Night in the Archives

Chapter 3

Martin knocked on that office door, having told himself what he was there for. Historical knowledge, with a smidge of the paranormal. And maybe to see his favourite Archivist. The only Archivist, so it's OK to call him his favourite. Yeah.

His office was a mess of filing paper and boxes, the tape recorder lying in the midst as if it had caused the disorder. Jon looked as impeccably dishevelled as ever, glasses emphasising the frown he currently was wearing. He paused the tape recorder sharply as if to say "What."

"Hi Jon, I brought you a cup of tea."

His expression shifted, almost imperceptibly. Martin tried not to let himself read into it. Jon nodded and Martin set the mug down, with a definitive clink.

Jon watched him do this, expression far off. He picked it up, almost absent-mindedly, took a sip and nodded to himself with approval. Martin swallowed the feelings that came with that, only just remembering the main reason for the tea. Bribery. Jon's eyes swivelled upwards as Martin cleared his throat. It was as if he'd forgotten he was still standing there.

"What, Mr Blackwood?"

"So, I hear that you're the leading expert on paranormal activity and history?"

Jon's face turned grey. A colour of grim determination, with little bits of excitement embedded into the creases next to his eyes. He sighed, which seemed to positively correlate with Martin's proximity to him, and clutched the tape recorder with slightly paler knuckles.

"Listen, I- that was a long time ago. I don't know who you've been speaking to but I don't, I don't do that anymore-"

Martin went to protest, his one chance at keeping his sanity from slipping away every night, but Jon was suddenly miles away. Martin grasped at his fragments of thoughts, hoping for something to bring Jon back until -

"It's about the Museum."

Jon jolted back to earth, back to the cramped little office, back to Martin. The same mixture of graveness was overtaken by a failed attempt at muted enthusiasm. It was kind of cute, seeing him more human than Stoic Archivist. But Martin couldn't afford to continue that thought, realising he had to seal the deal.

"Look, can I buy you some food and we can talk more about this?"

Jon looked up at Martin, through his glasses and his heart skipped a beat. He then looked closer at Jon's puzzled expression, slightly obscured by the frames and realised that he had essentially asked Jonathon Sims, Head Archivist of the British Museum, London, on a date.

"Just, just, as coworkers, so I can pick your brains, you know?", he hurriedly added. His hands found themselves gesturing wildly, settling on being clasped in front of him. Stupid Martin. This seemed to amuse Jon, slightly, settling on something similar to smugness.

"Coworkers. The night guard and the head archivist. A stretch, but sure."

Martin giggled nervously, taking this as a yes. He watched as Jon meticulously tidied his files away, tucked in his chair and grabbed his black trenchcoat, hanging off the back. He turned to leave, opening the door for Jon and glanced back into the empty, dark office. It was covered in boxes, stacks of paper neatly arranged in alphabetised rows, but still emanating a sense of indefinite chaos. It was as if Sisyphus and his boulder had been replaced by a greying man and his paperwork. Jon stalked through the door, his coat brushing slightly against Martin's arm. He followed, but not before noticing something.

The tape recorder was gone.

-

"Wait so, what's the guy's name again?"

Jon smiled dryly. "Ahkmenrah."

They were sitting in a Chinese takeaway, a place that Martin had frequented due to the lining up of awkward work hours. Jon hadn't seemed to notice the choice of food, picking at his noodles with the same sharpness that he answered Martin's questions. Ok, well, he could concede a little, with that last smile. It warmed him, slightly more than the food. Archivist Jon and paranormal historical expert Jon were both appreciated by Martin, although the latter actually showed amusement at his weak jokes.

"Some statements held that he had some sort of tablet, others believed that the "magic" came from the Pharaoh himself."

Jon's look of disdain when mentioning magic was not missed by Martin. Scepticism came as a surprise from someone who wrote a dissertation on the paranormal. Although, he mused, you didn't necessarily have to believe to do the research. God knows Martin didn't, until just a week ago. Martin wanted to say something but feared for steering the conversation non-work-wise. Jon was voluntarily in his presence and that should be enough for one stupid workplace crush. That was until he poked at Martin's food.

"Oi!" It had just slipped out and Martin felt himself turning bright red at Jon's slight flush. His was barely there and Martin cursed his paleness, not for the first time.

Jon muttered something under his breath, that Martin could only make out as "mushrooms".

"What?"

"You don't like mushrooms. I do."

Jon looked as though he wanted to sink into the floor. Martin was at a loss for words, thoughts racing at a million miles an hour, watching Jon's abashedness. He was finding it unbearably adorable and couldn't find it within himself to stop.

"You're just so loud with your hatred of mushrooms, Martin, it's utterly distracting and inappropriate within a workplace setting. Some people are trying to get their work done."

Archivist Jon had reappeared, in a failed attempt to regain his dignity. Fireworks imploded inside Martin at the sudden first name basis. He smothered this with a forkful of noodles. There was a silence that hadn't quite reached comfortable but seemed to be inching towards it. That is until Martin dug out a mushroom and dropped it onto Jon's plate with a smile.

"Shut up, Martin."

-

The coworker meet-up had gone remarkably well. Martin mused as he lay in bed, replaying the events of the day. Jon had cracked to show hidden multitudes and Martin only wanted to find out more. Oh, and the information he had provided proved invaluable in keeping the exhibits at bay. He had found that out the hard way that same night, before having to drag Jon away from his work. All those late nights and he had never realised what was happening around him? Could he really have been so invested in his work? His next question seemed to bring the world back to his head, out of the fluff he had woven for "Martin and Jon". What was he doing with the tape recorder? He could have just been taking it with him for safekeeping. It was valuable, Martin reasoned, he couldn't have just left it there, at thieves' and ruffians' mercy. A more distressing option popped into his brain. Could Jon have been recording their conversation?

Martin sighed and kicked his legs from his covers. He never managed to keep them on during the night, always getting too hot for them. Thinking became a little too much and he just wanted to drift off with the wins of today. He wondered how Jon slept. The answer to that question was one he already knew, judging by the dark circles under his eyes, it was Rarely and Not Well. He could almost imagine him, curled up like a cat, fast asleep. He could almost reach out and touch. God, he was so delusional. Martin turned to face the wall, kicking the blanket completely off him and attempted to fall asleep.