Archive of Our Own ^beta

                                                                                                                                    get closer and I s̴̫̱̔͆̇e̵̤̻͊̕ë̶̛̱̾

                                w̶̦̼̯̳̓̇̃o̶̟̳͇͑̚r̵̮̜͐̆̓͆m̴̛̘̘̮͆̿͜             of some sort

Jon

J̵̦̙͐o̵̢̦͊̕̕n̴͙̮͘                                                                             No, Martin. You know th

                                                                                                                                                                                        e ṛ̴̡̰̯̲͂̍͆̄͝e̷͇͚̊̍ả̸͉̓̿̌s̷͎̥̘̪̄̄o̷̩͆͒̽̓̄ṉ̴̰̍͛.

                     Jon                     pe aches

Everything’s               bad.      J̶̡̤̝͚̓̇̋o̵̰͕͓̣̎̄n̵̳̊͋                              Jon

                                                                                                                                                                                                            good cows

                                                                           don’t know how much l̴̯̝͙̦͇̀̈́̄̈́͘ǫ̵̩͇͙͑̔n̶̦͓͝ģ̶̥̻͕͙͙̰̈́͛̊͌̆e̸̫̓̈́ͅṛ̶̑

Please--                 d                                                                                                                                                             I̴͇̓ ̴̟̋l̸͎̍ơ̸͔v̶̧̽e̶͇̚ ̵͚̔ỵ̸̈o̵̩͝ǘ̸̯

on't make me d̴͉̓͌o̸̹̽̕ this

                                                           J̵̝̼̳͑̒ơ̴̫͉͓n̵̺͂̃

                         J̸̦̈ō̵̡ṇ̴̛!̴̭̔

 

                                                      J̵͖̼̃Ǫ̸̈́͋͜N̴͙̯̉͝ͅ!̸͉̐͋

Martin bolts upright with such violence that his elbow cracks against the bedside table. Lightning lances all the way up his shoulder; “Bloody Christ,” Martin wheezes, doubling over, and works his jaw around the static burn of a twinging ulnar nerve.

Nightmare. Bloody terrifying nightmare-- his normal dreams aren’t anywhere near this vivid.

Sleep-fog’s settled thick over his eyes, so Martin shakes his head to clear it, cold sweat beading along the back of his neck. It rolls in frigid trails down his spine, forming an airtight seal of skin to shirt. When he moves, the draft moves with him, wringing out an involuntary shiver.

The details of his dream-- his nightmare-- are already funneling out between his fingers. Martin lets them go, relief blossoming in the pit of his stomach. Christ. Can’t wake up from a regular nightmare, no: instead he gets blistering flashes of colour and sound, coring out the whole of him.

And Jon. Why does it always come back to Jon?

He can’t dredge up the exact involvement. Just knows, with the hypervigilance of a hopeless crush, that Jon had been there-- afterimages lingering in the space behind Martin’s retinae.

God. Rosie’s never going to let him hear the end of this.

Darkness drags his eyes to the digital clock on his bedside table. 2:07, it proclaims in bright, blurry LCD. Fantastic. Four hours and fifty-three minutes stand between him and his morning alarm, and with the edges of impossible shapes still fluttering around him, chances of going back to sleep are, historically, little to none.

Good news is, it's nothing a spot of tea can't fix.

Martin throws out a clumsy hand, groping for his glasses. Without them, the shadows deepen and undulate like he's underwater, dappled by misty streetlights slicing through the narrow frame of his window. He won’t stay up long; just enough to splash some water on his face, breathe the steam from a cuppa, and go back to bed.

Martin sighs as he slides his glasses on, some of the tension unspooling from his shoulders. Twists the knob on his bedside lamp, counting each rotation. Click, click, cli--

Light pours molten honey into his bedroom, and a bolt of panic so sheer it burns scorches through Martin's heart.

This isn't his flat.

No. No, no, no-- that can’t be right. Martin scrambles backward until his shoulders collide with the headboard, wracking his memory. He'd gotten home late last night, hadn't he? Dropped his bag just inside the door, footsore, coughing London exhaust, and made a beeline straight for bed. There's literally nowhere else he can be, but-- the angles of this flat are-- they aren't right. Foreign, too cluttered. The lack of sterile space sends his pulse skyrocketing out of control.

Martin squeezes his eyes shut until stars burst behind them, and counts down from ten.

By the time he reaches zero, the frantic trip of his pulse has started to ease. Cracking open an eye reveals only the familiar beige planes of his walls; Martin gulps down a desperate breath, eyes sweeping over each pale corner. Yes, this is his flat-- cramped and bloody expensive, but his. Those are his shoes by the closet, his quilt spread over the mattress. His poster hanging on the wall, faded but legible after fifteen years.

"Chrissake," Martin mumbles, drawing his glasses up so he can drop his face into both hands. He's going mental. Either he’s going mental, or he’s still dreaming.

Regardless, he’s too jittery to stay in bed. With a flip of the sheets he’s tumbling off the mattress, shuffling out past the bedroom door. Shadows cling here despite the lamplight, plucking thick fingers at the hem of his shirt. His bathroom is four feet down the hall, give or take; each step closer carries with it the weight of an eternity.

He’s never been fond of the bathroom’s clinical fluorescence, but tonight it simmers under his skin, ramping each frayed nerve until his whole body sings with it; a static, whining crackle crashing through his veins. Martin trudges to the sink, swipes the knob over until it’s as cold as he can physically stand. Traces the water’s swirling path from tap to drain before leaning over, cupping his hands under the faucet.

The water strikes his face with glacial precision; Martin sputters as it drips down to his shoulders. A chill ghosts across them in response, gooseflesh lifting the hair on his arms. But it does the trick-- the tremors in his fingertips ease, wrung out and numb.

Martin casts a sympathetic look at his reflection. The lines of his face are a study in exhaustion: purple-smudged eye sockets, cheeks molded with pillow creases, curls hanging limp and lifeless under the cold bathroom lights. His body is too old and too young all at once, invisible weight pressing down upon his shoulders.

That's the problem with so many late nights at the office: they start catching up to you after a while. Under normal circumstances, he wouldn't push it this hard, but--

But Jon has expectations. Jon is aloof, and attractive, and he has high expectations. Expectations that Martin fails, over and over again, to meet.

He's never been the kind of person who can let that lie.

Martin wrenches his train of thought away from that track. What he needs right now is tea, not a sleep-deprived analysis on his questionable taste in men. He flicks off the bathroom light with one decisive motion-- without his reflection staring back, the disorientation settles, and cold relief drapes over his back like a mantle.

Four and a half hours. If he gets the kettle going now, he'll still have time to sleep.

---

In his defense, he does try. An hour after washing up finds him still alert, eyes trained on the blurry shadows playing across his ceiling. When Martin gets up next, it's for a glass of warm milk. A lap around the flat. Another cup of tea. After three hours of helpless, eye-searing consciousness, he's even desperate enough to try exercise. Martin shoots his downstairs neighbors a mental apology as he jumps, until he's sweat-drenched and panting, legs too watery to hold him.

Nothing works. Thirteen minutes before his alarm is set to go off, Martin throws in the towel.

February in London runs colder than the rest of the year; the sun’s only just filtered between tower blocks, rays too weak to cast any noticeable warmth. Already, the breeze carries the faint hint of snow on it. Martin shivers and locks the door behind him, cupping a hand over his mouth. His meagre jumper-and-jacket combo can't compete with the chill; frigid fingers rake through his clothes as he heads further into the streets.

At least it’s warmer underground. Rubbing his chapped hands brings some of the life back into them as he wades through the crowd, making a beeline for the tube. A rapid tattoo kicks up under his sternum as he walks-- is it just him, or are more people than usual making their morning commute today?

Uneasiness garrotes his throat. No, it's-- it's definite: this can't be normal. A vicious swell of discomfort rears from the back of his mind without warning, tangling claws in his gut. Martin swallows, thick. Why does everybody have to stand so close? Can't these faceless drones leave him alone?

It's the intensity of that thought that glues his feet to the floor. No… no, of course it's crowded, it's a Tuesday morning in the London Underground. Christ, he's going insane. With a heave of effort, Martin shoves his nameless agitation back down-- but it doesn't fade. Instead it itches, just beneath his skin.

Like ants, crawling all over him.

The twisted mass of limbs surrounding him lurch forward, and Martin, swept up in their tide, moves with them and onto the train proper. Everything smears together; when the tube roars to life, he's in an unclaimed seat, as far away from the other passengers as he can get.

The car's steady sway is lulling. Halfway to his stop, Martin’s eyes slip shut of their own accord-- it's with a start that he jerks back up, electricity crackling under his skin.

Oh, no.

Martin pinches himself. Come on, he scolds, fumbling to keep his eyes open. They're so heavy-- lead weights tugging him down, deeper than his own consciousness. You can keep going, you’ve gotten through worse. Remember when you and Tim w--

Martin’s mind judders to a stop.

When they what?

The end of that sentence is shrouded in static, cavernous holes lining the shape of a memory he can't quite dredge up. Martin traces its edges the way he'd trace a lost tooth: cautious, exploratory, but-- no. When he presses, it pops like a soap bubble, nothing left but empty space.

What--

P̴͔͉͗͊͌ĩ̷̼̟̺͒ ̵̻̅͌̈́m̸̹̹̋ ̸͙̈́͗̌l̶̨̙̇̓į̷̥̓̐ ̵͉̞͙̑̋̿c̶̡̥͇͐͊͋o̸̬͎͉͑͌̿ ̴̜͔̳́Ş̶͕t̴̡̛͙̠̃a̸̗̽̅ ̶͙̾͆t̷̘͙͙͌ ̵̠̖̩͘ï̷̗͝õ̷̢ ̴̦̦̔̽̏ň̸͙́̈,̵̢̾̚, a smooth voice calls out. Martin, glued to his seat, shoots the bulkhead a helpless stare. It’s all wrong-- syllables disjointed, unfamiliar. Nothing's making sense--

Wait.

PIMLICO STATION.

Wait, that’s his stop.

With a yelp, Martin scrambles from his seat. “Sorry, sorry, pardon me--” he pants as he elbows his way through the sliding doors. By the time his feet make it to solid ground, the world’s righted itself again, and Martin takes the stairs two at a time.

Maybe he’s more tired than he’d thought.

Fog blooms across his vision when he emerges back onto the street. Martin peels his glasses off with a long, ragged sigh; this, on top of everything else, is just too much. He needs tea. Something to perk him up, boost his flagging morale-- and keep him from collapsing halfway through his bloody shift.

Well. If there’s anywhere with an abundance of tea, it’ll be the Archive’s break room. Martin rubs his glasses clean with the hem of his jumper, shoves them back on his nose, and squares his shoulders with the air of a man preparing for war. If he wants caffeine, he’s going to have to get there, first.

The Institute is about a ten minute’s walk from Pimlico Station-- reasonable, when he isn’t doing his best impression of a Martin-shaped icicle. By the time he nudges the Institute's doors open, his ears, nose, and fingertips have all gone miserably numb.

"Morning, Marti--" Rosie's greeting cracks in half when she looks up from her computer, brows rocketing straight into her hairline. "Jesus. Did you get into a fight on the way here?"

Martin winces, half-turning to shut the door with his foot. "No?" he says, ignoring how his voice warbles on the last note, turning it into a question. "Not, uh, not unless you count my bed, I guess."

"You look awful." Rosie's blunt sympathy strikes a mallet right between his ears; she leans forward, lips pursed. Gives him a once over, concern rounding out the line of her shoulders. "Did you sleep at all last night?"

"No," Martin groans again, abandoning the door to step further into the lobby. The faux wood of her desk is cool beneath his fingers-- Martin leans over to brace his elbow against it, pushing up his glasses and rubbing some warmth into his wind-bitten face. "I mean, I-I tried? Woke up 'round two, couldn't get back to sleep."

Rosie's low whistle rebounds against the lobby's muddled green walls. "How the hell are you still standing?"

Martin shoots her a thin smile. "Willpower. And hopefully lots of tea."

But Rosie shakes her head, nails clicking a rapid tattoo against the keyboard. A thoughtful expression wrinkles her brow. "No offense, Martin, but I think all the tea in the world wouldn't be enough to help you right now."

"So what, I fall asleep at my desk? Right," maybe on another day, an easier one, Martin could've kept the scoff out of his voice. But he's been fighting himself every step of the way here-- the idea of Jon finding him passed out in a puddle of his own drool... Martin shudders. "Because that's going to go over so well."

Rosie's eyes roll toward the ceiling, "What I mean," she says, "is that I think you need something stronger. Like-- here, hang on."

Bemused, Martin waits as she dives under her desk. Rosie resurfaces with a massive handbag that she pulls into her lap-- blue-grey, tasteful, and large enough that it swallows her up to the elbow when she digs into it.

"What all do you keep in there?" Martin asks, awed despite his poor mood. Flickers of humor dance around the words.

"Secrets," Rosie says with aplomb. "And--" with a dramatic pause, she tugs something out-- "this."

It's an energy drink. Beads of condensation roll down the label as its internal temperature wars with the Institute's warmer climate; Rosie brandishes it like she's displaying a trophy.

Martin's chest spasms. "Ah, Rosie--" he says.

"Twins kept me up last night, but don't worry about taking it," Rosie tells him, setting it down on the counter between them with a thin, metallic clink. "I can get another from the canteen. I was already planning on going over there later--"

"Rosie, I really don't think-- you don't need to--"

Rosie pins him with a flat stare.

Martin falters, then rallies himself. "Look, it's fine. I'll be alright with just the tea--"

"I think we've already firmly established you won't be."

"I can't just steal your drink!"

"It's not stealing, I'm giving it to you."

"But you just said--"

An exasperated noise tears out of Rosie's throat. "Martin, just take the bloody thing, will you?" She pushes the energy drink closer to him until it teeters, threatening to tip over the edge. "You need it more than I do."

Reflex wraps Martin's fingers around the sweating can; the chill shivers through his veins. "Are you sure about this?" he asks weakly. "The caffeine--"

"I think you'll survive," Rosie says, unimpressed. "Take sips, don't shake, don't stir; do not pass go, do not collect two hundred dollars. Go on," and she reaches up to give his shoulder a friendly pat. "You'll be fine."

"Thanks... I think." Martin grimaces at the label, but flicks the tab open anyway. The first tentative sip crawls down his throat like frozen fire-- burning and acrid. He musters up a grateful, shaky smile. "Really, Rosie-- thank you."

"Don't think anything of it." Rosie falters as her eyes dart to the lower left corner of her computer. "Uh-- you might want to go, though. You're about five minutes late."

"Oh, Christ--" For the second time this morning Martin lurches forward, dread pooling in the center of his gut. He's at the door to the Archives in three long strides, one hand grasping the basement's handle. "Thanks, Rosie, see you later!" he calls over his shoulder as he rushes inside.

"I'll see you at lunch!" Rosie calls back, just before the door swings shut behind him.

It's pitch black on the other side of the doorway. Some frantic pawing at the wall produces a lightswitch; uneasy fluorescence peels back the darkness. Christ, but it's spooky down here. The back of his neck prickles as he navigates down the stairs, animal panic rearing up from his amygdala. Martin freezes in place, hand spasming around the rail. Turns-- so slowly the creak of his spine explodes in the sudden quiet.

Nothing. The staircase behind him is empty.

"Right," Martin says, echoing all the way up to the ceiling. "I'm going insane."

He takes the rest of the stairs two at a time, ignoring the warning tingle that spreads across his shoulders when he turns his back. By the time his feet touch the floor, his heart's fluttering at a hummingbird's pace. Martin slips through the door leading into the Archives, skin crawling, and shuts it behind him as fast as possible.

The Archives remain unchanged from yesterday-- clinical, dusty, and grey with age. Sasha's the only one sitting at her desk in the bullpen; Tim's leaning over her shoulder, both of them engrossed with something on her phone. On the far side of the room, Jon's office door is pointedly closed.

Thank god for small favours.

Martin scrapes together the last few tatters of his dignity, clearing his throat.

"Morn--" he starts, right as the tinny music from Sasha's speaker reaches its chorus, and Tim bursts into gales of howling laughter.

"--ing," Martin finishes, chagrin bubbling up between his teeth.

"Martin!" Tim spins on his heel in one smooth motion, abandoning Sasha's side to swoop over and wrap an arm around Martin's shoulders. And maybe it's a culmination of everything that's gone sideways this morning, but the agonizing familiarity of that gesture strikes a hammer between Martin's shoulder blades. Sudden tears catch in the back of his throat, clumping his eyelashes.

"You have got to see this video Sasha found," Tim says as he ushers him forward. "Funniest cat you've ever seen, I promise."

"Cool," Martin croaks, head spinning. Sasha's already rewinding the video with her thumb, lips crooked to one side. "Um, mayb-- I think I should actually clock in, first?"

"It's only like thirty seconds," Tim assures him.

"Tim, I-I'm already late--"

"We were wondering about that, actually," Sasha says, hovering over the play button. "You're usually one of the first ones here."

"Late start," Martin mutters, but the words hitch on their way out, tangling together and gumming in his jaw.

The sleep deprivation swanning Martin's face must finally register to them, because Tim and Sasha exchange a long, loaded glance. "Right," Tim says at last, hefting an uncertain smile at him. "Uh… are you-- you alright? You seem a little…"

"... Tired," Sasha finishes for him, a flash of concern lighting her eyes.

Had a shit dream, Martin imagines telling them. Now everything's wrong and I don't know why. Even the suggestion winds silver threads around his throat, clamping his mouth shut.

So instead, Martin musters up a weary smile. "Didn't get much sleep last night," he admits, punctuating it with a sip of Rosie's godawful energy drink. "I'm fine, though, I swear. Rosie was nice enough to give me this," he holds the can out for inspection, "which should be enough to get me through the rest of this week, if the caffeine count means anything."

Tim lets go of his shoulders to squint at the fine print. "Jesus," he says. "Three hundred milligrams-- you could wake the dead with a potion like that. Are you sure Rosie isn't trying to poison you?"

"Tastes like it," Martin says, hunching one shoulder in guilty admittance.

Sasha rolls her eyes. "Okay, they're not that bad--"

"You've had one of these?"

"As fascinating as this conversation is," Jon's voice issues forth from his office doorway, a world of impatience trapped between each syllable, "I do believe office hours have already started. I suggest the three of you get to work, before Elias comes down here for a 'surprise inspection.'"

Several things happen at once.

Tim jumps, one hand clutching the collar of his shirt. "Christ, Jon," he swears, "don't do that to me!"

Sasha winces, shoving her phone deep into her purse like that will hide the incriminating evidence.

And Martin locks eyes with Jon.

His eyes... his eyes--

Blood, seeping from what remains of Jon's ragged eyes. A pool of it stains the cold stone beneath them, warm and tacky where it swims around Martin's knees. He's kneeling in a grief so vicious it punches the air right from his lungs, shredding him from the inside out; a black hole replacing the shattered pulp of his heart. His hands tremble as he strokes Jon's cooling arm in a facsimile of comfort--

Martin drops his drink.

He doesn't register his fingers going slack until Sasha jerks sideways, swearing. The can catches against the lip of his trainers, splashing his ankles with freezing liquid-- and just like that, the vice around his chest dissipates, leaving nothing but three separate, alarmed stares in its wake.

"Oh! Oh, god, Sasha, I am so sorry--" Martin yelps, blood rushing in his ears. A dark spot on her skirt marks where the drink must've splashed her; he springs away from the growing puddle beside her chair, diving for the napkins he keeps in his desk.

"It's fine--" Sasha says, half-rising, one arm extended. Martin ducks his head before he can catch her expression, embarrassment curdling his gut. "Martin, really--"

"I'll grab some towels," Tim says, before turning on his heel and sprinting for the break room.

"It-- it's just-- I don't even know why-- o-or where that came from--" Martin cuts himself off with a high, nervous laugh. Fishes the napkins out from where they've been crumpled and pitches back to his feet, holding them out as a peace offering. "God. Sasha, I really am sorry-- here, use these--"

"Martin," Sasha says, firm even as she accepts the napkins and starts patting herself dry, "stop apologizing, it's alright. Look--" she gestures to her skirt-- "barely any of it got on me, see?"

Which is a blatant lie-- the damaged area is about the size of a tennis ball, soaked dark and dripping even with the napkins. Martin clenches his teeth around the bubble of sick, tangled frustration that rises up in his chest. He's had a shit night. He's having a shit morning. Out of everything that's happened so far, this is what slaps him in the face: the cosmic unfairness of it all, the butt of a joke too vast for him to comprehend.

"Right," Martin says, lower than a whisper, resignation burning through his lungs. "Right. I'll just-- I'll get this cleaned up."

Like an angel on high, Tim chooses that moment to barrel back into the Archives, an entire host of tea towels tucked into his arms. "Here," he pants, tumbling several onto the floor.

Martin jolts. "Let me--" he starts, pulling the rest out of Tim's hands-- "I'll take care of it--"

"We'll take care of it," Sasha declares, tossing her used napkins in the trash. She falls into a crouch beside him, taking a towel from the pile and pressing it against the spill.

Above them, Jon clears his throat.

Every vein in Martin's heart floods with ice, beating in time with the electric hum of the overhead lights. He won't look up. He can't. Not with the afterimages of Jon's dead body plastered across his retinae. Not when another glance could mean drowning in that surge of bitter, rasping grief.

A thick blanket of silence drapes over them, simmering with wary anticipation. It'll be a lecture, Martin decides. A lecture, or a-- a comment, something about his clumsy fingers. How Martin should be more careful when there's valuable papers down here, littering every available surface.

But when Jon speaks, it isn't directed toward him at all. "Tim," he says, projecting right over Martin's head, "do we have a-- a mop somewhere around here?"

"I think there's a supply closet by Document Storage. Want me to grab it, boss?"

"No, that's alright." An odd note weaves through Jon's voice; Martin finally darts a furtive glance up at him, muscles tensed and back bracing.

Jon's eyeing him with an expression Martin can't begin to parse. Brows furrowed, lips drawn in a severe line, but-- cautious. The way you'd stare at a spooked or cornered animal. "I'll get it myself," Jon continues after a beat, releasing Martin from that assessing gaze, only to settle on Tim. "Just help get this cleaned up."

Then he turns on his heel, vanishing into the hallway for Document Storage.

Tim whirls on Martin the moment Jon's footsteps fade. "Are you alright?" He demands.

Is he? Martin opens his mouth. Shuts it.

That's a good question.

He swallows down the knot in his throat and tries again. "Yeah." Weak, even to his own ears. "I-I'm good, I just--" Martin scrounges for something, anything, that can pass as a reasonable explanation for this. "I didn't expect-- I just got a bit startled, I guess? Didn't know the boss was listening."

Tim's brows dip, disbelief painting two stark lines across his forehead. "You sure? You looked like you saw a ghost or something."

"Oh. No, uh-- no ghosts," Martin says, dropping his gaze to the towel he's still patting into the carpet. The fabric's saturated, spreading liquid more than absorbing it at this point. "Just Jon." He tugs his lower lip between his teeth and repeats, quieter, "Just Jon."

"I don't think we can do much more with these," Sasha breaks the heavy silence after an agonizing beat. "Do we have anything we can put them in?"

"There's a hamper for the janitors in the break room." Martin seizes the question with both hands, wrapping it around his shoulders like a security blanket. He bundles a few of the dripping towels into a wet, syrupy ball, then gestures for the rest of them. "Here, I'll take those--"

"I'll come with you," Sasha says, balling her own towels up. "No, I want to come," she adds when Martin sputters out a syllable of protest. "Honestly, Martin, let me take some of them. Besides, I want to use the tap on my skirt before it gets sticky. Not--" she holds up a preemptive hand-- "your fault."

"It kind of really is."

Sasha ignores him. "Let's go," she says, marching past Martin with steely, determined steps.

After a helpless glance at Tim, Martin follows.

The Archival break room isn't so much a room as it is a large closet that happens to have a fridge in it. Peeling yellow paper clings to its walls, so faded it may as well be translucent. Dark cabinets frame the sink, and in the corner squats their scuffed lunch table, guarding the metal folding chairs beneath it.

Some of the tension unspools from Martin's shoulders. Metaphorical eyes on his back or not, this is his domain-- the walls bleed safety here.

Sasha makes a beeline for the hamper tucked away in the corner, tossing her towels at it with a negligent flick of her wrist. They fall to the bottom with a wet plap, liquid and runny. Martin wordlessly reaches past her to add his own, wincing as they splat against the other tea towels.

The residue left on his hands is tacky. Like blood, his mind supplies; Martin stares down at his fingers, splashes of red dancing across his vision. They curl in on themselves, jerky, out of time; a cold knot settles in between Martin's shoulder blades. God, it had been so visceral--

A squeak, then the rush of running water-- Sasha's stepped past him and turned on the tap. Silence, as she begins to scrub her hands.

Then:

"Are you sure you're alright?"

Martin's entire body jolts. "Sorry? Um, yeah, I'm-- why do you ask?"

"I don't know, I just…" Sasha trails off, uncertainty winding behind the syllables. She doesn't look at him as she grabs a clean towel from one of the cabinets. Dries her hands with quick, efficient movements, then wets the corner to dab at her skirt. "I guess I've never seen you jump like that before," she offers at last.

"O-Oh." Martin runs the pad of his thumb over his left index knuckle. Still sticky. "I don't-- I'm not sure. Why, that is. Like I said, Jon just… sort of startled me, that's all."

Now Sasha turns to eye him. "Right," she says, slow, disbelief dripping from her tongue. But she doesn't say anything else, scooting to the side in a tacit invitation to use the tap.

Martin shuffles forward, forcing his hands under the freezing spray. Numbness crawls all the way up to his wrists, sending fine tremors through the meat of his palms. Where Sasha had been efficient, Martin is mechanical: he scrubs the space between each knuckle twice, scraping at the skin where invisible blood still clings, heavy and drowning.

He's dragging another tea towel over his hands when Sasha pipes up again. "Jon hasn't been even more of an arse to you lately, has he?"

"What?" Martin jerks around to stare at her, voice cracking on the way out. "Wha-- no? No, nothing like that. I mean, uh--"

"Because if he has," Sasha continues, a dangerous light flickering in her eyes, "then I don't give a damn that he's our boss. I will report him to HR."

Martin sucks in a fast breath. "Don't do that," he whispers. "Sasha, please don't do that. It's fine-- I'm fine. Just had a-- a rough night, is all." He forces his shoulders up in a shrug, hitching to his jaw and down again.

Sasha hums, a low, doubtful buzz in her throat. "If you're sure."

"I'm sure," Martin says, with as much finality as he can muster. Tacks on, "But, really, Sasha-- thank you." Because it's a-- it's touching, that she even cares. Sometimes the distance between him and his coworkers can be measured in miles; moments like these remind him he works with real, human people. People who, against all odds, notice him. His lips lift up in a tremulous smile. "And I'm sorry about your skirt."

Sasha rewards him with a long, appraising look. Then she rolls her eyes, the tense line of her shoulders softening. "Next time you apologize for something that's not your fault, I'm putting salt in your tea."

A hysterical laugh bubbles out of Martin's throat. "Alright! Alright," he raises his hands in a bid for peace. "Point taken. We should probably head back now."

"Right, before the head honcho decides we're," Sasha's voice dips, carving out Jon's refined tones with shocking accuracy, "wasting valuable company time."

Sasha flashes him a grin, dimples in her cheeks, and for one brief, floating second, that aching emptiness peels away so Martin can smile back.

Jon must've found what he'd needed while they were gone; he's scrubbing the carpet with a mop when Martin and Sasha creep back into the Archives proper. Tim's leaning against Sasha's desk, peering over the edge at Jon's progress.

"Hey, welcome back to the crime scene," he says when he spots them. "I tried to convince Mr. Killjoy that we should put caution tape around Sasha’s desk, but he kept claiming it’d impede our work, whatever that means.”

The look Jon shoots him could shrivel steel. "Yes, thank you, Tim, for your helpful suggestion." He digs a little harder into the carpet, brows beetling over his eyes. "We've already wasted enough of the morning as it is--"

The question rips out of Martin on instinct, a reaction honed over years of caring for his mum. "Do you-- can I help with anything?”

Jon's gaze flickers over. For the second time this morning, their eyes meet.

Martin holds his breath.

Nothing. No swoop of fathomless despair, no technicolour visions to speak of. Just Jon's dark eyes, cautious, calculating-- the lines around them tightening in a microscopic expression Martin still can't make heads or tails of.

"I doubt there's anything else you can do here," Jon says dryly, dunking the mop back into its bucket with a muffled splash, "unless you plan on spilling any more drinks."

Oh.

A fresh wave of mortification curdles Martin's stomach, rising up the back of his throat like ash. Right, of course-- he averts his eyes, chest tight. It's not hard, caving. Not when the intensity of Jon’s gaze pins him, a butterfly to corkboard, and peels. Dissects him until he's been laid bare, just to find him wanting.

At least he's alive, a treacherous voice whispers in the back of his mind. Not lying in a pool of his own blood, the frayed tatters of his eyelids staring, sightless, at some indeterminable point--

Jon's jaw snaps shut with an audible click.

"Right!" Martin jumps as Sasha claps her hands together. The smile plastered over her lips doesn't quite touch her eyes. "Guess we should all get back to work then, now that everything’s been cleaned up?”

Jon jolts too, as if he's forgotten, for a moment, that the room is occupied. "Right, yes," he says, darting one last guarded glance in Martin's direction. "Sasha, if you'd like to use a different desk until that dries--"

“I don’t think a little water is going to kill me." Sasha's voice is prim. She plops into her chair, ignoring the damp carpet around her, and rattles her mouse to wake the computer screen up.

A broad hand claps down on Martin's shoulder. "Well, glad that's over," Tim says. "We'll show you that video later, you'll love it."

"Right," Martin says faintly as Tim passes him to return to his own seat. With nothing better to do, Martin skirts around Jon and makes for his desk, wincing at the scrape of metal as he pulls out his chair. Paranoia itches at his brain-- are those eyes on the back of his neck? Martin keeps his gaze pinned to the screen as he logs in.

He will not look up to check if Jon is watching him. He won't give him the satisfaction.

Martin takes a deep, measured breath. It's going to be a long, long day.

At least there'll be tea.