Work Text:
Jon generally tries to snatch a few hours’ sleep each night. Not by choice; there’s so much to do, so much he’s sure he isn’t doing, and his dreams are a fresh horror every night. But he’s read enough studies about the effects of sleeplessness—declining mental acuity, impaired decision making—and he needs all his faculties about him with the threat of the Unknowing looming closer by the day.
So, around one in the morning, when his eyes are gritty and it’s getting hard to focus on the page in front of him, he retreats to the cot in Document Storage.
He could go home; he has a new flat, in a nice, modern apartment building. But his possessions that didn’t get lost during his eviction in absentia from his previous flat, or taken as evidence by the police, are still mostly here, in boxes that he keeps intending to take to the new flat, and keeps not getting around to. It’s just easier, staying in the Archives when he has so much to learn, when so much depends on him learning the right things, even while he has farcically little clue of what those might be.
He doesn’t examine the idea that the Archives feels more like home than his unlived in new flat, or even than the old flat he’d occupied for four years; it is what it is.
Tonight, Jon can’t get comfortable. He’s gotten used to the cot over the past couple of years, its lumps and creaks practically old friends. But tonight it seems to be rebelling, jabbing what feels like about a dozen springs into his lower back. Jon scowls and flops over, squirming to find a more tolerable position. As he does, he knocks his phone off the thin mattress, and it skids beneath the cot.
“Oh for—” he mutters, and hangs off the edge of the cot to retrieve it. As he reaches for his phone, he sees another object: a cassette tape in its case, lying on the floor beneath the frame of the cot. Jon frowns, and fishes it out along with his phone. He uses his phone torch to take a better look.
The clear plastic case is dusty, as if it’s been under there for some time. The label is filled out in neat handwriting, which Jon recognizes instantly:
Martin K. Blackwood — Poems
Jon considers it, chewing on his lower lip. Martin must have left this here when he moved out of the Archives, over a year ago. Recordings of his poetry; recordings of him reading his poetry.
He shouldn’t listen to it. It belongs to Martin, and it wouldn’t be right to listen without his permission. Yes, Jon read some of his poetry before, but he had been...not exactly at his best, back then. Martin would probably be embarrassed if he found out. Not that he has any reason to be; Jon’s no judge of poetry (heaven forbid!) but what he read was very pleasant. Lyrical and melancholy, filled with a sort of yearning towards a kinder time and place.
It was...very Martin, Jon thinks.
There’s a click to his left, and when he looks down there’s a tape recorder on the cot beside him, whirring gently as it records him doing absolutely nothing. Just an innocent tape recorder, it seems to say, Not here for any particular reason; certainly not because you want to listen to a tape right now. Jon scowls at it.
“Fine,” he snaps. He removes the tape that’s in the recorder and slots Martin’s in. Just one poem; he’ll just listen to one, and then he’ll return the tape to Martin. He might not have another chance to hear Martin recite his poetry.
He might not have the chance for a lot of things.
He presses play, and the tape hisses to life. For a few moments, there’s nothing but white noise, then the sound of someone clearing their throat, and then:
“Tea, By Martin K. Blackwood.
The simplest of things: a cup of tea
A grand tradition distilled to personal ritual
Delicately brewed, or stewed and sugared ‘til the spoon stands up
Not a cure for all ills, but a balm—a calming interlude
A moment to yourself; a welcome for visiting friends
A taste of home for soldiers in the trenches
A way to say: I was thinking of you, and I care—”
The narration cuts off with frustrated sound, and then Martin says:
“That’s—no, that’s bloody stupid. Useless. Try again.”
The recording ends with a clunk, and Jon turns the tape off before the next one can start; he’s startled to realize that his eyes are wet, his throat tight. His chest is heavy with some vast, inescapable emotion.
“God,” he laughs, swiping a hand over his eyes. “Getting emotional over tea, I must be tired.”
Except it’s not the tea, is it? It’s the soft sincerity of Martin’s recorded voice as he read the words he composed. The thought of him back then, stuck on this miserable cot night after night, scared for his life yet still trying to do something that brought him joy. It’s hearing how Martin truly thinks of tea, when he makes it so often for—for all of them.
I was thinking of you, and I care.
Jon wipes his eyes again and tucks the cassette back into his case. He shouldn’t have listened, but he can’t bring himself to truly regret it. Even if it’s selfish, snatching for pieces of Martin that haven’t been offered...well, Jon is greedy in that regard. He’ll apologize later, if they all get through what’s coming. If they get a chance to really talk.
The next morning, Martin looks up when Jon approaches his desk; his smile is warm, and Jon’s heart aches with it.
“Morning Jon,” he says. Jon feels the corners of his own mouth curl in reply, unbidden.
“Morning Martin,” he says, and holds out the cassette. “I, ah, I found this in Document Storage. I supposed you might be missing it.”
“Right!” Martin flushes, embarrassed. “Thank you, Jon. Silly of me to leave it there.”
“No problem,” says Jon, and extends his other hand, which is holding a mug. “Oh, I thought you might like a cup of tea?”
“Oh,” says Martin softly, taking the mug. “Yes, thank you. This is lovely.”
“It’s nothing. I just—I was thinking of you.”
And I care, he doesn’t add, but by the way Martin smiles, Jon thinks he understands.