Chapter Text
If New York never slept, London woke up far too early.
The coffee grinder was still cycling through cleaning powder when the bell above the door chimed. Martin glanced at the clock on the espresso machine. It was 6:48—or, simply, far too early.
"We aren’t open for another twelve minutes, I’m afraid!” he called.
There was a deep breath from the doorway. Martin didn’t look up from the off-white powder falling into the bowl in his hand; it was far too early for any sort of confrontation. Avoiding eye contact would usually make them go away after a while. They didn’t. The breathing kept going, getting louder and heavier until it bordered on hyperventilation. Purely out of concern for this person’s health, Martin looked up.
He met eyes. Dozens of eyes.
“Um,” he said.
Other than the eyes, the man was small and thin, with round glasses and salt-and-pepper hair that fell across his face. He was wearing a sweater vest, which was startlingly normal amongst the rest of his appearance. The eyes really were unavoidable, though: one sat in the centre of his forehead, two more on the high points of his cheekbones. They could have been very, very strange tattoos, if they weren’t blinking at him.
“Martin,” the man said, and collapsed.
He hit the floor with a thump that was far too loud for his frail body. Martin immediately abandoned the coffee machine, and he felt less trepidation about approaching this strange man than he thought he would have. Up close, it was clear that he had been through some sort of Hell. His cuffs were undone, hanging loose around his bony wrists, and his unbuttoned collar exposed the fragile column of his throat. There were scars there, shining silver in the morning light, and he was caked in dirt and dust and something that could have been blood. Martin took his wrist carefully, avoiding the milky-white eye that blinked up at him from the back of his scarred hand, and felt a very faint pulse. He was also completely dry, despite the torrential rain which hadn’t let up all morning.
It took some manoeuvring, but not an awful lot of strength, to get the man situated on one of the sofas. From there, Martin was lost. He would have called 999, if it weren’t for the eyes and the bedraggled appearance; this man was something, something that Martin couldn’t name but probably wouldn’t be well-received by any sort of authority. They would probably hand him over to the nearest lab for scientific research—or, maybe, London Zoo. Roll up, roll up, to see London’s finest many-eyed freak!
And, anyway, he knew Martin.
At least, he knew Martin’s name. But the distinct, relieved recognition in his voice had been hard to miss; he seemed to know him, which was curious because Martin was sure he would have remembered meeting a dirty guy with a dozen eyes, even amongst the London foot traffic.
It was almost seven o'clock. He locked the front door.
Then, he did what he knew best: he made a cup of tea.
By the time the man came around, the tea had been sitting for a few minutes. It was still steaming slightly. His real eyes blinked slow and heavy as he woke, and he looked around with vague panic for a moment until his gaze fixed on Martin.
“Martin,” he said, still breathing as if he had just run a mile, “you’re—you’re here.”
He sounded so relieved, Martin ached to know who he thought he was. Instead of asking, he nodded, “I made you tea.”
A wave of grief seemed to rock through the man as he looked at the steaming mug. His hands shook so badly around it that Martin wondered if he should have given him one of the cardboard takeaway cups instead, but he gripped it tight, eyelashes fluttering against the warmth coming from it.
“Thank you,” he whispered. “Thank you, Martin.”
He wouldn’t stop saying his name, like he knew him, like Martin was the only thing he knew. Martin couldn’t do it anymore: he had to know. “How do you know my name?”
Something broke in the man’s face. The mug rocked in his hands and tea splashed onto his white sleeve. He didn’t notice.
“You don’t remember me.”
It wasn’t a question. It was a statement of fact, with more weight behind it than Martin could reasonably understand. He shook his head, stunned into a guilty silence.
“I’m sorry.”
“Oh, God,” the man choked.
“I’m sorry, I know that’s—you could tell me your name; it might jog my memory.”
“Jog your memory…” the man chuckled, mirthless and exhausted. He scrubbed a dirty, bloodstained hand over his face and then made his best attempt at a smile. “Jon. My name is Jon. Ring any bells?”
Martin didn’t want to say that it didn’t—he feared that little truth might just kill this man where he sat—so instead, he said, “It’s nice to meet you, Jon.”
Jon’s half-smile tried its best to stay intact, but a terrible sadness twisted in his face as he replied, in a whisper that rasped with unshed tears, “It’s nice to meet you too.”
A series of heavy knocks sounded on the window, and Martin turned to find Tim banging relentlessly on the door. He was so close to it that his breath fogged up the glass, and rain hammered down on the pavement behind him. “Martin! Let me in, you wanker!”
“Sorry,” Martin said to Jon.
Jon didn't reply. He was staring, slack-jawed, at the window where Tim stood. Martin chose to file that away for later, and stood to unlock the door.
Tim barrelled through in a flurry of rain, and smacked Martin’s arm with a wet hand. “You absolute twat! I’m absolutely soaked!”
“Sorry,” Martin said, cringing at the wet patch now on his jumper, “I had a—”
He didn’t need to explain; Tim had already found Jon. They stared at each other with similar, yet wildly opposite open-mouthed expressions. Tim looked understandably concerned about the man with too many eyes sitting on their sofa, while Jon appeared overcome with another wave of unnameable emotion.
“Martin,” Tim said, without taking his eyes off Jon, “we need to talk.”
Martin swallowed. “Yeah, probably.”
“By all means,” said Jon, still shaking, “go ahead.”
Careful never to fully turn his back to Jon, Tim tugged Martin into the stock cupboard.
The cupboard was really far too small for two fully grown men to fit into comfortably, but Tim didn’t seem too phased by the proximity as he slammed the lock. He pressed himself back against it and breathed a sigh of relief.
“Okay,” Martin began, “I can—”
“What the fuck is that thing?”
Martin didn’t, exactly, have an answer for that. “It’s—it’s Jon.”
“Who the fuck is Jon?”
“I don’t know. That's what I'm trying to find out!”
Tim gave an anguished cry. Martin shushed him, “Tim! He can hear you!”
“So what? He’s a nightmare creature! He’s an actual—oh, my god!” Tim slapped a hand over his mouth. “I’m gonna be sick. I’m actually going to be sick.”
“Please don’t.”
“Well, what do you expect me to do?”
“Maybe show some compassion? He’s really confused and upset. I think he’s been through a lot.”
“He’s been through a lot,” Tim repeated incredulously. “He’s been through a lot… right… I have to be kind to the eldritch horror monster in my workplace because he’s been through a lot. Sorry, I didn’t get that memo. You forgot to pop that one in the WhatsApp group!”
“Tim, please be quiet.”
“Have you actually lost it, Martin?" Tim's face fell. "Or have I lost it, and I’m seeing things that aren’t—am I hallucinating? Oh, shit… did I—did I have a bad trip? Am I dead?”
“Shush! Shush! You’re not dead, Tim, you’re not”—Martin clapped his hand over Tim’s mouth so that he could get a word in—“you’re not dead, and you’re not hallucinating. I can see them, too. I just… I feel like there might be a way I can help him.”
Tim replied something that might have been “Help him?” but it was muffled to two anxious notes by Martin’s big hand.
“Yes, help him; he… he knows me. I don’t know how, but he knows me. I think he might—”
There was a knock on the door. Tim’s eyes flew wide.
“Sorry to interrupt,” Jon called through the door, “but you have a customer.”
“Thank you!” Martin called back. “We’ll be right out!”
He gave Tim a warning glare, and cautiously removed his hand from Tim’s mouth. Tim stayed mercifully silent, although his eyes still betrayed panic and confusion.
“Please,” Martin whispered, “just let me handle this, yeah?”
“I can’t believe this is real life,” Tim replied, and it felt somewhat like progress.
Martin left the cupboard first. He smiled politely at Jon, while Tim plastered himself as close to the wall as he physically could. Jon’s eyes—all of them—followed him, and Tim gave a very visible shudder of terror.
“Jon,” Martin said gently, “why don’t you go back and sit down? I’ll bring you over another cuppa once I’m done here.”
Jon nodded, “Yes, thank you, Martin.”
He retreated back to the sofa, and Tim relaxed just a little. Martin stared at him, hoping to convey as much of his contempt as possible, and headed to the till.
If the lady waiting at the counter had noticed any weirdness, she didn’t show it. She was so wrapped up in her phone screen that Martin wouldn’t be surprised if she hadn’t even seen Jon, let alone noticed him enough to be perturbed.
“Hello there,” Martin said, customer service voice activated, “what can I get started for you today?”
“Your app isn’t working,” she said, placing her phone on the counter.
Amongst all the weirdness of the morning, Martin had forgotten to turn their app settings to open. He started pulling up the window to do so, already apologising—“Oh, I’m sorry, let me get that sorted for y—”
“No worries, I’m here now,” she said dismissively. “Just an extra hot latte with oat milk.”
He could have laughed. Of course, even on the strangest day of his life, customers would be customers.
“Of course,” he said, and felt oddly better.
Martin took Jon his tea. He took him a lot of tea, and Jon regarded each one with the same pinched expression. He didn’t speak much, besides a small, quiet, “Thank you, Martin.” with each teacup that came to him.
Sasha arrived for the afternoon-evening shift while he was in the middle of a delivery. When he came back to the counter with Jon’s old empty cup, she asked, “Who’s that?”
Martin dumped the mug in the ‘to-be-washed’ tray and replied, as casually as he could, “That’s Jon.”
“Right,” she said, and by the time Martin had turned around, she was halfway across the floor. He followed her, but his attempts to stop her were futile; it was a small place, and she was already at Jon’s table by the time he caught up.
Jon looked up from his tea. Martin had given him his jacket in an attempt to stop the shivering, and it dwarfed him.
“Hello,” he said, with a note of familiarity.
“Hello,” Sasha held out her hand. “I’m Sasha.”
“Jon,” he replied, and—to Martin’s great surprise—shook her hand.
At the counter, Tim looked horrified.
His horror only grew when Martin told them his plan.
“I’m going to take him home.”
Tim spluttered, and Sasha patted him between the shoulder blades as he choked coffee out of his airway.
“You’re going to fucking what?” he exclaimed when he’d recovered. “He’s not a stray dog, Martin!”
He had a point, Martin supposed, but he really couldn’t see another option. “What do you want me to do, leave him here?”
“I want you to get your head out of your arse for one second and think about what you’re doing,” Tim replied. His tone was actually, strangely, very concerned; it was maybe the most sincere he’d been to Martin in the three years they’d worked together.
“Alright, Tim, your concern is perfectly valid,” Sasha interjected, ever the mediator, “but, Martin, you said you knew him?”
“I don’t—” Martin sighed. “He knows me. Apparently.”
Tim threw his hands up. “Apparently! He could be anyone, Martin. He could be some… weirdo who found you on the internet and stalked you to your job and is now getting exactly what he wanted: to follow you home and kill you in your sleep with his weird, eldritch powers!”
“I think he’s genuine,” Martin said.
“Of course you do,” Tim sighed, “you always see the good in everyone. It’s—”
“—a good trait to have,” Sasha interrupted, before he could get too insulting, “but you do have to think about this, Martin: are you sure this is what you want to do? We could always put him up in a hotel for tonight; we have enough in the tip jar to cover it, I think.”
“I don’t think he’d be safe in a hotel,” Martin said, to Tim’s great distress. “Honestly, guys, I—I believe him. You didn’t see him when he came in.”
Sasha nodded—if anything, she just seemed happy that he was finally standing up for himself; she was always telling him that he needed to be more defiant, that he let customers (and Tim, and Elias, and, and, and) walk all over him. Tim’s face twisted, but he didn’t argue his case further.
“If you’re sure, then go ahead,” Sasha said. “Just let me know you’re safe, yeah?”
Tim took a long sip of his coffee, and tipped his head forward a little. “Godspeed.”
Jon looked a little confused when Martin came over empty-handed. His last cup was empty, and he had taken to staring thoughtfully at the large bookshelf wall. Martin couldn’t tell if he was reading the titles or not. He folded his raincoat over his arm.
“My shift is over,” he said, feeling oddly nervous, “do you have anywhere to stay tonight?”
Jon’s mouth moved in a silent thought, and then he shook his head. “No. I don’t think so.”
Strange response. Martin was getting used to strange responses. The fact that he wasn’t sure about his answer seemed to bother him, and Martin really didn’t want him to look sad anymore.
“That’s okay. Would you like to come home with me?”
Jon’s shoulders relaxed just a touch. He gave a short, sharp inhale, and then said, “Yes. Yes, I’d like that very much.”
Martin smiled. “Okay. Good. Let’s go, then.”
Jon seemed slightly steadier on his feet when he stood, although there was still an element of fragility to him that made Martin want to offer him his arm in support. He didn’t, but kept his hand close by the small of Jon’s back as he led him out. Sasha waved at him with a grin, but Tim didn’t look all too confident that he would ever see Martin again.
The bell chimed. On the pavement outside, Jon turned to him and smiled, just a little, like he was still getting used to it, and Martin injected as much warmth into his responding smile as he could. He had the implicit feeling that they were going to be just fine.