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Martin tells himself it means nothing.
Jon giving back the photo, even though he doesn't want anyone to know, means nothing.
Jon thanking Martin genuinely for the tea means nothing.
Jon allowing Martin to use Document Storage as a makeshift bedroom after being hounded in his flat by a lady filled with worms for two weeks, means nothing.
He's not particularly used to people being nice to him. Between his mother and most of his coworkers treating him like a poor lost puppy at best, and a bumbling, clueless idiot at worst, he's used to being looked down on. He's used to glares and eye rolls and tuts, so he tends to cling to fleeting moments of kindness. Because that's all it is: a fleeting moment of kindness. Jon may be an arse, but he's not going to leave Martin homeless. The bar is in hell, and Jon is just barely managing to limbo under it.
So, if you were to ask—which, Martin hopes you wouldn't, if only to save him from a heart attack—if he thought Jon giving him a rickety cot, a scratchy blanket and a half stuffed pillow was evidence of his silly crush being reciprocated, Martin would say no.
All in all, it's really not as bad as he was expecting. Sure, he'll be living on takeout and microwave meals since he can't exactly get access to the cafeteria kitchen, but it's not the worst. When he pictured Document Storage, he thought of a damp, leaky room with dust in the air and a chill cooling him to the bone. What he finds is a very clean square of a room with a red and orange woven rug. Filing shelves cover the whole back wall, and the other walls are lined with cardboard boxes, full to bursting. There's not a speck of dust in the place, and it's cool, but not cold. The cot is low to the floor, rusty in the hinges, and the padded bed is weirdly crusty. Like it's covered in crumbs that no amount of swiping his hand over the mattress will get rid of.
Needless to say, he only sleeps that first night because he passes out from exhaustion.
Over the next couple of weeks, Tim and Sasha help him find an actual duvet, a mattress sheet, a decent pillow. He even finds a decent plug in lamp to use instead of the so-white-they're-blue florescent lights. It becomes almost cosy (if you ignore the fact that it's the creepy basement of a definitely haunted Institute and he sleeps with his hand curled round the handle of a corkscrew, in case of worms).
But, of course, no matter how livable he can make the storage room, it's still not great as a bedroom.
He can't sleep. He's been tossing and turning for what feels like hours, the cot creaking in protest under his weight. His eyes keep sliding open, forcing him to stare at the panelled ceiling instead of actually getting some sleep. He's about ready to start screaming into the pillow, as if it would help, when he decides to sit up instead. He'll just have to do what he does whenever anything goes wrong: make some tea.
He throws on a pair of trackies as he ventures out into the much colder Archives, making a beeline for the break room. He's been investing a considerable amount of money into a stockpile of sleepy time tea, in the hopes that it might make him feel like less of a zombie during the day, and the boxes take up the whole of a shelf in the tea cabinet. He turns on the kettle and waits, suddenly feeling a lot more tired than he did when he was laying down.
He picks at the peeling wood stain on the desk as he waits, staring idly off into the distance until it clicks itself off. He pours the boiled water over the teabag, then some milk. No sugar tonight, it won't do him any favours, but it sure would taste better. He's just about to head back into Document Storage to huddle around his tea like it's his only source of warmth in a snowstorm, when a loud bang comes from the stacks.
Martin freezes, thankfully not dropping his tea, and he stares off into the dark recesses of the stacks. The automatic lights had shut off not long after everyone else left, but now a single pale light flickers in the distance, around a corner. He takes a deep breath, and decides what he should do.
On one hand, exploring the dark, cramped maze of shelves with an unknown creature running around in it, alone, is stupid. It's like, the number one thing you don't do in any horror movie. What if it's Prentiss? What if it's that thing Sasha saw? What if it's another monster Martin doesn't know about?
But on the other hand, if he hides away in Document Storage, whatever is in the Archives will just find him eventually, and he'll be cornered in his pyjamas with nothing but tea and a corkscrew. Sure, he could just leave, but he has nowhere to go. He can't exactly knock on Tim or Sasha's doors, he doesn't even know where they each live, and he doesn't have the kind of money needed for a hotel room in Central bloody London. Plus, Jon would be so upset with him if he let the Archives get destroyed.
So, with his corkscrew in hand, and his phone torch in the other, Martin shakily sets off into the stacks.
Unlike Document Storage, the stacks are so dusty, dusty doesn't even seem fit enough to describe it. The further back he gets, the more and more everything is caked with thick layers of matted, grey fluff. He takes to holding his shirt over his nose, having already had to stifle a sneeze or two. As he creeps through the maze, it's easy to follow the thing. It's left a long, shambling trail through the dust, left knocked over boxes and one or two broken shelves.
Every little thing sets him off. Paper rustling, the lights buzzing to life as they sense his movement, distant, hushed footsteps. If anyone tells you he shrieks a little when he spots the end of a tail whipping around the corner, they're lying. And still, he follows the tail.
He gets to the corner, flashlight pointed into the shelf so the creature doesn't spot him, and he braces himself. For what, he doesn't know, but he braces. With a shuddering breath, he pokes his head around the corner, and finds—
Oh. It's just Jon.
Well, were-dragon-ferret Jon, but Jon nonetheless. He's got his face lodged into a box much too small for his head, and his front foot reaches forward to push it off, but he can't get a grip on it. He whips his head up, horns crashing through the wood of the shelf behind him, and he freezes for a moment, in this awkward arch, before going right back to trying to shake the box off his head. Martin laughs at the sight, and within seconds, Jon is lumbering towards him, smacking straight into him with the box, sending him to the floor a second time.
"Woah!" he says, trying to calm him like some kind of horse. "Easy, Jon! Stay still, I'll get this box off you."
It takes a lot of fumbling, and avoiding talons that reach for his arms and torso, but he manages to yank the box off. The paper inside is crushed and torn in places, but salvageable enough. No super old stuff, thankfully, but it'll still be a pain. He's interrupted in his examination as Jon bumps his snout into Martin's hair, rubbing his chin on the top of his head, low and loud purring rumbling in his throat and chest. Martin reaches up and pets Jon's neck, the fur just as soft as last time, but he does eventually push Jon to back up a little.
"Come on," he says, trying not to sound like he's talking to a normal animal. He doesn't think Jon would like that very much. "Let's go find you a tape recorder."
Martin tries his best, he really does, to lead Jon back through the stacks with minimal damage to the shelves. He keeps getting distracted and looking through boxes, rifling through statements with his snout, staring down at the ones that fell right-side-up like he's reading them. Martin ends up leading Jon through the stacks with a statement held high above his head. Jon stoops low to try and look at it, significantly more careful as his pupils widen to read it in the dim light. Whenever he stops following, Martin turns the page.
Eventually, with lots more knocked over boxes and crumpled statements, Jon makes it into the bullring. When Martin tells him to wait while he digs around his office for a tape, Jon tucks his legs underneath himself and sits down, his long body weaving around the desks. Quietly, so Jon won't hear, Martin thinks were-dragon-ferret-CAT.
Even from Jon's office, he can hear the purring filling the bullring. He tries to find the tape recorder—surely it can't have gone far—but, as much as Jon likes to complain about Gertrude leaving a mess, he's not much better. There are open boxes and papers and files and cans of CO2 all over the place. In his search, he finds a pile of strewn about clothes. Jon's clothes. The clothes he was wearing today. Right next to a neatly folded pile of a thick, green fleece, thick tracky bottoms, and a cane propped up on the wall.
Martin leaves them alone.
He does, eventually, find the tape recorder, mostly because it starts to crackle with static under Jon's desk. When he steps back out into the bullring, Jon has lowered his head to rest his chin on Tim's chair, looking bored. He perks up though, hearing the static. It grows and grows, and Jon's pupils widen and widen, until they both settle.
"Martin," the tape fizzes. "What are you...? What's...?"
"You're in the Archives," Martin says, sitting cross legged in front of Jon. "Are you alright?"
"Hang on, I just need... a moment..." Jon unfurls his front two legs and stretches them out, the talons curled and digging into the carpet. He closes his eyes, shakes his head; his fur stands on end for a moment before smoothing back out. "Okay, I think I'm alright."
"Why were you in the Archives?" Martin asks. "I kind of assumed you went to the woods whenever you turned."
"Sometimes, it comes on a bit suddenly," he answers. He looks a bit tired. Especially when he flops onto his side, stretching his remaining four legs. It's then Martin notices that not all of them are taloned. The middle pair are enormous paws, like lion paws, with black pads. The back pair are large hooves, like a Clydesdale horse. The end of his tail twitches, so Martin stops staring.
"You made, uh... a bit of a mess," Martin mutters. The tape recorder lets out a long, tired groan as Jon tilts his head onto the floor.
"What kind of mess?"
"Oh, you know, just some upturned boxes and... destroyed statements, and... broken shelves...?"
Jon closes all of his eyes. A deep sigh heaves from the beast, and the tape.
"How am I going to explain that to Tim and Sasha?" Jon lets out a low, grumbling noise, flips onto his back, then rolls onto his other side, his head right at Martin's legs. A large paw reaches out to nudge his knee. "I'm sorry if I woke you up, by the way. Did I wake you up?"
The feeling that comes from the question is odd. Martin was, of course, going to answer it honestly, but something in him felt like he had no choice in the matter. Like the words were being forced out of his throat. Like he couldn't stop them, had he wanted to.
"No, I was still awake." Jon's eyes give him a puzzled look. "Well, it's not like living in a creepy basement is doing wonders for my sleep schedule, is it?" He nods a little then rests his head back down.
"I am sorry, Martin, I wish I was able to provide something better," the tape says as Jon bumps his snout into Martin's arm. "I tried to badger Elias into using some of the budget to pay for a hotel room, but he's refusing for whatever bloody reason."
"Well, the hotels around here are expensive. The motels, too." Martin wrings his hands, blushing at the thought of Jon caring this much when he's already done so much. "Trust me, I looked into it."
"Still," Jon huffs. "I'll try to figure out this Jane Prentiss situation as quick as I can."
"I thought you, like, knew everything," Martin intoned. He gets another nudge at the impression. "Can't you just- know what to do?"
"I can only know things that have already happened, and only when I'm like this, which is why I didn't realise you were under makeshift house arrest. It's also why I can't Know any possible solutions. I can't See the future, or Know the answer to hypotheticals." Jon lifts his head, sitting up enough to lean on his front two legs. Even almost fully laying down, he towers above Martin, his horns just barely missing the ceiling. His mane surrounds his head and neck in a dark, grey and green littered halo. He's truly something to witness. He continues, "I've been trying tonight to See her, but I can't quite find her. I'm not sure why."
"Right... That's probably fine. I hope."
Jon does not reply.
The air fills with nothing but the whirr of the tape recorder, quiet static and the occasional thump of Jon's tail. He lazes on the floor like a big cat, chuffing every now and then and shifting to get comfy on the admittedly very uncomfy floor, eyes barely open. His mane sticks up in tufts at the top of his head, between his horns, and without thinking, because Martin is an idiot, he reaches out and smooths it down.
The purring starts back up again, and Jon closes his eyes all the way. A large paw stretches out, thick claws curling their way into view, then closes, and the other opens up. They open and close, one after the other, claws catching on the carpet. Martin has had enough cats in his life to know what he's doing.
For a moment, as Jon tilts his head into Martin's hand, he wonders how far the control over his sentience goes. Sure, with the tape recorder, he can talk and act on his own will, but is it only to a certain extent? Can he decide not to be at the forefront of his own mind? Can he—
The tape recorder clicks off just as Jon rolls onto his back, exposing his belly, and Martin takes that as somewhat of an answer.
After a while of petting and scratching under his chin and smoothing out his mane, Martin does eventually corral Jon into his office. The room is just barely big enough to fit him when he curls up, and he sends a rather pathetic look as Martin closes the door. He feels bad, but if Jon took his clothes off, he doesn't want to risk whatever tedious bond they've formed over seeing Jon naked after he's turned back into a human. Whenever he does turn back.
He dumps the sleepy time tea into the sink, having found it ice cold in the break room, and he heads back to bed. It's easier to sleep knowing Jon is there.
//
The next morning, Martin wakes not to his alarm, but a timid knocking at the door. It almost scares him out his skin, but he settles when a hears a quiet voice: "Martin?"
He blinks a few times to wake himself up properly before he answers, and what he finds when he pokes his head out the door makes his face turn red.
Jon stands in front of him in a fleece much too large for him, tracky bottoms and a pair of pink slippers socks. His hair is bedraggled and a bit tangled. The bags under his eyes are dark and puffy, the eyes themselves red and irritated. He leans heavily on his cane, his grip white knuckled on the handle.
"Hi," Martin says dumbly.
"Hello," Jon says back. His voice is clear and crisp, not underlined with static. "Um."
"How... how are you feeling?"
"Not... fantastic. It's always a rough couple of days after- all that, but I'll be fine. I just wanted to apologise for last night."
"What?" Martin shrugs, floundering for what to say for a moment. "It's fine, Jon, don't worry about it. Like I said, I was up anyway, it's not like you woke me up."
"I meant the whole... getting up in your face when you found me." Jon idly pulls his hair over one shoulder, fixes the collar of his fleece, adjusts his glasses. Nervous tics. He's embarrassed. "And- and at the end there."
"Seriously, you don't need to worry about it. You turned into a giant cat, and then you acted like a giant cat." It was the most adorable thing I've ever seen, Martin doesn't say. "It's not a problem."
"Wh- uh- I— I would hardly call it a cat." Jon looks absolutely affronted.
"Eh, cat, ferret, squirrel, dragon, same difference." Jon splutters some more, and Martin can't help but laugh. Sure, it's a little mean, teasing Jon like this. He'll just call it payback for all the times Jon has yelled at him over stupid stuff. "But, really, don't worry about it, boss. Your secret is safe with me."
"Either way, I apologise."
"I do have a question, though," Martin hesitantly starts.
"Go on," Jon drawls.
"Before I sent you off to your office, the tape recorder turned off by itself and it's like you were- gone. Again. Do you have control over that? Or did it just happen?"
"I'm not actually... all that sure." Jon takes to leaning against the doorway as well as his cane, so Martin pulls a small stepladder over for him to sit on instead. Jon quietly thanks him. "When you were, ah, petting me, I suppose, it started to feel a little fuzzy?"
Martin turns what must be a terrible shade of beet red. "Oh...!"
"I don't know, maybe the recorder ran out of tape, or- or I only have limited time. Either way, it'd be difficult to experiment with it, and I don't really care to become a science project."
"That's not what I meant!" Martin rushes to say, waving his hands about. "I don't want to make you uncomfortable, or anything, I'm sorry!"
"It's alright Martin, honestly," Jon grumbles. "I think I just want to sleep for a while... What day is it?"
"Saturday," Martin answers after checking his phone. "It's pretty early, I don't blame you."
"Oh, right. Sorry for waking you up."
"It's fine, I'm up now, so..." Martin wrings his hands for a moment. "Do you want to just- take a nap in here?"
"Yes, actually," Jon says, voice very quiet.
"Alright then."
And that's that. Jon bundles up in the bed that Martin has been sleeping in, curls into Martin's duvet, nuzzles into Martin's pillow.
Martin has to go splash cold water in his face.
//
By the time Jon wakes up, it's about eleven. It's definitely not enough sleep, but he seems to have made up his mind about how much rest he's going to get when he shuffles out of document storage. One side of his hair is a complete bird's nest, his eyes are barely open, one leg of his trackies is pushed up his calf. Martin looks determinedly into his book, not knowing what paragraph he's on. Something about keys and bones and swords and whatnot.
"Morning," he says, very neutrally. "Sleep well?"
Jon mutters something adjacent to English, and makes a beeline for the coffee maker. Well, beeline is a strong way of putting it—he more trudges in an odd zig-zag to the counter, then fumbles for the box of instant coffee pods.
It's then Martin says something monumentally stupid and insane: "Do you want to go for lunch?"
Jon lifts his head, then turns around to stare at Martin with a taut mouth and furrowed brows. "Lunch?"
"Well, brunch, I suppose, it's not quite noon yet." Martin chuckles, feeling warm all over.
In the time where Jon doesn't answer, squinting and wrinkling his nose as he thinks, Martin considers that maybe it wasn't such a bad idea to ask. Where the sleeves of his fleece falls down and his arms are exposed, he's practically a twig. His face is gaunt and his hands tremble and his shoulders hunch inward. He looks a wreck.
(Which, fair enough. Turning into a fifteen feet long beast every month must be pretty hard on him.)
Martin goes from regretting every decision he's ever made and wondering if he's just ruined everything, to desperately hoping Jon will say yes, if only to get him to eat a proper meal instead of having instant coffee on an empty stomach. To his relief, Jon says: "Sure. I'll sort myself out first."
//
They go to a nearby cafe that has a resident cat. It sits on the extra chair at their table while they eat, and Martin gets permission to feed her bits of his scrambled eggs. Jon, surprisingly but also not, finishes the giant portion of scrambled eggs and toast—Martin overhead the waitress saying he looks 'completely and utterly famished!' to the cooks, and his plate was significantly fuller than Martin's—and the cinnamon swirl he shyly ordered. Martin even managed to convince him that, no, he wasn't going to have his last bits of toast, go on then.
They talk for a few hours after that, about nothing in particular. One hour with a cat in Jon's lap, and some more just walking back to the institute and sitting in the break room. Jon tells him about the Admiral. Martin tells him about the cats his aunt had, growing up.
It almost feels like a date. Martin doesn't tell Jon that, of course. He thanks the Lord that Jon can't read his mind when he's a human.
He calls a cab for Jon after he bemoans that he doesn't want to stand for the tube ride home. After Jon leaves, Martin screams into a pillow.
He wants to tell someone so badly. He wants to tell Tim, who is, by now, beyond aware of his crush. He wants to tell Sasha, who will either slap some sense into him, or point and laugh. But he made a promise to Jon.
He promised. And he's not going to betray his trust like that. Jon's secret is safe with him.