#all hail the smiley mug

[mercilessflowchart]

Tiny doodle of Carl's smiley mug!

[kangaroo-sniper-imagine]

Unintimidating reader who’s a killa killa

-snipers is longer solely because ive had that idea in my head LONG before i got this request-

-also, little gorey so beware-

Medic

Ludwig is almost instantly enamoured with you once he got comfortable with you on base. He finds you sweet and calls you “kleine krankenschwester” (little nurse) whenever you insist on helping him in any way with his workload. You apologize when you bump into inanimate objects and try copying Archimedes’ cooing. You’re a cupcake!

And finally he gets a good eyeful of you on the field. You’re brutal and vicious and smiling the whole time as you bash in an enemy Heavy’s head with a sledgehammer. You take out an enemy Scout’s leg with your weapon and let him try and crawl away from you before you finish him off with a laugh. Ludwig is now convinced you’re his soulmate

Our dear doctor loves tenderness that hides ruthlessness. Loves that you are sweet as a bumble bee to your team but a beast to your opposers. He’s excited at the new possibilities between the two of you know that he knows that he no longer has to hide his own ferocity with his experiments in front of you

Sniper

Hell, Mick isn’t even convinced you should be on the field. You wore brightly colored clothes and skirts and for fuck’s sake you bake, all. The. time. You're like Holly Homemaker, why the hell are you hanging with a bunch of mercenaries? How were you even picked for this job? At your first match, he debated on whether he should watch you from his perch to protect you or do his job. He chose his job, duh. But only for a few matches. When he finally decides to track you,and oooooh boy.

An enemy Spy has his knife in your shoulder, pining you to a wall. Mick doesn’t have a clear shot to take out the spook without getting you too. It’s not fun watching a teammate die, even if they do come back. But right as he was about to shift his attention to the main battle he sees it. You. Pissed the fuck off.

Mick watches with interest as you grab the hand that’s stabbing you with one of your delicate hands as the other grabs the spook’s lapel and drag in the enemy, mouths crushing together. A shot of betrayal and shock freezes the hitman before he sees it. The red running down your chin; the struggle of the enemy Spy trying to thrash himself away from you; the look of manic rage in your eye. When you let the Spy go, Mick can see teeth but no lip and it hits him. You bit off the man’s mouth.

After you swiftly wretch the knife out of your shoulder and into the neck of your opponent, you wipe your mouth, you call for a medic and return to fighting. Mick is now a little scared of you, but now will no longer ever think again that you can’t handle yourself on the field. Never brings up what he saw but will sometimes watch you work now

Heavy

Mikhail already finds hardly anyone intimidating, you are no exception; especially with your short stature and demure demeanor. He worries about you honestly, watching you to make sure none of the other mercs try to take advantage of you because you give off the energy of a doormat. It’s his big brother senses in part, he thinks, also in part of because he has a leetle crush on tiny woman who will listen to him drone on about Sasha and Russian literature well into the night.

You do more protecting than defending during the fighting. You watch the case and keep people away from it as Misha mows down the enemies to keep them away from the intel (and you), so he hasn't had the pleasure of watching you work. But buddy, when he gets it. A chance of happenstance allows Heavy to finally see you operate, lets him see you sit pretty as the enemy steps on your hidden bombs and walk into the line of your automatic tracking weaponry and get mowed down in a hail of bullets as all you do is smile and hold the briefcase. So well covered by your own inventions you don’t even need to be worried as the blood of your enemy splashes up onto your clothes

Misha finds you even MORE endearing now. Man loves intelligent women and if you made all of those killing machines holy fuck, could you mod Sasha?? You’re in your element as you effortlessly kill the opponent, and Misha loves watching your inventions do what they do best (he feels a kinship with your weapons as he too, preforms extreme violence to protect you) (He’s still gonna watch your back at the base tho for sure)

Scout

You were like another Spy, except without all the European flair that Spy had. You were kinda bland, tired looking. Jeremy’s never seen you train or fight; you spent most of all your free time being “tutored” by Spy to become a better Infiltrator, and frankly, Jeremy is more afraid of bread than he is of you (and not just the tumor filled bread). Spy hasd insinuated that you were ready to finally be put on the field with the rest of the mercs for the next match, and now Jeremy is more excited to have another person to show off to rather than to see you in action

But of course, Jeremy fucks up. He’s hiding in an empty building, bleeding from a shot from an enemy Sniper, and staring at the wrong end of a Heavy’s gun, hating the feeling of defeat. The Heavy was rambling on about something but the wound in his side had more of Scout’s attention; that is, until, a figure slowly, silently descended from the rafters. It was you, dressed head to toe in black save for a sliver of your team’s color on your armband. You look at the monologuing Heavy before giving Jeremy a look that said “Man, he’s a wind bag, huh?” you gestured to the enemy, then drew your finger across your throat with a questioning look in your eye. Scout manages a weak nod, losing focus quickly.

Another long cord, similar to the one holding you to the ceiling, unraveled itself from around your arm, and very quickly you whipped it around the enemy’s neck, jumped onto his back, and wretched your arms back, almost instantly decapitating the Heavy. Even as the lumbering body fell down, you remained upright, hopping off the body gracefully. With swift efficiency, you kicked the head out of the way, grabbed the comically large gun, and aimed it at the door. Before Scour could even ask what the fuck was going on, an enemy Medic came in through the door. Before the German had a chance to yelp, you shot him dead.

“Yo, what the-!” You hastily toss a med-pack at him before melting into the shadow, Scout almost missing the darkening blush on your mostly covered face. After that little save, Jeremy now goes out of his way to be nice to you, and learns a lesson that looks are hella deceiving. It would pay to have someone watching his back on the field without all the unwanted french commentary (and you’re nicer to look at than Spy, let's be real)

Demo

You’re cheerful, but not in the sadistic, almost taunting way many of the other mercs are like. Not like the Doc or Spook. Nope, you were just happy. Not ditzy or stupid or anything, just a smiley little thing that had as much bite as a toothless alligator. The thought that someone could take you as a serious threat, some wee thing that eats rainbow colored cereal and wears bunny slippers throughout the base, was so hilarious that Tavish starts chuckling whenever it crosses his mind. The two of you don’t typically fight together, you sticking to high ground to pick off enemies as Demo gleefully stays in the thick of it all to implode the other team

Due to unfortunate circumstances, you're both pinned down together, shoulder to shoulder under a makeshift barrier as the enemy gets closer and closer; your bow at the ready with an arrow and his bombs prepared to go off at his command, but no opening to go up and take a shot/throw a bomb. You huff, looking around wildly before nodding decisively, looking to Tavish. “Gimme one of your sticky bombs.” He complies, half thinking that you’re gonna take the both of you out in a blaze of gory glory.

With a look of determination, you aim in front of you, not even at the enemy. Tavish prepares to die for the third time that day, but this time by his own creation, and you release your arrow. The projectile bounces off a scrap bit of metal on the ground, ricocheting the arrow up into hitting the lamppost, and then flying over their heads into the enemy’s ranks. Once the bomb went off, you instantaneously bounce out of the hiding place and opened fire on the stragglers who didn't get offed by the bomb. Tavish can only stare as you mow down the other team as a random stream of sunlight illuminates your figure. Demo catches feels in that moment

Pyro

Pryo liked that you were lowkey and sweet. The fact that you weren’t especially harsh or violent while relaxing initially made them flock to you just to hang out in their down time. Pyro loves to give you cute little toys and stuffies and see you smile! The only time Pyro really sees you on the battlefield is when they’re looking for you. They’re worried about you! You’re their favorite!

They catch you, mid-battle, covered head to toe in the blood of an enemy Scout, laying only a few feet away. They think you look so pretty! Like sparkles and rainbows are all around you and flower petals are floating in the air and surrounding you (it’s ash; pyro started a blaze not that far away and it was finally beginning to get to the two of you)

Pyro just sees this as more couple binding time, now that they know that you also tend to get a little too into the battle. It’s an excuse to spend even more time together

Engineer

This boy was so dang in love with you and he’s never even seen you fight. On the base, you were as sweet as a peach and harmless as a mouse. You spent most of your time in Dell’s workshop helping him with menial tasks like refilling his coffee mug or reorganizing his tools or alike. You got along well with all the other mercs and were quick to help others. Dell never really saw you while fighting because he had to stick near his machines while your job took you all over the battle field

He hears about you fighting from the others. Scout was retelling the group about you “friggin’ awesome fight” between you and an enemy Medic. You had, according to Scout (and Heavy, who nodded along in agreement) got into a fist fight with the enemy, physically beating them into submission. Dell wouldn’t believe it if you hadn’t walked right at the end of the tale with a black eye, bloodied knuckles, and a lopsided grin. Dell almost has a fucking heart attack seeing you in such a state. The Doctor heals you up back to normal like nothing ever happened but the fact that you relied on physical violence to fight made him anxious

He doesn't talk to you about fighting differently, he wants to know if there's anything he can do to help you fight, like making special gloves or armor of some type. Homeboy just wants to protect you, he gets hella worried.

Soldier

Jane, seemingly perpetually stuck in the 40’s and 50’s, believes most women shouldn't be on the battlefield at all. And even though you were there working with a bunch of other mercenaries, a lady is a lady and he, the old fashioned man he is, prioritizes keeping you “safe” (taking your kills before you get the chance to land the finishing blows). In his mind, he’s doing you a service. After all, you are far too soft spoken at the base to have any form of bite in you on the field.

Across the field though, one fight, Jane was just too far away to swoop in and “save” you like he normally would; not even his rocket launcher would get to you in time to stop the Spy from doing you in! The instant the enemy’s knife was about to pierce your back, though, Jane saw you turn around whip fast, your own machete thrusting forward to impale the enemy.

The soldier now thinks that your “womanly intuition” is far more superior and more finely tuned than his own, and will now generally leave you alone to fight and stops hovering over you. Will shout out encouragements from across the field whenever he sees that you hack someone apart and loudly brags that you have the “natural advantage” to sniffing out enemies.

Spy

-This is gonna be a drabble cus i dunno how to bullet point this-

Jacque didn’t think particularly much of you. You were a teammate, an asset to be used. On the base you were reserved, spending most of your time in the Doctor’s infirmary or discussing something with Mikhail about books or whatever. You stayed out of his way, not like it was hard for you, seeing as you were just some wisp of a thing, someone who if they sat still long enough would blend into the background like air. Spy never assumed that you would ever be of any use to him in a fight; you just didn’t have the look of a fighter in you.

So right now, his life being in your hands, made him uncomfortable in ways he couldn’t care to count.

The enemy Spy, who was almost as tricky as him, cleverly disguised himself as Jacque, and right as they were about to confront each other, you burst through the door, looking surprised at the two of them. Almost immediately, they started to accuse the other.

“He’s the enemy!”

“No, HE is!”

“The intruder is HIM!”

Jacque will give you some props, seeing as you drew your gun as soon as you saw the pair, but rather than aim it usefully at at least ONE of them, YOU aim it uselessly to the floor! Jacque would’ve scolded you for your unprofessionalism if the imminent threat of death wasn’t less than six feet away from him.

You looked wildly in between the two of them, your normally pleasant face now stricken with panic. Your eyes land solidly on the enemy Spy, and with a sharp intake of breath, you run to him, throwing your arms around him and burying your face into the falsely colored lapel.

Jacque felt disappointment bloom in his chest, along with dread when he watched your mistake.

The spy looked so damn smug as he wrapped his arms around you, throwing Jacque a satisfied look. The gun still was gripped in your hand, still aiming at the ground.

“Ma pauvre petite fille,” he crooned, “est-ce que le grand méchant espion t'a fait peur?”

You sniffle, and bring the gun up to the imposter’s head. “Je n'ai pas facilement peur.” Jacque didn’t think you could ever say something so coldly, and say it in french to boot. One shot rang out and the man in your arms fell to the floor, suit changing back to what it was meant to be, stained with red from the blood of his fatal wound.

After some deliberation with yourself, you shot him again, in the chest. You looked to Jacque, your face now once again passive.

With a sigh and a dramatic flourish, the living Spy fetched a cigarette out of his pocket and lit it quickly, taking a deep huff before addressing you.

“How did you know that he was not me?”

You holster your weapon back, mulling over your answer. “Few things, uh… you never speak French to me,” you stuck out one finger, “you wouldn’t ever hug me,” another finger, “you don’t stand with your feet that far apart,” one more, “and you smell completely different.” with all but your thumb sticking out, you nodded to yourself before jamming both hands into your pants pockets, tucking in your chin and turning heel back to the door, seemingly finished with your explanation and conversation.

Amused, Jacque took another slow drag of his cigarette, planning on paying more attention to you in the future, being sure never to underestimate you again.

-this, uuuuuhhh, took on a life of its own-

[ennuijpg]

word count: 5.4k

summary: Three times Tim should’ve realized Martin’s feelings for Jon, and one time Martin told him.

i let myself write five thousand words of s1 archival crew fluff instead of doing work i should be doing, as a treat

“So,” Tim starts just as the lights in the pub flicker for a half second, making this all seem much more dramatic than it actually is, “Who is it?”

Martin already knows what Tim is on about but feigns ignorance all the same, for his own sake, “Who’s what?”

“You clearly have a crush on someone.” 

“Crush? We’re not in high school, Tim.” Martin continues to object but Tim cuts him off. 

“Ah no, don’t say you don’t, nothing gets past me. Sometimes, you’re just extra smiley at work, and I know you don’t actually find researching statements of horrible encounters to be that entertaining, so it’s clearly something else. Or rather, someone else,” he waggles his eyebrows for effect, “Sash knows what I’m talking about, yeah?”

Sasha rolls her eyes amusedly but, ever the mediator, doesn’t push Martin for more information, “I do, but Martin, it’s okay, you know you don’t have to humor him.”

“Oh c’mon,” Tim puts on a pout so over-exaggerated, it has both Martin and Sasha stifling giggles, “You guys are no fun. I promise I won’t tell anyone. What happens at Morpeth Arms, stays at Morpeth Arms,” his face screws up a little, “Eh, we’ll workshop that one.” 

“Hm,” Martin starts, then hesitates, and Tim is intimately familiar with this dilemma. The age-old question of to tell or not to tell because the former makes it all mortifyingly real, but the latter is only tenable for so long. He settles on what he would like to think is a compromise, “Okay fine, tell you what, I won’t tell you outright, but if you guess, I’ll tell you if you’re right or wrong.” He hastily adds a limit of “Five guesses,” probably to maintain some facade of not wanting to tell Tim at all.

“Alright, that’s fair, uh, Richard in research?” If he’s being honest, there is absolutely no rhyme or reason to Tim’s guesses beyond all of them being people he’s seen Martin interact with. He likes to say nothing gets past him, but this clearly has, to an extent.

“Mmh mh,” Martin shakes his head lightly.

“Rosie?”

“Nah.”

“Edmund in artefact storage?”

“Nope,” he says, popping the p. “Two more guesses left.”

Sasha pipes up, “Ooh, Oliver? The new bloke in accounting?”

“Uh uh, only ever talked to him once so far. One left.”

Sasha and Tim think for a moment while Martin twiddles his thumbs nervously, then, “Wait,” Tim looks as if a lightbulb has struck and shattered across his head, “Wait, Martin, it’s not—it’s not Jon, is it?”

And Martin’s silence accompanied by the blush slowly creeping its way up his neck is answer enough.

“No way! Wait, really?” Tim wears an expression of amused disbelief at the fact that his Hail Mary guess turned out to be correct. Sasha at least has the good sense to school her face into some semblance of neutrality.

The blush deepens, and Martin resolves that if anyone brings it up, now or in the future, he’ll just blame it on the alcohol, no matter how shoddy an excuse that is. He answers affirmatively, but voice tentative, “Yeah?”

“Whew, never would’ve guessed that one in a thousand years.” Tim sits back in the cheap vinyl covered booth, then adds, “Though, I guess I just did,” he’s still a bit shocked, but as memories come welling up to the surface, he realizes that, in hindsight, it was really quite obvious.

***

The first clue must’ve not been more than a few months after Jon was promoted to Head Archivist. Martin had always been of the caretaker type, and Tim had picked up on this rather quickly. He frequently made them all tea, and definitely did whenever they had to stay past five to catch up on research. When statements piled high, and they were all close to tearing their hair out from stress, he always made sure they took a proper lunch break. And most endearingly, he insisted on going out for a small celebration whenever it was any of their birthdays. But with Jon, it was different, more than just Martin’s regular caretaking instinct manifesting itself.

Once, Tim was in the break room fetching his lunch from the fridge when Martin walked in, mug in hand, and purpose on his face. He put the kettle on, leaned against the counter, and turned towards Tim, “Do you know how Jon takes his tea?”

“Can’t say I do, why?”

“Oh, nothing, it’s not that important,” Martin sighed, a wee bit of frustration creeping into his voice.

“Does he not like what you usually bring him?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think he does? He never finishes it.”

“Why don’t you just ask him? Maybe he doesn’t like tea at all.”

“No,” Another sigh. “That’s not it. He definitely drinks tea, and I know he definitely likes tea because he always takes a sip almost right after I put it on his desk. If he didn’t like tea, I doubt he’d bother doing that, much less every time.”

And after that, Tim made a mental note that Martin was much more observant than anyone, Martin himself included, gave him credit for. Tim hummed in response while putting his lunch in the microwave as Martin waited for the kettle to boil. 

After it boiled and the tea was steeped, Martin poured a splash of milk in and began spooning in sugar. “I just added one sugar last time, maybe I’ll try two this time,” he said in that tone that meant he didn’t really expect or need a response, he just wanted to keep Tim updated. 

This happened a few more times over the next couple of weeks, Martin walking into the break room while Tim, and sometimes Sasha also, were in there doing something or other, mildly frustrated and intent on tweaking the ratio of tea to milk to sugar until he found one that Jon liked. 

From what Tim could tell, both through quiet observation as well as Martin telling him, he had the method down to a science, changing each variable one at a time, so he could nail down exactly how Jon reacted to each ingredient. First, as he had mentioned, was the sugar, which he began to increase until it was quite clear from the slight grimace on Jon’s face after the third experiment cup that it was far too sweet. Martin then tried lowering the amount of sugar until he settled on just shy of no sugar, about half a teaspoon. Then, he had to work on the tea to milk ratio; he decided to reduce the amount of milk first, figuring out loud that more people took their tea with little or no milk than the other way around. This didn’t seem to yield the results he was looking for.

At two in the afternoon on the Friday of this second week of experimenting, Tim found Martin in the break room before the two of them and Sasha were due in Jon’s office for a quick meeting, adding milk to a mug with determination.

He turned when he heard Tim, “Do you want one? There’s still some water in the kettle.”

“No thanks, just had a coffee with lunch. You think that one’s the one?”

“Yeah, I think so. If I’m right, then Jon apparently takes his tea with barely any sugar and a lot of milk, like a third of the mug is milk.”

Tim exhaled a laugh, “What a weirdo, of course that’s how he takes his tea, in a way that no one could possibly guess right on the first try.”

Tim grabbed a cold pastry from the fridge and stopped on his way out the door, “Ready? Need any help with those?” He tilted his chin towards the two mugs of tea Martin was carrying.

“Nah, I got it,” he answered, and the two of them headed to Jon’s office.

Jon glanced up from a statement when they entered and muttered a cursory “Hello.” Sasha was already there, sat on one of the chairs in front of Jon’s desk, trying to make some polite small talk with him with semi-success. Martin took the other chair while Tim leaned against a bookshelf next to Jon’s desk as he preferred to do in these meetings. 

Martin set one of the mugs on Jon’s desk with a barely audible, “Here Jon, tea.”

Jon nodded in acknowledgment and perhaps in thanks? Tim could never quite tell. “Right, so,” he began once it was clear everyone was settled, “the Hill Top Road statements are all a bit of a mess, and I think we should probably go through and organize them all again.” Jon continued on, explaining how he expected them to reorganize and refile them, with no dearth of complaints about how Gertrude left the archives, and these statements especially, in such a mess that it was, “a miracle she wasn’t fired in her first week.”

Throughout it all, Tim saw Martin’s eyes every so often flicking back to the mug of tea that Jon now had in his hand and was taking periodic sips from. Fifteen minutes into the meeting and Jon had finished the entire mug of tea, and Tim certainly did not miss how Martin’s eyes practically glowed with contentment, though he made an impressive and mostly successful attempt at keeping a ridiculously wide smile from his face, such that anyone not paying at least a little attention wouldn’t twig that anything had happened at all.

***

The second occasion coming to mind was last fall, the one and only time that Jon had shown up late to work. It was a particularly cold November morning, it couldn’t have been over two degrees, and it was raining. The cold was the kind that clung to the skin, then sunk into the bones. The kind that, when you’re in it, you feel you’ll never recover from it, no matter how much time you spend in front of the fireplace. And all of that didn’t even include the wind. But Tim, chipper as always, waltzed into the office two minutes past nine, with a latte in hand, and a “Morning boss! Sorry I’m late,” called towards the general direction of Jon’s office. 

“Hi Tim,” Sasha looked up from her computer, smiled at Tim, then looked towards Jon’s office, “Jon’s not in yet, actually.”

“Oh? Jon? Late to work?” He glanced around the archives, searching as he shucked off his coat, “Huh, Martin’s not here either,” a thought began to form in his head, “Wait, Sash, you don’t think—” he was cut off by the sound of Martin entering the archives from the break room, and the thought evaporated as soon as it had condensed. 

“He’s still not—oh hi Tim—he’s still not here yet?” he asked Sasha on his way back to his desk, mug of tea in hand.

“Nope, but I’m sure he’s fine Martin, tube probably just ran late.”

“Yeah maybe,” he clearly wasn’t convinced, “but he’s usually like fifteen minutes early. Rare that the tube is that late.”

“Maybe the wind blew him over into a puddle,” Tim joked. Sasha laughed lightly, but Martin looked positively distraught at the possibility.

Sasha decided to join in on the ribbing, “Maybe he couldn’t decide which white, off white, or grey dress shirt to wear today.” This one drew something like a hesitant laugh from Martin, but the worry was still visible on his face.

Tim and Sasha continued this for a few minutes, with Martin reacting in mixed amounts of horror, amusement, and concern while tapping away at something on his computer. “Maybe,” Tim started, interrupting himself with laughter, “May—” More laughter. “Maybe he thought today was the day to—”

It was at this moment that the door to the archives swung upon just a bit too hard, hitting the wall it was hinged on, stopping Tim mid-sentence. In the doorframe stood Jon, absolutely sodden, hair sticking up in all directions, glasses askew, looking far too weary for fifteen past nine in the morning. He looked less like he had been caught unexpectedly in a bit of rain and more like he had lost a fight to the River Thames. 

“Jon!” Martin squeaked, taken truly aback by the state he was in.

Tim reacted at the same time, overlapping with Martin’s worry, “Woah, boss! You alright? Did the rain get that bad?”

“Pimlico was closed, so I had to get off the tube at Victoria,” he answered tersely.

“Yeah, but was Victoria flooded or something?” Tim decided to pursue this line of questioning, half to tease Jon, half out of genuine curiosity.

“No.” Jon replied irritably, evidently eager to end the conversation and headed towards his office.

That’s when Tim noticed what he was holding in his hands. Or rather, what he was distinctly not holding, “Did you forget your umbrella?”

Jon stopped before disappearing past the door to his office, “If you must know, I couldn’t find it this morning.”

“Huh.” Tim turned back to the rest of the assistants, “See Martin, Sash was right! He’s fine, mostly.”

“Fine?” Martin started, loud enough that Tim was sure the entire basement level of the institute could hear. Maybe even Elias on the top floor too, if he was paying close enough attention. Startled by the volume of his own voice, Martin lowered it by at least three hundred percent, “Fine? He looked like he was about to keel over!”

“He’ll be fine once he dries off,” Tim tried to calm Martin’s, undue, in his own opinion, stress, but he was already on his way to the break room, no doubt, to make a cup of tea for Jon, “though maybe a bit crankier than usual. We better not muck up these statements then, I guess.”

Martin returned from the break room a few minutes later with, as Tim expected, a mug of tea in hand and knocked on the door to Jon’s office. A muffled “Come in,” and Martin opened the door and stepped inside, leaving the door ajar. 

The walls were thin enough and the door open enough that Tim could hear all of Martin’s words and most of Jon’s. 

“Here,” Sound of ceramic on wood. “You okay? Do you need anything?”

“No, thank you, Martin, I’m alright.”

“Are you sure? Are you cold? I can ask Rosie to turn up the heating down here if you are.”

“No, it’s okay, I’ll be fine—” The sound of wheels on wood as Sasha rolled her chair to the other side of her desk obscured the second half of that sentence, “—and just make sure you get the follow up to the Vittery statement to me this afternoon.”

“Yep, will do. Let me know if you need anything.” Martin returned to his desk and resumed work on what Tim guessed was probably the Vittery statement, but not without shooting concerned glances in the direction of Jon’s office for the next hour. Martin continued his fretting throughout the day, checking up on him at least every other hour, and bringing him far more tea than a man could want to drink in an eight hour workday. 

It was ten past five in the afternoon when Martin packed up his things and walked to Jon’s door. Sasha had already left, and Tim was only still there because he was expecting a call from Sergeant Northam from the precinct about a missing persons report for case 0112905, and he really didn’t care to deal with the hassle of rescheduling. So, he waited for the phone on his desk to ring while tapping away at the mobile in his hands, and listened to whatever was unfolding at the threshold to Jon’s office. Not that he was trying to eavesdrop, it’s just it was quiet in the archives, naturally, as it was past five, and there was nothing else to draw his attention.

Martin knocked and stepped barely inside, “Jon? Are you headed home right now? It’s just it’s, ah-it’s still raining, and I know you forgot—oh, or, er, lost your umbrella and I’m heading home right now and Pimlico station is still closed—I checked—and Victoria is on my way so, uh, if you wanted to, or well, if you were planning on leaving around now we could walk to the station and you could share my umbrella? I-if you wanted.”

There was a beat of silence before Jon answered, voice lacking most of the sharpness it usually had, “Oh, thank you Martin, but I’ll probably be here another hour, there’s a few statements I have to sort out first.”

“Oh, uh yeah, no problem. I’ll see you tomorrow then?”

“See you tomorrow, Martin.”

Martin stepped back out and closed the door to Jon’s office. He took two steps towards the staircase that led up to the ground floor of the institute before turning back, taking his umbrella from his bag, and leaning it against Jon’s door so he’d see it next he left the office. Then he headed back to the staircase, calling a goodbye to Tim over his shoulder. 

The call from the precinct came not a minute later, and as soon as it was over, Tim left, so he didn’t see Jon’s reaction to the umbrella. But the next morning, he arrived (slightly early, actually) to see the umbrella on Martin’s empty desk, and Jon definitely did not complain about Martin’s handwriting or follow up notes for at least a week after.

***

The final, and perhaps most obvious, was the institute holiday party last December. The holiday parties were always confusing and mildly uncomfortable events, organized and hosted by the operations department. They always tried to make these as fun and relaxed as possible, but the general tone of The Magnus Institute wasn’t exactly conducive to that. 

Still, Tim was looking forward to it. The festive season was one of his favorite times of the year, second only to Halloween. Not that he had any sentimental or religious reason to like Christmas, but something about the fact that his family never really celebrated it that much drew him to it. Sasha had already agreed to go, though she was probably already planning on it before Tim had asked. She usually went to these for at least a couple hours each year, something about networking. Martin was out following up on a statement in Waterloo, so Tim would ask him when he got back. Now, though, he could try his hand at convincing Jon, but if he was being honest with himself, he wasn’t too optimistic about it, no matter how persuasive he could be.

He knocked twice on the door to Jon’s office, hand already on the handle when he heard the “Come in.”

“Hiya boss, you coming to the party later?”

At this, Jon looked up from the statement on his desk in mild confusion, “The what?”

“You know, the institute holiday party? Don’t tell me you forgot it was today, Rosie’s been reminding everyone all week!”

“I didn’t forget.” (He clearly had.) “But, no, there are, uh, too many things I need to work on here, I won’t be going.”

“Aw come on Jon, you’re always working. You’re here before everyone in the archives and leave after everyone. According to Martin, sometimes you don’t even leave at all. You can take a few hours and join in on the festivities, yeah?”

“I’ll,” he let out a put upon exhale, “I’ll think about it.”

“Alright! That’s the spirit.” Tim turned to go but not before leaving Jon with, “But don’t think too long, it’s already half past three,” and a wink before he closed the door. 

“Any luck?” asked Sasha, who was crouched next to a file cabinet and rifling through the folders in the bottom drawer.

“Sort of? He said he’d ‘think about it,’” Tim answered, punctuating it with air quotes. “Whatcha looking for?” He took one glance and let out a low whistle at the state of disarray the cabinet was in. 

“Precinct called about sending reports for the Hodge statement? But I could have sworn they already sent them.”

“Hodge? Which one was that one?”

“One-night stand gone wrong.”

“Oh, that one! Yeah, they already sent us the preliminary report, but I got Sergeant Northam to agree to sending us the full investigation file.”

“How’d you swing that one?” she asked, equal parts impressed and amused.

“Let’s just say,” he took a seat in his desk chair and let it roll closer to where Sasha was by the filing cabinet, “Northam has a particular affinity for cronuts. Especially the strawberry iced ones. And Jon lets me claim these outings on the institute expense receipts, so…”

She laughed, “You’re ridiculous, but I’m not complaining. They said they could have someone send the files over next week, or one of us could go down to the precinct and pick them up ourselves if we want them sooner.” 

“I can go grab them tomorrow morning.” 

“Great, thanks, I’ll let Jon know. Any word on when Martin’s going to be back?”

As if he was summoned, the two of them heard quick footsteps on the staircase outside the archives, and Martin appeared in the doorway shortly after, “Hi guys,” he took a seat at his desk, setting the canvas messenger bag with a statement file poking out of the top on the floor.

“Martin!” Tim greeted him, but not hearing, Martin continued.

 “I swear, that trip was worth less than not going at all. Spent three hours waiting around at the hospital only to be told they wouldn’t be speaking to anyone from ‘the public’ about it.”

“Rough,” Tim sympathized. But he had more pressing matters to ask Martin about than case 0121102, “You going to the party later?”

“Uh, maybe. Is Jon going?” 

“Dunno, I asked him earlier, and he said he’d think about it. Sasha and I will be there, though. Come on, it’ll be fun!”

“Fun might be a little generous for these institute parties, but yeah, I’ll go.”

“Yay! Sash, d’you hear that? Martin said he’ll go too.”

“Mmh hmm,” she hummed cheerfully in response. 

The three of them spent the rest of the afternoon following up on statements, with Tim fielding yet another call from the precinct, this time about some records they needed returned apparently. The end of the workday at five came and went, and soon enough, it was 5:53 p.m. and time to head up to the third floor where the party was starting at six in the lounge area in front of the research library. It was usually Tim’s M.O. to show up fashionably late, but there wasn’t anything else to do anyways, plus Sasha had a thing about being late to events, even casual office parties. 

Tim ducked his head into Jon’s office as Sasha and Martin headed towards the stairs, “You coming boss?”

“Oh, hello Tim. Probably not, or at least not now. These statements, you know,” he trailed off.

“Yeah, yeah, lot’s to catch up on and whatnot. Well, hopefully we’ll see you there later? You deserve a break, you know.”

“Thank you, and yes, maybe later. You and the others go ahead first.”

“Alright then,” with that, Tim turned and half jogged up the stairs to catch up to the other two, nearly running into Martin who was lingering behind the corner at the top of the stairs, while Sasha was a few dozen paces ahead of him. “Woah, Martin! Didn’t see you there.”

“Is he coming?” he asked, voice hopeful.

“Not now, he says maybe later, something about catching up on statements. Typical workaholic stuff, you know how he is.”

“Yeah,” the disappointment in his voice made Tim very keen on cheering him up.

“Don’t worry about him though, it can be an archival assistants night! We’ll have fun, I promise.”

It was nearly five past six by the time they made it to the lounge, on account of the institute having what Tim believed must be the slowest damn lifts in London. According to Rosie, the whole building was renovated as recently as the 90s, but clearly whoever was in charge of that thought the money would be better spent on faux-marble tiling than fixing the ancient lifts. There were already fifteen or so people there, but surely at least five of them were the ones from the operations department that planned it in the first place. 

“What do you guys want?” asked Tim as he made a beeline for the drinks.

“I’ll have a vodka cranberry, thanks Tim!” Sasha replied, eyes flitting around the room to see which one of the collapsible circular pub tables was empty.

“White—” Martin nudged Sasha with his elbow and pointed to an empty table in the corner of the room, “White wine if they have it. You can pick for me if they don’t, thanks.” He and Sasha made their way to the table, arranging themselves around it such that the empty spot faced towards the drinks table where Tim was.

The makeshift bar didn’t have an actual bartender, just Jasper from operations pouring drinks for people. He nodded in greeting at Tim as he approached.

“Hi,” Tim hit him with a dazzling smile simply because he was Tim, “A vodka cranberry, white wine, and a beer, please.”

Tim didn’t miss the way Jasper fumbled with the bottle of Smirnoff for a second before replying, “Coming right up.” He started with the vodka cranberry with no measuring device but his eyes. Tim spent the minute waiting observing the room and finding absolutely nothing of note. By now, there were probably twenty-five people in the room excluding himself, Martin, and Sasha, but this was neither enough people nor was it late enough for anything interesting to be happening. “Here you go,” Jasper the bootleg bartender said as he set the drinks in front of him.

“Thanks,” he grabbed his own and Martin’s drink in one hand and Sasha’s in the other, and left with a wink and another smile, for good measure. He returned to find Martin mid-rant with Sasha listening intently.

“—know how we had called in ahead? To say we were from the Magnus Institute and would be coming in to ask some questions and the receptionist was—thanks,” he picked up the cup from where Tim had set it on the table and took a sip before continuing, “—so the receptionist was like ‘I can’t promise the Head of Communications will be able to give you any information, but she or one of her assistants will be able to meet with you as soon as you’re here,’ right? So I got there and went to the head desk and told them I was from the institute and had called in, but the receptionist wasn’t the same one who answered my call, so they didn’t know what I was talking about and it was a whole thing. I kept getting directed to different floors and departments who kept directing me to other ones with a lot of waiting in between. And like I can’t blame them because they were clearly busy and understaffed, but God, you’d think—,” He interrupted himself and took another sip, “Like I’ve dealt with being in and out of hospitals enough that you’d think I’d be used to it, but every time I just can’t help but think that like a hospital would be the last place you want to be understaffed, right? So, anyways, I finally got a hold of someone from the communications department, but he wasn’t the head, so during the whole thing, he kept calling his boss to check on what information he could give me, and by the end of it, I got nothing pretty much, so, ultimately useless.”

Tim and Sasha offered up their sympathies before they moved on to distinctly less work related conversation. Most importantly, Tim had just adopted a golden retriever puppy from a shelter in a nearby suburb and spent a good ten minutes showing them photos. “His name’s Ollie. He’s six months old, and one of my friends from Trinity adopted his sibling from the same litter, so hopefully we can arrange some playdates for them on the weekends,” he told them, all while scrolling through nearly a hundred photos of Ollie. Throughout it all, and now that he thought back to it, throughout the whole night thus far, Martin paid attention and oohed and aahed at right moments, but part of his mind was elsewhere, and he kept looking at the door. It wasn’t until after the fourth time Tim noticed that he decided to call him on it, “Waiting for something, Martin?”

“Oh!” He flustered, directed his gaze back to his drink in front of him, “No sorry, it’s nothing.”

“You sure?” Tim asked, half teasing and fully not convinced.

“Yeah! It’s nothing.”

“Okay, if you say so,” he dropped it, but that didn’t mean he stopped wondering. Though an hour later, he no longer had to wonder as Jon appeared at the entrance of the lounge and Martin reacted instantly.

“Jon!” he exclaimed, a bit louder than Tim reckoned he meant to, wine-tipsy. He waved Jon over to table with enthusiasm. Jon gave him a tight smile and nodded, pointing to the drinks table first. Tim watched as Martin’s eyes followed Jon there. He said something to Jasper, who began mixing things in a clear plastic cup while Jon stood awkwardly and looked around the room but desperately tried to avoid eye contact with anyone at the same time. Jasper tapped him on the shoulder, and he startled, whirling around. He took the drink with an apologetic smile and raised it in a gesture of thanks before turning back around and heading to the table. 

“Glad you could make it Jon, what are you drinking?” Sasha greeted him.

“Oh just a rum and coke.”

“Finally decided to take a break from those statements, huh?” Tim clapped a hand on his shoulder.

“Yes, I suppose I did.” The four of them continued chatting, first just some small talk, but Jon finally seemed to get more comfortable twenty minutes in, and they could move on to things more entertaining than the weather and the lateness of the tube. Again, most importantly, Tim told him about Ollie and showed him the requisite photos. 

Somehow, they got to a point where Jon was giving what could only be accurately described as a lecture on how the liver processes alcohol. This included a case study on a patient at St. Thomas’ Hospital in the early 2000s who had auto-brewery syndrome, which Jon said was “a condition where gut bacteria or fungi ferments the carbohydrates from the food you eat, producing ethanol alcohol in the process,” which Tim found interesting enough, but he wasn’t ashamed to admit that after the first four minutes of this, he mostly lost focus and was just nodding whenever Jon paused for a bit. Martin, however, looked thoroughly enraptured through the whole of it, asking what seemed to be all the right questions about the biochemical pathways of alcohol metabolism and giggling at the absurdity of auto-brewery. By seven minutes in, he had his elbows on the table and chin resting in his hands, gazing at Jon with single-minded focus as he hung on each sentence as if “alcohol dehydrogenase” and “acetyl-CoA” were the most fascinating words in the English language. In the moment, brain slightly fuzzy with alcohol (ironically), Tim had mostly chalked it up to Martin being a bit of a nerd. 

***

But now, he knows better and knows that there was perhaps a bit more to it. 

“Tim? You done being shocked?” Martin snaps him out of his reverie.

“Yeah, sorry, just thinking.”

“About how dumb all of this is? You can be honest, Jon doesn’t just not like me, he actively dislikes me. This is ridiculous, I know.”

“Martin,” Sasha puts a comforting hand on his shoulder, “I don’t think he actually dislikes you. He just gets prickly sometimes. And plus, if he can’t learn to appreciate you, that’s honestly his problem.”

Tim chimes back in with, “Yeah! His loss, Martin.”

“Mm, I don’t know, but thanks guys.”

They fall back into easy conversation and laughter within a few minutes, as the nervous flush on Martin’s face subsides. And if that night, Tim makes it a personal goal to somehow get Jon to appreciate Martin as he deserves, well, then that’s nobody’s business but his own.

[mastcomm]

Emojis Meet Hieroglyphs: If King Tut Could Text

JERUSALEM — The sleek figures, kohl-rimmed eyes and offerings to the gods etched on ancient Egypt’s temples and tombs are enjoying a kind of graphic afterlife, reincarnated in the tears of joy, clinking beer mugs and burger emojis of digital messaging.

An exhibition at the Israel Museum in Jerusalem, “Emoglyphs: Picture-Writing From Hieroglyphs to the Emoji,” highlights the seemingly obvious, but also complicated, relationship between the iconic communication system from antiquity and the lingua franca of the cyber age.

A visual and linguistic exercise in time travel, “Emoglyphs” juxtaposes the once indecipherable pictogram writing of ancient Egypt, which first developed about 5,000 years ago, with the more accessible and universal usage of pictograms that originated in Japan in the late 1990s.

“It was always hard to explain how to read hieroglyphics,” said Shirly Ben Dor Evian, an Egyptologist and the show’s curator. “In recent years it’s become easier to explain because people are writing with pictures. So I started looking into emoji.”

The first thing she noticed, she said, was that some emojis look like hieroglyphs.

A chart at the entrance of the exhibition pairs a column of hieroglyphs with a column of emojis. The similarities are uncanny: There’s no need for translation.

The Egyptian depiction of a slender, generic dog closely resembles the emoji of a prancing canine in profile. A duck (often used as a generic for a winged creature in ancient Egyptian) reappears thousands of years later as an almost identical, left-facing emoji duck. And the “emoji man dancing” strikes a similar pose to a hieroglyph of a dancing man, one arm raised and with little but a purple disco suit and a loin cloth from 3,000 years ago to distinguish between them.

The exhibition, in a small gallery in the museum’s Bronfman Archaeology Wing, has more than 60 ancient Egyptian artifacts on display; most are from the museum’s collection and many of them on view for the first time. Visitors can quiz themselves on their understanding of emojis and their newly acquired knowledge of hieroglyphs on interactive screens. Data on the differing interpretation of some emojis will be gathered as part of a survey.

The two systems may have common features, but there are also deep and complex differences.

Hieroglyphics was a complete written language, and while even an illiterate person could recognize and understand some basic symbols, the scribes worked according to strict rules and had to be highly skilled. Ancient Egyptian inscriptions eventually morphed into the dry efficiency of the first alphabet of around 20 characters, which could be more easily taught and executed, leading to an explosion in communications.

“What’s happened now,” said Ms. Ben Dor Evian, who has a hieroglyph app on her cellphone, “is that it is easier to click on an emoji than to write a whole word.”

Emojis often serve as emotional shorthand — think smiley blowing a heart kiss to soften a message or send love, or a winking face to signal sarcasm — filling an expressive void that text messages may fail to convey.

In ancient Egyptian writing and art, the image of a scarab, or dung beetle, expressed a whole concept of the afterlife and rebirth and was used in inscriptions as the verb “to become.” Hieroglyphics also had ways of adding context in the form of a set of mute symbols known as “classifiers.” A Libyan throw stick could, for example, be used to denote foreignness.

Both systems appear to perceive the power of pictograms. An ancient spell inscribed on a scarab to ease the journey of the dead into the afterlife depicted birds without legs, to prevent them from wandering away from the spell. Thousands of years later, in 2016, Apple switched its lifelike revolver emoji for a bright green toy squirt gun, a move followed by other platforms, in a gesture to those working to reduce gun violence and accessibility.

With the beginnings of research into the field of emoji, Egyptologists, cognitive linguists and communication experts have started debating the similarities between the two communication systems and what sets them apart.

Some have hailed emoji as a new language. One enthusiast produced a crowdsourced and crowd-funded emoji version of Herman Melville’s classic “Moby-Dick” titled “Emoji Dick.” In 2015, Oxford Dictionaries chose the “face with tears of joy” emoji as its word of the year, saying it best represented “the ethos, mood and preoccupations” of the period.

But Chaim Noy, a professor in the school of communications at Bar Ilan University near Tel Aviv who teaches a course on emoji “because it attracts students,” considers it simplistic and populist to speak of emoji as a language, viewing it as a kind of body-language supplement to text.

An expert in museum studies as well, Professor Noy said there was nevertheless “drama” in the exhibition, which runs through Oct. 12, juxtaposing the high culture of the museum and ancient Egypt against the bottom-up, lowbrow culture of emoji.

“It’s a bit provocative, it brushes off the tired, dusty image,” he said.

Emojis may just be the latest manifestation in a long history of pictographic writing and signage, from prehistoric cave painting to advertising logos. Cave dwellers used strong colors to make their wall images tens of thousands of years ago. “Those are super-emoji, more emoji than emoji,” Professor Noy said, adding, “They invented the emoji.”

The exhibition allows the public a rare chance to connect with the ancient world in a way that is relevant to life today, said Prof. Orly Goldwasser, head of Egyptology at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem, adding that the Egyptians faced some of the same problems as emoji users and developers.

On their own, words and pictures can only go so far in conveying abstract ideas. So the advent of the alphabet, Professor Goldwasser said, was both “a great victory and a great loss.”

“It destroyed the picture,” she said of the alphabet. But now, she added, “All the yearning for the picture has come back through the emoji. So emoji is filling a void, a lack, in the dryness of the word.”

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