Chapter Text
Jon woke up that morning feeling odd. Not a bad odd, but certainly not a good odd. A neutral odd. The moment he opened his eyes there was a fuzz like static ringing in his ears before sudden silence. He sat up and looked around him, finding nothing of note. Jon fumbled for a moment, trying to reach his glasses on his bedside table. When he finally found them and put them on, he reached for his alarm clock to check the time. But upon closer inspection he found that his alarm clock was broken, the radio that usually woke him up at six sharp was now silent.
Jon let in a sharp intake of air. “Fuck,” Jon cursed as a dread began to turn in his guts. He dropped the useless device on his covers, throwing the sheets off of himself as he leapt from bed. Whining only slightly as his feet touched the cold floor of his flat courtesy of the chilly January morning.
Jon scrambled out of his bedroom into the kitchen to read the time on his wall clock. Nine forty five. “Shit!” He exclaimed, feeling his hands subconsciously rake through his hair, tugging just slightly enough to hurt. He turned back on his heels, running back to his room to change into proper academia wear and not his shitty band tee he slept in.
Within minutes Jon was dressed and out the door, forgetting his cell in the process. Not realizing until it's too late to go back home to fetch it. Jon caught the tube and fidgeted in his seat until he came to his stop. He jogged from the tube until he was a block away from the institute, panting and out of breath.
Jon took a moment to compose himself. Turning to the window to take in his appearance. However, what he sees terrifies him. Because just for a moment he didn't look like himself. For a moment the man that stared back was thin and gaunt, with scarred skin and long hair that was more grey than black. His eyes glowed a sickly green. But the moment he blinked, the horrific stranger in his reflection disappeared. Despite this he glared at what looked back at him, his suit was rumpled and his hair was a mess.
Jon scoffed. He tucked his dress shirt into his pants and straightened his suit jacket. Finally he ran a hand through his mussed hair, trying to tame the locks he usually combed back in the mornings. It wasn't perfect, but it would have to do. A small part of him wanted to head home and just call in sick. But he felt like it would be a waste considering he is just a block from the Institute. Jon took a deep breath before releasing it, gathered his wits and continued in a brisk walk to the institute.
he entered the building, halfheartedly waving at Rosie who greeted him with a smile. He took the stairs down into the basement to get to the Archives. As soon as he opened the door to the bullpen Jon wished he stayed home that day.
“Morning, Boss,” Tim chirped, leaning against his desk, sipping on a mug that Jon envied at that moment. “We were wondering when you would show up.”
Martin looked down at his desk, trying to look busy despite it being blatantly obvious that he was just talking to Tim. Sasha looked up from her computer screen and waved, “morning Jon. Are you doing ok?” She asked.
Jon sighed,walking past the desks towards his office. Jon had to stop himself from messing with his hair again. “My alarm clock gave out this morning and I woke up late,” Jon explained, not sparing them another glance. “Nothing to worry yourselves over.”
Jon unlocked his office. Without another word he entered and shut the door behind him. Once the door was shut he sighed. He removed his suit jacket and placed it on the back of his chair before sitting down to start with his day. Jon reached into his desk to pull out his planner and a pen to see what he had on the agenda. But he paused when he spotted a cassette tape sitting inconspicuously on top of it.
Jon didn’t remember putting it there. He looked on either side of himself, checking if there was any hidden camera or something to catch his curiosity. He picked up the tape and looked it over. Scrawled on the front in his own handwriting was his name, Jonathan Sims.
He put the tape on his desk and dug around for a note or something that might explain where this thing had come from. When he came out empty handed he looked back at the tape with a glare, scrutinizing every little scratch or divot in the worn plastic. Despite these physical defects, the tape—in theory—should work. Jon hummed to himself thinking the idea over until finally deciding to go look for a cassette player, he thinks he remembers seeing one in Document Storage a while back. Besides, he has been meaning to grab it to record some statements that his laptop seems to not despise.
Jon placed his hands on his desk, pushing himself up from his chair. He rounded the desk and absently opened the door and stepped through. However on the other side he bumped straight into someone spilling a warm beverage all over the front of Jon’s dress shirt; that someone else being tall and large and Martin.
Jon took a step back and looked down at his front, his once white shirt stained with a warm milky brown liquid. Jon scoffed and glared at Martin for an explanation.
“O—oh, I—I’m so sorry, Jon!” Martin exclaimed, looking either side of himself frantically as he tried to find a place to put the mug down. Martin was looking for napkins. Jon sighed and pushed the larger man out of the way to rush past him into the break room. Martin follows after him like a lost dog, hovering just behind Jon anxiously. “are—are you ok? Did you get burned?” He asked cautiously as Jon began to dab at the stain with a handful of towels. Martin was worried.
Jon rolled his eyes and brushed Martin off, “Just,” Jon snaps, his face turning red in frustration. Martin flinched at the tone. “Just go back to your desk and do your work,” he says, rather than the full blown tirade he wanted to go on.
Martin looked dejected, placing the mug into the kitchenette sink before leaving the break room all together. Jon sighed and continued his best to dry his shirt, hoping the stain would come out. If he had baking soda he could apply that to the stain. Though since the tea had milk in it he should use cold water so it doesn't cook the proteins into the fabric. He paused, where did that come from? Jon brushed it off, thinking he must have heard it somewhere beforehand.
Once his shirt was dry enough he left the break room, Martin was nowhere to be seen but now the spill in front of his office was cleaned up. Jon scoffed once more and walked towards Document Storage to see if he couldn't find the tape recorder he was looking for.
After a few minutes of digging through boxes and misfiled documents he finally found the bloody thing. It was on the shelf by the door the whole time. Jon immediately took the object and walked back to his desk, ignoring the look Sasha was giving him. She was upset on Martin’s behalf. Jon pushed the thought away. No time for that, he thought as he entered his office once more.
Jon sat down and placed the tape recorder back onto his desk. It took him a second to get the blasted thing open. He slid the tape into the slot and closed it. Immediately it turned on and Jon sat back into his chair to listen. The tape whirled for a few seconds before a familiar voice cut through the static.
“Jon, you're such an ass,” the tape said in his own voice.
Jon spluttered and stared at the device with wide eyes.
“Oh, don't be surprised, you already knew this. I just wanted you to hear it.”
“What the hell?” Jon muttered, he nearly fell out of his chair in his haist to stand. “Tim!” Jon called. This must be a prank he set up. He used to do things like this all the time back in research.
“Shut up,” most definitely his own voice hissed at him, distorted by static and malice. “No, Tim isn't responsible for this. And I am not a recording, I am actually talking to you, Jon.”
Jon felt dread and before he could stop himself he ejected the tape. Pulling it out and looking at it in shock. That was his voice, that was his own damn voice. Not someone doing a piss poor imitation. A knock at his door drew him out of his shock, he put the tape back down on the table just as the door opened up.
Tim peeked in from behind the door, “you called, Jon?”
Jon took a moment for his brain to reboot before he cleared his throat and fumbled an excuse. “Yes, uh, make sure Martin actually does his work and is not slacking off somewhere,” Jon replied.
Tim's brows furrowed a bit but didn't say anything else other than, “sure thing, Boss.” Without another word he closed the door. He is upset.
Jon looked down at the tape in horror, his hand still covering it. He ripped his hand away from it and took another shaky breath. “No, there must be some sort of reasonable explanation for this.” Just as reasonable as the one you made up for mister spider?
Jon felt like he was going to be sick. Jon quickly took the tape and threw it into the wire waste bin under his desk. “Nope, no, no, no. It was all a prank, and I will not let it scare me,” Jon tells himself.
After a few more—agonizing—minutes, Jon was able to calm himself down so he could shift back into work mode. He decided to revisit his organization plan for the archives. Figuring out what type of filing system he wanted to implement. He had an idea on how he should do it when he finally got his thoughts back in order. Deciding to file them in like categories by date. He just needed to sit down with a box and actually dig through it to— his train of thought was derailed once again at another knock to his door.
Jon sat back in his chair and looked up, “come in,” he says.
A few seconds later, Sasha entered, a steaming mug in her hand and white fabric hanging over her arm. Jon thought it might have been a towel for a second but the fabric wasn't right. It's a shirt.
“Hey Jon, how are you feeling?” She asked, putting the mug down on his desk. “Also Tim had an extra shirt for emergencies,” she adds the last part in air quotes.
Jon sighed, “I could be better I suppose, thank you, both of you. Today has been rough.” Jon takes the mug and takes a sip, humming at the taste. It was good.
“Oh no, don't thank me, Martin suggested it.”
“Martin?” Jon questioned, doing nothing to hide his disdain.
Sasha scoffed, “yes, Jon. Martin,” she says, sounding exacerbated. “You're too hard on the bloke,” Sasha adds.
“If he actually did his job—“ Jon starts but is cut off by Sasha.
”Christ, Jon, he was bringing you tea because he said you looked like you needed it.” Sasha didn't hide her own frustrations. “After you snapped at him he decided to make you more tea. Hell, he even was the one to ask Tim if he was willing to lend you his spare shirt. He asked me to come deliver it because he thought you would still be upset with him.”
“Oh,” was all Jon was able to get out.
“Oh, indeed. Apologize when next you see him.” Sasha demanded with a finality that told him she wasn't willing to argue.
With that final word, she turned and exited his office to leave him alone to think. Jon signed, putting the mug back onto his desk. He leaned back into his chair and reached up to rub his eyes under his glasses. The warmth in his fingers from the mug soothing the headache he could feel coming on.
Jon, you're such an ass.