[ the institute is so quiet on the weekends. if jon allows himself to think about it for longer than a few moments, he gets carried away. it feels like being in a different city, a different world. a different plane. it doesn't feel like london. it doesn't even feel like they're in the institute; how can it, when beyond his closed eyes, jon is aware of the warm human body pressed close to him.
it's not exactly a feeling he would normally associate with the institute. quite the opposite, in fact.
he would never normally do this, lounging in the slightly too small bed with martin so late into the morning, where there is undoubtedly plenty of light illuminating a sunday in london. but it's sunday. at most there might be a few cleaners knocking about the main part of the institute, but no one in the archives. no one here, no one except them.
martin seems to be sleeping soundly, for all that jon can tell. he doesn't, sometimes. often. enough that jon has been able to notice it in the nights that they actually spend together. the whole thing of it is very strange — not sleeping soundly or otherwise, just... this. the fact that in the dim light beneath the cover doing a poor job of covering, jon can count in how many places martin's spine pushes slightly against his skin, and he does. martin never quite seemed to fill out again properly after nearly two weeks of rationing whatever he had in his place, or so it doesn't look like it to jon.
tim is probably right. he needs to stop mothering martin. it's an especially strange thing to do when their relationship so often consists of... yes.
he thumbs softly at the base of martin's spine, not intending to wake him, and unable to figure out why he even does it. it's just a tiny compulsion that he gives into. just one more to add to the list of compulsions he seems to give into around martin. and tim, though he finds that far more troublesome than this.
he should get up. go home, maybe.
but here he is, drawing the softest and slowest of lines up martin's back. ]
[ martin doesn't mean to leap practically out of his skin.
but he does anyways. or rather, simply jolts. seconds prior, he'd been sleeping--deeply. he'd felt it on his head like an anvil, but some kind of blessed one, wrapped up in dozens and dozens of duvets and quilts. a pleasant pressure. sleep, sleep, sleep like a sweet voice between his ears, like the tucking of arms around his waist.
so when a thumb begins to draw a line up his spine, he jerks like he's breathless, fumbling, careening back into awareness. in his mind, it's a very big flailing motion, but really, his limbs are so sleep heavy it's just a sharp inhale like a hiccup and a jerk, fingers closing around the pillow and head fussing to turn around in the dark. the hand on his back is familiar, the warmth next to him even more so, but he has to reach out to touch.
so he does. fumbling, grabbing. he touches an elbow first, then a forearm, clinging and then turning in the bundle of sheets until he can just make out the features of jon through his sleep-hazy eyes. his blood is rumbling and rushing into his ears, both out of fear and embarrassment as he recognizes him, recognizes the touch... and he settles
practically deflates even, melting back into the bed sheets, but now turned towards jon, hand still clasped very tightly onto his arm, thumb digging in a bit. softly, a little sleep-slurred (but god does he think he's coherent right now): ]
... S'it time to get up?
[ almost sad really, he wants to go back to sleep. ]
[ should jon be surprised? he shouldn't, and he isn't, not really, though he he too starts when martin flings himself out of his deep sleep. it's not at all the same, to know that you fell asleep with another body draped and curled around yours, and to wake up to a strange touch on your back. jon should know better.
martin's fingers dig and press at his skin, but not painfully. just as though they're looking for something solid, familiar to grab hold of. martin's hardly one to hide how feels, all high strung nerves and emotion that he is, but this is different. it's a response to a single moment, immediate, instinctive, not a response based on words and thoughts he's been muddling through his head for however long already. it pushes at a very particular place in jon's chest, one he's not been aware of for a while.
the way that martin stares at him, after, sleep soft words tumbling from his mouth, is more than enough to bring jon back to his senses. ]
Not unless you make a habit of rising before seven in the morning on Sundays, [ he mutters dryly, his own voice a little rough from having recently been asleep. ] Which I highly doubt.
[ something else sits in the air between them, and jon can't quite figure out how to address it, but he tries. ]
[ just hearing jon's voices eases him, brings him to turn all the way around, kicking the sheets out of a tangle along his legs. as he sinks back down, he feels it, that laziness gripping his bones, trying to lull him back down like he'd wanted now that the supposed threat is no longer. however, knowing that jon is awake this early... well. that's no good, is it.
the grip on his arm smooths out, less fingertips, more fingers as he uses him as leverage to edge a little close and maybe even just
press forward a bit until the crow of his head hits the top of jon's sternum lightly. his arm slips under his, pressing, pushing, like he's trying to get inside of him when really he's just trying to find the best place to listen to his heart a moment, pressing his cheek to warm skin stubbornly until he finds it. he makes a mess of the sheets and pillows, pulling and tugging and nudging, before he finally stills.
content.
this is alright. this is... this is fine. it's good. he breathes in once, breathes out, eyeballs the extinguisher sat on his desk quietly in the corner, and then eyes the curve of jon's shoulder. he should be asleep too, resting, dreamless sleep like martin had had to himself for however blessedly long it'd been. ]
those are the only ways jon could describe martin's behaviour right now, and it's just martin all over, isn't it? there are no surprises with him, no surprises that still seem broadly in keeping with his character. jon moves little as martin rearranges himself around him, only dutifully moving a limb or two out of the other man's way when he needs to. he considers asking what he's doing, but thinks better of it in the end. sometimes it's better not to hear the explanation, to just allow it to happen. mostly because the explanations will make jon invariably say something insensitive and rude.
or, astute and matter of fact, as jon would personally call it.
martin's cheek is warm. it makes a few rounds of the area beneath which jon's heart would be located, and if anything at least martin has cursory proof that jon has one at all, which he's sure plenty of people would try to dispute. he stays awkwardly still for just a moment before he relaxes a little into the position and draws his arms around martin, not exactly bringing him in any closer, but keeping him anchored at the very least. letting him know there is some kind of safety, here.
sleep is elusive for jon, and rarely dreamless. whenever he finally manages to switch his brain off from his endless thoughts, his sleep is peppered mostly with mundane, nonsensical dreams that he never particularly remembers. sometimes they take a more troubling shape, though. dreams about endless institute corridors filled with worms, flurries of paper statements documenting his possible demises. once he even dreamed that all he could do was search for tapes, and each one would be a recording of a familiar voice — martin, tim, sasha, even elias, he thinks — giving him instructions that always seemed out of order, and missing key details. it's not all awful, he supposes. he never wakes up feeling more exhausted than before he went to sleep. it's manageable, if nothing else. ]
I've nowhere else I need or want to be, [ he says, gruffly soft and dismissive ] Give it two.
I find myself with many questions that I wish to ask without wanting to know the answer, so I will endeavour not to sate my curiosity on this occasion, less I provoke myself further than you already have.
[ Maybe Jon just meant to pick up a file and leave again, but here's Elias, rapping on his doorframe with the back of his knuckles, a rare sight down in Archives. It's like he knows the minute Jon steps foot in the Institute — and maybe he does. ]
Moment of your time?
[ He doesn't wait for an affirmation, just steps in and closes the door behind him. The room's relatively soundproof — for recording purposes, of course — and the blinds shut tight, so he doubts they'll have any eavesdroppers regardless of the curious looks he saw from Martin and Basira as he walked through the offices.
Fortunate, since Elias is in Jon's personal space almost immediately. He smiles with his pale eyes, but it's more measuring than friendly. ]
While I appreciate you've got — fieldwork to be getting on with, I think perhaps you need to better manage your team.
[ well, it sounds like a question and is framed like a question, but it most certainly isn't a question at all. still, jon goes through the motions. he opens his mouth, prepares to answer, not the answer that elias wants, knowing full well that elias would ignore it anyway. but he doesn't have the chance, and he shouldn't be surprised. he is, just a little. there's things to get used to again.
he clears his throat, lightly, staring back at elias with neither friendliness nor measurement in his gaze. there are so many things in these few sentences that he wants to take apart. ]
And what exactly is that supposed to mean?
[ it's obvious enough that he'd like to say something else, but cuts himself off. ]
It means, Archivist, that you cannot simply leave your assistants to their own devices if you want any of them to survive this.
[ He doesn't even flinch to say it, and it doesn't sound like a threat. He continues, head tipped slightly in thought. ]
I will grant that you may as well write Tim off for good, and Basira is used to occupying herself without oversight. But Martin would thrive with some more attention, and if Melanie doesn't trust you enough to tell you she's planning to try and kill me then you need to do better.
[ He taps the center of Jon's chest lightly, with one finger. ]
Can't I? Considering that the fieldwork I have is entirely of your making, the fact that you still want me to — what, exert some sort of archival authority over them? It's laughable.
[ whatever pull he might have had over his team (if he's allowed to call them that anymore) is more or less gone, compelling abilities notwithstanding. he thinks they must be. more to the point, he doesn't want it. ]
Let me get this straight, you want me to give Martin attention, [ whatever the hell that means ] and do some trust exercises with Melanie? Tell her firmly that killing you really does spell doom for the rest of us?
[ the last comment is ignored, and jon swipes away instinctively at elias' finger on his chest. ]
What did she do?
Edited (let's pretend i didn't completely forget how to english earlier) 2018-03-26 23:08 (UTC)
[ Elias allows his finger to be knocked away, apparently unconcerned by Jon's frustrated pushback, the tired sarcasm in his voice. But he does have some concerns. This isn't right — the Archivist is always difficult, the kind of people who make good Archivists are difficult people. But he can't help but feel — well. They are also a business, here. ]
She offered me drugged coffee. Unimpressive. If you won't bring her into line at least try and advise her to do something more interesting.
[ Elias steps smoothly away from Jon, the bubble of his space, investigates the desk instead, flicking idly through papers that he probably already knows the contents of. ]
You know, you could quite comfortably sit here and simply orchestrate.
[ The way Elias does, presumably. ]
And their chances of survival are markedly lower when you leave them in the dark.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
i live here too
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it's not exactly a feeling he would normally associate with the institute. quite the opposite, in fact.
he would never normally do this, lounging in the slightly too small bed with martin so late into the morning, where there is undoubtedly plenty of light illuminating a sunday in london. but it's sunday. at most there might be a few cleaners knocking about the main part of the institute, but no one in the archives. no one here, no one except them.
martin seems to be sleeping soundly, for all that jon can tell. he doesn't, sometimes. often. enough that jon has been able to notice it in the nights that they actually spend together. the whole thing of it is very strange — not sleeping soundly or otherwise, just... this. the fact that in the dim light beneath the cover doing a poor job of covering, jon can count in how many places martin's spine pushes slightly against his skin, and he does. martin never quite seemed to fill out again properly after nearly two weeks of rationing whatever he had in his place, or so it doesn't look like it to jon.
tim is probably right. he needs to stop mothering martin. it's an especially strange thing to do when their relationship so often consists of... yes.
he thumbs softly at the base of martin's spine, not intending to wake him, and unable to figure out why he even does it. it's just a tiny compulsion that he gives into. just one more to add to the list of compulsions he seems to give into around martin. and tim, though he finds that far more troublesome than this.
he should get up. go home, maybe.
but here he is, drawing the softest and slowest of lines up martin's back. ]
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but he does anyways. or rather, simply jolts. seconds prior, he'd been sleeping--deeply. he'd felt it on his head like an anvil, but some kind of blessed one, wrapped up in dozens and dozens of duvets and quilts. a pleasant pressure. sleep, sleep, sleep like a sweet voice between his ears, like the tucking of arms around his waist.
so when a thumb begins to draw a line up his spine, he jerks like he's breathless, fumbling, careening back into awareness. in his mind, it's a very big flailing motion, but really, his limbs are so sleep heavy it's just a sharp inhale like a hiccup and a jerk, fingers closing around the pillow and head fussing to turn around in the dark. the hand on his back is familiar, the warmth next to him even more so, but he has to reach out to touch.
so he does. fumbling, grabbing. he touches an elbow first, then a forearm, clinging and then turning in the bundle of sheets until he can just make out the features of jon through his sleep-hazy eyes. his blood is rumbling and rushing into his ears, both out of fear and embarrassment as he recognizes him, recognizes the touch... and he settles
practically deflates even, melting back into the bed sheets, but now turned towards jon, hand still clasped very tightly onto his arm, thumb digging in a bit. softly, a little sleep-slurred (but god does he think he's coherent right now): ]
... S'it time to get up?
[ almost sad really, he wants to go back to sleep. ]
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martin's fingers dig and press at his skin, but not painfully. just as though they're looking for something solid, familiar to grab hold of. martin's hardly one to hide how feels, all high strung nerves and emotion that he is, but this is different. it's a response to a single moment, immediate, instinctive, not a response based on words and thoughts he's been muddling through his head for however long already. it pushes at a very particular place in jon's chest, one he's not been aware of for a while.
the way that martin stares at him, after, sleep soft words tumbling from his mouth, is more than enough to bring jon back to his senses. ]
Not unless you make a habit of rising before seven in the morning on Sundays, [ he mutters dryly, his own voice a little rough from having recently been asleep. ] Which I highly doubt.
[ something else sits in the air between them, and jon can't quite figure out how to address it, but he tries. ]
I... didn't mean to startle you.
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[ just hearing jon's voices eases him, brings him to turn all the way around, kicking the sheets out of a tangle along his legs. as he sinks back down, he feels it, that laziness gripping his bones, trying to lull him back down like he'd wanted now that the supposed threat is no longer. however, knowing that jon is awake this early... well. that's no good, is it.
the grip on his arm smooths out, less fingertips, more fingers as he uses him as leverage to edge a little close and maybe even just
press forward a bit until the crow of his head hits the top of jon's sternum lightly. his arm slips under his, pressing, pushing, like he's trying to get inside of him when really he's just trying to find the best place to listen to his heart a moment, pressing his cheek to warm skin stubbornly until he finds it. he makes a mess of the sheets and pillows, pulling and tugging and nudging, before he finally stills.
content.
this is alright. this is... this is fine. it's good. he breathes in once, breathes out, eyeballs the extinguisher sat on his desk quietly in the corner, and then eyes the curve of jon's shoulder. he should be asleep too, resting, dreamless sleep like martin had had to himself for however blessedly long it'd been. ]
And no, I don't. Give it another hour at least...
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those are the only ways jon could describe martin's behaviour right now, and it's just martin all over, isn't it? there are no surprises with him, no surprises that still seem broadly in keeping with his character. jon moves little as martin rearranges himself around him, only dutifully moving a limb or two out of the other man's way when he needs to. he considers asking what he's doing, but thinks better of it in the end. sometimes it's better not to hear the explanation, to just allow it to happen. mostly because the explanations will make jon invariably say something insensitive and rude.
or, astute and matter of fact, as jon would personally call it.
martin's cheek is warm. it makes a few rounds of the area beneath which jon's heart would be located, and if anything at least martin has cursory proof that jon has one at all, which he's sure plenty of people would try to dispute. he stays awkwardly still for just a moment before he relaxes a little into the position and draws his arms around martin, not exactly bringing him in any closer, but keeping him anchored at the very least. letting him know there is some kind of safety, here.
sleep is elusive for jon, and rarely dreamless. whenever he finally manages to switch his brain off from his endless thoughts, his sleep is peppered mostly with mundane, nonsensical dreams that he never particularly remembers. sometimes they take a more troubling shape, though. dreams about endless institute corridors filled with worms, flurries of paper statements documenting his possible demises. once he even dreamed that all he could do was search for tapes, and each one would be a recording of a familiar voice — martin, tim, sasha, even elias, he thinks — giving him instructions that always seemed out of order, and missing key details. it's not all awful, he supposes. he never wakes up feeling more exhausted than before he went to sleep. it's manageable, if nothing else. ]
I've nowhere else I need or want to be, [ he says, gruffly soft and dismissive ] Give it two.
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First things first, Jon.
I don't want you to panic.
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For the record, I do not panic.
I NEVER panic.
[ he gets bitchy instead xoxo ]
1/?
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4/4 this icon just Does it.
And I want you to know that almost NOTHING of extreme value was lost.
1/?
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5/5 ya so does this one
"Almost" nothing, Martin.
Elaborate. Now.
1/? still using this icon
[ erm. ]
A few casefiles dated late October 2008.
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And maybe. A few tapes.
I'm not sure if they were emptied or not.
3/3
[ it might have played hardball with u this morning tho sorry for that???? ]
But that's it.
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15 minutes of (...) later
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👀
Moment of your time?
[ He doesn't wait for an affirmation, just steps in and closes the door behind him. The room's relatively soundproof — for recording purposes, of course — and the blinds shut tight, so he doubts they'll have any eavesdroppers regardless of the curious looks he saw from Martin and Basira as he walked through the offices.
Fortunate, since Elias is in Jon's personal space almost immediately. He smiles with his pale eyes, but it's more measuring than friendly. ]
While I appreciate you've got — fieldwork to be getting on with, I think perhaps you need to better manage your team.
ovo
he clears his throat, lightly, staring back at elias with neither friendliness nor measurement in his gaze. there are so many things in these few sentences that he wants to take apart. ]
And what exactly is that supposed to mean?
[ it's obvious enough that he'd like to say something else, but cuts himself off. ]
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[ He doesn't even flinch to say it, and it doesn't sound like a threat. He continues, head tipped slightly in thought. ]
I will grant that you may as well write Tim off for good, and Basira is used to occupying herself without oversight. But Martin would thrive with some more attention, and if Melanie doesn't trust you enough to tell you she's planning to try and kill me then you need to do better.
[ He taps the center of Jon's chest lightly, with one finger. ]
You're in charge of the Archives. Act like it.
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Can't I? Considering that the fieldwork I have is entirely of your making, the fact that you still want me to — what, exert some sort of archival authority over them? It's laughable.
[ whatever pull he might have had over his team (if he's allowed to call them that anymore) is more or less gone, compelling abilities notwithstanding. he thinks they must be. more to the point, he doesn't want it. ]
Let me get this straight, you want me to give Martin attention, [ whatever the hell that means ] and do some trust exercises with Melanie? Tell her firmly that killing you really does spell doom for the rest of us?
[ the last comment is ignored, and jon swipes away instinctively at elias' finger on his chest. ]
What did she do?
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She offered me drugged coffee. Unimpressive. If you won't bring her into line at least try and advise her to do something more interesting.
[ Elias steps smoothly away from Jon, the bubble of his space, investigates the desk instead, flicking idly through papers that he probably already knows the contents of. ]
You know, you could quite comfortably sit here and simply orchestrate.
[ The way Elias does, presumably. ]
And their chances of survival are markedly lower when you leave them in the dark.