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The bright green paint of the door seemed to mock Jon where he stood at the front step, shifting his weight from foot in an effort to warm himself without pacing. He dug his hands into his pockets, glaring at the door. Morning didn't have the right to be this cold, he thought bitterly, nevermind that it was barely past six AM in early November. He hadn't exactly had the presence of mind to grab anything warmer than his rain jacket after finding Juregen Litener's corpse in his office. In fact, it was probably only due to sheer dumb luck he'd had his wallet in his pocket when he'd run out the door of the institute. He'd never have been able to pay for the hotel otherwise, and as restless a night's sleep as he'd had, Jon shuddered to think of what a night out on the streets might have looked like. It wasn't as though he could return to his flat, not when he was almost certainly a murder suspect.
Jon shuddered at the thought as the memory surfaced in his mind. He squeezed his eyes shut tight in a futile effort to scrub the image away. He was ashamed to think of it now, but his first thought at finding a broken body crumpled over his desk had been of the mess, and what a nightmare it would be to clean. There had just been so much blood. And he'd had so many files and papers strewn about, many of them containing on of a kind statements, now likely stained beyond all recognition.
They were gone now. Along with the best chance Jon had at getting any answers to the ceaseless swarm of questions buzzing within his skull. Litener had given him more information in twenty minutes then Jon had been able to scrounge up in two years of combing his way through the archive. And he knew that had he just managed to keep it together, he could have learned even more. But fear had gotten the better of him, and he'd had to stop, just stop before… Before he didn't know what, but he'd barely managed to hold down the sick feeling in his gut long enough to light a cigarette with trembling fingers.
Jon had come back when he no longer felt at risk of losing his lunch. It hadn't even been five minutes. But his chance had vanished, rather, it had been beaten into a bloody pulp along with any hope of satiating the incessant need for answers. All thanks to the librarian, to Juregen fucking Litener and his poor choice of places to die.
And— to whoever had killed him, of course.
That had been Jon's second thought. That the culprit, whoever they were, was likely still around. And, based on the scene before him, they were likely trying to frame him, and doing a frighteningly good job of it at that.
Jon didn't remember leaving the institute. He didn't remember hailing a taxi or getting on a bus. Just that two hours later, once he'd finally come out of whatever fueg state he'd fallen into. He found himself walking along Berkeley Street. The sun had already set by that time, and it had taken little consideration for Jon to decide to book a hotel. There was no good to come of his freezing to death before the cops inevitably found him, so he'd settled in for a warm, albeit restless night in a bed and breakfast.
It had been the first good decision he'd made since taking an ax to that blasted table, which of course only meant that it couldn't last. Jon had managed to stay a full three nights in the hotel before his nerves got the better of him. Restless and unwilling to stay in the same place for too long, he'd left in a hurry. Half expecting the police to pull up, tires screeching on the blacktop of the parking lot outside if he stayed even a moment longer. He'd spent the better part of a day wandering the streets of London, had an aggressively mediocre lunch at a small cafe, gotten mugged, and subsequently spent the following night shivering under a bridge.
It had been an utterly miserable experience, and the cold hadn't helped him fall asleep any more than the comfort of the hotel. To distract himself, he'd set his mind to work thinking of his next move, and awoken the next morning with a certain clarity. He found that there were five things he knew with varying degrees of certainty. Though, only one of them truly mattered at the moment.
Jurgen Litener was dead, and whoever had killed him had done so in a way as to make Jon look like the culprit.
Sasha was dead.
Tim probably hated him.
Elias couldn't be trusted.
He would rather spend the rest of his life in prison than one more night freezing his ass off under a god forsaken bridge.
Unfortunate how all his living acquaintances either despised him or were too busy with Machiavellian scheming to be of any practical use. Jon had thought briefly of Georgie. His friend. She'd always been there for him before, even after their break up. If he showed up at her door now, with the police and god knows what other horrors on his trail, would she still be?
It didn't matter. Georgie wasn't a part of this, and Jon wasn't going to be the person to change that. She deserved better than to be pulled into his world. No, if he was going to get help, it had to be from someone already there.
And so Jon stood, bouncing anxiously on the balls of his feet as he tried to decide whether to knock on Martin's door. All the while his fingers grew steadily more numb in his pockets. Jon knew he'd come here for a reason, but he still couldn't seem to raise his fist to knock. Martin could just as easily turn him into the cops as anyone else. Granted, he didn't seem to loath Jon nearly as much as Tim at this point, so maybe he'd be kind enough to give Jon the benefit of the doubt. But could he afford to take that risk? How would he even begin to explain himself?
"Hello. Terribly sorry to bother you this morning. You see, I've recently been framed for murder and you're the only person who I haven't yet managed to drive away on account of my paranoia and the fact that I am, indeed, a prat. I don't suppose you'd be able to help me out?"
Yes. That was sure to go over well.
A stiff wind blew, cutting like knives through Jon's meager jumper and causing him to shiver. "Stupid, stupid, stupid—!" Jon hissed, and surged forward, fist raised to knock, or perhaps punch the door from sheer frustration. It was at that exact moment the door swung open from inside. He jolted back in surprise and narrowly managed to avoid being hit in the face. His arms flew up to protect himself suddenly as Jon instead found himself staring down the familiar round face of his assistant.
"Jesus— Jon!?" Martin shrieked in the same moment Jon gave a panicked shout;
"I didn't kill Jurgen Litener!!!"
Martin flinched back at the sheer volume of his voice. Jon clamped his hands over his mouth, realizing a moment too late how loud he'd just been.
"I- I- didn't- I mean, I wouldn't! I left for five god damn minutes and when I came back he was- he was just-" The rush of words caught in Jon's throat and he gestured sharply with his hands in an attempt to convey some meaning beyond unintelligible stammering.
"Jon-" Martin raised his hands, palms facing out. "Slow down-"
"-Dead!" He gasped finally. "He was dead, and I think it was Elias!"
“I—“ Martin stammered. Jon couldn't tell whether the disbelief on Martin's face was due to confusion or recrimination. “Okay?”
Okay. “What do you mean okay?” Jon sputtered.
"I– I don't see what—" Martin's frown deepened. "Hold on, wasn't Litener the guy with his name on all those magic books?"
"They aren't magic!" Jon snapped despite himself. "They're— it doesn't matter, yes! That's him, you're right, but I didn't kill—!"
"Oh!" Martin exclaimed with sudden realization as his wide eyes went even wider. "You mean the guy they found in your office—"
"-Was Litener, yes!" Jon finished for him. It hadn't even crossed his mind that Martin would have no reason to recognize the man in question, especially when he'd been beaten into a corpse. Jon sucked a breath of air into his lungs, but it did nothing to clear the sensation of lightheadedness.
"And you didn't kill him?" Martin asked tentatively. He didn't sound afraid, just unsure, and with an emotion Jon couldn't place but sounded oddly hopeful. What did that mean???
"No." Jon gasped, shaking his head fervently. "No— I, you believe me?" He asked, daring to hope.
Martin shook his head and Jon went rigid. He hadn't considered what he might do if Martin didn't believe him. Though, thinking about it now as he shifted his feet, he was certain he could outrun the man. Though he didn't like his odds if it came to a physical altercation. And then, there was the matter of how quickly the police might arrive if Martin decided to dial 999 instead. "I don't know…" He said after a moment.
"You don't know?" Jon echoed, his mouth dry.
"I…" Martin blinked. "I think I want to, but…" His expression was still wary, but there was no hostility there. He didn't seem fearful either, just worried in a way that made Jon's chest flood with relief. He would take it. It wasn't outright rejection, so he would take it.
"Oh…" Jon breathed a sigh. He let his shoulders sag as relief sank in. Strands of dark hair fell across his eyes as the wind blew it loose and he suddenly felt very, very, tired.
"You're still going to have to explain to me what happened—" Martin added sharply, almost like he was trying to sound stern. An odd tone to hear from his voice, Jon felt the corners of his mouth twitch upwards despite himself. "A— And to Tim and everybody else! Assuming I believe you, that is—"
"Yes, yes, of course—" Jon grit his teeth as a stiff wind blew. "But could we do all that inside?"
"Oh! Right!" Martin's eyes widened suddenly as though seeing Jon for the first time. "Christ, you look awful— come in!" He opened the door wide and Jon stepped inside without hesitation, breathing a small sigh as the warmth of the flat washed over him.
"You must be freezing—" Martin was saying as he shut the door behind them. "Go on and have a seat on the couch, I'll make us a cup of tea."
Of course. Jon thought, sinking into the couch cushions as Martin set about preparing the kettle, Who was I to think that my status as a murder suspect could ever stop Martin Blackwood from forcing tea down my throat. If nothing else, he could count on that at the very least. There was something oddly comforting about that fact. As if the whole world could end tomorrow, and there would still be Martin, offering tea to his snippy boss. Jon felt his mouth twitch again, almost as if in a smile before he caught himself. Odd. Was it some kind of muscle spasm? He ought to get that looked at the next time he went in for a checkup.
"You take it with honey, yeah?" Martin asked, his back to Jon as he removed the kettle from the stove top.
"Yes…" Jon said, thankful the man had his back turned so he didn't have to stifle a roll of his eyes at the question. Same as the last two dozen times you've asked.
"Right," Martin hummed as he brought two steaming mugs of tea over. What happened to your face?" He asked, handing one of the mugs to Jon before having a seat on the couch beside him. Jon took a sip, wincing as the liquid burned his tongue but not regretting it as warmth began to trickle back into his chest.
He set the mug aside on the coffee table before answering flatly, "Got mugged,"
Martin's eyebrows shot up, nearly disappearing into his hairline. "I— I'm sorry, what??" He demanded, his voice an octave higher than normal.
Jon only shrugged. Truth be told he nearly forgot about the experience, though his jaw was still awfully sore. "Honestly, it didn't really seem all that noteworthy an event next to everything else that's happened in the last few days…"
"Right…" Martin nodded with a disturbed expression. "Right, what with the— the murder and all…"
"Yes, what with the murder and all," Jon agreed. "I thought you wanted to know about that?"
"I do! Of course I do—" Martin shook his head, grimacing as his gaze traveled over Jon. He opened his mouth to say something, only to close it just as suddenly, fidgeting with the mug in his hands. “So…” He said warily after a moment. “Juergen Litener then? I figured he was already dead…?”
“As did I.” Jon gave a weary sigh. “And if you’d asked me a week ago, I would have said good riddance to him.” Even against everything Jon now knew, familiar bitterness still rose up in his throat at the words. Hatred was not so easy to forget, even in the face of new knowledge. The librarian hadn’t been evil, but he had been a fool. Litner may not have written those dark books himself, but he had branded them with his seal, and in the end, he’d let them slip away. Jon wasn’t even sure whether he hated the man more or less, now that he knew the truth.
“Jon?” Martin prompted gently.
His eyes snapped up at the sound of his name. “What?”
“Ah, you didn’t hear—?” Martin gestured with an index finger to Jon’s left. “A click, I’m pretty sure—“
Without thinking, Jon patted over his left jacket pocket, and grimaced when he felt the familiar shape of hard plastic. He tugged open the zipper and pulled out the tape— one which he distinctly did not recall having when he had left the institute. “I wish I could find it in me to feel surprised…” Jon sighed quietly, more to the tape itself then to either him or Martin. He didn't recall pressing the record button either, yet he could hear the mechanical wiring tape all the same.
“It’s been happening back at the institute, too.” Martin provided. To his credit, he didn’t look any more surprised than Jon felt. He just looked annoyed. Not an expression Martin Blackwood wore often, Jon noted with something that bordered dangerously on sentimentality at the slight pout of his lips. Jon shook his head sharply at the thought. He really needed to get some sleep once this was over.
“Right—“ Jone cleared his throat forcefully. “Well, if it’s a statement it wants—“ He set the thing down with a clatter on the coffee table beside them. “Then I don’t think it will hurt to have this on tape, for the record.” In case the police want it for evidence when they finally come to arrest me. He doubted even the sectioned officers would believe his testimony, besides maybe Basira, that was. But even if she wrote him off as a murderer, Jon figured she would appreciate a verbal account of his testimony.
Jon took a sip of his tea, spared a final glance at Martin over the rim of the mug before setting it back down. He cleared his throat for a second time, and began.
“Statement of Jonathan Sims, Head Arch—“ He faltered on the words, sparing a glance up at Martin. “I don’t suppose Elias has gotten around to firing me yet, has he?” He asked in a weak attempt at humor.
Martin gave a tight shrug. “If he has, he hasn’t said anything.”
“I see.” Jon sighed. “Alright, statement of Jonathan Sims, assumed head archivist of the Magnus institute unless I’ve already been sacked by the time of this recording… In that instance, just… Jonathan Sims… Statement recorded by subject, February 18th, 2017… Statement begins.”
It was easy after that, to let the story poor out of him. He didn’t need to speak the words so much as let them flow forth from his mind and out his mouth. Guided along by the same force that watched over the archives. The eye, or as Lietner had called it, beholding. Jon was almost thankful for its presence now, easier to have the story pulled from him in the form of a statement rather than to struggle himself over communicating the horrors of that day. It might have even been cathartic, if the process didn’t also call forth the same sickening fear he’d felt, as though he were reliving each moment rather than speaking them aloud to a recorder.
He told Martin first of the feeling he’d held deep in his gut for the past several months since the attack on the institute. The same feeling which had driven him to take pictures of Tim’s house and read Martin’s letters. Behavior which any professional would have easily explained away as paranoia resulting from acute trauma, but which Jon now knew to have come from something far more sinister; the same thing that had taken Sasha and worn her face ever since the Prentiss incident. Jon told him of his conversation with Melanie, recalling the utter certainty in her eyes when she’d pointed and told him the woman he knew as Sasha, whom he had known and worked with for years, was not Sasha. After listening to the statement of Lucy Cooper and the woman who was not her mother, he had known it to be true as well. Then, the statement of Lawrence Moore, and the thing that was not his cousin. The tapes. Sasha’s voice… Not Sasha’s voice. Adeladd Dekker had called it ‘the not them’, and Jon supposed it was a fitting title, though not terribly creative. By Lawrence Moore’s account, Dekker had also managed to bind the creature to the table—
The table. God. Speaking of it now, Jon was struck with the overwhelming desire to travel back in time to punch himself in the teeth for being so mortifyingly stupid. He’d been so filled with rage and guilt and his desire to hurt the thing that had taken his friend he’d nearly died for it. Micheal’s door to the tunnels. The chase. He could still hear Sa—
—He could still hear that thing’s voice learing after him. Taunting him. If Lietner hadn’t shown up when he had, Jon was certain he would have died. Either that or the Not Them would have simply taken his face instead, a possibility far too terrifying for Jon to consider any further.
Lietner. For as much as the Librarian seemed to love the sound of his own voice, he’d left Jon with far more questions than answers. Though the few comprehensible pieces of information he managed to pass along seemed to fit cleanly into two categories:
Sasha was dead and she wasn’t coming back.
Everything Jon had thought he knew about the world was a lie.
“Sasha’s dead?” Jon’s head snapped up from where he’d been glaring at his hands, curled into shaking fists in his lap. Martin’s face was slack with disbelief, but Jon could see the look of desperate hope in his eyes, silently begging for him to deny it, to shake his head, to offer up anything besides the awful truth.
But Jon could not, and in that moment he hated himself for it.
“Yes.” Jon croaked, his chest hurt. “Martin I’m so—“ The words caught and Jon swallowed down the burning in his throat. He tried again. “I’m s—“ His voice cracked and Jon pressed a hand to his mouth before a sob could escape, but he could already feel tears blurring in his eyes.
“Jon—“ He faintly heard Martin say, but his vision was too blurry to recognize anything more than his shape on the couch.
“It’s my fault. I was so— so obsessed with Prentiss I didn’t even think— I should have protected her, I—“ Jon sniffed, dragging his sleeve across his face. Not that it did anything to stop the tears from spilling forth onto his cheeks.
“Jon, you couldn’t have—“ Martin began, his voice infuriatingly gentle.
“Don’t!” Jon meant to snap, but it came out as more of a plea as a hand came to rest gently on his shoulder. He found himself gripping it with his own even as he kept his head down, unable to bear the thought of looking Martin in the eyes. “I can’t— I can’t even remember what she sounds like! Any time I listen to those tapes of her from before, all I hear, all I can see is a stranger—“ The words broke off in a sob at last and there was suddenly a pair of arms around him, wrapping him in warmth and pulling himself close. Jon couldn’t see anything past the tears, but he could feel the wool of Martin’s jumper against his cheek. Jon’s composure shattered at once as he felt a pressure he hadn’t realized building suddenly release and it was all he could do to pull himself closer. Tears streamed down his cheeks as he clutched at the fabric of Martin’s jumper.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so—“ Jon babbled nearly unintelligibly between hiccuping sobs.
“It’s not your fault,” Martin hushed, despite the way his own voice shook. Oh, was he crying too?
Jon knew it was true, logically speaking at least. He knew there was no way he could blame himself for not protecting his employee from a face stealing monster while he had been fleeing for his life from an entirely different, worm ridden monster. But for some reason, even knowing that didn’t help. He'd wanted to hurt the thing that had taken her, more than he’d ever wanted to hurt anything in his life, so much it almost scared him. But the Not Them was gone now too, or at least, it was out of his reach. Maybe in a twisted way it just felt good to hurt himself, if nothing else.
“God—“ Martin sniffed. “How are we going to tell Tim?”
“I don’t know.”
“He was closer to Sasha than anyone— how—?”
“I don’t know, Martin.” Jon let himself slump against Martin’s chest. His body felt heavy and tired, weighed down with grief. “I don’t know…”
They pulled away at last, and Jon couldn’t quite stifle the pang of loss he felt when Martin’s arms dropped from around his shoulders. Jon did his best to shake the feeling off, scooting away to a more comfortable distance before settling to wrap his arms around himself. Breaking down sobbing in a coworker's arms might have been understandable in a moment of weakness, especially after the week he'd had, but there were limits, and Jon was pretty sure that continuing to cuddle his assistant would be beyond them. He cleared his throat awkwardly in an attempt to save face, dragging a sleeve across his eyes. Damnit, he was tired.
“So Elias then.”
“What?” Jon looked up suddenly at Martin. His round eyes were watery and red from crying, probably a reflection of Jon’s own at the moment. But they were thoughtful as well. Sharp in a way that Jon couldn’t recall seeing since he’d pulled out the cork screw in artifact storage.
“I— maybe?” Jon agreed, unsure. “He’s certainly the most likely suspect based on proximity alone. But we can’t rule out other possibilities.”
“Like?”
“Gerrad Keay.”
“Hold on—“ Martin frowned. “I thought he was dead?”
“Presumed dead.” Jon corrected. “In any case, before he died Lietner mentioned his nearly being beaten to death by an ‘angry goth.’”
Martin blinked. “I mean, not saying that doesn’t check out, but wouldn’t he have just killed Lietner then when he had the chance, then?”
"Well, I—" Jon stammered, shook his head. "I have no idea." He admitted. "But still, we can't rule anything out, though Elias should probably be our main concern. Given he poses the more direct threat at the moment."
"Right…" Martin agreed, then groaned. "Oh, god—" He placed his head in his hands.
"Martin? Are you—?"
"Fine, fine," Martin said quickly, looking up from his hands. His cheeks flushed with anxiety. "I'm just not looking forward to work tomorrow. Elias said the police are going to be by to ask everyone questions— Christ what am I going to tell them??"
Jon grimaced. The thought of Martin lying to the police on his behalf did not put him at ease "Nothing." He advised. "Just— tell them what you'd have told them if I hadn't shown up at your door."
Martin groaned again. "I don't suppose I could just call in sick?"
Jon shook his head. "Too obvious. You'll make yourself look like the culprit."
"Right, right." Martin made a face. "Maybe you could drop something really heavy on my foot. They can't expect me to show up to work with a broken bone."
"Martin!" Jon exclaimed.
“I’m kidding!” Martin threw up his hands. “Mostly…”
“Can’t you just, I don’t know, lie?” Jon tried, but even as he said the words aloud watching Martin’s round and expressive face deepen with worry, he knew he’d have better luck asking a hamster to juggle.
“To the cops?” Martin stressed.
“You’re going to have to.” Jon said, firmer. “Not just for my sake. I won’t have you going to prison on my behalf. You’ll just have to tell them the truth, that you and Tim found the body in my office, but that you never saw me or the killer.”
“Okay—“ Martin sucked in a sharp breath. “You make that sound way easier than it is.”
Jon opened his mouth to protest, but found he could only agree with Martin’s assessment. Something in his gut curled in what felt like guilt. What had he been thinking, coming here? He hadn’t gone to Georgie for fear of endangering her, but Martin was hardly any safer now then she would have been. Less safe, if anything. Martin worked for the institute, he would be one of the first to be questioned by police and Jon had essentially made him an accessory to murder just by being in his home. If Martin couldn’t lie convincingly enough to the police and became a suspect as a result, Jon would have no one to blame but himself.
“I- I’m sorry.” Jon said at last, “You’re only in this position because of me—“ He dragged a hand through his hair, no doubt messing it up in the process. “God I can’t believe I’m asking my own assistant to commit a federal offense for me— this is my fault.”
“Hey, enough of that.” Martin chided. “Look, even if it is your fault, it hardly does any good to dwell on it. It’ll be fine.”
Fine. Jon barely managed to hold back a scoff at the word. Any semblance of ‘fine’ had been burned away along with Prentiss’s corpse. “Is it?” He couldn’t help but question. “What exactly about this situation resembles fine to you, Martin?”
“Well…” Martin looked askance, pursing his lips together. “Okay, nothing! Alright? But I think we’re beyond that at this point?”
Jon blinked. “I don’t follow.”
“Look,” Martin sighed. “According to you, the world is under threat of a bunch of… Eldritch monsters… One of which apparently even has power of the institute. The only person who seemed to know anything about how to stop them is dead— probably because our boss killed him! Sasha is—“ Martins voice trembled slightly, and he looked away as Jon felt a sharp ache in his chest. “Sasha is gone. Oh, and Tim and I spent about a week wandering a corridor hell maze.”
“That— that's all true,” Jon stammered. “I don’t understand, what are you saying??”
“I’m saying that the police are probably the least of our worries right now, Jon, as far as I can tell, we’ve all been in danger from the start. Whether it be from the worms or from that— that thing that took Sasha, or— or from Elias if he did kill Lietner! Being implicated in a murder really doesn’t stand for all that much in the grand scheme of things.”
“But— But surely it doesn’t help!” Jon blanched.
“No! Of course not, but—“ Martin hesitated before continuing earnestly. “But I don’t think you being here is all bad, I mean, I always thought there had to be something more going on, connecting the statements and the institute. Now I know there is. And besides that, I get the feeling we’ll have better luck staying safe if we stick together.” Martin paused for a moment, something in his eyes turned grave. “I think— I’ve read the statements just as you have, and many of them— at least, ones that go on tape seem to have the same things in common. If Lietner was right about these… Entities… A lot of them seem to prey on people who are already vulnerable, isolated… Alone… And I just— I’m glad you're here, Jon.”
“Oh—“ Sometimes, Martin Blackwood just said things like that that weren’t supposed to make Jon’s heart stutter in his chest. "The— that's, um—" he stammered gracelessly, even as he felt warmth curl in his chest. "That's very— ah, kind of you, Martin."
Martin only shrugged, smiling shyly. "It's the least I can do, I mean, you let me stay in the archives after Prentis trapped me in my flat.”
“But that— that doesn’t—!” Jon sucked in a breath, forcing his voice level again. “That was a purely practical solution to an unprecedented circumstance.”
“And me hearing you out before calling the cops isn’t?”
Jon opened his mouth, preparing to begin some variation of the words, I really don't agree, only to falter upon realizing he really didn't have an argument. Except— "Hold on, are you offering me to stay here? In- in your flat??"
"Unless you have somewhere else to go?"
"I- no…" Jon admitted reluctantly.
"Well, the couch is yours then." Martin declared pleasantly, only to stammer at Jon's blank expression. "Unless you'd rather have the bed of course— I suppose we could trade off. O- or you could have it! I really don't mind, it's—!"
"Fine!" Jon cut in, unable to withstand listening to Martin's awkward stammerings a moment longer. "The couch is fine, Martin, really I— thank you. You're already doing me more than one favor by allowing me to stay here. I could hardly ask you to sacrifice your sleeping arrangements."
"Right, of course—" Martin gave a tittering laugh. "I'll just get you some blankets then." He rose, quickly glancing around the room as if to ensure he hadn't forgotten anything and uttering a final, "Yup." Before disappearing from the living room.
Jon waited until he was gone before grabbing one of the couch cushions and pressing his face into the soft plush with a groan. He knew he should be relieved, grateful really, but it was difficult to be either of those things in spite of the nerves riddling him. Staying with Martin was of course a significant improvement from staying in a jail cell, but it wasn't without its challenges either. Jon had always found Martin to be… Distracting… In more ways than one. For starters, he was chatty. Martin had never been one to sit comfortably in silence, and always insisted on filling it with idle small talk or tea, which he'd practically tripped over himself to provide Jon with at all times. Even at the cost of interrupting their work. Not that Jon was going to be getting much work done away from the institute, he supposed. But he had other things to worry about now, such as clearing his name.
For another thing, Martin was, well…
He was attractive. Damn it all— Jon would even go so far as to say he found Martin cute. With his round face, the dusting of freckles across his cheeks and sunset orange hair that never laid flat but still somehow managed to look intentional with how it fell across his forehead.
It had been one of the reasons Jon had been so short with Martin when he'd first arrived in the archives. He hadn't expected to be working with anyone besides Time and Sasha, and then Elias had gone and surprised him with a third archival assistant. One who was very nice to look at. Yes. But one who, Jon was soon to learn, didn't didn't have the practical expertise to file his way out of a wet paper bag. Jon simply hadn't known how to handle himself around Martin. And, while he was ashamed to admit it now, back then it had been much easier to project his feelings of frustration onto Martin rather than grapple with the fact that he absolutely definitely did not have a crush on his assistant.
Eventually, Jon had begun to realize that his harshness towards Martin had been unfair. He'd meant to correct his behavior and start treating Martin with a bit more decency, but unfortunately that realization had come when he'd begun to suspect his coworkers of murder. Everything had been on the back burner after that, and now, here they were. Jon heaved a sigh, tossing the pillow aside. The soft darkness it offered had been nice, but it had also had the effect of inhibiting his breathing. He slumped against the armrest with a huff. What was he doing? It wasn't as if he had actual feelings for Martin, he was just nice to look at. As well as kind, and funny, and surprisingly clever and a better friend then Jon deserved and—
—God, he was going to have to pull himself together. Jon had the distinct feeling that regardless of whether or not the police managed to find him, the next couple of days were going to be interesting, no matter what.