#this is the closest s1 Jon and Martin get to actually communicating

[ollieofthebeholder]

leaves too high to touch (roots to strong to fall): a TMA fanfic

Also on AO3. Chapter 1 on Tumblr here.

Chapter 2: Jon

“Tea, Jon?”

Jon looks up from the paperwork he’s studying to see Martin hovering in the doorway, mug in hands and looking even jumpier and more uncertain than usual. The thought of what did he mess up this time intersects with did something happen last night and means Jon isn’t sure what his expression is doing. He scans Martin’s face, looking for clues to what he might need to be worrying about. If he needs to be worrying, or worrying more than usual. He tries to hide it around the office, but he is concerned about Martin’s comfort and safety. He’s begun leaving less and less and it has very little to do with thinking he, personally, might be in danger (although the idea of Jane Prentiss following him home is not a pleasant one) and more to do with worrying about Martin being in the Archives alone. He says he’s fine, and for the most part seems normal, except the nerves, but Jon can’t help but be concerned. Especially since he’s still carrying a lingering sense of guilt from Martin’s reasoning for being in that basement in the first place. That he felt he needed to prove something to Jon…

Martin’s eyebrows draw together, just slightly, and the worry in his eyes amps up a bit, and Jon realizes abruptly that he’s waiting for an answer to his question. “Oh—ah—thank you, Martin. I appreciate that.”

Martin smiles, just a little, and comes over to set the mug on Jon’s desk. It’s sort of part of the ritual at this point. Usually, Jon is busy, so Martin brings him a cup of tea and sets it on the corner of his desk until he has time to drink it.

Today, though, he’s more or less at a stopping point, and he notices that Martin’s hand is shaking slightly, enough to set the tea sloshing in the cup.

“Here, careful, you’ll spill that in a moment.” Jon reaches up with both hands to take the mug from Martin, then sets it on the desk and studies his assistant. “Are you all right?”

“Fine! Fine, I’m fine, I’m—I’m fine.” Martin swallows. He has never looked less fine to Jon. “It’s just—I’m just—I’m fine.”

“Martin,” Jon says carefully. He rifles through several possible options. It could be lack of sleep making Martin shaky. It could be low blood sugar. It could be he has actually done something wrong with regards to his work and he’s afraid Jon will yell at him. It could be he opened the door and managed to let another animal in. It could just be the general atmosphere of the Archives getting to him. Jon doesn’t feel like playing Twenty Questions right then when a single direct one will suffice. “What’s wrong?”

“N-nothing, it’s just…” Martin worries at his lip for a moment. “I—I need to tell you something.”

“Go ahead.” Jon is still struggling for the balance between his natural personality and the front he put on when he was first appointed to his position—the one he meant to be professional and responsible but turned out more like grouchy asshole—and he’s not sure if his tone of voice comes out right or not.

Martin doesn’t say anything for a moment, and Jon is about to prompt him again when he suddenly blurts out, “I lied.”

Jon stills. He normally has to stop himself from fidgeting—twirling a pen in his fingers, worrying at the cuffs of his shirts, picking at scabs—constant small, nigh-unnoticeable movements that he does without even thinking about and fights any time there is another person present in his office. But at those two words, his entire body seems to seize up. His mind instantly goes to the statement he recorded, the one where he talked about being held hostage in his home for two weeks by what they all believe to be Jane Prentiss. If he lied about that…

No. No, it can’t be that. The worms are real and they are stalking the Institute. Sasha’s encounter with the being calling itself Michael lends more weight to Martin’s statement as well. And surely Martin wouldn’t still be staying in the Archives if he honestly didn’t have to. No story is worth selling that hard. But Jon can’t think of anything else Martin might have said lately that he would feel the need to confess to lying about, unless…

Jon suddenly realizes that Martin has continued talking and he has heard none of it. He holds up a hand to stop him. “Wait. Start over. You what?”

“Lied on my CV,” Martin repeats, and Jon becomes aware that his heart stopped only when it begins to beat again. “I don’t have a master’s in parapsychology. I don’t even have a degree. When I was seventeen, my mum was—she started getting sick, and I had to drop out of school and get a job. We needed the money. Nobody would hire me, and I started getting desperate, so—so I started lying on my applications. I got the interview with Elias and he hired me, but I don’t actually have the credentials I said I did. Most of my employment details are made up. I’m only twenty-eight.”

Martin says all of this in a rush, then falls silent, watching him nervously. Jon suspects that a proper boss would be irritated at best, angry at worst. That he ought to fire Martin immediately for dishonesty, or report him to Elias.

He doesn’t. He can’t. In the first place, the thought of actually firing anyone makes his stomach turn, and he always feels uncomfortable in Elias’s office, like a child being punished for something he can’t quite figure out what he did wrong. In the second place, he doesn’t want to fire Martin specifically, and right now he refuses to examine why.

Besides…there’s something impressive about a seventeen-year-old, even one over six feet tall, walking in off the street claiming to have a master’s degree in a relatively obscure and highly specialized subject and managing to sell it. And Martin’s been here eleven years now, which means that not only has he proven competent enough not to be fired before now, he’s gained enough experience to match the rest of them. Maybe even surpass them. Jon is conscious of a slight feeling of inadequacy, his own degree be damned.

He clears his throat. “Why didn’t you say anything sooner?”

“Because I thought you’d fire me?” Martin’s voice drifts to a slightly higher register, as it often does when he’s nervous.

No, not nervous. Scared. Martin is genuinely scared of what Jon might say or do to him. Jon finds himself instinctively wanting to get up and wrap Martin in a hug, which scares him. It’s another feeling he has no idea what to do with, or where it came from, and so tries to ruthlessly pack it away but only succeeds in shoving it into a mental cupboard like a child who spent the day reading instead of tidying his room like he promised and is now desperately trying to hide the mess before some grown-up comes in to inspect. It’s going to come tumbling out the minute someone touches the handle and he will still not have any idea how to deal with it other than panicked denial of having put it there in the first place.

“I’m not going to fire you,” he says instead, wrapping his hands around his mug of tea for something to do with them. It’s the same mug Martin always brings him tea in, the bone china one printed all over with cats, and Jon’s never been able to figure out how Martin knows he’s a cat person, since he’s never mentioned it and doesn’t own one at the moment. “Good Lord, Martin, you’ve been here eleven years. I think you know your way around the paranormal by now. If you’d told me you didn’t have the experience in academia…well, it certainly would have explained more than a few things.”

Martin’s cheeks turn pink, and he looks down at his shoes. “I know I’m not all that good at the job.”

“You’re…not up to the standards I’d expect from someone with eleven years’ experience and a master’s degree, certainly,” Jon says. He tries to moderate his tone so he doesn’t sound like he’s scolding. He isn’t. “But if I’d known you didn’t have that degree…I would have judged you a lot less harshly. You are a very good researcher, Sasha was right when she said that.”

The blush on Martin’s cheeks deepens, and he mumbles something that might be thanks. Jon decides to take it as such, and also takes a sip of tea to try and cut through the tangle of emotions inside him.

“Ask for help,” he says when he can trust himself to speak again. “If you need it. Tim and Sasha have the experience with academia you don’t, they’ll be more than happy to help you. And…if you’d rather do more of the filing and cataloging duties, the parts that are more like what you would have done in the library, than the researching…”

“I don’t mind researching. I really enjoy it. I just—I don’t always know what I’m doing, and I’m sorry. You’re right. I should have told you that a long time ago.” Martin takes a deep breath. “I—I’ll ask. I will. Thank you. And I’m sorry again.”

“Stop apologizing, Martin.” Jon realizes his tone might have come out a bit harsh and forces himself to soften his voice. “What’s done is done. But…yes. You’re still looking into Tom Haan, correct?”

“I—y-yeah, yeah.”

“Get Tim to help you with that. In fact, have him handle it today. I’d like you to go through the Archives for me and see if you can find anything that seems…relevant to our current situation.” Jon doesn’t know why the thought pops into his head, but it occurs to him that there might be more to the Jane Prentiss situation than he knows, that perhaps Martin can find something relevant. He has faith that if anyone can find it, it’s Martin, and he’s not sure where that certainty comes from. “Perhaps you can do the stapling for Sasha, if you have time?”

Martin hesitates. “Ah—is this a good time to tell you that you’re really not supposed to do that?”

“What, stapling?” Jon frowns.

“Yeah, you—I mean, if they were brass staples, maybe, or the Morel stainless steel ones, but the regular ones? They rust, you know? You’re not supposed to use metals that rust on documents you’re planning to keep permanently. It ruins them. I know you’re trying to record the statements and all, but especially the ones we have to do on the tapes, magnetic files can be corrupted…” Martin trails off, and he’s blushing harder than before.

Jon blinks at him. “I—I didn’t know that. Thank you, Martin, that’s…that’s helpful.”

He offers Martin a small smile, and Martin’s face turns so red Jon worries his hair might actually catch fire. “N-no problem. It’s—I mean, I’ve kind of been going around at night and taking the staples out sometimes, b-but I found a couple plastic paper clips in one of the drawers and I replaced them with those, so…”

“I’ll see about ordering some brass staples,” Jon promises. “I had no idea there were other kinds that weren’t meant for upholstery or surgery or some such. And—thank you again.”

Martin nods quickly. “I’ll go…see what I can find. And thank you. For—for not being mad at me.”

Jon gives a soft huff of laughter. “To tell the truth, Martin, I’m actually rather relieved.”

Martin offers Jon a shy smile, then backs out of his office, still blushing furiously. Jon takes another sip of his tea. It’s made, as usual, exactly the way he likes it.

He silences the part of him that wonders if that was how he liked it before Martin started making it that way and gets back to work.