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Jon’s running late.
He doesn’t often run late. Ever since he got the promotion, he’s been working overtime- coming in early, staying late, sometimes not leaving at all. He has a mess on his hands, and its one he intends to fix.
So while it’s been some time since he’s seen Rosie at the front desk, it isn’t enough for her to do a double take. But that she does, her usually stoic face going red and her eyes widening in what looks like shock. That’s a bit dramatic.
“O-Oh!” She’s stuttering. Rosie never stutters. “G-Good morning, Jon. You look- you’re looking very nice today!”
That can’t be true. He slept through his alarm, something he hasn’t done in ages. He didn’t have time to comb his hair and decided to leave it in the messy bun from yesterday- at least it’s out of his way. He skipped shaving altogether and couldn’t find his usual cardigan, instead resorting to an old, beat up leather jacket from college. It’s seen better days, and it reeks of guilty cigarettes snuck in his most desperate hours. The picture of professionalism he is not.
“Um, okay,” is the only response he can think of giving, scurrying past her desk and down to the basement. He doesn’t have time to parse that interaction out, not when his assistants are probably already gathered round, gossiping about his absence. Sure enough Tim’s sitting on Sasha’s desk, smirking and whispering something as he walks through the door, keeping his head down with a grumbled “Good morning.”
The chatter instantly stops. He hazards a glance to find Tim and Sasha, open-mouthed and staring in what can only be horror or fear. He was never any good at reading people.
“Good Lord,” Tim whispers, borrowing a phrase from Jon’s book. It sounds odd coming from his mouth, and even stranger in that soft tone. Tim’s deafening on a good day, and Jon’s never seen his golden skin turn quite so red.
“Good morning, Jon,” Sasha’s smirking, her voice turning velvety and smooth. He’s heard her use that tone in bars when she wants another round for the table. Never in the Archives. And never once has it been aimed at him. Jon bristles.
“What is going on?” he asks impatiently, running a hand through messy hair. He could swear Tim gulps. “Do I have something on my-”
He’s interrupted by a loud, high-pitched squeal, followed by the shattering sound of two mugs full of hot tea hitting the tile. He jumps back to avoid the mess, scowling at the man in front of him. Martin looks like he’s having a coronary; Jon wasn’t aware faces could turn that red. And he too is staring.
“I’m late, I don’t have time for this,” he says, side-stepping the spreading puddle and throwing a scowl at Martin’s gaping face. “Clean this up.” He walks away to sputtered apologies and a snicker from Sasha. What’s gotten into them today?
He shuts the door with a decisive click, should anyone think of bothering him.
And not an hour later, someone does.
He answers Martin’s tentative knock with a curt “Come in.” Martin’s looking at his feet as he shuffles in with a cup of tea, his face only slightly less red. He stands as far away as possible when he deposits it on his desk, refusing to meet Jon’s eyes and likely not seeing his nod of thanks. But instead of leaving, he just stands there.
“Do you need something?” Martin jumps at his voice, raising his eyes minutely before lowering them again. What in the world…?
“Y-Your jacket.” He flushes again and Jon’s starting to think he should really see a doctor about that. “You’re still wearing it.”
He is. He hadn’t given it much thought; it’s cold down in the Archives, and sometimes he’ll go all day with a jacket or cardigan over his shoulders. Still, Martin’s right- it doesn’t look very professional. He starts to shrug out of it when Martin throws his hands out in front of him, like Jon’s about to cut the wrong wire on a bomb.
“N-No!” His voice comes out high and strangled. It’s very irritating. “Don’t!”
“What on earth is going on with you-”
“It’s just- you shouldn’t! Not if you’re cold.” Martin gives him a weak smile that Jon doesn’t return. “Wouldn’t want you to get s-sick or something!”
Jon stares. “Please leave.”
“O-Okay.” Martin backs out of the room. Jon keeps the jacket on.
It is cold.
Thirty minutes later, Sasha comes in with a file he doesn’t need. She lingers with some inane chatter which is very much unlike her, and her phone’s positioned awkwardly in front of her. If Jon didn’t know any better, he’d think she's taking a photo.
The last straw comes when Tim leans in the doorway, a leer on his face. That always means trouble.
“Come to drop off an unnecessary document?” he snarks, slamming a book closed. He’s tired of this game they’re playing. “Maybe finish whatever strange prank you’ve got planned? You know I don’t have time for-”
“Boss.” Tim’s face goes serious, an alarming sign for him. “I have to tell you something. And I promise I’m not making fun of you or anything. I know where your mind goes.”
Jon rolls his eyes at the dramatics. “If you insist-”
“Jon.” Tim comes closer and Jon subconsciously shifts back in his chair. “Objectively, this is the hottest you’ve ever looked.”
What?
Tim raises a finger. “Don’t give me that. I mean, did you look in the mirror today?”
Well, that’s a bit uncalled for. Jon knows he looks scruffy, but this teasing has got to stop. He’s starting to feel a bit insulted. “Tim-”
“You look good. You look dangerous.”
“That’s not a compliment-!”
“Like you ride a motorcycle,” Tim continues, inching closer. His eyes are staring intently into Jon’s, but it seems like he’s lost in his own little world. “Or maybe you’re in a gang, or an underground syndicate. You’ve got a rough past but really, a heart of gold.” Perhaps Tim’s drunk. Or on drugs. He could be on drugs. It’s the only thing that would explain whatever the hell...this is.
“I meet you at a bar,” Tim’s sat down now, right in front of Jon’s desk. Instead of throwing his legs over the side of the chair he leans forward on his knees, still with that disconcerting eye contact. “You’ve stepped out for a smoke.” Oh God, can he smell it? “I’ve had a few too many. You say ‘Got a light?’ in a dark, husky voice.”
“Husky?”
“I nod, flicking my lighter on and raising the flame to your cigarette. You look me directly in the eyes as you inhale-” At this Tim does his own little breathy intake, a finger to his lips as if he’s putting on a one-man show. And Jon- well, Jon’s not immune.
Tim sighs, leaning back in his seat and letting his hands fall back into his lap. “And the rest? Is history.” He takes a moment to recover, blinking slowly. Jon stares.
“What I mean to say is-” Suddenly Tim’s back again, as if the previous minute had never happened. “-do you want to get a drink later?”
What the fuck?
Jon opens his mouth but then pauses, considers. It’s been a week. He’s tired, at the end of his rope. And maybe-
Maybe he misses Tim. Just a little. They did used to have fun, sometimes. Before all of this. Back when they were friends.
“Okay.”
Tim blinks. “What?”
“I’ll come,” Jon agrees, though the rational part of him wants to take it back. But Tim’s in front of him-ridiculous, charming, idiotic Tim- and how can he resist? “But I don’t smoke anymore, so I’m afraid I can’t quite live up to your fantasies.” Tim barks out a laugh and Jon finds himself smiling back, his face growing warm.
Maybe he should wear this thing more often.