Chapter Text
Jon pushes open the door to the Archives, and the room goes quiet. Tim, tilted back in his desk chair, still with laughter etched on his face, leans forward, and the thud of his chair hitting the floor echoes through the room like a gunshot. Sasha’s face goes completely blank, and Jon can’t tell whether it’s his imagination that she deliberately avoids his eyes as she spins around and returns to her computer. Martin, from where he’s sorting through statements in the corner, looks up and smiles. “Hi, Jon!” he says, with his usual cheer. Jon looks at him and steps into the room.
He feels as though he should say something -- a hello, or a compliment, or at least an acknowledgement of their existence. He's never been very good at that, though, at small talk and ordinary human interaction, so instead he gives each of them a nod, hoping that it conveys everything he won't say, and hurries past into his office to get started on the day's statements.
Truthfully, he doesn’t know why he took this job. It hadn’t occurred to him to protest when the opportunity was presented, and he doubts he’d even have been able to change Elias's mind. When Gertrude's disappearance had unexpectedly left the position open, he assumed that he'd perhaps spend most of his time taking statements from newcomers and organizing them. He hadn't expected the dismal state of the archives, and he hadn't expected that Elias would leave him down there with such vague directions as "get everything in order, as soon as possible. Digitizing might help." With no other guidance, digitizing was what they were doing, though it’s a slow and painstaking process, made even slower and less bearable by the occasional appearance of a statement that downright refuses to be recorded on a computer.
Those ones usually end up on Jon's desk, by his own direction. He now has a small stack of ancient tape recorders -- god knows where they came from or why the institute possessed them -- and uses them to record any of the more difficult statements, though admittedly if this whole thing were entirely at his discretion he might have just left them to be ignored and discarded. The entire staff takes turns digitizing the ordinary statements, but Jon makes it a point to take all the unusual ones. He doesn’t particularly like recording them; they leave a bad taste in his mouth, and sometimes after recording one he has the odd sense that the past several minutes hadn't happened at all. Either that or the statement would burn itself viscerally into his mind, refusing to leave his thoughts or dreams for days. The point is, he takes the unpleasant ones, because if nothing else, it’s his job to lead by example and take the hardest work on for himself.
The stack of statements that Jon had taken on as today’s workload sits innocently on his desk, and he suppresses a groan. He thumbs through the papers, and can tell instantly that a few of them will be able to go straight to the discredited section. Statement regarding a haunted race car, good Lord. Still, a few are… more difficult to discern, though he’ll at least attempt to record them on his computer first. He hasn’t quite mastered the art of accepting difficult truths yet.
Still, if the pile does contain any possibly-true statements, that’s a bridge he can cross when he gets to it. He’ll never even approach the bridge if he never gets started on his work. He sets his jaw and grabs the first statement off the pile.
He valiantly ignores the shiver that runs down his spine as he glances at it, choosing instead to power up the ancient, institute-provided computer in his office. He also ignores the magnetic pull of his eyes towards the pages, as though by simply looking at them he could sate some deep-seated need inside himself. He’s unfortunately unable to ignore the pathetic static that hisses from his computer as he presses record.
It feels like habit now, to grab the tape recorder instead, and Jon does ignore how the act of pressing record on the old device feels like a foregone conclusion, like a trap he’s been trying to avoid even as he inches closer and closer.
He shakes off the strange feeling settling over his shoulders, pulls the paper closer, and begins to read.
-----
The follow-up for this one is minimal, luckily. Well, not-so-luckily for the poor soul who, according to the statement-giver, disappeared without a trace three years ago, but luckily for Jon who just wants to be able to finish the recording. As he relays what minimal information he has into the recorder, he's startled into fumbling by a quiet knock on his door. Sasha and Tim haven't bothered entering his office since his promotion, which means it must be -- "Yes, Martin?"
The man sheepishly pokes his head in. “Hi, yes, it’s me. I was -- well, I was wondering, see, Tim and Sasha and I were going to try that new Thai place around the corner for lunch, and, well--” Jon waits with something that he can almost call patience, but that probably looks like blank dismissal on his face. “I wanted -- well, we wanted -- to know if you might. Um. Join us?”
Jon has to pause for a moment, genuinely surprised at the invitation. Wrong-footed, he fumbles for an excuse, but none is forthcoming. Actually, to be honest, lunch sounds nice, especially since Jon hasn’t really seen Tim and Sasha since he’s been promoted, hasn’t gone out with them at all. Still, there’s a reason Jon doesn’t go out for lunch very often. Multiple reasons, actually, the first being his difficult personality, and second, more pressingly, the stack of papers still remaining on his desk, which he’s perilously close to falling behind on. He can’t afford to waste even an hour of possible work time making small talk, not when this job is so new.
"I-- no, Martin, I'm busy."
"Are you sure? I didn't see you bring in lunch today--"
“That’s absolutely none of your business,” Jon snaps, harsher than he means to, although he also feels vindictively that it’s true. “I have work to get through. So do you , as it happens. I hope this doesn’t affect your ability to hand in your reports on time.” He almost says something worse, along the lines of this wouldn’t be the first time , or use your lunch break to spellcheck your work so I don’t have to do it for you . He bites it back, because there’s a difference between being strict and being mean, and although he knows that he usually toes that boundary, there’s no need to cross it on purpose.
Martin’s tentative smile drops. “Yes, okay, you’re right. Have -- have fun here, I guess.” He doesn’t say point taken , but Jon can see the sentiment in his eyes anyway. Martin gives him a nod and leaves, much more quickly and decisively than he’d entered.
Jon grabs the next statement off the pile, attempting to be neither annoyed at the interruption nor envious of the companionship, as he hears muted conversation from outside, then three pairs of footsteps leaving the archives. Fine, it’s just as well anyway that they leave; fewer interruptions means more time for work. Time to see whether this statement will, at least, record without issue.
It does, and the day passes in excruciating slowness as Jon works his way slowly through the pile. No one else knocks on the door, and Jon marks the time by the blinking numbers on his computer screen and the dwindling pile of statements. The eventual decrease in noise from outside alerts him to each of his assistants packing up and leaving for the day.
By the time he reaches the bottom of the pile, it’s absurdly late even by his standards, and rather than brave London at night, he resigns himself to another night spent in the archives. He barely has the presence of mind to drag out his cot and brush his teeth in the archives bathroom before collapsing into sleep.
-----
A thousand-faced monster jeers at him, and Jon abruptly realizes that he’s lost and surrounded. He doesn’t feel fear, only a calm resignation, as the creature opens its mouth and a strange, steady beeping noise comes out. The moment it happens, awareness creeps in and Jon drags himself, groaning, out of sleep. His wristwatch beeps again at him, angrily, and he winces and checks the time.
It’s almost 8 a.m. Wonderful.
Now that he’s listening for it, there’s also the muffled sound of footsteps and voices outside his door. Jon bites back a curse; he likes to be the first one at the archives every day, to set things up for the others. He’d lay out a stack of statements on each desk, with brief notes about what follow-up might be required. They probably don’t need it; they always come in in the mornings with a vague idea of the day’s tasks, and he could always hand them their work in person, but his system has the twofold advantage of avoiding unnecessary human contact while simultaneously making sure some people stay on task. It also, hopefully, makes it seem to the others like he knows exactly what he’s doing at all times, instead of the overwhelmed flailing in the dark that he sometimes feels his job entails.
Today, obviously, he’s failed to do so. But it's fine; he's fine, he'll just gather some of the not-yet-completed files from yesterday and hand it in person to whoever has already arrived.. He feels the oddest urge to apologize for not yet being prepared, even though technically no one’s expected to begin working until the day starts at 8 o’clock.
He shuffles through the papers on his desk, looking for something he can give to whoever's out there. He'd like something easier for Martin; the man isn’t particularly thorough in any of his followups, but at least for some of the simpler statements it’s much easier to correct his work afterwards. Sasha, on the other hand, had been getting bored lately; he'd better give her something more challenging. Eventually he has a stack of files he judges to be acceptable, but the sound of voices gives him pause near his still-closed door.
"Look, Sash, everyone knows it at this point.” Tim sounds annoyed, and Jon doesn’t particularly want to interrupt.
“Hush, Tim. It’s…”
"And don’t say it isn’t true. You know it, I know it, Elias knows it, and honestly if Jon doesn't know it by now, he's even worse off than we thought."
"That’s not fair.” A pause, lengthy enough that Jon wonders if they’ve finished talking. About him , apparently, God. “And I was going to say that it’s complicated.”
“You were thinking it too!”
"Even if I was, Tim, there isn't much we can do about it now, is there? Other than… I don’t know, watch him struggle?”
“Oh, trust me, we're doing plenty of that. He literally couldn’t be less qualified for this job if he was trying. ”
"It’s not his fault. He just… wasn’t prepared.”
“That’s just a generous way of saying he doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing.”
“Well-”
Jon leans back against the wall, the voices going fuzzy. He -- they aren’t wrong, that’s the thing. He doesn’t know what he’s doing here, in any sense. Every day feels like a struggle to keep up with the expectations piled on him, to bluff and bluster his way through it so that no one questions that he belongs here.
A brief image flashes in his mind of Sasha in his place, handing out assignments and giving instructions, as easy and natural as breathing. Guilt and shame rises in his throat, and he has to set the stack of files down on his desk or risk dropping them. It would be typical of him, wouldn’t it, to drop an entire stack of files before the morning’s work has even begun and put everyone behind.
It’s just -- he knows he’s unqualified for this, okay? That doesn’t make it feel any better to hear from his friends’ mouths. It… stings, unexpectedly, more than he’d have guessed it would. He knew that by accepting this promotion he’d be putting some distance between them, but he’d hoped that that distance would be born of respect, not scorn.
If it was anyone else in his position, it probably would be.
Some small part of Jon tells him that he should open that door and confront them. Even if they’re both right, it’s still an unacceptable way to speak about a coworker and boss, and he could reprimand them for that if nothing else.
A much stronger impulse, however, keeps his feet planted on the floor exactly where he is. There’s a large part of his mind that violently rejects the idea of letting them know that he heard them. Even if the right thing to do would be to confront them, he can’t actually be sure that he would make it out of that confrontation intact. It’s one thing to hear those accusations behind closed doors, but he doesn’t think he could survive them being spit in his face. He’d probably do something stupid like agree with them or start crying.
Distantly, he realizes that he’s still shaking, hard enough that if he’d still had anything in his hands it would have dropped and scattered by now. Simultaneously, he realizes that he can’t hear voices anymore. He takes a second to sort through the ringing in his ears, to figure out if it’s the sound of his own heartbeat drowning out everything else -- but no, the voices are gone. Tim and Sasha have left, if only for a moment.
Well. That gives Jon a few seconds, then, doesn’t it, to collect himself and feign an entrance. He scrubs a hand over his face, relieved to find it dry. He doesn’t want to have to explain tear tracks to them. He’d always been awful at lying, and chances are he’d take one look at their incredulous faces and spit out the truth, and he can already picture the pity and revulsion coating their faces when they realize his reaction to his own incompetence. No, better for everyone that he hadn’t been crying at all.
He glances out the door, just long enough to confirm that, though Tim and Sasha both have their things draped over their desk chairs, neither is currently in the room. He collects the pile of statements from his desk and exits his office, crossing over to the other side of the archives so that if Tim or Sasha reappears Jon will seem as though he’s just arrived. Slowly, to give them time to reappear, he sets down a small stack of statements on each of their desks. As he’s laying down Martin’s pile, Sasha walks in.
“Good morning,” she says politely. Jon feels a wave of shame wash over him. She wouldn’t be struggling like this, in his position. She’d have successfully picked out assignments for each of them days ago; she wouldn’t have overslept and waited until everyone else came in to distribute the morning’s work. Most of all, she would never have allowed gossip like that to continue; she’d be brave enough to confront anyone talking about her like that, and more importantly, she’d be confident enough and competent enough that no one would even think to insult her performance in the first place.
“Morning, Sasha,” Jon says, with an attempt at a smile that feels strange on his face. She raises her eyebrows at him, but says nothing, and he only stays long enough to inform her of the pile of work he’s left on her desk before retreating back to his office. He can’t help but notice the lack of other papers on her desk -- on all of their desks, now that he’s looking. Even Martin only has a few scattered sheets on his, and the others’ desks are completely empty, just waiting for new work. Jon can’t help but compare them to his own desk, which has been a mess for weeks, piles of unfinished work building up at the corners, waiting to overwhelm him.
All the more reason why Sasha would have been better at this than him; hell, it’s starting to look like any of his assistants would be handling this position better than Jon is. Christ, even Martin seems to be doing relatively admirably at keeping up with his workload.
Still, Jon’s not going to get anywhere by moping about it. Better to get a good head start on today’s statements. If he gets too behind, his assistants will start to notice, and that would only add fuel to the fire of their assumptions. He gathers a pile of unsorted statements, and sighs at the fact that their dates range from 1912 to only two months ago. At least, he thinks wryly, Gertrude didn’t seem to be any more organized than he is. Maybe the position’s just cursed.
He can get through an entire stack of statements today; they’ve already started piling up from previous days and it won’t do to be so behind. If anything, he ought to be ahead in his work; after all, most of what he does these days is just record statements. The others arguably have it harder, forced to spend all day on tracking down information and doing follow-up. He should be able to do this. If he can, then maybe, just maybe, he can begin to prove himself worthy of his position. And maybe , if he does, Sasha and Tim can learn not to resent him anymore. All he has to do is prove that he’s qualified, and he might be able to earn back their friendship.
Grimly, he grabs the top statement. It’s… an old woman’s complaint about her dog acting weird. Good. He turns on his computer and, thank God, the statement seems to record normally, with none of the static or strange glitching that has been so quick to accompany them recently. He gets through it quickly, spelling mistakes and all. This is fine; this is good , if they’re all like this he’ll finish his work easily, with time to spare. This might just be able to work.
The next statement is much the same, and Jon feels foolish at the relief that spikes through him at the discovery. He knows he’s just being overdramatic, but despite his better judgment he’s keen to avoid the shivery feeling of being watched that accompanies the more difficult statements.
It’s not exactly the most pleasant way to spend a workday, holed up in his office reading aloud fake stories that could generously be described as spooky, but the diligence will hopefully grant him relief later. Besides, it seems like Tim and Sasha could use the space.
He gets through five whole statements before the clock declares it near lunchtime, each one easily disavowed as false and recorded into his computer, though for completion’s sake, he makes sure that each has a detailed follow-up.
As he ends his fifth recording, his stomach gurgles on cue, but the idea of halting his work even more a moment is repulsive. Even more daunting is the thought of the journey he’d have to take to get lunch, the stares he’d receive from his assistants leaving to grab a sandwich, or the glares as he would inevitably retreat back into his office to eat.
He doesn’t feel a twinge of regret as he reaches for the next statement instead.
It’s moments later, when he scans the first words and feels a prickling on the back of his neck, that’s when the regret comes.
The computer starts glitching almost before he hits record, and Jon knows by now that he shouldn’t waste his time. Well. He was hoping it wouldn’t come to this so early in the day… or at all today, really. He still feels on-edge from the statement yesterday. For a moment, he weighs the pros and cons of skipping this one for now, leaving it for a time when he feels stronger.
On one hand, recording it could be miserable enough to leave him unproductive for a few hours, which is the exact opposite of what he needs if he’s going to earn even a modicum of respect from his colleagues. On the other hand, what kind of person avoids their work just because they’re jumpy enough to startle at shadows? Sasha wouldn’t be caught dead skipping statements because they’re spooky .
So no, it’s fine. He can work through the fear. He has to work through the fear. He – is interrupted by a soft knock on the door.
“Yes – come in –” he says, already ducking down to locate the tape recorder that was just here a moment ago. The door cracks open and – yep. Martin. Absolutely wonderful, exactly what Jon needs right now.
“What do you want,” Jon says flatly.
"Oh – oh! I just wanted to – ask if you wanted a cup of tea? Bring you one, I mean. I – I have it here. Maybe I shouldn’t have – well, I mean, I know how you like your tea.” Martin’s face is making a valiant effort to surpass the redness of a tomato. “Not like that! I haven’t been – I just mean I’ve seen you make it in the break room before. Just, not today. Usually you get yourself one, and, well, I didn’t see you, so…”
Ah, yes. Today’s revelations haven’t left much time for tea preparation, have they? Honestly, in his desperation to get enough work done after hearing… what he’d heard, it had completely skipped his mind that he’d have usually gotten himself a cup of tea by now.
“So… here,” Martin finishes, holding out the cup like a man expecting to be put in handcuffs. It seems perfectly prepared; the color is exactly right, as though Martin knows exactly how long to steep his tea and exactly how much milk Jon likes in it. Despite himself, something about that creates a spark of irritation within Jon. How is it that Martin just knows these things? Jon bets that Martin doesn’t have anyone talking about him behind his back. Human interactions seem to come so easily to him, so much so that he can worm his way into your life with nothing but a smile and a perfectly steeped cup of tea.
“Actually, Martin,” Jon hears himself say. “While I’m sure your tea is… perfectly adequate, there are certainly more useful things you could be doing with your time. Checking for errors in your latest report, for example. I’ve told you before, if you hand in one more report to me with such messy citations, I’m going to have to give it to Tim or Sasha to correct before it gets to me, and certainly before I attempt to record it. I don’t have time to correct your errors for you. So, please, unless you want to waste all of our time, I’d suggest you get to work on that rather than wasting those precious minutes making me tea that I don’t even want.”
There’s something fragile in Martin's eyes. Not tears, but something emptier, as though Jon had seen into his soul and found it lacking, and now Martin has nothing left. The words that he’d just said take shape in Jon’s mind, and he’s jolted back into his body with sharp awareness. He – he hadn’t meant – only, Martin’s lackluster work had occasionally been a burden, but not nearly as much of a burden as the work that Jon himself can’t keep up with. He didn’t mean to –
“R-right, okay,” says Martin. The look on his face matches the twisting in Jon’s stomach. Martin retreats quickly, the cup of tea gripped tightly in his hands, only barely avoiding sloshing onto the floor. As he leaves, he shuts the door with gentle care that belies the desperation of his retreat.
Far too late, Jon finds his words. “Martin, wait–” but the man is already gone. Great. Exactly what Jon needs. The guilt begins to manifest as a physical pressure behind Jon’s eyes. It isn’t that – well. Regardless of how he sometimes feels about Martin’s work, there’s a certain professional decorum that has to be maintained, and Jon hasn’t just crossed that line, he’s obliterated it. He knows he’s often short with Martin, but there’s a difference between making corrections to poor work and being deliberately cruel. Besides, Martin’s work isn’t usually that bad.
Arguably he’s actually doing better than Jon himself at handling the pressures of a new job. Either way, what Jon had just said was uncalled for.
Martin is long gone by the time Jon has the wherewithal to stand up and open his own door. He’s probably gone to pour out the wasted tea, or else to complain to someone about Jon’s behavior. It would certainly be justified.
Jon resolves to find and apologize to him later, even if something in him recoils at the thought. He’s never been good at apologies; he can never seem to get the words out right, and what he’s saying gets all jumbled, and half the time it just ends with the other person hating him more. He doesn’t want it to end like that with Martin, though he fears he’s already passed the point of no return in that regard. There’s no guarantee that an apology, even a genuine and well-presented one, would fix this, and frankly Martin would be well justified in never speaking kindly to him again. Either way, Jon is certain that he won’t be offered another cup of tea anytime soon.
Still, he can’t spare too much of a thought for this, not right now. The guilt is rising in his throat, choking him, but he can’t work productively like this. The pressure behind his eyes has built to a pulsing headache, that only hurts more when he replays the encounter in his mind. He shoves the last five minutes out of his head with enough determined force that he physically feels himself move as though to push the memory away. He can make his best attempt to fix this… later. Later, after this pile of work is done. He can apologize to Martin, and attempt to clear the air with Tim and Sasha. All that can be done later. They might never forgive him, and why should they, when he’s so casually cruel to Martin with his words and Sasha with his actions. Still, it might show them that at least he’s on their side. It might help weaken the tension in the air enough that he can at least breathe.
Before all of that, though, he has to get through this work. It’s no use thinking of relationships if he gets fired first for his inability to do his job. He’s still got a statement to record, and he’s wasted enough time by stalling.
With a sigh, he grabs the paper and his tape recorder. He… wishes he had a cup of tea.