There are so many things Martin wants to say as he stands there staring at Jon Sims.
More than anything, he wants to tell Jon that he feels the same. I love you, too, Jon. But the words don't come. Not because he doesn't feel them, but because no words come.
What comes instead are years of memories, crashing down like a dilapidated roof.
"Oh--- oh. You're J-Jonathan Sims, I--- Mr. Bouchard said I'd be working for you."
God. He's terrifying. How can anyone with a face that beautiful be so scary? Maybe that's part of why. ...I shouldn't be thinking about my boss like that, he's already threatening to fire me as it is.
"You’re sure about all of this, Martin?" "Look, I’m not going to lie to you about something like this, Jon. I… like my job. Most of the time." "Very well. In that case, there’s a room in the Archives I use to sleep when working late. I suggest you stay there for now. I’ll talk to Elias about whether we can get extra security, but the Archives have enough locks for now. It’s also supposed to be humidity controlled and, though it hasn’t been working for some time, it does mean it’s well-sealed. Nothing will be sneaking through any window cracks." "Okay… thanks. To be honest I didn’t, didn’t expect you… to take it seriously."
He believes me. Jon never believes...anyone about these things. And he's actually trying to protect me. I don't think... I don't think anyone's ever done that for me before. Jon is kinder than he lets on, isn't he?
"...I also wanted you to try and track down a Mr. Marcus McKenzie. His father gave a statement in 2003; I’m trying to follow up. Bit worried about this one." "What, you? The – The father of all skepticism, worried?" "Just because I don’t think it happened doesn’t mean I can’t be worried. ...Are you alright?" "What?" "Down here, I mean. After everything, but out of house and home; it’s not exactly five-star accommodations." "Oh, heh. You don’t need to worry about me." "I believe I’ve made my case for being entitled to worry, Martin."
Ugh, Tim's right. I've got it bad.
"...Look, you guys got to go home every day, okay. I didn’t! I’ve been thinking for a long time about what to do when… well, y’know, this happens." "Well… thank you."
I'm just glad you're okay.
A hundred more memories, a hundred more thoughts, a rush of feelings--- excitement, anxiety, desire, affection, frustration, longing, hope, anguish, joy, relief, fear, regret, resolve, grief, love.
Love, love, love.
But as Martin opens his mouth to speak, all he can do is let out a ragged croak, his hands rising to ball up in his shirt over his heart, and he just starts sobbing.
no subject
More than anything, he wants to tell Jon that he feels the same. I love you, too, Jon. But the words don't come. Not because he doesn't feel them, but because no words come.
What comes instead are years of memories, crashing down like a dilapidated roof.
"Oh--- oh. You're J-Jonathan Sims, I--- Mr. Bouchard said I'd be working for you."
God. He's terrifying. How can anyone with a face that beautiful be so scary? Maybe that's part of why.
...I shouldn't be thinking about my boss like that, he's already threatening to fire me as it is.
"You’re sure about all of this, Martin?"
"Look, I’m not going to lie to you about something like this, Jon. I… like my job. Most of the time."
"Very well. In that case, there’s a room in the Archives I use to sleep when working late. I suggest you stay there for now. I’ll talk to Elias about whether we can get extra security, but the Archives have enough locks for now. It’s also supposed to be humidity controlled and, though it hasn’t been working for some time, it does mean it’s well-sealed. Nothing will be sneaking through any window cracks."
"Okay… thanks. To be honest I didn’t, didn’t expect you… to take it seriously."
He believes me. Jon never believes...anyone about these things.
And he's actually trying to protect me. I don't think... I don't think anyone's ever
done that for me before. Jon is kinder than he lets on, isn't he?
"...I also wanted you to try and track down a Mr. Marcus McKenzie. His father gave a statement in 2003; I’m trying to follow up. Bit worried about this one."
"What, you? The – The father of all skepticism, worried?"
"Just because I don’t think it happened doesn’t mean I can’t be worried. ...Are you alright?"
"What?"
"Down here, I mean. After everything, but out of house and home; it’s not exactly five-star accommodations."
"Oh, heh. You don’t need to worry about me."
"I believe I’ve made my case for being entitled to worry, Martin."
Ugh, Tim's right. I've got it bad.
"...Look, you guys got to go home every day, okay. I didn’t! I’ve been thinking for a long time about what to do when… well, y’know, this happens."
"Well… thank you."
I'm just glad you're okay.
A hundred more memories, a hundred more thoughts, a rush of feelings--- excitement, anxiety, desire, affection, frustration, longing, hope, anguish, joy, relief, fear, regret, resolve, grief, love.
Love, love, love.
But as Martin opens his mouth to speak, all he can do is let out a ragged croak, his hands rising to ball up in his shirt over his heart, and he just starts sobbing.