Work Text:
Much as he appreciated having his own space to work without interruptions, sometimes Jon really did miss the old researching days when Tim would roll his chair over to Jon’s cupboard-sized working space for company or a chat, or when Sasha would lean on the door frame, pointedly in the way and watching until Jon finished the tea she’d brought and actually took a break from his work. When his current office, cobwebs in the corners and statement stacks growing ever higher, seemed too big or quiet, he could always find relief in leaving it and walking past the open door of the assistant workroom, where there was nearly always a conversation being held over the sound of clacking keyboard keys and flipping book pages. He wasn’t the kind of boss to pop in for a check-in or a friendly hello, so Jon rarely went through the ever-open door, but he found comfort in hearing voices other than his own, even if just for a little while. Maybe he’d even go so far as to wander into the break lounge, pretending to look for something that wasn’t the human interaction of anyone he happened to meet there. These days, he didn’t have to do so much sneaking seeking someone to talk to. Throughout the day, he’d often have coworkers dropping by his office to drop off statements or inquire about information from previous cases or ask if Jon wanted tea. He appreciated that, too—the time Melanie, Daisy, Basira, Sasha, Tim, and Martin would all take out of their days to come see him. The introvert in him was glad for some time to work alone, but the sentimental part of him wished the stretches of time between visits weren’t so long.
Jon had finished reading the statement nearly a quarter hour ago. But it still lay on his desk next to a tape recorder that collected only dead air. Some statements, the ones he could rationalize or that didn’t hit too close to home, didn’t rattle Jon so much. He was the head archivist of a library of reported paranormal experiences, after all; he should have been able to read through things without feeling actually scared. Some, though, needled their way into his brain and stuck there, haunted him. Left him with an empty, hollow feeling like the downswing after a high. If he was alone to dwell on them for too long, it started to really freak him out.
Blessedly, a knock came from the office door. Pulled from the perturbed state, Jon cleared his throat and turned off the recorder, which he hadn’t realized he’d left run. “Come in.” He swiveled his chair around and brightened considerably when he saw who opened the door. “Hello, Martin.”
“S-sorry if I’m interrupting,” Martin said as he entered, seeing the usual recording supplies on Jon’s desk. “Just, um, found this and thought you’d— hi.”
Jon couldn’t help the twitch in his lips at Martin’s rambling cutting off with so timid a greeting. Even after having been in a relationship for nearly two years now, there was still a giddiness underlying the professionalism they maintained in the office. Not that anyone else did. When Jon and Martin had told their coworkers about their new romance, they became quite the targets of teasing from their friends, who were happy to see them “finally” get together. Jon could put up with teasing at work, especially when it made Martin go so adorably red, but mostly because, he knew, at the end of the day, it would be him and Martin, happy.
Martin returned the small smile with a rosier one of his own, then cleared his throat and held out his hand, drawing Jon’s eyes to the clipped-together bunch of papers Martin had brought with him. “Just found this statement I’d thought you’d want to see.”
“Oh?” said Jon, taking the pile and glancing at the information filled out at the top—the usual stuff, the statement giver’s name, address, and succinct summary of their experience to categorize the pages they’d written out—and then looking back to Martin. “Pertaining to a more imminent cosmic horror, or just interesting?” he asked, trying to guess why it required his immediate attention more than any other statement. “Funny?”
“You might get a chuckle from it,” Martin nodded.
“Ah. Okay. Thank you, Martin. I’ll—” Jon reached to set aside the earlier statement to be refiled and placed the newly delivered one before him, “I’ll add it to the queue.”
Martin nodded again, quickly adding, “If you don’t get to it today, you know, or— it’s fine.”
Jon’s eyebrows furrowed, and he quietly enjoyed the flush he could see coloring Martin’s ears. “You didn’t slip me some poetry hoping for a review or something, did you?”
“What?” Martin said with a startled chuckle. “No. It’s just the statement.”
“Right. Well, thank you,” Jon said, amusement coloring his tone. “Was there anything else?”
Pursing his lips thoughtfully, Martin shook his head. “I’ll let you get back to it. See you for lunch.”
“Alright.” Jon turned his chair back toward his desk, waiting to hear the sound of an exeunt. Instead, he heard footsteps approaching, and, when he turned his head to ask if there actually was something Martin had forgotten, he was met with a quick kiss to the forehead. Jon had seen the flash of Martin’s smile, heard it in his farewell as he left the office, and that smile and the tenderness of that kiss hung in the forefront of Jon’s mind more stubbornly than any statement could. It was moments like that when he was actually glad to have his own office, as he could practically hear Tim cooing about how adorable a pair they were and how he needed a camera to capture the cryptid that was Jon smiling, especially so shyly. In solitude, Jon could hide his smile as poorly behind his hand as he liked.
He did take a breath and try to scrub the smile from his face with his hand so he could start the statement, not wanting to sound like a lovestruck gay schoolboy when reading about horror, no matter how absurd and funny the horror was that awaited him. He was a serious archivist, after all.
“Right then,” Jon said, grabbing a new replacement tape and starting the recorder wheels spinning.
~*~
Statement of Jason Thisman, regarding his partner, and the thing that took over his partner’s body. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, the archivist.
“Recently, I’ve come to really worry about my partner. Not the kind of worry that would prompt me to seek help from a hospital or couple’s counselor, but… well. You can probably infer what kind of worry, just from the fact that the place I chose to come for help was here. Not that I’m sure you guys here can help, if that’s the thing you do here. I heard of the archives from a friend, and I guess I just want to get what happened off my chest without being looked at like I’ve lost my marbles. Even if there’s no help for me, at least it will be there to help someone else. Warn them, or whatever.
My partner and I have been together for almost two years now and living together for a year of that. We have a dog and a cat, we work day jobs neither of us want, we get takeaway too often, and we go for drinks with friends on weekends. All things considered, our home life has been pretty normal. Domestic, certainly. Maybe even boring. But I don’t mind. It’s nice, to have something to come back to that you can be certain will always be there, will always make you feel a special kind of safe. At least, I was naïve enough to believe it would always be.
Don’t misunderstand me—it’s like I said, my partner and I don’t need the kind of help a couple’s counselor could provide; and I know that, because we both have individual and couple’s therapy—the ‘always’ didn’t start to show cracks because of discontent or infidelity. In fact, there weren’t any cracks. It was sudden. Like the floor under me had given way with a splintering crack like thunder, and I suddenly had no idea who I was committed to.
When it happened, when the rug was pulled, it was a normal night, just last Thursday. We’d taken the tram home, and I started making dinner while my partner took the dog for a walk. I remember he was humming…
I remember he was humming when he left, because, when he got back, I had just put dinner in the oven when I heard the front door open, then close, then… nothing. Looking back, maybe I could say something profound, that it was in that silence that I could hear when everything changed. But that wouldn’t be true. Really, I couldn’t hear anything at all.
And then the dog ran in, all happy barking and nails clattering on the floor. I bent down to pet her, and, when I looked up, my partner was standing in the kitchen doorway. For a moment, I was relieved. I’d overreacted, I was tired from a long day, I was stressed from work, whatever—but everything was fine, everything was normal. I smiled, told him, “I hope you’re not too hungry, because we’ve got a bit of a wait for dinner.”
And he said, “Suppose I’ll have to find something to snack on in the meantime.” Normally, I would have scolded him for spoiling his appetite, but the way he said it, it didn’t sound like him. There was gravel in his voice I’d never heard, and, when I looked at him, his eyes had this bright, hungry light in them. All at once, I didn’t recognize the man who stood in front of me. His fingers had grown sharp and his hands shook, and it was like his aura was bursting out of him, drenching the kitchen tile in sinister energy.
I was scared. I didn’t know what else to do. I’d thought he was joking, but I’d never seen him look that way. So I— I ran. Deeper into the flat, as fast as I could, and faster when I heard him chasing after me. He slammed into the door seconds after I’d ducked into the bedroom and locked myself inside. I knew I had precious few moments to try and escape while he got the key from atop the door frame and unlocked the door, and I was frustratingly frozen. I hadn’t made a dash for the front exit, and now I was cornered. I could have tried hiding in the closet or under the bed, but I had no hope of going undiscovered. Maybe the window. I was far from athletically inclined, but perhaps I could have shimmied down to the ground using a tree or drainpipe, anything that could offer enough hand- and footholds to keep me from sprain my ankles in a rough descent.
My planning brain betrayed me in eating up all my head start time, and I was stuck even further as arms captured me around the waist, growling breath hot against my ear. I was free for a moment as I sailed through the air, only to be pinned on my back as I fell onto the bed. The thing that wore my partner’s face had rendered my legs and arms trapped and useless with how he straddled my thighs and pinned my wrists in one hand above my head. Nothing made me feel so helpless, though, as the ravenous gaze he fixed upon my face. I could feel my blood pounding, from my heart under the clawed hand he held suspended above my ribs, through my neck and quickening my pulse when his eyes flicked to that vulnerable space, into my cheeks where heat bloomed as he pressed a suddenly tender kiss to my forehead before rearing back. He lunged, dug in with teeth and claws, and I screamed.
The shaking of my head deterred neither his nibbling mouth nor bearded chin from the sensitive skin beneath my jaw, and his fingers dug mercilessly between my ribs on the left side. And the right side, when his other hand joined the fray. I had thought he’d meant to kill me swiftly by going for such vital spots so fast, but he evidently intended to use our supper’s lengthy cook time to the fullest. He pushed my shirt up and over my heaving chest, exposing my stomach and still tingling ribcage to his hungry gaze. I hadn’t caught my breath before he’d pounced again, gnawing delicately along my lowest ribs and scribbling his claws, unbearably featherlight, over my hips. The sensations tore through my body as though his jaws and talons were ripping me to shreds, making me howl and writhe and fight until I had no strength to do anything but laugh. I’d been skin and bones before he’d begun his meal, and, afterward, I was all nerves and residual giggles. More than residual when I threatened to enjoy supper on my own, since he’d already stuffed himself, and he’d so eloquently rebutted by introducing his teeth to my hips. That final attack had left me too hoarse and happy to argue any further, so I’d given in with a nod.
After that, the night carried on. The days since have been normal again, with. I worry for my partner, though. Will this monster overtake his body once again? When? And I worry for me. I can feel this isn’t over. Whatever overtook him has had a taste of me, and I don’t think it will be satisfied with just one course of a meal."
~*~
Jon was happy he had his own office. If he’d had to have people looking over his shoulder as he recorded what was clearly a prank statement, waiting for him to realize as much and ready to tease him about it afterward, he probably would have sunk through his chair and through the floor in embarrassment. Well. He already sort of was sunk into his chair in mortification, but the fact that no one was around to witness it was a relief.
With statements actually dealing with the possible paranormal, Jon often got wrapped up, invested, like he was experiencing the statement firsthand. That wasn’t the case here. He didn’t feel claws on his torso or fangs on his neck. He did feel his ribs tingling in anticipation of such sensations. Part of him was glad that he hadn’t felt those things the way statements usually made him feel things, since he knew the noise he’d make would only garner more teasing. The other part was irritated knowing that he soon would feel all those sensations, but that he’d have to wait for them. Damn, Martin.
It took nearly a quarter of an hour for Jon to convince his face to cool down, flustered beyond belief had the unorthodox love note his partner had tricked him into reading. He couldn’t bear the thought of leaving his office to confront him about it, knowing that Martin would be all pleased hums and sunny grins about it. But then, the thought of not seeing that grin for the rest of the day, if he could even manage to hunker down away from anyone else for that long, was also sort of killing him. Maybe he could be quick, have a chat with Martin and be back before anyone saw the state the statement had left Jon in, indignant and stupidly eager for the emergence of a tickle monster after dinner.
Holding the affronting statement gingerly between his fingers as though it could bite him, Jon ducked his head and hastened from the office and down the hall. The workroom’s door was open, and, when he stepped through, Jon was met with expectant gazes and stifled smiles, the most prominent one upon the freckled cheeks of his villainous partner.
“Alright, boss?” said Tim, elbowing Sasha in the side when she started snickering beside him.
Jon shot both of them a glare in answer and beelined toward Martin, holding the statement out to him. Calmly, he inquired, “What the fuck is the meaning of this?” He remained calm even as his ears went hot at the sound of poorly hidden laughter from different desks.
“Sounds like he didn’t like it, then,” said Basira, shaking her head with a stage whisper. “Poor taste; I thought it was good.”
“At least, it couldn’t have been technically bad,” Daisy replied. “It did have four editors.”
Tim agreed, “Very good editors, at that.”
During the little sidebar, Jon took slower breaths. It had just been a joke, and only Martin—who was still smiling at him with a mischievous sparkle in his eyes—could tease him for the contents of the fake statement, where the others were surely only going to tease him for having believed it was real at all. His heart took a brief sprint at the thought of his friends and coworkers teasing him the way Martin would, by prodding, figuratively and literally, at the soft spots in his armor to prompt a smile or win an argument, and to take note of how, flustered as it made him, Jon didn’t mind it. “Yes, well,” said the archivist, snatching his hand back the moment Martin relieved him of the statement. “A very good prank.” He cleared his throat in what he hoped sounded like a scoff. “Might have slipped by that you wasted my time with a fake statement if you hadn’t used an anagram of my name in the header.”
Melanie looked up from her laptop, eyebrows raised and mouth elevated into a smirk. “If you caught it at the header, why’d you read the whole thing?”
Jon whipped his head to glare at her and reply, but he found his mouth open uselessly with no good answer. He’d read it because he hadn’t noticed that the statement was addressed to him until he’d already finished it, and, by the time he caught on, he’d wanted to finish it. Not compelled, just wanted. “It was very unprofessional. Don’t do it again,” said Jon with a sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose in an excuse to not meet anyone else’s eyes. “I think I’ll make some tea.”
The glimmer of hope that was an escape was snatched away—by Martin, no less—when he stood. “I’ll do it, Jon. As an apology for—” He sidled past Jon, brushing a hand casually but precariously along the back of his ribs along the way. “—wasting your time.” Jon tried not to stiffen or melt when Martin touched him, crossing his arms because he had no idea what else to do with them as Martin left the workroom, glancing over his shoulder with a smile. Jon was about to follow, only to be stopped by yet another question.
“Boss? Did Martin have it right in the statement?” Tim asked, grinning crookedly as he leaned back in his seat, fingers steepled. “Ribs is the worst spot? Thought it was always your armpits that got you to ‘screaming’ territory.”
Melanie shook her head. “And Sasha told me stomach.”
Jon wished he had enough eyes to glare at everyone in the room.
“Perhaps,” suggested Sasha brightly, “we need to record a collaborative statement to get our information straight.”
“You should feel lucky!” Daisy called as Jon power-walked out of the room fast enough to leave a cartoon dust cloud in his wake. “We agreed a statement tickling you stupid wasn’t too mean. They shot down my idea of trapping you in a haunted dunk tank!”
Martin already had the kettle on by the time Jon cornered him in the lounge, wrapping his arms around Martin’s waist and burying his face in the taller man’s shirt. He felt the soft rumble of Martin’s chuckle through his back.
“What kind of tea, darling?” Martin asked.
Jon lifted his head and stood on his toes to hook his chin over Martin’s shoulder. “I’m going to end you.”
“Mm-hm,” replied Martin, unperturbed as he selected a box at random from the communal tea/drinks cupboard and setting it by the stove.
“Seriously,” Jon said, remarkably amiable to Martin turning around and returning the squeeze. Even as Martin leaned in to brush the tip of his nose against Jon’s affectionately, Jon threatened, “Pin you to the bed and feather your ears until your head is spinning.”
Martin only smiled, pressing a kiss to Jon’s forehead. “Sounds lovely. After the plans we already have for tonight, though, alright?”
“We?”
“You read the itinerary,” Martin grinned. “Any notes?”
Feeling his face catch fire again and a stubborn smile begin to grow in the wake of Martin continuing to plant kissing on his forehead, Jon let his head fall, burying it in Martin’s chest this time. He shook his head.
“Perfect. Then, if you still feel the need for revenge after that, if you feel anything but happy and content, my ears are all yours.”
“Good,” Jon replied, tempted to spend the rest of the afternoon right there against Martin’s chest until evening could come and he could be pinned beneath Martin’s hands and monstrously beautiful smile.