Chapter Text
“I still don’t know why I’ve been dragged all the way here at six in the morning.”
Jon makes a noise of frustration and viciously shoves another clothing hanger to the left side of his wardrobe. “Because, Georgie, I need your advice on what to wear.”
Georgie is sitting at the edge of Jon’s bed, inspecting her nails and swinging her legs lazily. “I don’t know, they’re all just variations of a stuffy professor. It’s not like anyone is going to notice.”
“But first impressions are important!”
“But you’ve worked here for years, and you’ve known Tim and Sasha the entire time!”
Jon blows a stray piece of hair away from his face and sighs, slamming the wardrobe shut with more force than is necessary. “This is important to me. Elias trusted me with this new position, and I don’t want him to think he’s made a mistake.”
She hums in understanding. “And you think that getting two hours of sleep and not showering is gonna help with that great first impression?” Georgie takes a long, pointed sip of her tea, not breaking eye contact.
Jon is suddenly very aware of his unwashed hair and the purple-blue bags under his eyes. He shifts uncomfortably and tugs at the oversized pajama shirt he’s wearing. “It’s too late now,” he protests weakly. “The outfit is all I have.”
“Christ,” Georgie mutters. She makes her way over to the wardrobe and picks out an outfit combination without much consideration, throwing it onto his bed with little fanfare. “There. A splash of colour with the maroon jumper, but neutral toned trousers so it’s not too funky. God forbid you wear something out there.”
He casts a critical eye over the ensemble, then deflates. He feels something akin to relief. “Thank you.”
Georgie waves a hand and makes her way out of the bedroom. “Get changed. Then let me do your hair, please? It’s upsetting me.”
Jon huffs out a laugh and runs a self-conscious hand through the waves of dark brown. “Sure.”
Georgie’s hands through his hair are slow, methodical. She uses the tips of her fingers to part the knots before taking a brush to it until everything is completely untangled. The whole process is done without any rush, which Jon appreciates. Whenever his grandmother tried to wrangle his hair into something presentable in a rare display of affection she’d tug on it so hard his scalp stung. Georgie gestures for the hair tie on his wrist and starts to pull everything together, making a loose plait that settles near the base of his neck. She pats his head twice.
“There. Now don’t go around telling everyone your ex did your hair for your big day, okay?”
He snorts. “Wasn't planning on it.”
She brushes stray hairs off her jeans and grabs her bag. “Now I,” she announces, “am going to go home and nap for a while until I have to work. Don’t get hit by any buses while you’re walking across the road and stressing out, etcetera etcetera. Eat your lunch. Don’t be a dick.”
“Anything else?”
Georgie taps her index finger against her chin, pretending to think hard. “Nope!” A quick kiss is pressed to his cheek. “Love you!”
Then she’s bolting out of the door, leaving Jon very, very alone with his thoughts.
A dangerous thing.
He grabs his lunch (a meagre cheese and pickle sandwich with a bottle of water) and stuffs it in his messenger bag along with his keys. It’s barely 6:30am - he’s going to be ridiculously early to work, but that’s probably for the best. Enough time to get his bearings and privately freak out before he has to deal with people all day.
London is a hazy, sleepy mess. It’s never actually quiet, but this is as peaceful as it gets. The sweet spot between the type of people out drinking until the early hours of the morning and the type of people up and off to work at some office or other. There’s enough room on the paths that he isn’t rubbing shoulders with strangers and tripping over their feet, and the city is enveloped in an orange glow from the early sun. Jon lets himself enjoy it, just a bit. Today is going to be a good day. He’ll make it so if he has to.
The tube, however, is as troublesome as always. The same hot, musty air assaulting him when he gets to the tunnels, a pleasant but almost robotic voice announcing arrivals, impolite idiots stepping in front of him just because they’re taller. It’s only a few stops to the Institute, and Jon is back out into the decidedly colder air and less sunny London that was there less than half an hour ago. As he walks towards his workplace, he expects it to be different, somehow. It’ll look more important, or more imposing.
Disappointingly, it’s remarkably average. The small pillared building inspires nothing in him, really. The only thing that’ll be changing is the number of floors he’ll be going down when he enters it.
Security doesn’t even spare him a second glance when he walks in. The halls are empty aside from a few tired domestic cleaners milling about the place. They’re almost definitely irritated by Jon walking on their wet floors, but he avoids eye contact and practically runs to the lift. It groans in protest at being forced to head to the basement, and Jon is struck by the cramped, sallow Archives. He’s never actually been down here much, and has the memory of a goldfish if he deems something as useless information, so it’s all new to him. There’s three small desks with rickety chairs stacked in the corner (he takes two down for Tim and Sasha, because he’s a nice boss), and three computers to go alongside them. Chipped white mugs are stacked by the door, probably abandoned for a decent amount of time. The lights make the whole room a sickly yellow. They barely function, but Jon doubts Elias is committed to giving the place an overhaul when Gertrude was perfectly fine down here for decades.
Well, aside from the whole death thing. Keeling over in your office wouldn’t make for a good work atmosphere.
Speaking of, a small, bronze plaque beckons him to his own office. Head Archivist, it says, and Jon tries not to smile and fails. It’s hard not to feel a little giddy about it, even when he’s working in a place as downtrodden as this.
Even when he’s working in an office that’s a glorified broom closet.
He exhales hard through his nose at the state of it all - loose papers everywhere, suspicious stains on the carpet, leaning towers of files threatening to topple over if he so much as sneezes.
“Right,” Jon mutters to himself. “Okay.”
The files have zero consistent organisation - in some drawers they’re sorted alphabetically, in others numerically, in others not at all. The older ones have fragile paper that nearly disintegrate beneath Jon’s hands. When he shuts a drawer too hard it makes a loud groaning sound then promptly collapses, crushing the drawer beneath it and spilling documents everywhere.
He resigns himself to sitting in a cross-legged pose on the floor and trying his best to sort things into coherent piles, brow furrowed. A statement from 1997 next to one from 2012 - probably because they’re both about sentient evil cash machines, right? That works. It’s ridiculous, but it works. Regardless, it isn’t like Jon will have to do this for long. He can foist a lot of the sorting onto his assistants - who, if they’re on time, will be arriving in under ten minutes. Jon straightens himself out as best as he can. He’s professional. Calm. Collected.
(He’s losing his mind.)
Tim and Sasha, are, in fact, slightly late, but he tries not to let his irritation show. Not on his first day, at least.
“Hey, boss,” Tim greets, croissant in hand. “Getting started already?”
Jon rocks back and forth on his heels and nods. “Yes, well. We have a lot to do around here.”
Sasha whistles and casts her eyes over the dire room, eyes flicking to the mess in Jon’s office. “Looks like shit. Gertrude left it like this?”
“Evidently. I doubt many other people would take the time to trash the place in her absence.”
The two sit in their respective chairs and boot up their computers. They wheeze in protest, making concerning noises that translate to I’m from the early 2000s and I’m clinging to life oh god please help me. Jon pinches the bridge of his nose and screws his eyes shut.
“I’m sure we’re all eager to start-” Tim snorts behind his travel mug of coffee, “so I’ll put some work together for you to look over. Sasha, there’s a file on your desk I found particularly...interesting. I haven’t figured out the process surrounding the digitalization of the statements yet, so it’ll mostly be busy work otherwise. However-”
“Knock knock,” comes a voice from the open door to the office.
“Elias, hello.”
The head of the Institute looks as well put together as always, charcoal grey suit perfectly tailored, hair slicked back, eyes piercing. He casts a distasteful look over the room and sniffs. “Seems you have your work cut out for you, Sims.”
Jon straightens, trying to look as confident as possible despite his small stature. “I’m sure it won’t be much of a slog with myself and my assistants to help-”
“Which is why,” Elias interrupts, “I thought I’d offer some...extra assistance.” His smile is slimy, sharp, cunning.
Jon bristles a little at being underestimated. He plasters on an intrigued expression regardless.
With all the drama and fanfare that is to be expected from Bouchard, he steps away from the door frame, and it is then that Jon notices a shadowy figure. This mystery person brings themselves into the dim light, and-
“...Martin?”
Martin - oh Christ, Martin - blinks once. Twice. Three times.
“Jon? ”
He’s taller, broader, but it’s him. His face is still chubby and covered in freckles, his hair is still curly, red and unkempt, his glasses still rounded and digging into the sides of his face because he never got the damn things sized properly. He looks...he looks.
Angry?
Properly, really angry. Like he’d never had the bad luck to witness more than a handful of times, and almost never directed at him. His cheeks are pink, his jaw set. Jon takes a step back.
"Oh, so you two know each other," Tim grins, clearly delighted by this development.
With a lack of anything else to say, he falls back onto his default state.
"Unfortunately," Jon replies drily.
Georgie is going to kill him.
Elias smiles, seemingly unbothered by the thick tension in the room, mostly conjured up by the heated stares Martin and Jon are exchanging. “Martin here is very qualified for the job. Hence why I think he’ll flourish under your guidance.” He claps a hand on his shoulder.
Jon grits his teeth, eyes not leaving Martin. “That’s very kind of you, Elias. Though I will say that three researchers seems a bit...excessive.”
“Oh?” Elias' voice goes up in pitch, dripping with fake interest. “I’d say it’s necessary, Jon. Considering what a mess you have to sort out. And three is the magic number, after all.”
“Ha, yes. I suppose.”
“I’m sure you’ll all be one big happy family! Now, if you’ll excuse me.” And he’s gone as quick as he came, shoes barely a whisper against the carpet.
Sasha and Tim break everyone out of the thick awkwardness first, leaping up to introduce themselves to Martin and shake his hand vigorously. Jon is frozen to the spot for now, observing. He’s completely different with his assistants - his smile is honest and open, he’s telling them that he’s completely new to the world of the Institute, hadn’t even heard of it before the interview, but he’s pleased to be here! Tim and Sasha seem utterly delighted with him. They pull a chair down for Martin and offer the vacant desk just across from them, bickering over who gets to give him a rundown of office gossip and Institute staff. Jon feels very left out, something he hasn’t experienced since primary school. It settles deep in his stomach and makes him a little sick.
“I trust you’re all competent enough to get started on this mess while I get my bearings on the excuse of an office I’ve inherited,” he interrupts loudly, causing the three to look up at him quizzically. Martin, once again, looks irritated. “Sasha, keep me posted if you find anything on the statement.”
Sasha nods and Tim follows it up with a jaunty salute.
Once at his desk, Jon sits and breathes. Maybe he bangs his head off of it a couple of times. Of all the people he could have run into on his first day, it had to be Martin. A man he hasn’t seen in ten years, his ex-boyfriend , who he didn’t exactly part with on good terms. Where did he even get the qualifications to obtain a job at the Institute, anyway? Very qualified, Elias had said. Smug bastard. To top it off, the statement on the disappearances in Edinburgh refuses to record digitally, so he’s forced to fish a busted tape recorder out of the ruins of his office and go from there.
“I’ve managed to secure the services of two researchers to assist me. Well, technically three, but I don’t count Martin as he’s unlikely to contribute anything but delays,” he snarks, which is completely unnecessary, but cathartic. Sasha interrupts at one point with some notes on the case. He tries to ignore the shadow of Martin behind his door and presses on.
After a few hours of mindless sorting and recording, the clock shoddily hung up above the door reads 1pm. Jon takes off his glasses and rubs at his eyes. This can’t be left to fester forever, can it? It doesn’t make for a productive work environment.
He pokes his head out of the door and clears his throat. “Martin, may I speak with you a moment?”
Martin looks up, and for a second Jon fears he’ll say no. Instead he nods hesitantly and follows him through with little commentary.
“Sit,” Jon says once they’re inside, and winces inwardly. It sounded more like a command.
“I’ll stand, thanks.”
When Martin uses his height to his advantage, he can be very imposing. Jon feels very small. He’s enveloped by the large, high backed office chair, and being loomed over doesn’t help. “Right. Well. I thought it would be best for us to address the, uh...elephant in the room, so to speak. We don’t have to discuss it in detail, but I think it would be best for us all if we at least acknowledged...our relationship.”
Martin shrugs. “No need. I’ll do my work, you do yours. We’re just co-workers, that’s all.” His words are blunt and cold. He’s barely making eye contact. The clock ticks ominously in the background.
Jon’s mouth gapes open and closes like a fish. He’s very straight to the point, nothing like the man he used to know, all rambling sentences and stuttering. It unsettles him. It upsets him, makes something like both distress and resentment fester inside his chest.
“Is that all?”
“I suppose so, yes.”
Martin nods shortly and shuts the door behind him a little harder than necessary. Jon sinks into his massive chair, massaging his temples. He notes that he’s left the tape recorder on the entire damn time. Wonderful. A record of his own unprofessionalism and incompetence.
It’s easy for him to avoid further confrontation by just eating lunch in his office. It’s better, actually. He can work and eat at the same time.
(He gets a papercut from handling papers and holding a sandwich simultaneously. He also gets some cheese on a few folders.)
The stress of it all has him bouncing his legs up and down rapidly, eyeing his bag. He keeps a battered pack of cigarettes in the inside pocket for emergencies.
This is an emergency, surely. A special circumstance.
Jon pockets his lighter and slips out of the fire door when all of the assistants have left for tea, the light breeze tangling loose strands of his hair. It’s just enough that he has to cup his hands around his lighter to get the cigarette lit, then inhales.
He tips his head back against the cold red brick of the Institute and sighs in satisfaction, exhaling ropes of smoke. God, this was worth the lung cancer. The nicotine courses through him, loosening his shoulders, untying that knot at the base of his back. It gives him a temporary reprieve from whatever the hell was going on in there. A fantastic first day, truly, filled with an incompetent predecessor and an equally incompetent ex b-
The fire door opens abruptly, and there he is. Jon scowls.
Martin seems just as happy to see him.
"I'm leaving early," he says shortly, slinging his messenger bag over his shoulder. He's barely looking Jon in the eye.
"I didn't ask," Jon replies. A little childish, yes, but satisfying. He takes another drag of his cigarette languidly. Martin wrinkles his nose in distaste at the smell. Ah, yes. He'd hated it when Jon smoked. Complained that the tobacco scent stuck to his jumpers and it tasted bad when they kissed. He'd been so smitten he'd actually quit for the man, switching to obsessively chewing gum.
Not that it matters now.
Smoke fills the alleyway again when Jon exhales almost directly into Martin's face.
Martin stares.
Jon raises an eyebrow.
"I'm leaving."
"You said."
“Glad to know you’ve started listening after all these years.”
He rolls his eyes. “Goodbye, Martin.”
Martin walks past him just fast enough that him being jostled could be passed off as an accident, but Jon is fully aware of his intentions. His arm jerks and cigarette ash tumbles from the remainder of the stub, drifting onto his jumper. It blackens the material and burns his skin underneath, making him hiss.
“Prick,” he mutters. Not loud enough for Martin to hear him, though. He’s happy to glare at his retreating back without another confrontation, thank you very much.
Tim and Sasha give him concerned looks when he bursts through the door. He ignores them. The only thing he can do to forget about this whole awful situation is throw himself into work until that’s all he knows, until his head is stuffed full of ghost stories and ramblings of the mentally unstable.
The day ends at 6pm, but Jon stays until 8pm. He’s transfixed by a file containing utterly indecipherable handwriting, the whole thing composed of loops and spirals that make his head spin. When the ache behind his eyes is insistent enough he relents, setting the thing down and grabbing his bag.
“Honey, you’re home,” Georgie remarks from the kitchen, seemingly not surprised by Jon’s arrival on her doorstep rather than his own. “How did it go?”
Jon groans and falls face first onto the sofa. “Shit. It was shit.”
Georgie tuts and makes her way over with a cup of coffee. She nudges Jon with her foot to make some room and wiggles into the small divot she’s made in the cushions. “I’m sure you’re just being dramatic.”
The Admiral sits on Jon’s back with a questioning “mrrp?” and he smiles slightly. “Usually, yes, but…there was an unexpected new hire.”
“Oh? New friend?”
Jon groans louder. “God, no. It was Martin.”
Georgie raises an eyebrow. “Am I supposed to know who that i- oh, no. Oh, Jon.”
He wants to melt into the sofa and disappear. He wants the cushions to swallow him, to make a home amongst the lost hair ties, dust and biscuit crumbs. It’s not entirely impossible, considering the Admiral is kneading his back so hard he feels like he’s being flattened.
“Your Martin?”
“He’s not my anything,” Jon snaps, still muffled by the cushions. The Admiral makes a displeased noise when he extracts himself from the clutches of the plush seat, jumping from him to Georgie’s lap. “But yes, Martin Blackwood has come back to haunt me. To ruin my new job.”
“It’s purely coincidence, Jon, and you know that. From what you’ve told me, I doubt he’d ever want to see you on purpose again.”
He frowns and pulls his knees up to his chest. “I wasn’t that bad.”
Georgie grimaces. “As your best friend and your ex, I’m the most qualified person to say you were, in fact, a complete tosser.” She takes an obnoxious sip of her coffee to really drive the point home.
“I was eighteen.”
“That only makes it worse.”
Jon sighs and leans over to pet Georgie’s cat gently, scratching the base of his back and hind legs. The low purrs makes the pounding of his heart lessen. “I saw him, and I just...I got so angry. Elias, that fucking prick, has made him an assistant of mine, so I need to see him every damn day. It doesn’t help matters that he’s unwilling to be courteous to me either.”
“Maybe he was just in shock?” She offers.
His mouth sets in a firm line and he shakes his head. “No, no. I know him, he’s still the exact same. There’s a big difference between Martin when he’s awkward and Martin when he’s pissed. I…” He sighs. “This was supposed to be a fresh start. I wanted to prove to everyone, to myself, that I’m capable. This is a setback, to say the least.”
“It's only been a day, Jon,” Georgie soothes. “Maybe you both need time to process and cool down. Besides, Martin isn’t a bad guy, right? He’s not going to make things terrible for you out of spite.”
Jon hums in thought. “I suppose it can’t get any worse.”
It does, in fact, get worse.