let the corner of his mouth curve up. "I found it."
Martin was even more breathless when he slammed his now rather crumpled-looking resume on the table. Jon straightened it out and gave his worst impression of caring while looking it through. The man really had no business looking for a job in a library, but he was right - it wasn't a permanent position, and they needed someone to deal with the organization. The fact alone that Jon was sitting here was a glaring sign that they needed another man on board. He let his eyes drift up from the papers and examined Martin again.
"You read a lot," he pointed out then, nodding vaguely towards the books.
"I - I do," Martin said hastily, "I really like reading."
"So I assume you know literature, hopefully in a broader context than you prefer reading it."
Martin blushed.
"I know my way around a library, if that's what you're asking."
"I'm not asking anything."
It was immediately evident to Jon that he was starting to get on Martin's nerves. Good, he thought; the way Martin was submitting to him was quite honestly irritating him as much as anything else about this encounter. He watched Martin give him a glare back in return as he handed him back his resume. This is unfair, the man's entire presence was telling him. Yes, it was; Jon leaned forwards and crossed his fingers underneath his chin.
"When would you like to start working?" he asked then, his voice calculating and eyes keen on Martin, who jumped a little.
All of a sudden all defiance had vanished from his aura like it had never existed, and instead, he seemed to positively glow with relief and cautious excitement.
"I could start right now, but I guess that's too much to ask? Well, I'm... I'm free tomorrow."
”Tomorrow will be fine,” Jon said.
He reached out and pushed the pile of books closer to Martin, who let out a little gasp and started loading them up in his bag. Then he appeared to be leaving but thought better of it at last minute, turning back to Jon with some hesitation evident in the slow movement; his eyes caught Jon’s and he gave him a timid smile.
”Did I make this awkward?” he asked.
Jon stayed quiet. He wanted to tell Martin it was his own fault, but he couldn’t; the annoyance was still too close to surface, and he just wanted to see the other man gone. Finally Martin sighed and shrugged.
”Alright, well, I’ll be here tomorrow.”
”Tim will show you around,” Jon told him.
”Okay. I’ll - I’ll look for ’Tim’, then. Should I leave you my number, or...?”
It wasn't exactly instant regret that Jon felt about his decision to hire Martin; in fact, the first feeling he had of the deal was relief. It would mean far less time for him at the front desk, and more time doing what he was supposed to be doing - filing, ordering, matching and organising the contents of the library - for the first time in months. The second thing he felt, however, was definitely regret, and he felt it the very first thing the next morning upon entering the library.
There was mud and water everywhere, dragged along the floor from the front door to everywhere between the shelves, and he could see Martin just about poking out from behind some shelves in the cooking section. He was on all fours exhibiting some sort of a twisted child's pose, with his arm outstretched out of view. Tim was positively glowing when he moved between Jon and the sight.
"Hi, boss," he greeted Jon, sounding like he'd never had more fun in his life. "We're dealing with a bit of an - issue - here. Would you mind turning back and pretending you're late for work by, say, forty minutes?"
"I'm not late for work. What is going on?" Jon asked in a sharp tone, pushing past Tim.
"You really, really don't want to know," Tim assured him.
Jon already knew that, but all the same he was walking to where Martin was now crouching instead of crawling on the floor, and the fact that Martin went an entire shade paler than he'd been before upon spotting Jon gave him some minor satisfaction.
"What," he repeated with the heaviest tone of his voice, "is going on."
It was less of a question and more an expression of disbelief. Martin staggered up from the floor and wiped his dirty hands to the sides of his pants.
"I can explain," he promised, but didn't sound the part.
"Can you?" Jon asked quietly.
Martin looked at Tim for help. Surprisingly, Tim was eager to offer it, stepping closer to the new employee and crossing his arms on his chest. Jon raised a brow at him.
"Martin's a good man," he told Jon, as if he'd asked, and Martin squirmed.
"Explain."
"There was a dog on the loose. No owner, just an attached leash, you know? This man," Tim announced, releasing his arms to pat Martin on the back so that the man practically doubled forwards from the impact, "decided to be the hero and take the dog with him until we could get him to a vet - you know, to check for a microchip, the like. The good man here decided that his first day at work was less important than making sure this animal was safe and sound, and I agree, so he brought it to the library thinking that it could chill and wait in the back while he works, and, well, you see, this is where everything went to hell."
"I'm so, so sorry, Jon - Jonathan - Mr. Sims?" Martin coughed up and blushed deeply.
Jon stared at him. Then, slowly, his eyes turned to the movement he saw behind Martin, and indeed... under the table was a dog, the dirtiest and wettest dog that Jon had ever seen, shaking itself violently with its ears flopping from side to side, like a hurricane of filth and melted snow. It smelled like a dog very, very heavily.
"He fits right in, doesn't he?" Tim said proudly, his hand now squeezing Martin's shoulder. "Can we keep him?"
"The dog or Mr. Blackwood?" Jon asked in a colourless voice.
"Both," Tim answered, "but I think the dog might be an allergy complaint in the making, so maybe just Mr. Martin Blackwood here."
Jon's gaze slid back up to Martin and nailed itself in his eyes.
"Get it out of here," he told him in no uncertain terms, "and clean the floors."
"Please, please don't fire me," Martin pleaded in a broken cry, "I really, really need this job. This won't ever happen again, I've - I've never found a stray before. I swear, I couldn't just leave it either, not in the streets with the cars and -"
"Get. It. Out."
"He means the back," Tim unhelpfully translated to Martin, "Let's catch him and resume the plan in its original form."
"I very much do not mean in the back," Jon complained, but only Martin seemed to be listening to him.
Martin gave him a very apologetic gaze but Tim was already circling the table to corner the dog underneath, and Jon realised that since there were three sides to the table through which the dog could escape, they were a man short in catching it. Reluctantly, he moved himself stiffly around the table as well, and he could feel Martin's grateful, relieved glance on him as he settled there. Then the man dropped on his knees again and reached under the table, and for a moment or two the air was filled with the sounds of scratching and scuttling, with Martin finally emerging as the victor with the wriggling animal in his grasp. His shirt, formerly pale blue, was now more the shade of mud from the streets.
"Makes you miss the cold yesterday, doesn't it?" Tim asked gleefully. "Come on, Martin, let's get it to safety before Jon throws it out."
"If it gets out one more time today..." Jon warned, but Tim waved his hand unconcernedly.
"It won't, boss."
With that, they were gone. Jon looked at the devastation in the building and realised slowly it was much lesser than he'd originally thought. Yes, there was mud absolutely everywhere, but that was it; nothing was damaged. Nothing was broken. Nothing much was out of place, save for the chairs that had surrounded the table before. With a sigh, he pulled up one of them and sat down in it. He crossed his arms and turned his gaze to the weather outside, which was decidedly more watery than the day before: the snow wasn't exactly melting, but the tires of each passing car were dragging up the muck from beneath it and the warm shoes of pedestrians were melting the rest into a slush. The dog had looked like it had been out for hours. In that traffic, it might not have survived for much longer. Jon wondered where it had come from.
"Hey," Martin's voice came from beside him, stirring him from his thoughts. "I'm... really sorry about all of this."
Jon lifted his gaze to him and watched him for a moment before nodding briefly.
"Just get it cleaned before it becomes an issue."
"Alright. I'm... I will. And I'm sorry for calling you 'Jon', too. I didn't mean to, Mr. Sims. It's just - Tim calls you that, and I panicked."
Jon shook his head.
"Everyone calls me Jon."
"But we don't exactly know each other. It wasn't - I didn't mean to come across rude."
"I know."
He hesitated for a moment. Weariness pressed upon him again as if he'd had the chance to forget about it throughout this little incident, but now it was back with force; he lifted his arm to cover up a yawn and then shook his head.
"You can stay in the back today: we have a lot of things to organise and label, and you won't need to worry about the dirty clothes. Just keep an eye on the animal while you're at it."
"You don't really like dogs, do you?" Martin asked.
Jon glanced at him and thought for a moment.
"I have no problem with dogs," he said then, "except when they're in my library."
Martin smiled a little bit and nodded.
"I swear this won't happen again."
Jon nodded too.
"It's good you picked it up," he confessed then, "Whoever owns it is an ass for letting it loose to begin with, but the dog doesn't deserve to die for their carelessness. None of us is allergic, so it can stay in the back until - until later."
"I have a vet appointment for it after work," Martin said, "I can feel the microchip in its ear so the owner should be easy to track down. I'm - I'm so sorry for this whole - I know it's my first day and this isn't really the impression I wanted to make, but..."
"You couldn't just leave it be."
"Yeah."
Jon nodded again.
"It's fine, Martin."
Martin relaxed visibly, his shoulders dropping a good distance as he exhaled. He seemed so kind and caring, Jon thought; that irritating softness about him was really getting to him, really digging its way through his evident decision to not like Martin. He was hard to not like, it turned out. There was a sincerity to him that Jon hadn't felt about many other people. He wasn't putting up a front for him, and everything he said seemed genuine, like he was desperate to be liked and accepted, or at least to keep his job here for whatever time it would be for. Maybe permanently, if indeed he wouldn't be bringing in any more strays from the streets, Jon thought, though of course it'd depend on how reliable he'd turn out to be in the long run. The signs so far weren't exactly in his favour, however.
"Clean up the mess," Jon told him then, lifting himself out of his chair. It was then he realised for the first time that he was rather... small in comparison to Martin, who, now that he wasn't bowing his head out of whatever horror Jon's presence was usually imposing upon him, stood taller than him. "When Sasha comes in, ask her for the materials."
"Alright," Martin breathed out, evidently relieved that he'd gotten off the hook. "I'll go find - something - somewhere... I'll get it done."
"The door beside the bathrooms. Ask Tim for the key."
"Gotcha."
Martin wasn't the best or the worst man Jon had ever worked with. He wasn't particularly fast with his work but he did do a thorough job at it, and after all, the library wasn't exactly the busiest environment for him to be working at, so his unhurried manner of completing his tasks didn't get in the way of everyday business. He came in at time every day, never late and never early, and for the main part spent his time alone in silence doing what he was supposed to be doing spare for the occasional moment Jon caught him daydreaming instead. It was unsurprising that he wasn't the kind of a man to make the place feel alive - that was Tim's job, and he overdid it daily - but he contributed nothing negative to the environment, and instead, his presence made the place feel more... homely, more comfortable. And, yes, it did free Jon from the work he didn't want to be doing, at least for the main part; he didn't particularly enjoy shifting through the reading of every visitor to the library. Like Martin, most of them never brought out anything worth the while anyway. It shouldn't have irritated him and it hadn't before he'd stopped sleeping - now every little thing was an affront to him personally, and that involved strangers wasting their lives away on books that he, personally, wouldn't have bothered with.
So the days went. The library stayed quiet the closer to Christmas they got and then, suddenly, bustled with activity for a few days when everyone suddenly remembered the existence of it in wake for the holidays and the spare time they all thought they were going to put into reading for the first time that year. It was one of those days - busier than usual, but not exactly crowded - that Martin showed up from his lunch break with two cups of takeaway in hand.
"Hey, Jon?" he said, his voice quiet and diplomatic, perhaps a little hopeful.
Jon lifted his head but didn't turn his gaze to him. He was used to answering questions, and Martin was used to him not paying any particular attention to him while he asked them.
"It's rather chilly in here, isn't it?" Martin continued.
This wasn't one of his usual questions. It didn't sound like anything Jon should have replied to, in fact, and in the wake of it he kept lifting his head until he was looking at Martin properly.
"If you've got complaints to make about the heating, I really can't help you with it," he told him.
"Oh, no," Martin assured him, "I was just - it's December and all. It's... it's really cold everywhere right now. My house is like a fridge, personally, I - like coming in here, it's warmer. But it never gets warm, you know?"
He drew out a seat beside Jon with the tip of his foot and sat down in it, planting his cups on the table. They smelled of cinnamon and spices.
"So... how are you doing?" he asked then.
Jon cocked his head indecisively.
"I'm tired. The system's slow and I can't fill this order, I've tried two times and it just won't go through."
"Did you get anything for lunch?"
"Is that somehow pertinent to why you're here, Martin?" Jon asked in turn.
Martin chuckled and shrugged.
"I guess," he said then, pushing one of the cups closer to Jon. "I hope you like chai lattes? They had a - a sale, two for one, so... you know, I - I thought you might enjoy one, since I didn't see you with anything today."
The way Jon regarded the drink was suspicious for the first glance, like he expected it to contain poison, but he caught himself from that look and let his features smooth over before he looked back at Martin again. Martin smiled at him, although it was a timid smile, and he lifted the other cup and took a sip of it.
"It's really nice on a cold day like this," he said. "I didn't know - I mean, the deal seemed too good to skip, but everyone else had lunch, so..."
"Thank you, Martin."
Jon wrapped his fingers around the paper cup and pulled it closer. The cinnamon-and-cloves scent that pillowed out of the drink combined with the warmth of the cup itself made him feel relaxed and calm.
"For the drink and - and thinking of me, I suppose."
"I just... I don't know, you don't really... talk to anyone, or - you know? It just felt like you could use a nice gesture."
Jon felt a flicker of heat rising to his cheeks.
"Well, if that's your reasoning then you're due for one as well."
"Everyone's been pleasant enough," Martin assured him. "Sasha's never anything but kind, and Tim's - well, he's... Tim."
Jon nodded.
"I wanted to... to thank you, really. For offering me the job."
"I didn't exactly offer it. I think I was trying to scare you out of asking for it, actually," Jon pointed out.
Martin laughed. It wasn't so timid anymore, but it was submissive, defeated.
"I know. I really chose a bad time to ask for it, didn't I? I'd actually - been around here for some time, but I never had the courage to do it, and then I just... well, I chose the worst moment."
"It's not your fault."
"I know. Whatever it was, I know I didn't - well, I didn't exactly do a good job presenting my case, either, but I know you had your own reasons and didn't want to be bothered. I should have read the room better."
Jon shook his head.
"I just don't like the front desk."
"Yeah. I've gathered that much."
Martin's smile went crooked, sympathetic.
"Do you really think my reading sucks?"
"Yes."
"Would you recommend something else? I've already read the bunch I had, so... I'm open for suggestions."
"Did you like that trash?" Jon asked him.
"Well - yeah, I did, actually," Martin told him, and in return, Jon smiled at him.
"Then you can keep reading it. It really isn't my place to tell you what you should be reading," he offered.
Martin chuckled.
"Still," he insisted, "What do you read?"
"Non-fiction, mostly. I don't have time for fairytales. I don't have the focus or the interest to carry me through them. I want to use my time for something that matters, like learning, knowing about things, about the world we live in."
"So like - biographies? True stories? You don't seem like the type for self-help books, really."
Jon laughed.
"No," he agreed, "You're right."
He went quiet for a moment and sipped his drink, and it warmed him up, Martin was right about that: the library was chilly, the winter was chilly, and London was its usual grey, cold self, and the tea did bring about as if a wave of colour within it, a warmth that radiated from the inside out.
"I'll pick something out for you if you really want, on one condition."
Martin nodded.
"What is it?"
"You tell me if you were honest about the two-for-one deal."
"Oh," Martin laughed, "Yes. You can go look yourself, it's valid until tomorrow. Just across the street, I didn't go that far. I guess that'd defeat the point of bringing you one, though."
"I suppose," Jon admitted.