Archive of Our Own ^beta

It was Tim’s fault. If anyone in the Archives were to blame, it was definitely Tim Stoker. It was his idea in the first place, after all. He’d been the one to voice what they were all thinking.

“D’you reckon,” Tim had said as he leaned as far back in his desk chair as it would allow without toppling him over. He jerked a thumb towards Jon’s closed office door behind him. “With how much he’s in there every day, recording those statements, that he’s said just about every word there is in the English language?”

Sasha dropped the stack of papers she’d been rifling through, clearly glad for the distraction from doing her actual work. “Every word and then some. Did you hear him reading out ‘el oh el’ on Case 0122204?” She sat up in her chair, the picture of prim and proper intellectualism, and repeated in her best impression of Jonathan Sims, “El. Oh. El.”

“I nearly had a fit hearing that!” Tim added with his boisterous laugh. “But I mean, discounting the right proper spooky ones, you think he’s recorded enough of those bogus statements on the computer that we could – I don’t know – make one of those talking programs? One of those- oh, what do you call it?” He bobbed up and down in his chair as he thought about it, then snapped his fingers when the term returned to him. “Text to Speech!”

“You mean like a speech synthesizer?” Sasha asked.

“No, absolutely not,” Martin chimed in. His desk was on the other side of the room from his coworkers. He was pretty sure it had just been a coincidence that he’d been assigned the workspace as far away from everyone else as possible, but he couldn’t quite get banish the thought that Jon had put him there as some sort of punishment, or so that he wouldn’t get in the way of the real assistants doing the real work in the Archives.

“I think I could,” Sasha said.

“It-it’s not a matter of could, it’s a matter of should,” Martin continued. “One, I don’t think he would like you doing that very much, and two, you both know you would just make it say whatever you wanted it to, and then Jon would find out, and then somehow he would find a way to blame me for it.”

“Yeah, probably,” Tim admitted. He rolled his chair backwards across the office floor and came to a stop next to Martin’s desk. “Don’t make that face, Mart-o! Just think of the possibilities of our very own faux-Sims.”

Sasha rubbed her chin thoughtfully, and then held up a finger. “Oh! We could have him call up Elias and request proper vending machines be installed in the break room.”

“Demand ‘Casual Fridays’? Whaddya say?” Tim elbowed Martin in the shoulder.

“I say you’re both mental and you’re not going to do it,” Martin grumbled and tried to get back to work.

But if one were to look for fault, that fault would lie with Sasha James. Martin had been absolutely correct in his assessment of Tim’s dedication to the idea of a digitized Jonathan Sims; Tim had just been saying stuff, and it was the kind of stuff nobody ever really took seriously. Except that this was the one time Sasha did take his concept seriously.

“I had to spend the last three weekends on it,” she explained one Monday morning in the Archives. “I needed to research how to program it, and then spend time uploading all of the voice samples, which I needed to… ‘borrow’ from work, but… ta-da! What do you think?”

“Tim – you – are the – best of – my assistants,” Jon’s voice read out in a semi-robotic manner from Sasha’s work computer, where Tim sat with his fingers flying furiously across the keyboard and a downright goofy grin on his face. “I – like – you – the best.”

“If Jon hears any of this, you are both in so much trouble!” Martin complained from his exiled desk across the office. At least being so far away meant that he probably would have an easier time staying out of it, if he’d had any boss other than Jonathan Sims. Things had been better between them ever since Jane Prentiss’s worm-siege on the hapless assistant’s flat, but Martin was sure he was one wrong step away from bringing this newfound office peace crashing down around him.

Still, Jon had listened, really listened, when Martin finally returned to work, and had even suggested he spend his nights sleeping on the cot in Document Storage to stay safe from further Prentiss attacks, so… that had to mean something. Maybe Jon didn’t really respect him, but he at least didn’t seem to want Martin to actually die. Still… best to stay on his good side.

“Oh, he’s in a meeting with Elias, he’s not going to hear. Besides, I won’t get in trouble. Didn’t you hear him?” Tim asked as the grin overtook his face and turned rather impish. “He said that I’m his favorite.”

Sasha smacked him on the arm with a file folder. “He did not. He said he likes you the best, not that you’re his favorite. There’s a difference!”

“Tim – is – my – favorite – assistant,” Tim immediately typed out and Jon’s disembodied voice spoke.

“Look, I really don’t think-“ Martin started to protest, but Tim clearly couldn’t hear him over the racket of his clacking keyboard.

“Elias – can – suck – it,” the computer said in all of Jon’s seriousness. Tim sat back with his ever-widening grin and basked in Sasha’s cackling.

“Sash, you simply must tell me,” Tim asked. “When did Jon ever say ‘suck it’?”

Sasha was doubled over, and she wiped laughter tears from her eyes as she straightened herself up. “He didn’t,” she explained, the giggles still evident in her voice. “He probably said ‘duck’ or something and the program just substituted the sound.”

Tim raised his eyebrows at her dramatically. “Oh, is that so? You’re telling me he can literally say anything?”

“Anything,” Sasha answered.

“Even other words? Words that may or may not rhyme with duck?”

“You’re incorrigible, you know that?” she said, and smacked him on the shoulder again. It was a move that said, Don’t you dare, although the grin on her face clearly said, Yes, do it!

Tim leaned far back in his chair, his eyes shining. “And Sasha, you are brilliant. You’ve just handed me the keys to the kingdom. Free access to Jon’s obscenity-laden mouth any time I want? That right there is a priceless gift.”

“Go on then,” Sasha said. “Tell me again how brilliant I am?”

“I really think you’re going too far!” Martin hated the sound of his own voice, hated the way it pitched itself up even higher when he was nervous. There was no way Jon wasn’t going to find out about this. They were going to get caught.

Sasha rolled her chair away from her computer so she could properly face him. “Relax, Martin. We’re just having a bit of fun.” Martin had always considered her the more levelheaded of his two coworkers. He’d thought maybe she might see things his way. But then, she had been the one to program the damned thing. Of course she’d see it as harmless.

“Well,” Martin said sternly, and crossed his arms for added effect. “I don’t think this is very fun.”

Tim scoffed. “What? Afraid we’re going to shatter that uptight, head archivist mystique he’s so keen on maintaining?”

Martin pursed his lips. “N-no. I just think-“

But Tim had already gotten a sparkle in his eyes again, snapped back upright in his chair, and started typing. “Don’t – worry – Martin,” Jon-a-Bot Sims, or so the program had been named, said. “Daddy – won’t – scold – you.” Tim sat back again with a self-satisfied smirk.

“’Daddy’?” Sasha repeated breathlessly. “Oh my god, Tim!”

“Oh, Sash,” Tim said. “I think I love you. You know that, right?”

Martin didn’t have to see his own face to know it was a bright, lobster red. He could feel the embarrassment burning his skin as he sulked in his office corner. It wasn’t fair. Tim didn’t even know the secret torch Martin had been carrying, and he was still using it against him. “Fine. Fine! Do what you want. But if Jon catches you-“

“I – won’t.”

“Then don’t expect me to be defending you!” he finished quickly before ‘Jon’ could say anything more. “Nope, good old Martin won’t have your back this time-“

“Martin – be a – good – boy. Daddy – loves – all – his – assistants.”

- - -

But it was Jon’s fault, really. When he at last returned from his meeting with Elias, he’d been in a foul mood. The archival assistants all scrambled to make it appear as though they’d been doing actual assignments during his absence, but Martin had never been quite as fast as the other two. They seemed to have a preternatural ability to goof off and get away with it, whereas Martin’s game of solitaire was still very visible on his computer screen when the boss walked in.

Jon had barked something at him about wasting time when he should be working and then retreated to his office with a slam of his door.

“I told you I’m the one he blames,” Martin had hissed at Tim and Sasha. Tim gave him an apologetic shoulder shrug. Sasha mouthed the word, Sorry! and gave him a commiserating grimace.

Still, whether he wanted to or not, Martin had appointed himself the office peacekeeper, and therefore appeasement in the form of a well-brewed cup of tea was in order. With Jon’s favorite mug in hand, Martin knocked and entered the dark, document-laden room they called the Head Archivist’s office.

“I don’t mean to interrupt, but-“ Martin began automatically before he noticed the man in question had his face firmly planted upon the surface of his desk. Jon whipped himself up at the sound of his assistant’s voice, causing Martin so much surprise he forgot what he’d been saying.

Time seemed to halt completely as they regarded each other, Jon’s eyes wide with alarm. He must not have heard Martin come in, and Martin (bloody, stupid Martin) hadn’t waited for confirmation after his knock before entering. He could see how much that had been a mistake; Jon’s cheeks darkened with a blush, his eyes still wet and shining.

“W-What?” Jon asked sharply. The surprise on his face was quickly resolving itself into anger. Furiously, he wiped at his eyes, as if that could somehow erase what Martin had already seen. He seemed to know this, too, as he stared his archival assistant down, almost daring him to say something about it.

Martin was at a loss for words; his mouth hanging open proved that, and he quickly shut it. He couldn’t have just seen what he thought he’d just seen. He could ask… but no, acknowledging it would be… that would be…

He was pretty sure Jon wouldn’t actually kill him, but why tempt him?

The temper in Jon’s eyes seemed to be growing with every passing moment that Martin just stood there silently, so he finally said the first thing that came to mind. “Cuppa?” he asked and lifted the mug he still held.

“Get – get out!” Jon snapped at him and pointed at the door, which Martin quickly (and quite wisely) excused himself through.

- - -

Yes, it was definitely Jon’s fault that Martin was feeling just a bit unappreciated, unwanted, and unhappy that evening. What a big, stupid oaf he was. Just when he thought he and Jon could have something that resembled a civil relationship with each other, he had to go and walk in on…

Well, it wouldn’t do to imagine he’d seen him crying. That was impossible.

Scary Boss-Man Jonathan Sims did not cry.

Martin cried. Martin cried what felt like all the bloody time. His were the type of silent, restrained tears one developed over the course of a childhood spent trying to hide it from his mum in the next room. Silent, restrained, solitary tears reserved for moments when no one would know he was feeling “overly emotional.” Silent, restrained, lonely tears that only happened when a blanket over his head and a pillow pressed against his face were enough to block out the whole world.

No, Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of The Magnus Institute, did not cry, of that Martin was sure. He must have been mistaken in what he witnessed that afternoon.

Still… it would be nice to know that Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of The Magnus Institute (and Martin’s right git of a boss), was human after all, and that Scary Boss-Man’s own Scary Boss could reduce him to the same “overly emotional” mess that Jon himself often left Martin.

Martin could almost see it now; Jon in Elias’s office. Elias chewing Jon out for some perceived mistake, something he ought to be doing differently, some statement he hadn’t yet recorded, or some statement he probably shouldn’t have recorded because it involved the Institute’s weird and unsettling donors. Jon, retreating to his office for the private moment he needed to break down and let his tears fall where no one else would see them.

And then Martin had to walk in on it. Martin just had to be the one to see what he really should not have seen. Martin the “useless ass.” Martin, the one Jon disliked the most, the one he would probably never forgive for this transgression.

And things had been going so well lately. Okay, maybe not well; Martin was still sleeping on a cot at his place of employment, but Jon had been better. Things had been better. And now he had just screwed it all up, he was sure of it.

Even so… Martin couldn’t get the thought out of his head. Lying on his cot in Document Storage, staring up at the ceiling, the scene kept running through his head on a loop. Jon, his eyes full of tears, demanded Martin “Get out!” But really what he was saying was, “Please stay. I would like a friend. That cup of tea sounds marvelous right about now.”

And Martin would say, “I understand, Jon. Elias can be quite a prick sometimes, yeah? How about a biscuit and a good cry?”

And then they would sit together and talk it out over warm cups of tea and commiserate about how difficult their jobs were, trapped as they were in a dry, statement-filled basement, trying desperately to put order to something that might just be too overwhelmingly disorganized to fix, with no line of direction from those at the top.

And then Jon would smile, and Martin was sure it would be lovely, because Jon himself was rather lovely when he thought no one was looking at him. When that overwrought, scholarly façade faded away because he wasn’t actively trying to maintain it, and he looked his age instead of the one he pretended to be. (Hadn’t that been a shock when Sasha gleefully revealed to her fellow assistants that Jon was not, in fact, older than any of them, despite his graying hair, and that truthfully he was the youngest one in the Archive. Martin had dutifully kept his mouth shut about his own faked credentials and that he, too, was “a baby”.)

Was it really so wrong to start fantasizing about that Jon? The softer one that didn’t know he was being watched? Actually, putting it in those terms, Martin was starting to think that yes, maybe he shouldn’t be watching his boss as often as he was. That was probably creepy. And he didn’t want to be creepy. He just wanted that bare minimum of a human connection with someone he was forced to see day in and day out.

Also, he had a bit of a thing for short guys. But no one had to know that part.

- - -

Without a doubt it was Jon’s fault that Martin couldn’t sleep, as his thoughts just kept circling back to things he really didn’t want to be thinking about. Thus, at around midnight, he wandered out from Document Storage and into the assistants’ shared workspace. He didn’t bother to turn the overheads on; enough light was cast from the obnoxiously bright screensaver on Tim’s still powered desktop for Martin to see by.

The computer sprang to life the moment Martin touched the mouse. It was too much of a bother to turn on his own computer and wait for it to load, ancient as it was. Besides, Tim wouldn’t mind if he used his for a quick YouTube binge. Just something mindless to calm his thoughts and let him sleep.

Tim would have suggested he watch porn, but he was not going to do that at work.

YouTube was innocent enough. Cat videos, maybe. Even Jon liked cat videos… And with that right there, Martin’s thoughts had returned to Jon. He couldn’t help it. His eyes roamed the computer screen, over the background picture of a row of brightly colored kayaks, and landed on one program icon in particular. Jon-a-Bot Sims.

It was just sitting there, nonchalantly, in among the files and endless folders with names like “Untitled Folder” and “Sort Me!” that cluttered Tim’s desktop. It was just innocently out in the open, where anybody could have found it. And use it. And… and this was a terrible idea, but…

Martin leaned back in Tim’s chair, far enough to check the door to Jon’s office. Not only was it dark within, but the door had been left ajar. There was no chance Jon was still somehow at work, asleep at his desk. Which it turned out was not as ludicrous an idea as Martin had once thought. With the cot in document storage occupied, Martin had been surprised to find on more than one occasion that Jon had fallen asleep in his office on days when he worked too late to take the train.

Evidently, Jon didn’t appear to have anyone waiting for him to come home safely at night. Not that Martin could speak much; he had his mum, but she hadn’t even noticed when he didn’t call her once during the entire duration of Prentiss’s two-week attack on his flat. And wasn’t that a dreary thought. No one would miss the absence of either one of them.

“Hello – Martin.”

“Oh, hello there, Jon,” Martin responded conversationally. “Fancy meeting you here.” I really shouldn’t be doing this, he thought guiltily to himself, but it didn’t stop his fingers from typing out a reply.

“You – can’t – sleep?” ‘Jon’ asked.

“Nah. Cot isn’t exactly the most comfortable place to spend the night? Oh, but look who I’m telling. You would know, wouldn’t you?” he asked. “Not that I’m ungrateful, mind you. Just a bit on the small side, really. F-for me, anyway. You probably fit just right on it. Besides, it smells like old paper and despair, if I’m being honest.”

“I’m – sorry – Martin. How – can I – make it – better? I – could – make – you – a – cup – of – tea.”

“Oh, that would be lovely, Jon, just lovely. But you always get distracted when you make tea. You steep it too long. I do not know how you can drink it like that. Why do you think I always make your tea for you, hm?”

“Because – you – like – me.”

“Piss off, I do not,” Martin said, blowing air through his bangs. He had always been good at denial. “Maybe I just don’t want you to drink that awful swill you call tea.”

“I – don’t – deserve – you – Martin.”

“You’re damn right you don’t,” he agreed. “You know, for someone who takes himself so very seriously, you sure don’t know how to take care of yourself. Would you even eat lunch if I didn’t remind you?”

“I – would – starve.”

“And then you’d blame me for it.” Martin set his elbow on the desk, and then rested his cheek against his palm. He let out a great sigh. “Maybe you don’t deserve me, but it’s not like I really deserve this job, do I?”

With one hand, Martin typed out, “Yes – you – do. You – are – doing – fine.”

“Oh, you’re just saying that,” he countered wearily. “Or… well, I guess I’m making you say that? Oh god, am I talking to myself? Like, I am literally talking to myself! D’you think this is a sign I should be seeing a therapist? This can’t be healthy, can it? Course, who would believe me about all this anyway? Probably lock me up the minute I start babbling about worm ladies and sleeping at work and feeling like I’m being watched all the time.”

“I – believed – you.”

“Hm. I guess that’s true, isn’t it?” Martin tapped the surface of the desk with an idle finger. “And that’s the real reason they’d lock me up. If I ever told anyone I had a crush on my mean boss, they’d throw away the key.”

“So – you – do – like – me.”

“Oy, don’t get cocky,” Martin scolded him. It. The computer program. “Okay, fine, maybe I do like you. And isn’t that the saddest thing you’ve ever heard? Poor, pathetic Martin, falls a bit in love with the first person who takes him at all seriously.”

“You – love – me?”

“God, no,” he answered. “You do still treat me like rubbish, you know. Maybe… maybe better rubbish now that I gave you that statement? Recycling? Sure, that sounds good. I guess I must be that desperate if I’m looking for affection from you, who treats me no better than recycling.”

“I – could – be – affectionate. You – don’t – know.”

“Oh, I doubt that,” Martin said. “Sasha can be affectionate. Tim can be affectionate. You? I don’t think so. I am such an idiot. I could have chosen anyone at the Institute, and I had to go for the least likely person to ever treat me nicely. Okay, Elias is probably the least likely? But ew, no thank you. Low as they may be, I do have standards.”

Martin drummed his fingers on the computer desk and breathed out. “Right. Well, I’m pretty sure this conversation is just getting sad at this point. What else can we do, hm, Jon?”

- - -

But in the end, the only one to blame was always going to be Martin himself.

“I – see – the – lamb - you – hide – under – wolf’s – skin,” Jon-a-Bot recited, giving the lines absolutely no flow or feeling.

Martin frowned. “Well, when you read it, it sounds rather daft, doesn’t it?” He erased the poem from the text box and flipped a page in his notebook. “Here, let’s try another one, shall we?” He began transcribing the verses, typing so fast that he didn’t hear the sound of a door.

It was always going to be Martin’s fault, but really, he should have checked to see if Jon’s coat was still there.

“My – heart – leaps – up – when I – behold- blossoms – on the – springtime – breeze.”

“Good lord, when did I ever read that?”

The voice had come from behind him rather than the computer, causing Martin to nearly jump out of his skin. "J-J-Jon!" he exclaimed, too shrilly for his liking, and slammed his notebook shut on instinct. He spun so rapidly in his chair that it began to roll across the floor. "W-w-w-what are you doing here?" Martin scooted himself back to the desk in a scramble and desperately planted his elbow down in front of the computer screen. Gotta be nonchalant, he thought to himself. You're being suspicious! Smile. Smile! He smiled, but he felt more like an alien trying to mimic human expressions.

Jon, on the other hand, just stared at him. He seemed nonplussed by the spectacle. "Working," he answered. In the dim blue light cast from the computer monitor, Martin could see the man start to peer around him. "What were you doing on Tim's computer? Were you listening to statements?"

"No. No no no," Martin quickly denied, shaking his head to emphasize it. Then, he thought better of it. "Yes. A statement. I was... listening to a statement."

"Really," Jon replied dryly. "I don't remember that one."

"Oh, well, no, you wouldn't, would you?" Without breaking eye contact, Martin snaked a hand onto the mouse. "You disproved this one almost immediately. No point on dwelling on somebody's bad fever dream, right? Heh." His eyes darted briefly to the screen, just long enough to hopefully line the pointer up with the little red X that would close the program.

The slightest of furrows crossed Jon's face. "Then, why were you listening to it?" he asked, a note of confusion and irritation in his voice.

"Umm..." Under normal circumstances, Martin was quite good at coming up with little white lies, the kind that hurt no one. He thought he was an expert by now at plausibility and getting himself out of trouble. He'd spent too many teenage years under his mother's roof pretending he wasn't browsing gay pornography sites; he wasn't about to fail to hide his computer activity now. Surely not.

But then, Martin was pitiably short on sleep, hounded day and night by the threat of worms burrowing into his skin, living in document storage on a cot, and currently had the looming presence of Jonathan Sims standing over him. Perhaps nobody could have come up with a decent lie under those circumstances.

After the silence of Martin trying and failing to say anything even remotely believable, Jon finally sighed. "Play it."

Martin clicked the mouse. The computer behind him beeped. Oh, for the love of... I missed! He clicked again. Another beep. "... no?"

"Really," Jon continued. "I'm curious now. Play it."

Martin rapidly clicked again and again, and the computer beeped again and again. Jon rolled his eyes and moved towards him, faster than his assistant could stop him. "Jon! Jon Jon Jon - wait!"

But Jon didn't wait. Instead, he leaned in over Martin's shoulder, hand taking the mouse, and began clearing out the error messages that littered the screen from the failed attempts at closing the running program. His proximity did nothing to help the rapidly spreading heat in the archival assistant's cheeks, and Martin found himself momentarily fixated on the certain way his boss's hair fell, the feel of a shirt cuff as it brushed past his skin, and the electric buzz of two bodies sharing nearly the same space.

Jon didn't even realize the effect he had on his assistant, that stupid, gorgeous prick. It just wasn't fair.

"Jon, have you been smoking?" Martin asked when, in the process of cataloguing every precious sensation this odd event stirred up in him, he'd gotten a good whiff of the man.

"What?" Jon asked, too hastily to be anything but caught in the act, and his posture bolted upright. "N-no, I have not!" His pitch had raised a few octaves, the artifice he usually spoke with having been banished by the accusation. Had this been any moment other than the one in which Martin currently found himself, he might have reveled in the fact that he'd knocked The Archivist right out of Jon's voice.

"Well, unless you've been out rolling around in an ash tray, yes. Yes, you have," Martin countered. "I thought you said you'd quit smoking."

Jon folded his arms and turned away. "It- I- It's been a long day, and-" As he stammered through an excuse, he gave off the distinct vibes of a child refusing to be found red-handed. "And I don't see how it's any of your business."

"Jon," Martin said sternly.

"Martin," Jon answered back, saying it in that way that always gave Martin goosebumps. Mah-tin. That pronunciation of his name took up valuable space in the Nighttime Fantasy section of Martin's brain, and he truly did hate himself for that.

"If you keep it up, those things will kill you someday," he scolded him instead of dwelling on the swell of unnecessary feelings, or the slight rise in his... affections. This was not the time or place or person he should be having those thoughts about, and he really didn't want to have to clean up the mess later.

"Yes, yes, I am well aware of-" Jon had likely heard that same proclamation on his fate many times over the years, but he cut off his complaint mid-sentence. "What on earth is 'Jon-a-Bot Sims'?"

Martin was hoping the talk about cigarettes would have derailed Jon's interest in the computer, but he should have known he didn't have that kind of luck. "That-that is- it's- I wouldn't- that is to say-" While he couldn't see his own face at the moment, he knew how bright red he always turned when he'd been caught doing something naughty. As a child, the teasing was relentless, and only got worse the taller he got and the funnier it became how easy it was to fluster him. "I, um... Tim?"

"Tim," Jon repeated skeptically. He stared at Martin for a very long time. The computer screen, and therefore Jon-a-Bot itself, was reflected in his glasses. "Excuse me... what?"

"Tim," Martin said again, hoping that would be answer enough on its own. It was not. "And Sasha. It was their idea. Well, Tim's idea, but Sasha was the one to-"

"Martin," Jon cut him off. "What is Jon-a-Bot Sims?"

Martin gulped and began to chicken-peck on the keyboard. "Please - don't - be - mad," Jon-a-Bot requested, though it lacked the sort of emotion one might expect in a plea of that nature. "It - was - just - a bit - of - fun." Maybe he couldn't take back the fact that he'd instantly thrown his coworkers under the bus, but he could at least mitigate some of the damage by metaphorically bending the knee and pathetically begging for forgiveness.

But Jon's reaction was not quite what Martin had been expecting. He figured there would be words to be had, strong words, and accusations of slacking off, insubordination, and a general air of not taking their work seriously enough, followed by a lengthy discussion of the repercussions. Instead, Jon had gone silent, and his eyes remained solidly fixed upon the computer program.

"Tim and Sasha did this?" he asked, voice almost too quiet to hear. It had a peculiar quality to it, one that Martin was having trouble placing. In the next moment, it was back to stinging. "A bit of fun, you say. Well, I am so glad that you have revealed what a laughingstock I am."

Martin realized with a start what it was he'd been hearing. Jon was hurt, and he was now trying to cover it up under a layer of his usual acidic tone, but it was still there under the surface. "W-what? No, Jon, it... it doesn't mean anything. They aren't... weren't... nobody is making fun of you, it's just that you're the one who reads the statements. Yours is the only voice they could use, and-"

"And I'm sure Tim didn't immediately abuse his power over me." He took a step back and folded his arms, though his gaze never left Jon-a-bot.

"No! No, of course he didn't," Martin told him. It wouldn't help matters to admit all the ways Tim and Sasha had been conjuring up how to use Jon's voice for their own personal gain. They weren't going to actually do any of the things they suggested... Martin was pretty sure of that. "Well, he was awfully interested in hearing you swear."

"I swear!" Jon interjected, turning his offended frown onto Martin. "I swear all the... all the fucking time."

Martin laughed. He didn't mean to, but it was just something that came out of him in response to such a ridiculous situation. Jon was upset because people thought he never swore? His mouth was quirked in such a petulant way, and it was downright adorable. Jon was adorable. There was no getting around that. He was a scary, prickly, mean, adorable little man, and Martin couldn't help but let his giggles out.

Jon rolled his eyes witnessing Martin's reaction. "Fine, fine, save your hysterics. I'll reserve befouling my verbosity for a moment that really deserves it."

"You don't have anything to prove to me," Martin said, holding his hands up in surrender, though he was incapable of hiding the amusement in his voice. "I'm sure you curse up a storm when we're not around. Just f-bombs all over the bloody place." Oh, he should not be doing this. This was far too familiar to be acting with high-and-mighty Jonathan Sims. Martin needed to back off before the other man really lost it.

Jon surprised him by not, in fact, losing his temper. Instead, he merely sighed, and then followed it up with a shake of his head and a mumbled, "Yes, yes, do kindly shut up, Martin." There was, strangely enough, no animosity behind it. Martin could almost picture this being how they'd speak to each other if they were friends. What an idea...

"Tim was just... blowing off steam, yeah?" Martin continued, encouraged by this rare moment of possibly imagined camaraderie to try and soothe the other man's damaged feelings. "It's been getting kind of stressful lately, what with the horrible, man-eating worms everywhere, and... and it was just a workplace joke, you know? Honestly, the worst he did was have it say, 'Elias can suck it.'"

Jon snorted in response. Martin hoped it was a sign he agreed with the assessment that Elias could, indeed, suck it.

"And that was it," Martin said, and crossed himself. "I swear. Tim respects you. You're not a laughingstock, Jon."

"And you?"

Martin didn't catch his meaning "M-me?" he asked.

"You were using it, too," Jon said as he crossed his arms. His voice had dipped back down into Head Archivist territory, a tone that should have sent Martin running for the hills. "What were you having me say?"

Martin could feel the color draining from his face. This was no longer embarrassment. It was absolute mortification. "Oh. Ah, no. No, I don't think-"

"Something about blossoming on the breeze?"

Oh shit oh god oh- "You heard that, did you?"

Jon gestured at the screen with just a bit too much drama. "Go on, then. I want to hear the rest of it."

"Um," Martin answered. "No?"

"I insist."

Martin did not move. He refused to move. He refused to destroy himself with the embarrassment giving in would cause. He was not going to do it. Absolutely not. He was adamant in his steadfast desire to not do what Jon wanted.

Jon raised his eyebrows at him.

"Blowing - hither, twisting - yon," Jon-a-bot continued after Martin unequivocally gave in and typed out the next few stanzas of the poem. "Simple - letters in - floral - flight."

"I've heard enough, thank you," Jon responded almost immediately, his fingertips brushing Martin's hand in a silent request to leave it be. The brief physical contact sent thrills of electricity running through Martin's body, and not for the first time he was thankful for how dark it was in the office. That's seriously all it takes?! his mind screamed at him.

"Not a fan of poetry, I take it?" Martin asked, his voice a little too high as he attempted to stop dwelling on the moment. One touch and he was far too worked up. He giggled nervously. Jesus Christ, I did not just giggle!

Jon didn't answer, taking a step back. His brows were drawn tightly as he stared down the computer program. "No, not particularly," he at last said, turning away. His voice had sounded tired, maybe even disappointed, and his shoulders hunched as he stalked to the coat rack.

Martin watched him wrestle his coat on with jerky, irritated movements. It was a good coat, nicely-made and probably expensive, and it was well suited for the uptight scholar look Jon fancied for himself. However, it was perhaps a size too large for him, and hung almost comically wide upon his slender shoulders. Even so, it didn't deserve the way he was manhandling it.

"Are... are you angry with me?" Martin asked, trying to piece together this unexpected mood swing.

"No," Jon answered curtly. "Why should I be angry about a joke?" He practically spat the word 'joke,' and Martin couldn't understand why. He'd been hurt when it was Tim and Sasha poking fun at him, but he hadn't stormed off over it. Surely, he couldn't hate poetry that much, could he?

Unless... Martin had been right all along, and it was just him that Jon hated. If it were Martin making jokes at his expense, Jon's delicate pride couldn't possibly stand for that, could it? Stupid, useless Martin taking shots at him? Unthinkable.

"Jon, I wasn't-" Martin started, but Jon was already heading for the exit. "Jon, where are you going?"

"Home."

"I, um, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but... It's quarter to one," he reminded him. "The trains stopped running ages ago."

Jon paused, one hand on the Archives' doorknob. This time when he swore, it carried all the weight and gravitas he could command. "Fuck."

- - -

Martin did not sleep the rest of the night. He couldn't stop imagining Jon, just a few doors down, spending the night in his office. Probably doing unspeakably vile things to his back, the archival assistant thought ruefully, like sleeping in his chair again. Oh, he is going to regret the second he turns thirty.

But despite it all, Martin found he was having a hard time wishing such lumbar-based suffering on his superior. He'd seen too many, too brief glimpses into Jon's inner workings over the past twenty-four hours to really mean him any serious ill-will. The man was many things, but Jon was still human. He was not the bogeyman, or one of the monsters ripped straight out of their statements.

He wasn't... whatever Jane Prentiss was.

Perhaps Martin was just a glutton for punishment, conditioned by a childhood of neglect and verbal abuse to seek out the best in people, however slim that good may be. The look in Jon's eyes as he'd stared at his own digital representation had given Martin more insight into his boss than he'd ever gotten over the past few months of working with him, and it was honestly a little depressing how much he felt he understood him.

Jon was the sheep in wolf's clothing; he was in way over his head working a job he was decidedly unqualified for, and yet was still desperate for the approval of his peers. Martin could almost be describing himself, if he had only chosen a sharper, more cutting façade like Jon and not the soft, agreeable version of himself that he had.

Martin wasn't actually sure he could pull off Jon's level of "bark is worse than his bite" bravado. He'd have to drop his obliging act, obviously. Everybody's Good Chum, Martin K. Blackwood? He could take a hike, and then Martin could really tell everyone what he actually thought of them. Wouldn't that make quite the stir around the office? The day quiet, stuttering Martin loses it, has had quite enough, thank you, cannot take a single, solitary word more of abuse. Then he'd tell Mr. Elias Fucking Bouchard precisely where he could shove it.

He wasn't going to do that, but it was a comforting idea that he could. Someday, he was going to sit back and watch the world burn around him.

Maybe he could convince Jon to join him?

But in the end, it was all just a daydream. The real world, even a world that contained scary worm ladies and men with impossibly long knife hands, still operated by rules and regulations. You had to be polite to your coworkers and superiors, and if one were to inadvertently offend one's boss in the middle of the night, one really ought to try and make amends.

Therefore, as the sun was rising, Martin dutifully made Jon's morning cup of tea; he dutifully heated the water, dutifully let it steep the appropriate amount of time, dutifully added the sugar cubes Jon always pretended he didn't want but really did, and dutifully marched that teacup back from the breakroom and into their shared work space. It was as he opened the door into the Archives that he walked right into the middle of a screaming match.

"You scrub it clean off all of your computers," Jon was saying. He was right up in Tim's face, fury burning away behind his wire-rimmed spectacles. It was truly a sight to behold, as Tim was a good head taller than Jon and was not backing down in the slightest. "And if I ever hear about your insubordination again, I will personally report you and your gross misuse of Archival materials to Elias, and you will officially be his problem to deal with however he sees fit. And let me tell you, you do not want to be Elias's problem."

To Tim's credit, he waited until Jon was halfway back to his office before his willpower gave out. "You would know, wouldn't you?" he mumbled rebelliously, but whipped his hands up in innocence when Jon whirled around on him. "Nothing, boss. I'll get rid of it."

"Yes, I suggest you do," Jon stated, staring Tim down until he was satisfied the man would follow his instructions to the letter. His eyes flicked over to where Martin was still standing frozen in the entrance to the Archives. "Martin! I thought perhaps with you living here you might actually improve your punctuality, but once again, you have proven my optimism misplaced. Quit wasting time and get back to work! I swear, you are all-" Whatever further insult he was lobbying at his assistants was abruptly cut off by the slam of his office door.

"Why did you have to tell him about it?" Sasha hissed as Martin glumly passed by her desk. Jon was unlikely to ever truly unload his ire upon her, not like he would Tim or especially Martin, but she'd technically been the one to 'misuse Archival materials' for their little pet project. She had just as much reason to be scared of Jon's threat of involving Elias in this whole affair.

"I didn't!" Martin hissed back at her. "I-I might have been using it last night, and he walked in on me!"

Tim snorted, not too angry to have lost his sense of humor. "Oh? And what were you using Jon-a-bot Sims for, eh, Mah-tin?" he asked, emphasizing it enough to make Martin think perhaps he wasn't as oblivious to his coworker's unrequited affections as previously thought.

"N-nothing!" Martin squeaked. The teacup he held rattled in its plate, forcing him to steady it with his free hand. "Nothing," he repeated, trying to keep his voice calm. "Whatever you're thinking right now-"

"Oh, please, tell me that cup of tea isn't for Jon," Tim whined upon spying the drink his coworker gripped tightly. "Martin, seriously? After how he speaks to you-"

The door to Jon's office swung violently open once more, the man in question standing there looking ragged and unkempt. There was practically a zero percent chance he'd managed to get a good night of sleep holed up in his office. Such a pity. He could have used a good cuppa. "Martin, are you still just standing there? Why don't you make yourself useful for once in your life and go tell IT that the phones in the Archives are not working. Again. We need somebody from their department to come down here and fix it."

"Oh, I think I heard IT was tied up working in Artefact Storage today," Sasha piped in. She was a brave woman to interject. "Apparently, their computer system is down, and-"

"I don't care!" Jon snapped. "Martin, take care of it, one way or another. And I don't want to hear any excuses about the worms chewing through the cables. If we don't have phones, we don't have internet, and I don't want to have to send you up to the Library. We have too much to do without you getting lost in the stacks! Again! Useless..." Once more, he turned around, reentered the darkness of his office, and slammed the door.

Martin's face was burning. He knew Jon felt hurt over the text-to-speech program, but this was really too much. "Fine," he said, his voice quavering only a little. "So much for civility." He held the cup out over the plastic wastebin, tipped it over, and let the tea pour out.

- - -

It took Martin three grueling hours of back and forth with the IT department before he was able to return to the Archives, and then it was to find the office empty. Sasha had a placard sitting on her desk that read GONE TO LUNCH. She'd gotten it specifically for the occasions in which she was actually able to leave her desk to eat. Tim was likewise nowhere to be seen, and Jon's office door was closed.

Martin decided he was not willing to check if the boss was in; he never took lunch breaks unless someone was there to remind him, and Martin was determined that the man could starve for all he cared.

But... just today. He'd make sure Jon ate tomorrow. He didn't actually want him dead, after all, which would likely be the case if no one were looking out for him.

Martin took only a moment to gaze around the abandoned office space. It was a sight he'd come to know very well, trapped as he was in the Archives. After all, he spent nearly all his nighttime hours there by himself, and yet, seeing Tim and Sasha's desks devoid of the life they usually provided made some lonesome little thing curl up inside Martin's heart.

Sometimes, late at night, it was easy to imagine he were the only person in the whole world, isolated and hidden away in a cage made of old documents and dust. On nights like those, as the Archive felt just a little chillier and just a bit more ominous, it was almost a comfort to find the light still on in Jon's office. To know that Jon was still there. To know that someone else still existed.

To know that Martin wasn't alone.

Martin had to shake off such melancholic thoughts. He was supposed to be upset with Jon, not grateful for his mere presence. He needed to distract himself from the depression that lingered at the edges of his consciousness, and food had always been an excellent way to take his mind off his mounting issues. Therefore, with nary a look back in the direction of the Head Archivist’s door, Martin made his way to the breakroom.

"Okay, what is your issue?" The entrance to the breakroom had been left ajar, and through it, Martin could hear Tim's voice. From the sound of it, he was not happy. Martin paused, hand over the knob, unsure if he should continue in or flee to the safety of his desk.

"Where should I start?" Jon asked dryly. So, he hadn't been in his office after all. Returning to his desk was sounding all the more appealing for Martin. "Maybe it's your attitude-"

"No, not with me," Tim interrupted him. "We both know what your problem with me is. I'm talking about Martin." Martin froze the second his name came into the conversation. If they were talking about him, he really ought to leave. He ought to turn around right now and not listen. The path of the eavesdropper only led to heartache and regret.

"Martin," Jon repeated, as if he hadn't a single thought in his pretty little head in regards to Martin. Not even worth taking time to think about, really, that Martin. 'Useless ass' that he was.

"Yes, Martin!" Tim threw back at him. "Yell at me all you want, I understand that. Hell, I probably deserve it. But Martin had nothing to do with that program. He was the one trying to tell me and Sasha to knock it off!" Martin felt his heart tighten hearing Tim stand up for him like that. There were days when he wondered if his coworkers even liked him, or if they were just being nice to him out of a sense of obligation.

Tim would gain nothing by taking this bullet meant for Martin.

"He was still using it," Jon countered. There was a pause in the conversation, a beat that spoke volumes to the power of nonverbal communication. "It shows a complete lack of respect!" Jon insisted, likely in response to whatever facial expression Tim was currently making.

"Hate to break it to you, mate, but we were all using it," Tim answered. "And you didn't bite Sasha's head off, and she programmed the damn thing. So tell me, what great sin did Martin commit that's so much worse than what the rest of us were doing with you? What was so bad that you felt the need to personally insult him over and over again?"

It sounded as though Jon were sputtering. "He-It-He was making it read poetry." There was another prolonged silence following this admission. Martin could almost picture the look on Tim's face. "He wasn't just playing around. He was specifically mocking me." Another pause. "Everybody knows I despise poetry."

"Everybody knows that, do they?" Tim asked. "Everybody? Does Martin know that?"

"My hatred for poetry was a well-known fact when I was in Research."

"I didn't know you hated poetry and I worked with you in Research!" Tim made a sound that landed somewhere between hysteria and total exasperation. "And here I was thinking that maybe, just maybe, you had gotten over yourself, even the tiniest bit. You know he wasn't making fun of you. And even if he was, you kind of deserve it. It's not like you've ever given him a reason to respect you, and it's no secret around here that your bruised ego makes itself known in the way you treat him. Lashing out at an easy target is not a good look on you, Jon."

"I don't-"

"Yes, yes, you do," Tim insisted. "And you do it because you know Martin is the only one around here willing to put up with your bullshit. Do I have to remind you that he's living here at the Institute because you pushed him too hard and he went poking into things he shouldn't have, all to prove something to you."

All throughout Tim's speech, Martin could hear Jon trying to interject, only to be cut off unceremoniously. By the time Tim had finished, Jon had gone silent. After a moment, he must have responded, though Martin couldn't hear what he'd said.

"Oh, so you are at least a little self-aware," Tim said with a bitter laugh. "Look, Jon, you have to get over whatever... all this is... because Sash and I are this close to going to HR." Jon said something else inaudible. "Then, we'll, I don't know, accuse you of sexual misconduct in the office-"

"Excuse me?!" Jon said, more than audible this time.

"Hey, whatever gets someone down here to listen to us," Tim countered. "This job is getting way too weird, Jon, and your attitude is not helping things in the slightest. Start treating Martin, and the rest of us, for that matter, like the decent human being I know you must be somewhere under your hedgehog routine, or we will all have to attend sexual harassment meetings until our ears bleed."

- - -

It was the clink of a porcelain teacup onto wooden desk that caught Martin's attention. After at last fleeing back to his desk with much of his appetite missing, and seeing the looming pile of paperwork in his increasingly disorganized to-do pile, he'd decided to just work through lunch. He'd been alone in the office, as Tim had left shortly after his breakroom conversation, and Sasha was yet to return.

That meant that Martin was only a little surprised to see Jon standing in front of him, the only other person who routinely skipped meals in lieu of a proper work/life balance. Christ, he is such a mess of a human being, Martin thought.

"What's this?" he asked instead, raising his eyes from the cup to Jon's face. "You brought me tea?" The man was looking at him with an unreadable, tight expression on his face.

"I thought-" Jon started to say, his words coming out stilted and a little strangled, as if the question had obliterated his ability to interact like a normal person. "-you might... want some tea." When Martin didn't respond right away, he barreled ahead. "I, ah, I should have asked first. I apologize if it's inconvenient for you. I'll just get rid of it-"

Martin reached for the teacup just as Jon was about to take it away, causing their fingers to brush against each other for one electrically brief moment. "No, I, um... thank you, Jon. I'll drink it." He lifted the lukewarm drink to his lips and took a sip. Jon always made the worst tea imaginable, but it was the thought that counted. Martin wondered if perhaps Tim had told him to bring it as a peace offering, or if Jon had come up with the idea on his own.

Jon took a step back and ran a hand through his hair. The motion caused the silvery gray strands peppered throughout to catch the light; Martin had always been struck by Jon's appearance, even more so since he was so young. It did suit him, and lent a bit of mature credence to the act he performed on a daily basis of being qualified for the job of head archivist.

"I, ah..." Jon had started speaking again, snapping Martin out of his silent, guilt-laced admiring. A little furrow had formed between the archivist's brows as he appeared to struggle with finding the right words to say. "I should, ah, apologize for... earlier. I shouldn't have yelled at you. I am... sorry for overreacting, and-"

"Oh, Jon," Martin jumped in wearily, hating to see a sentence tortured into existence like this just as much as he hated himself for not being able to properly accept an apology. "It's okay, really-"

"No," Jon said forcefully, cutting Martin off before he could take any blame for the situation onto himself. "Don't do that. I was being unfair and taking it out on you. That was entirely unprofessional of me, and I want you to know I do appreciate your help here in the Archives."

"But Jon-"

"Would you just let me say I'm sorry?" he snapped. "I am well aware I am not an... easy person to get along with, but I'm going to try and be less of an arse from now on. I can't promise it will last, but I will at least try. And I am sorry I yelled at you! Repeatedly. From... the first moment you told me you were working for me. Good lord, I really am an arse, aren't I?"

Oh. Oh no. Jon was pouting. He was legitimately pouting and it was doing absolutely terrible things to Martin's heart. It was strange enough to hear Jonathan Sims apologize for anything, but did he really have to do it with the same intensity he did everything? With all the cantankerous temperament of a feral cat? Martin hated how cute it was and how the expression on Jon's face made him feel. Oh, what contradictory, emotional hell had Martin put himself into by falling for this man?

In order to distract himself and appease the angy kitten standing next to him, Martin took another sip of the god-awful tea. "Thank you for this," he said again, lifting the cup to indicate the watery brown liquid. "It's a good blend, yeah?" This backfired almost immediately when Jon's face relaxed, the creases in his forehead smoothing out and a tiny, pleased smile threatened to crack his exterior.

"I'm, um... glad you like it," he said. "I was afraid, ah... well, your tea is always so much better than when I make it, and-" Jon continued to speak, but he was avoiding eye contact and letting his words ramble into incoherence, and this was almost worse than him pouting. Martin hadn't even said he liked the tea, but the tiniest hint of praise had made his boss turn what could have been construed as shy were it anybody but Jonathan Sims.

"Listen, about the poetry thing," Martin said before he completely lost himself watching the fascinating microexpressions that flitted through the other man's facial features. "I didn't know you hated poetry. I happen to like poetry, and... well, just reading it to myself gets old after awhile, yeah? It was kind of nice hearing someone else read it to me for a change. It was... okay, just as sad hearing a computer-generated voice read it instead of an actual person, but at least it wasn't my voice."

"So, you-"

"I was not making fun of you," Martin assured him. It was important that Jon knew that. "I'm sorry it felt that way, especially with you just walking in on it, but I need you to know that was never my intention. Really, I don't think any of us were making fun of you. I told you last night, it's just because you're the one who reads the statements. It's your voice in the recordings, and it's your voice Sasha had access to. If... if it were Tim doing the readings, it would have been his voice they used. Or Sasha's, o-or mine."

"Hmm," Jon verbalized, studying his nails in such a way that meant he was considering what was being said to him, but he might not fully believe it.

"Well, maybe not my voice," Martin continued on, babbling away just so Jon wouldn't be forced to contribute to the conversation if he didn't want to. That Martin, always a people pleaser. "Nobody wants to hear me read the statements, I'm sure. Whiny little toad. Wouldn't even matter if there were audio distortion in the recording. Not even the cassette tapes would be listenable. Have to throw them in a fire and burn them to the ground, like that Hilltop Road case... what case number was that mentioned in again?"

Jon had a confused frown on his face while Martin word-vomited his mirthless self-deprecation all over the place. "Why would you say that?"

"Because of the arson that happened at Hilltop Road?"

"No, not that."

Martin blinked back his surprise. "About my voice? Well... it's true, isn't it? I-I mean, your voice is so much more suited to the statements, and my voice is so nasally and high-pitched and- and I'm annoyed just listening to myself speak. You would not want to have to listen to me read cases and research notes and-"

The expression on Jon's face softened, and he seemed almost sad as he spoke. "Martin, if I said I didn't want you to read the statements, it's because I wouldn't wish the statements on anyone. Reading them is... it, ah, it takes a toll on you." His eyes seemed strangely distant, like there was something else on his mind that he wasn't speaking out loud, but in the next moment his gaze had settled back on the present once more. "But that being said, I have never found your voice annoying. I have found plenty of other reasons to be annoyed with you, but your voice has never been one of them. If I'm being honest, I think it has a rather lovely cadence to it."

Nooooo... No no no no. This was too much. Martin could stand a great many things: Jon being mean to him; Jon yelling at him; Jon ignoring his existence entirely. But Jon giving him an actual, sincere compliment? He said the word 'lovely' and he was talking about me, Martin thought as the blood rushed to his face. I don't think anyone's ever said that about me. Not even my own mother. He needed to calm down, for Jon was sure to notice the pigment of his skin any second now.

"Martin, are you all right?" Jon asked, right on cue.

"I- ah- th-thank you for the tea, Jon, um," Martin stammered out. "I- I should probably- I'm just going to- I'm going to step out to the... loo." It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair! One nice thing. Jon said one nice thing to him, and Martin was even more head over heels than he was before. He was literally losing his cool right in front of him and acting like a complete mental case.

With all the grace of a floundering armadillo, Martin sprang up from his desk chair and booked it for the Archives' door, nearly bowling over Tim as he was coming in from lunch. "You all right, mate?" Tim asked, but Martin was already pushing past him. He needed to get to the restroom and splash cold water on his face immediately before this rush of inconvenient feelings could overwhelm him any further.

Damn it! Martin thought to himself. This is all Jon's fault!

- - -

"What did you do to Martin this time?" Tim asked with his exasperation oozing from every pore once his fellow archival assistant was well out of sight. "He looked like he was having a fit!" Tim had every right to his frustration, seeing as he had just told Jon to be nice to Martin.

And Jon had immediately fucked it all up, as he usually did.

"I-I didn't do anything!" Jon protested, and he was pretty sure he was correct; nothing he had said or done in the prior conversation should have caused Martin to turn tail and go running out of the room looking like he was in physical pain. And yet...

"Well, you must have done something," Tim insisted, a hand on his hip like he were the one in charge here and not Jon.

"I gave him some tea," Jon stated. Tim stared at him, and then rolled a hand for him to continue. "We had a conversation. I apologized, just like you told me to, I might add. I told him I appreciated his work, and... I don't know, Tim! I'm trying, I really am, but apparently, it doesn't matter what I say to Martin. I am always going to get it wrong and end up hurting his feelings somehow. Even when I'm not trying to!"

Tim rubbed his temples. "Look, what, exactly, was the last thing you said to him? Right before he stormed out of here?"

Jon wracked his brain for the last normal thing they'd been speaking about. "We were talking about statements," he said, his thoughts streaming out of his mouth as he verbally recalled them. "I said... I think I said his voice wasn't annoying? And then he got all flustered, like he always does, and then you know the rest. What? Why are you making that face?" Even before Jon had finished speaking, Tim was shaking his head and trying to keep his amusement in check.

"Christ, mate, you told him his voice 'wasn't annoying?' That is so specific! He probably thought you were being sarcastic! 'Oh, no, Martin, I think your voice is not annoying.'"

"He brought it up! And I did not phrase it like that!" Jon snapped, ready to defend his honor against such slander. Even he wasn't so poor at social situations as to insert accidental sarcasm where no sarcasm was intended. "Actually... on second thought, I suppose I did phrase it that way, but I was trying to compliment him. I said I did not find his voice annoying and that it was... nice, I guess. Did I say nice? No, no, I said... I said it was lovely. See? That's even nicer than nice."

"Oh," Tim said. "Oh..." he repeated, as if he'd just connected two separate thoughts in his head to create a whole picture, one that Jon still couldn't see for the life of him. "Oh, you poor, stupid, silly man. I see what happened now. You gave Martin a compliment. God, Jon..." The archival assistant sighed heavily and rubbed the bridge of his nose. When next he spoke, he sounded as if he were very, very tired. "Why don't the two of you just snog it out in a supply closet already and spare the rest of us having to watch this ceaseless drama?"

Jon didn't hear another word as Tim continued to prattle on. His brain had already short-circuited. It had caught on those absolutely ridiculous words as if they were imperfections in an otherwise smooth surface, and they tripped his mind up and sent it crashing full-speed straight into a brick wall. "Excuse me. Did you just say, 'snog it out?'"

"Right, right," Tim interrupted his own tirade to say. "I forgot. You are Jonathan Sims, the only man in the world who would not notice the, quite frankly, ludicrous amounts of sexual tension bouncing off the walls in this office. It is so thick, you need an axe to cut through it and get any work done. Sometimes, I swear to god, I come in in the morning, and he's just sitting there. Pining. He is pining, Jon. He is pining and bringing you tea and living alone in the Archives, and it is just so sad watching it all that sometimes I legitimately want to smack him in his stupid, sweet face. I want to smack him, Jon, because you do not deserve that puppy-dog of a man."

Jon needed just a moment to sift through all the information that had just been dumped on him. "What? What? You're not serious. Are you? I... what?!"

Tim rolled his eyes like the drama queen he was, grabbed Jon by both shoulders, and gave him a hard stare directly into his eyes, as if he could hypnotize his boss into good behavior. "All I ask is that you be nicer to Martin from now on. Think before you speak! You got that?"

"Yes, yes, fine," Jon acquiesced, if just to get out of whatever this staredown was. "Now let me go." Tim did so, releasing him and backing away. Jon dusted off his sleeves after all the manhandling and proceeded to eye Tim suspiciously. "You were just joking about the... sexual tension, weren't you? I would notice if he were... wouldn't I?" Despite having dated Georgie during Uni, this was admittedly one area (okay, one of many areas) of the human experience Jon had very little knowledge on. It was not something he ever really thought about, at least not until suddenly presented with the possibility that it was an actual thing somebody might be thinking about him.

Tim just laughed and clapped a hand upon his shoulder. "Well, why don't you ask Martin all about it? I'm sure if you can keep him in the same room with you for five minutes, it would be very... enlightening for you."

Jon felt the heat spread through his cheeks at the mere suggestion. He didn't know why, but somehow, this had to be all Martin's fault.