Work Text:
Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.
That’s how the old adage went, right? Simple enough advice, except for the fact that even now, almost six weeks post-infestation, Jon didn’t know which was which.
Gertrude’s killer could be any of them. Was it Tim, recently returned to the Archives, riddled with worm-shaped scars, dark circles beneath his eyes? Perhaps, Sasha, level-headed and hardworking as usual? Or maybe it was Elias, cool and detached, barely batting an eye as the men in hazmat suits had rushed in—Elias who, from the start, always had seemed so eager to avoid the topic of Gertrude’s disappearance.
And then there was Martin—Martin who, among pages and pages of fanciful (and, quite honestly, mediocre) poetry, had left behind a crumpled letter, unremarkable except for its last line:
I’m worried about the others finding out I’ve been lying.
Jon had a hard time picturing Martin firing three bullets into an elderly woman’s chest, what with his knitted jumpers and tea-warm hands. Martin’s shock upon discovering Gertrude’s body had appeared genuine, and he definitely didn’t seem like a murderer, at least no more than Tim or Sasha did, and certainly no more than Elias. For God’s sake, Martin threw a fit if Jon so much as suggested giving one of their many spider visitors to the Archives a good whack, rather than escorting the awful little creatures outside peacefully.
But still, trust was dangerous, and Jon was determined to not be the next archivist corpse they found down there in the tunnels.
If Martin was lying about something, Jon was going to find out what it was, and there was only one way to go about it: he’d need to keep a close eye on Martin.
A very close eye.
The first thing Jon did as a part of his reconnaissance mission was to procure a small, inconspicuous notepad, easily concealable in his pocket. He didn’t trust the security of digital records, and he didn’t think he’d be able to whip out a tape recorder and list off his observations out loud at a moment’s notice. No, it was better to resort to more traditional methods while in the field, and recount his findings via supplemental recording once he’d found somewhere a bit more private.
Turning to the first page of the notepad, Jon set to work on his investigation.
Entry #1
12 September, 2016—09:04
Subject: Martin Blackwood
Current level of suspicion: high
Subject status: passive
Observer’s notes:
Goal of observation is to determine severity of subject’s alleged lies and identify causes of subject’s recent abnormal behavior. Subject has demonstrated increased preoccupation with observer’s mental and physical well-being e.g. subject’s placement of jar of Prentiss’ ashes in observer’s office, subject’s repeated insistence on the observer “getting some rest”, and subject’s hovering in office doorway Friday morning until observer was able to present empty mug as evidence of having drunk all his tea. Additional cause for suspicion originates from subject’s references to his own deceitful activities found in letter addressed to subject’s mother.
Subject’s last known whereabouts:
Jon’s pen went still in his hand, frozen above the blank space on the page.
Ah. An issue had just revealed itself to him.
It was going to be incredibly difficult to keep track of Martin’s actions if Jon was to be shut up in his office. Making camp out in the open was the only solution if he was hoping to earn any useful information for his notepad.
“It has come to my attention,” Jon announced grimly, balancing a tape recorder above his laptop, on top of a wobbly stack of statements spilling out of a file box. He stood, feet firmly planted, right outside his office door. “That as a result of the Prentiss attack, working inside my office has begun to hinder my performance.”
Tim was flipping through a file, bored. Sasha jabbed at her keyboard, frustrated. Martin seemed to be the only one listening.
Jon would have to write that down.
Jon cleared his throat because, damn it, he was their boss—marked up and down by worms, and paranoid, but still their boss—and he deserved his assistants, all three of them, paying attention when he spoke.
Tim and Sasha looked up at the noise.
Jon addressed them, “To avoid further distraction, would it be alright with you if I were to work out here for the time being? With the disorder we’ve still got to clean up, I won’t be recording statements anytime soon.”
“Wait, so to avoid distraction, you’re abandoning the peace and quiet of your office?” asked Tim, a teasing edge to his voice.
“Yes,” Jon said, deadpan. “There’s still that worm smell. It makes it difficult to focus.”
It was an excuse he’d practised ahead of time.
Tim gave Martin a pointed look, and Martin shot one back, eyes wide. Tim glanced at Jon and then back to Martin, and shrugged.
The muscles in Jon’s forearms were beginning to quiver and he suspected they’d give out under the weight of the files, his laptop, and the recorder if Tim and Martin didn’t reach a decision soon.
“Uh, sure,” Martin finally said.
“We haven’t got a fourth desk,” Tim pointed out.
“That won’t be a problem,” Jon answered resolutely. With a thunk, he set his things down on the end of Martin’s desk, returning only briefly to the office to roll out his desk chair and position it beside Martin.
“Jon?” Sasha called politely. “I’m still having a bit of trouble with my computer.”
“Oh, uh, I asked Rosie to send down IT.” Jon paused. “By the way, that tape hasn’t turned up yet, Mr. Ramao’s statement?”
Sasha looked up from her computer monitor, unconcerned. “Not yet.”
As Jon settled in at Martin’s desk he watched Sasha tapping away at her keyboard, annoyed. There was something off about the scene. Somehow, Jon had gotten it into his head that Sasha was supposed to be quite skilled with computers.
There was a joke Tim had made once. What was it? Giving Sasha internet access was about as dangerous as…
Odd. Jon couldn’t recall how it ended now. He shook the thought from his mind. He’d probably just misremembered.
Jon reached for the notepad, but stopped his hand midway to his pocket.
Martin was staring at him, sizing up Jon’s box of files and his laptop sprawled across half of Martin’s desk.
“Do you mind if I sit here, Martin?”Jon asked, perhaps as more an afterthought. He had already pulled up a chair and everything.
Martin blinked and then shook his head. “No, I—well, it’s just you usually seem to like your privacy.”
Jon frowned. Under ordinary circumstances this was true, but these were not ordinary circumstances.
There was a murderer on the loose.
“Like I said,” Jon answered flatly. “There’s a smell.”
Martin nodded and resumed jotting down notes in the margins of some statement or other, pushing the nib of his pen against the paper with more force than necessary. Jon could tell from the quiet but serious attention Martin was paying the document that he was determined to not look at Jon. This made things easier for Jon, who had every intention of looking at Martin.
Jon flipped to the next page in his notepad.
Entry #2
12 September, 2016—09:39
Subject: Martin Blackwood
Current level of suspicion: very high
Subject status: flustered
Observer’s notes:
Subject does not suspect observer’s real motives for relocating from office. Subject appears uncomfortable with observer’s proximity but will not disclose valid reason for this reaction. Likely that he is hiding something and feels threatened by observer’s presence in his workspace. Check contents of desk drawers later? Subject is right-handed, holds writing utensil in the lateral quadrupod position: could be useful if police release a forensic report on the shooting. Subject seems to be getting on with work as usual. Subject’s left leg is bouncing, indicates agitation. He has just misspelled the word “accommodate.” Scratching it out. It’s 2 c’s, 2 m’s. Observer will make note to request that subject write in pencil in future.
Subject’s last known whereabouts: subject’s desk
“Jon,” Martin repeated.
Jon looked up from a statement form, scribbled all over in handwriting he’d been trying to decipher for the better part of an hour, surprised to find that Martin’s voice was no longer emanating from his spot beside Jon.
Tim and Sasha’s desks were deserted.
“Sorry, what was that?”
“I’m headed to the canteen,” Martin said. “Would you like to come?”
Jon watched him, standing beside the desk, waiting for an answer.
Two weeks, Jon had been back, and every day since, Martin had asked the same question, with the same tired yet hopeful note in his voice.
Jon couldn’t understand it.
He’d said no every time. There was no reason to believe that he’d accept now.
Wasn’t that the definition of insanity: doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results?
“I’ve got to finish up here.” Jon gestured vaguely at the teetering stack of files. He didn’t much care to be ogled as the Swiss Cheese archivist by all his former coworkers for the sake of lukewarm soup and stale sandwiches. Besides, he had some desk drawers to search.
Martin nodded, resigned. He turned to go and stopped. “Have you eaten anything this morning?”
“Yes,” Jon lied. He didn’t think Martin would count the cup of tea he’d made Jon as an adequate breakfast.
Martin studied him dubiously.
Jon scratched aimlessly at his left hand. Martin’s gaze dropped to the newly-healed, circular patch of skin just above Jon’s wrist. Jon stopped scratching, folding his hands in a manner he hoped appeared casual.
“I’ll bring you back something, alright?” Martin said, more a promise than an offer.
“Mhm,” Jon agreed because when Martin started fussing it was easier to appease him when you couldn’t ignore him.
Jon waited for the sound of Martin’s footsteps to fade down the hallway.
And then he began to search.
Jon wasn’t exactly sure what he was looking for; he doubted that Martin would keep the murder weapon in his desk if he really were Gertrude’s killer, but perhaps there’d be a clue about Martin’s alleged lies. Jon scanned the surface of the desk first. It was sparse but cheerful-looking enough considering that about half of the things that had been lying about when the worms came had been marked with biohazard labels and carted off by the ECDC. They’d even taken away Martin’s collection of snow globes. Rosie had gotten him a new one, autumn-themed with orange and gold specks made to look like fallen leaves drifting in the wind, but now the little snow globe sat alone on the desk, surrounded by files. It wasn’t the same.
Aside from the snow globe, there was a framed photo of a woman with a pinched face and a faraway look in her eyes. Jon picked up the frame, studying the image. His mum, Jon realised, but the woman in the photo didn’t look like Martin, not really. The only thing they seemed to share was their hair colour: a sandyish sort of brown, except Martin’s wasn’t streaked with grey.
In the picture, Martin’s mum was glancing to the side at something just out of frame. Jon imagined Martin behind the camera, trying to take a photo while his mum looked away.
Jon set the picture frame down.
Jon moved on to the first drawer, a shallow compartment scattered with miscellaneous office supplies, and decidedly no murder weapons, unless you counted the stapler.
The drawer below that one was deeper and Jon pulled it open with a soft click. Its contents nearly blinded him.
Cooped up in Martin’s drawer was a hurricane of sticky notes of all colours, although it was clear that Martin had an affinity for the neons: yellow and pink and orange eyesores plastered to the sides and the bottom of the drawer, and flung all about.
Jon crouched down to get a closer look, his head already half way inside the drawer. He plucked a lime green one off the pile and examined Martin’s loopy handwriting.
Get more of the pumpkin kind, Jon likes it
Jon turned the note over curiously. The pumpkin kind of what? Tea?
It was Martin, so there was a seventy-two percent chance the matter pertained to tea.
But Jon was confused by the nature of the note. He didn’t ever express a preference regarding teas. Martin made it and he drank it.
Jon pasted the sticky note back into place, focusing in on a blue one on the top layer, seemingly new.
Make sure Jon eats today
Jon frowned. He doubted Martin needed a reminder to fuss over him, but he supposed there was comfort in formality.
Jon plunged his hand deeper into the pile, brushing past crumpled notes and folded ones, all discarded. His fingers surfaced with one in classic yellow.
Welcome back gift for Tim?
There was a small checkmark next to the reminder, so Jon assumed that Martin had already completed this particular task. What had Martin gotten Tim? What did you get someone who’d begun their break from work wrapped in bandages and punctured with worm-made holes? A fruit basket?
Jon fished for another and came up with two stuck to the sides of his hand.
The first one read:
return Sasha’s umbrella
The second one was a bit more complicated.
Next Friday, it read. Visit with mum, don’t forget.
And then again, larger, the lines etched deep into the paper:
You always forget
DON’T FORGET
Jon skimmed the note again before burying it back beneath the others.
Rifling through a couple more sticky notes, Jon found snatches of poetry, half-finished grocery lists, and doodles of fuzzy little spiders.
There was one particularly odd note that read as follows:
Hi Hey, I was wondering if you would care to want to would like to grab eat partake in
oh my God
get dinner with me? As in a
The last word was so aggressively scratched out that Jon couldn’t make sense of it, though he assumed it couldn’t be too important, judging by the way it had been tightly crumpled into a ball and left to lurk at the bottom of Martin’s drawer.
Jon felt it safe to conclude that there were no sticky notes reminding Martin to murder his colleagues.
He didn’t have much luck with Martin’s computer either, with the only information he could get out of the machine being that Martin’s desktop background was a terrier puppy with a red bow sitting atop its head instead of the default background with the Institute logo at its center, but this didn’t come as a surprise to Jon.
Jon returned to his chair and his notepad, skipping past the handful of short entries he’d managed to fill out over the course of the morning.
Entry #14
12 September, 2016—12:26
Subject: Martin Blackwood
Current level of suspicion: medium
Subject status: forgetful (apparently)
Observer’s notes:
No suspicious materials were found in subject’s desk. Observer stumbled upon subject’s (rather rudimentary) system of setting reminders for himself. Why anyone would resort to such a fickle medium as sticky notes is unfathomable to the observer. These findings may be useful for keeping tabs on subject’s actions from now on. No greater threat than a few distasteful shades of neon detected. No new information on subject’s lies. Investigation must be continued.
Subject’s last known whereabouts: canteen
There. It was a start.
“Um, Jon?”
Jon started, slamming his notepad shut.
Martin stood beside the desk, returned from the canteen, and clutching something square and plastic-wrapped.
“I brought you a sandwich,” he offered shyly, extending said sandwich toward Jon. “Thought you might want something to eat.”
Jon accepted the sandwich, inspecting the ingredients. Ham, he guessed. “You didn’t have to, Martin.”
Martin pulled out his chair and sat beside Jon. “It’s alright,” he said, something cautious and just on the cusp of a smile molding his lips. “I don’t mind.’
Jon prodded the plastic wrap, testing the springiness of the bread beneath.
Martin sighed. “Please, Jon, you’ve got to eat something.”
Jon wanted to protest that as an adult, he had the right to look as waifish as he wanted to, but the exhaustion in Martin’s voice made him pause.
He could feel Martin’s eyes on him as he unwrapped the sandwich, and lifted the top piece of bread to get a good look at the interior. However, the top piece of bread was slightly soggier than he’d anticipated, stained the faintest bit red. Jon recognised the residue, and began examining the layers of the sandwich for the source of the stain.
“It’s not poisoned,” Martin informed him.
Jon didn’t think the sandwich was poisoned, but Martin had to be aware that such a statement would be exactly the sort of thing one would say if trying to poison Jon.
“Tomatoes,” Jon said.
“Sorry?”
“You took them out.”
Martin nervously studied the slice of bread propped up in Jon’s grasp. “Did you…want them in? I thought you didn’t like tomatoes.”
“I don’t.”
“Okay, that’s—that’s good then?”
“How did you know?”
Martin fixed his gaze on his snow globe, face going red, first the cheeks and then spreading out to the tips of his ears.
Tomatoes, indeed, Jon mused.
“You said,” Martin answered. “You were talking last week about how you’ve never tasted a tomato that wasn’t disappointing, but this was the only kind they had left, and I assumed you might not want it if I left the tomatoes in.”
Jon looked from the sandwich to Martin. “That’s very…thoughtful of you, Martin.”
Jon hesitated for a moment and then took a bite of the sandwich. Martin beamed at him thankfully, visibly sagging with relief.
When Tim returned from lunch, he took one look at the empty plastic wrap, scattered with crumbs, and gave Jon a congratulatory pat on the back. “Looks like Martin finally wore you down, boss,” he said, grinning.
Jon rolled his eyes, and made sure no one was paying him much attention while he jotted down his most recent observations.
Entry #15
12 September, 2016—12:51
Subject: Martin Blackwood
Current level of suspicion: high
Subject status: decidedly not forgetful; flustered (again)
Observer’s notes:
Subject has knowledge of the observer’s opposition to tomatoes. Not sure if this is something to be concerned about. Subject brought observer sandwich (not poisoned to observer’s knowledge). Subject showed decreased signs of unease once observer had consumed sandwich. Observer will eat more in subject’s presence and record results.
Subject’s last known whereabouts: subject’s desk
“Yes,” Jon said.
Martin stared at him, eyes wide, uncomprehending. “Yes?”
Jon nodded. "I'll go to the canteen."
Martin glanced at Tim who was watching the exchange from the safety of his desk. Tim gave him an encouraging smile.
"O-okay," Martin said slowly. "Do you want to go now or…"
Jon stood, making sure to snatch his notepad up.
For the entirety of the walk to the canteen, Martin would not stop watching him, fascinated, as if the simple decision of Jon eating lunch in the canteen was some miracle.
Jon got soup.
But that wasn't important.
The goal of this little stunt was to observe Martin in a different location and for Jon to learn anything he could about Martin’s absurd preoccupation with Jon’s dietary habits.
They chose a table in the corner.
“Somewhere more private,” Martin had suggested, giving their coworkers a worried glance.
So he had noticed the way they looked at Jon, the whispers about the Archives. What secrets did Martin need to protect from the prying eyes of his colleagues, or was this just the normal level concern inspired by being the primary focus of Institute gossip?
Jon placed his notepad behind his tray, positioning it at just the right angle so Martin couldn’t see what he was writing.
Entry #27
13 September, 2016—12:32
Subject: Martin Blackwood
Current level of suspicion: high
Subject status: somewhat relieved, yet still agitated
Martin was picking at his chicken with a fork, frowning slightly.
Observer’s notes:
Despite observer’s consumption of food as requested by subject, subject remains not wholly appeased. Subject appears uncomfortable in the presence of non-Archival employees.
“What’s that for?”
Jon’s head jerked upward, registering Martin pointing at the notepad with a fork.
His tone was mildly curious, and not outright accusatory, but Jon still felt it was best to proceed with caution.
“Doodling,” he answered, not missing a beat. The image of Martin’s sticky note spider caricatures was still fresh in his mind.
“You doodle?”
“Yes,” Jon said, dead serious.
He flipped to a new page and sketched a squiggly line.
Martin leaned forward, inspecting the drawing. “It’s a…worm?”
“Yes.”
Martin nodded. “That’s good. It’s good to have hobbies. Helps with the—” He paused. “Just helps,” he finished a bit weakly.
With Martin watching him intently now, Jon didn’t know what else to do but add a few other squiggly lines, varying in length and squiggliness: a whole worm family.
“Are you sleeping okay?” Martin asked conversationally, although there wasn’t anything much conversational about the question.
Jon sighed, and took another sip of soup. “I’m not going to break, Martin.”
“No, I know, I just—I worry.”
Jon scoffed. “You don't fuss over Tim.”
“Well, Tim isn't…” Martin gestured vaguely with his fork, as if that would explain everything.
“Isn’t what?”
“He isn’t you.”
“Yes,” Jon said. “I know.”
And what did that mean anyway? Obviously, Jon wasn’t Tim, but they’d both been eaten by worms and had the matching scars to show for it. Why was Tim the paragon of self-care, and Jon the pity project of one very concerned Martin Blackwood?
Is that what this was? Pity?
Martin sighed, and then more to himself than anyone else, he mumbled, “Sure.”
Jon adjusted his tray slightly.
Subject believes observer’s claim that this notepad is intended solely for doodling. Worm drawings are not a part of official record, ignore. Subject has acknowledged disparities in his caretaking habits for observer and those for other coworkers. No justification has been provided. Repeats of lunch with subject will be necessary for further investigation.
“So, hobbies? You said they help. Have you taken up any?”
Martin stared at him, startled by the abruptness of the question. “I—erm, I write a bit of poetry now and again.”
“You’ve told me.”
“I’ve been watching a lot of films lately,” Martin said hesitantly. “Just at night when it gets a bit too quiet. Still getting used to the new flat.” He chuckled awkwardly.
Jon waited expectantly as the laughter died, wondering if Martin’s list would resume with “I also enjoy tampering with evidence on Sunday afternoons.”
“I’ve also been trying out thrifting,” Martin added self-consciously.
Jon stared at him blankly.
“You know, charity shops? Vintage clothes?” Martin explained. “I do feel a bit ridiculous sometimes considering wherever I go it’s mostly art students and grandmas.”
Jon nodded, a little lost.
Martin paused, thinking. “Oh, and I’ve wanted to get into baking for a while. Like, you know when you’re watching those baking competitions, and they make a regular chocolate cake or something and you get to thinking, I could probably do that ?”
“Erm,” Jon said. “Not really.”
“Sorry.” Martin shook his head, amazed and mortified. “I really don’t know why I’m telling you this.”
“I don’t mind.”
Martin smiled, a little shy and a little embarrassed, and suddenly Jon felt as if he should be furiously taking down notes, although he wasn’t sure as to what exactly those notes should say.
Subject enjoys watching films in the evenings and visiting charity shops frequented by elderly women. Subject has intentions to bake a “regular” chocolate cake, whatever that means. Not sure how this information will further observer’s inquiries, but seems worth recording.
Subject’s last known whereabouts: canteen
Jon closed the notepad and tucked it away in his pocket.
He couldn’t write it all down, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t try.
Jon had more questions. And Martin (usually) had the answers.
For instance, while Martin was organising a batch of statements that had been misfiled in the chaotic aftermath of the infestation, Jon popped his head into the document storage room, notepad at the ready:
“Martin, what would you say your average walking speed is?”
Martin turned, balancing a box of files against his hip.
“Slower or faster than 2.2 meters per second?” Jon prompted.
“Uh…slower?”
“You’re sure?”
“Not really, no,” Martin replied honestly.
Jon made a note of that.
And then, the following morning:
“Martin, what’s the best flavour of ice cream?”
Martin looked up from his keyboard, perplexed, at Jon whose pencil was poised in preparation above a clean page in his notepad.
Martin frowned, concentrating. “The best flavour of ice cream, or my favourite one?”
Jon huffed. “Aren’t they one and the same?”
“No,” Martin said slowly. “There are some flavours you know are objectively better, and there are the ones you just can’t help liking. Those are your favourites.”
“Tell me your favourite, then,” Jon urged, itching for one more line to scribble in his notes.
“Mint chocolate chip,” Martin stated, as if the answer were obvious.
“Okay,” Jon said.
And he made a note of that too.
Martin’s response to Jon’s third line of questioning was to almost spit out a mouthful of tea.
“Have you ever been arrested?”
He waited for Martin to finish coughing up a lung.
“Why would you ask that?” Martin spluttered.
Jon thought it was quite apparent why.
“Well, have you?” Jon asked, narrowing his eyes.
In his mind, the suspicion level for his next entry had just increased from medium to very high.
“No!” Martin answered emphatically, the syllable pitching upwards a bit in the middle.
Jon made a note of that.
“And have you ever had any experience with video editing or photoshop?” Jon continued.
“What? No,” Martin answered, his eyebrows drawn together, still clearly disturbed by the previous query.
Jon wondered if a subtler approach might yield more promising results. Perhaps he’d ought to give mild psychoanalysis a go: questions that on the surface might seem like insignificant small talk, but could really give Jon the insight he needed to determine whether Martin’s psyche was that of a ruthless killer.
So, later that day in the break room:
“Martin, what’s your favourite colour?”
Martin froze, in the middle of filling up the kettle.
“My what?”
“Favourite colour,” Jon repeated. “Martin, the kettle,” he warned.
Martin glanced down at the overflowing kettle and fumbled a bit in his haste to shut off the tap.
“I’ve always been partial to a sunset orange,” volunteered Tim from his comfortable position leaning up against the counter, hand halfway submerged in a bag of crisps.
“Thank you for your input, Tim,” Jon said dismissively. “Martin?”
Martin tilted his head, considering. “Oh, I-I guess light blue, like a periwinkle.” He glanced at Jon tentatively. “Grey can be nice too.”
Tim burst into giggles. “But Martin likes a very specific shade of grey. Don’t you, Martin?”
Martin must have been very focused on that kettle because he didn’t dignify Tim’s question with a response.
Of course, Jon made a note of all of this.
After three days and over a hundred entries, the first notepad filled up. Jon bought another notepad, identical to the first, but kept both of them on him at all times, one in each pocket.
The entries themselves varied wildly in length and topic.
Subject likes to fall asleep to the sound of rain.
Subject watched The Breakfast Club last night.
Subject ties his left shoe before his right one.
Admittedly, Jon didn’t engage strictly in observation. To be fair, Martin’s desk was horrifically bare with just the one snow globe and the photo of the sour-faced woman, so when Jon showed up on Thursday morning with a new snow globe for Martin, it was only so he didn’t have to look at the dreadfully empty space on a desk that he had once known to be lovingly cluttered.
Jon placed it, without a word, beside the autumn-themed snow globe from Rosie.
Martin glanced up at the movement, eyes widening when he noticed the unexpected addition to his desk decor. He picked up the object, studying the dog figurine, tongue sticking out cheerfully, reindeer antlers perched comically upon its floppy ears. White specks fluttered within the glass, dusting the scene with artificial snow. Martin looked from Jon to the gift and then to Jon again, jaw dropping.
“Is this…for me?” Martin asked slowly, his voice thin and a little breathy.
Jon didn’t understand the confusion. He had put it on Martin’s desk, hadn’t he? And it wasn’t exactly the sort of thing Jon would purchase for his own amusement.
“Well, it’s not for Tim,” Jon said.
Tim looked up from his computer at the mention of his name. He caught sight of the snow globe, clutched reverently in Martin’s hands, and his eyebrows shot up toward his hairline.
“I thought you might like a replacement for your old ones,” Jon explained.
Martin nodded, still in awe. “I—yes, uh, thank you.” He gave Jon a small, grateful smile. “I love it.”
Tim finally caught him alone the next day after lunch in the document storage room.
“What’s going on between you and Martin?” He had approached Jon from behind, but even with his nose buried in a file folder, Jon didn’t need to turn around to know that there was a mischievous grin plastered all over Tim’s face.
Jon ignored the question, moving on to a neighbouring filing cabinet.
Tim laughed, amused by the challenge. “Come on, you can trust me, boss. We’re worm-bitten brothers. There’s no stronger bond than that.”
Trust. That was exactly the problem.
Jon rolled his eyes. “If you must know, Tim, I’m trying to figure something out.”
Tim’s grin spread even further, if such a thing were possible. “You’re trying to figure something out…about you and Martin?”
“In a way, yes,” Jon agreed. “I’ve been cataloguing—”
Tim snorted. “Cataloguing? Is that what you’re calling it?”
Jon frowned, confused. Was there anything else to call it?
“I’ve gathered a lot of information,” Jon confessed. “But I’m still not sure if I can trust him.”
“Oh, I think you can trust him.” Tim gave Jon a playful wink and sauntered out of the storage room.
Jon pulled out his notepad, but found himself staring at the next blank page, unable to comprehend the absurdity of this encounter.
“Jon?” It was Martin’s do-you-want-to-go-to-the-canteen-with-me voice, but there was a bit more anxious edge to it.
Jon glanced at the time as given in the bottom corner of Martin’s computer screen. Twenty past five.
Tim and Sasha had gone home. No one was eager to be cooped up in the Archives on a Friday evening. Only Martin remained, standing beside the desk. His coat was draped over his arm and he was fidgeting with one of its buttons.
“Yes?”
Martin bit his lip, well on his way to a fully flushed face. “I know that you’re my boss and this is kind of weird, but lately you’ve been—I mean I think , um—”
Martin shut his mouth firmly. “Can I start over?”
Jon nodded, not sure what Martin was attempting to ask.
Martin took a deep breath, rolling back his shoulders. “I was wondering if you would like to get dinner with me?”
“Sure.”
Martin’s expression changed from deathly nervous to elated within the span of a few seconds. The way his lips were stretched across his teeth, Jon thought that a smile that wide would split his face open.
Jon wasn’t really sure what the cause for celebration was. He had gone to lunch with Martin before, so it stood to reason that they’d eventually go to dinner as well.
“Wow, um, o-okay. Wow. Right,” Martin stammered.
He swallowed.
“I know it’s a little last minute but is tonight fine?” Martin’s words were coming out slurred with excitement and he was still smiling, wide as ever. Jon hadn’t known a person could have so many teeth.
“Tonight should be fine,” Jon said neutrally.
It was yet another invitation for Martin to poison his food, but Jon hoped that the public atmosphere of a restaurant would discourage this kind of behavior.
“I could pick you up at seven,” Martin suggested. “Is that alright?”
“Yes.” Jon helped himself to one of Martin’s sticky notes and printed his address in clear letters, handing it off to Martin.
Martin’s gaze clung to the sticky note. “I feel kind of stupid now for waiting so long,” he admitted.
Jon watched him curiously. Waiting so long? It wasn’t even half five yet. There was plenty of time for dinner.
He got out his notepad once again.
Martin pulled his eyes away from the sticky note and noticed Jon selecting a pen. “Oh, uh, sorry. I’ll stop bothering you now,” he apologised.
With a little, optimistic wave, Martin disappeared down the hallway.
Jon returned to his notes.
Entry #143
16 September, 2016—17:22
Subject: Martin Blackwood
Current level of suspicion: low
Subject status: enthusiastic
Observer’s notes:
Subject appears to have a much higher regard for dinner than for lunch. Subject has offered to eat dinner with observer. Could indicate higher level of trust, corroborating Tim’s claim that subject can be trusted. Subject has a nice smile.
Jon paused, not sure why he added that last bit. Maybe it was because he doubted a murderer would have a smile as genuinely bright as Martin’s.
Subject’s last known whereabouts: headed home
Jon stood, gathering his things, deciding that he should do the same. The least he could do was actually be in his flat when Martin arrived.
“You look nice.” It was the first thing Martin said when Jon opened the door.
Jon looked down at himself. He was wearing the same jumper he’d worn to work. In fact, he’d made no changes to his appearances since his departure from the Institute, so the compliment seemed out of place.
Martin was smiling again.
“Thank you,” said Jon.
They walked to the restaurant. Martin had picked one close to Jon’s flat, and the weather was chilly but not unbearable.
It was a little Italian place, charming, if not a bit crowded. They sat at a booth. There was a candle on the table and the light from the flame bobbed and danced in the reflection of Martin’s glasses.
Jon had a hard time focusing on the menu.
Jon watched Martin over the top of the menu, still that smile on his face, unflinching, but softened by the candlelight, and suddenly Jon felt sort of guilty.
He’d been watching Martin all week, seriously considering the possibility that he was Gertrude’s killer, when it seemed that this couldn’t be further from reality.
Yes, Martin had secrets, but as far as Jon could tell, not dangerous ones. Jon was realising that his suspicions had been misplaced.
“Is everything alright, Jon?” Martin asked softly. Jon could barely hear him over the chatter of the other restaurant patrons.
Jon set his menu down, and uncreased his brow. “I feel as if I should apologise.”
“Oh.” Martin sucked in a small breath. “You don’t have to do that.”
“But I should,” Jon insisted. “You’ve been nothing but kind and patient with me for the past few weeks and I—well, I…”
Martin nodded, encouraging.
“After the worms and then Gertrude, I—I suppose I lost myself a bit and I didn’t know who I could trust, but I should’ve—well, with you…” Jon grappled for the words but they just weren’t there. He’d used them all up in his notepads.
“It’s okay Jon,” Martin replied gently. “I think I know what you want to say.”
He did? He’d known all along?
He’d known this whole time how Jon had stalked, watched him, analysed every blink, every frown, every word to leave his lips?
“Look, Martin, I’m sorry. You weren’t supposed to know,” Jon told him, desperate for Martin to understand. “I’ve been watching you for a while, but I didn’t want to be wrong. I just—I had to be sure—”
“That I had feelings for you?
“That I could trust you.”
Jon froze.
Wait.
Wait.
What?
Instead of his usual shade of red, Martin’s face had gone white. “Oh my God,” he said, starting to tremble. “Oh my God. I am such an idiot—”
“Martin,” Jon said.
“I can’t believe I—” Martin sat back against the plush back of the booth, massaging his temples. “Tim said—and I thought…” His cheeks puffed up with an inhale and then deflated. “Wow. I am such an idiot,” he repeated.
“Martin, you?” Jon asked, a question that wasn’t really a question, because there were still no words.
Martin laughed, humourless. “So, this isn’t…” He pointed at the table, the menus, the candle.
And for the third time. “I am such an idiot.”
“No,” said Jon. “No, I am. I’ve spent this whole time thinking you were a murderer.”
Martin splayed his fingers out on the tablecloth. “You what?” he asked, something sharp and fragile in his voice.
“But I don’t, not anymore,” Jon reassured him. “Look.” And he took out the notepads, stacking them on the table in front of Martin.
Martin stared at them, dazed.
“Please, Martin.”
Martin picked up one of the notepads, his thumb grazing the edges of the paper. Jon watched as Martin flipped through the pages of the little notepad, tracing his fingers over a passage here and there. He could just barely make out the text, reading upside down.
Subject has made his best cup of tea yet. Might forgive him even if he is the murderer.
Subject hums under his breath while typing up reports. Miraculously, not annoying.
Subject has blue eyes. Don’t know how I haven’t noticed before.
Martin finally landed on the last entry.
Subject has a nice smile.
It was an observation rooted solidly in truth. Jon had the living proof sitting across from him.
“Martin,” Jon said cautiously. “Is this a date?”
“For someone so observant, you’re pretty bloody dense,” Martin remarked, grinning. “What if it is?” Jon recognised that tone, tired and hopeful, and for once, he didn’t want to be the one to disappoint Martin.
“I wouldn’t mind,” he answered.
Martin reached across the table, lacing their fingers together, drawing Jon’s heartbeat down, concentrating the rush of blood in his fingertips.
“Good,” Martin said.
If there ever really had been a mission, Jon reckoned he’d just completed it.