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It's cold, that's the first thing that registers when Jon makes his way outside. England isn't exactly known for having kind winters - and he knows that better than anyone having lived there his entire life. But for some reason there are people who seem to love it, and he could never understand them. As he weaves through the streets, kicking through dirtied slush that was once snow he looks at the area that surrounds him.
University buildings peek above the city sykline, and they're a grim reminder of the day that awaits. Considering that he'd stayed up almost all night, nursing a cup of coffee until almost five in the morning marking papers that he doesn't necessarily care about, his paranormal journalism and research lecture could easily wait. Plus, there definitely aren't many who are actually interested in the topic. Half the things he talks about with his students he doesn't even believe in.
Jon much prefers walking to taking the bus, most would rather do the opposite. London's biting air is as good a deterrent as anything else, but he doesn't necessarily care about that either. The sky is grey, he notices, and the windchill is enough to make it feel like there are claws scraping down his cheeks. But he doesn't mind it at all, looking around the area he notices that there are more and more students coming into view.
He recognises next to none of them, a few he notices from the journalism apartment. He sees some of his fellow faculty members but that's about it and that was about it. The life of a college professor is nothing glamorous and there definitely not many friends that one makes in such a profession - well, not someone like him anyway.
Sure, it's easy for someone like Timothy Stoker who makes himself known throughout the campus. Always running around and questioning students about what could be done better, or how things could be different. Jon would rather die than do something like that, it's not only effort but it's also something so benign.
Foreign is the perfect word that Jonathan Sims would use to describe friends.
And he likes it that way, he walks to campus himself every morning. The snow fringed tree branches that he sees overhead, hanging over the footpath are welcoming. Everything he thinks or says to himself they know - they've heard him talking to himself and scoffing as he's walked home late at night after forcing himself to stay late.
Sagging down, one of the branches looks as if it's almost about to fall - but instead of the branch itself falling, snow falls down from one of them.
T hud.
Distracted from his own thoughts, he's quick to look up to see a man with snow through his hair. A light brown which goes darker as snow melts into it, Jon notes that he's not exactly..small but he emanates a type of warmth that he's yet to have encountered.
He has half a mind to just keep walking, to go on with his day but he comes to a stop, his eyes carefully taking in the person in front of him. Snow lies atop his head, making its way through his hair. Jon watches on as the man tries to shake it off, but that only makes it worse and now the snow has begun to melt.
Slowly, he moves closer, trying to figure out just who this man is. Though the question he's yelling at himself the most is 'why?' But he doesn't have an answer as he begins to walk again. Eventually, the man pulls his scarf off from around his neck and shakes it out. Snow had fallen into where the creases had been as the scarf had rested on his neck and over his shoulders.
Not only did this person emanate warmth, but he also looked unexplainably soft. Like if Jon were to touch him he'd feel as if he were stuffed full of cotton and a joy to hold onto as you fall asleep.
Disregarding everything that he was yelling at himself, he walks past him and hears him saying things over and over to himself. But that isn't before he can get at least a glimpse of what he actually looks like. Freckles adorn his cheeks which are slightly flushed red from the cold as is his nose, his eyes are a light brown colour that reminds Jon of autumn leaves, glasses sit atop his nose, slightly askew from where the snow had fallen.
"O-Oh, Oh dear, Oh it's so cold, oh god my papers! My books? Ah what time is it?"
Jon checks his own watch in response, checking it as if about to reply and realises that it's almost time for his first lecture of the day. Meaning it was around twenty-past eight in the morning, and he doesn't turn around to say a thing to the man he'd run into on his walk to campus that morning.
If he were to be late, he wouldn't hear the end of it from any of his students considering his own scathing comments whenever a late comer walks into his lecture halls.
But that doesn't mean that his thoughts are any quieter throughout the day. Even as he talks on and on about how everything should be recorded and about how to properly conduct follow up research, his mind keeps going back to the morning. It keeps going back to that stupid snow trodden path and whoever that unfortunate soul had been.
The only giveaway to who, or where Jon would even be able to find him was the small amounts of dialogue he'd heard paired with the fact that he'd looked slightly too old to be a student, yet never had he seen him in any of the faculty buildings - though that could easily just be because Jon doesn't spend time anywhere but the journalism department.
More often than not he likes to spend his time in the library, but they close rather early and since he usually works into the night it's frustrating having to get up and move from place to place so those nights are few and far between. On the few occasions, he has fallen asleep there though, he hasn't been woken and instead found himself on campus the next morning with sunlight streaming through the windows into his face.
Resting on his shoulders will be a blanket, and even a note in poor handwriting will be next to his head.
A much better wake-up than the glaring of the alarm that comes from his phone in the mornings. Only one thing is missing those mornings, and that's usually his morning coffee which jilts his routine slightly but not enough to completely ruin his day - and the coffee shops on campus aren't so bad either.
Really - there's nothing to complain about.
And he doesn't even know why he let his thoughts run from that stranger to his nights in the library. The two really have next to no correlation, though its quite annoying that he can't quite place his finger on just how he knows who this person is. As he sits in his office, with his head in his hands he wonders if he should ask anyone. But who? If anyone, and he means anyone were to hear about him asking after someone he's certain that he wouldn't hear the end of it.
As he sits in his office, with his head in his hands he wonders if he should ask anyone. But who? If anyone, and he means anyone were to hear about him asking after someone he's certain that he wouldn't hear the end of it.
He hates unnecessary questions. He just hates people - though, there are some exceptions.
Two unread dissertations sitting on the corner of his desk, and he figures that if he were to start reading them now then maybe he'll be able to put this morning's encounter behind him.
Hours tick by, he has to change the red pen in his hand three times as it runs out of ink. His head begins to hurt and words start to jumble together - but he doesn't want to stop. He already knows where his thoughts will go when he does stop - and he's sick and tired of thinking about the same thing over and over again.
It comes to a point where he can barely stomach another indentation, another typo, another incorrectly cited piece of information or another misreported number...Thinking about crossing out anything in that cursed red pen makes him want to throw up - and that's not an exaggeration at all.
Placing the papers back down on the desk, he leans back in his chair and lets out a small sigh. Stretching his arms up behind his back his shoulders shift and he feels somewhat relieved - his body is definitely thanking him after hours being hunched over that desk.
Turning his head, Jon takes a look out of the window and sees that once again it's snowing. Lights of the city can be seen through the trees, and they seem to be blurring with the light pieces of snow and clouds. Its then that he decides that maybe it's time for a change of scenery - or some difference to attempt to bring about some kind of change to his motivation levels.
The more he gets done now, the quicker he can send things back to his students for them to finish things - and the quicker he can turn his brain off for at least a day. Though people don't seem to realise that he does have some days where he likes to turn his brain off. Instead, people think that he works around the clock. The click of the door is rather loud as he closes it, filling the empty hallway. Of course, there's no one else there to hear it but that doesn't stop him from cringing at it.
Artificial light filters through the university hallway from the computer rooms and red recording lights as he makes his way outside. The cold isn't welcoming but he thinks nothing of it, his thoughts drift back to the scene that had occurred this morning. And he wonders if he'd imagined the warmth that had filled his chest was simply an illusion. Even now, just as he thinks about it there's warmth in his chest, that moves up his body and into his cheeks. It's foolish, so foolish that he casts his gaze to the ground and begins muttering to himself about how foolish it is.
Thwack!
Pain erupts from his side and once again, the world around him is blurred. Honestly, he doesn't even know why all of this is happening to him - all he'd wanted was just a normal a day. A day without any distractions, a day to read through his own students work - a normal day.
Everyone knows that Jonathan Sims hates distractions.
"O-Oh no? I'm so sorry, are you okay?"
A hand is presented to him, and he takes it.
"Honestly what kind of bumbling idiot ar-"
Oh.
Warmth - the one he'd begun to hate, the one that went up his chest and into his cheeks is back. The warmth he'd been thinking about all day, the warmth that he'd felt no less than five minutes ago, it's there.
And he notices that the same scarf from the morning. The same hair, the same face, those round glasses that make him look even softer, and the freckles...
"-re you?"
"You don't remember me?" Wounded is the word that jon would use to describe the voice, he almost feels guilty. "I-I'm the librarian..Martin Blackwood."
And it all begins to make sense, why Jon felt so warm when he saw Martin this morning. Where that ghostly feeling of familiarity had come from - because of course all those late nights in the library he hadn't been alone. Of course, someone had been there with him.
Martin had been with him - Taking care of him, looking after him.
"You're the one who always leaves me there? With blankets and the keys?"
Martin doesn't even say anything as Jon stands on his feet, brushing snow off of himself. Wetness seeping through his pants and onto his skin. He doesn't find himself caring though, the cold isn't distracting him anymore.
"Why?
The question rings out in the night air - and Jon has no idea where to go or what to say. Does he say anything about the warmth he felt upon looking at Martin? How he finds himself drawn to him in a way that he can't describe?
What is he supposed to do, or say, he's at a complete loss.
For the first time in his life, Jonathan Sims is at a loss.
"Because someone has to take care of you."