Chapter Text
It was just a silly little thing that Martin did because he could. He liked things like that, things that were internal, just his, little jokes with himself that no one else needed to be in on. He’d heard this somewhere, or maybe he’d seen it in a show, and now, whenever he was in public and he remembered, he’d think:
“If there are any mind readers out there, I’m sorry you just heard that and I hope you have a lovely day.”
It was an all-purpose apology, because he didn’t know what kinds of terrible things mind readers heard on a daily basis, if they existed. And then, even though no part of him actually believed they did, he would look up and around, trying to see if he’d surprised any stealthy telepaths. No one would look any the wiser, and Martin could go about his day assured in the knowledge (that he already had, of course) that his thoughts were safe inside his head.
Except.
Today, when Martin called out to the mind readers of Greater London, or at least of the cramped, artistic cafe he was in, a man sitting several tables away jerked his head up and glanced around. He had a sharp face, a bit stark, and long, straight black hair pulled into a ponytail that threatened to come loose any second. In front of him he had the largest size cup the cafe offered, dwarfing his thin hands.
Martin had a moment of actual panic before he realized that he was being absolutely ridiculous and that people were allowed to look wherever they wanted, whenever they wanted. He huffed out a breath that was half of a laugh and took a sip of his own peppermint tea. It was still a bit too hot.
He shot a quick glance back up at the man, who was now reabsorbed in some papers he had in front of him. Martin smiled quietly to himself and decided that it was more fun to play this game with himself. He thought, very pointedly, “I know your secret.”
The man remained motionless, save for the minute turning of his head as he read. Martin didn’t know why he felt relief, because once again there was no such thing as telepathy and this was just his own little inside joke. He watched the man for a moment without realizing that he hadn’t looked away.
The man looked very tired, a bit off-kilter, like he was permanently ruffled by an invisible wind. He was kind of pretty, in an overworked-professor type of way. He had a sweater over a white shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, the collar awkwardly tucked into one side of the neck, like it had been thrown on in a rush. It was like he’d styled himself entirely off of Martin’s aesthetic academia Pinterest board. Which Martin had initially made as a joke , of course, and anyway it wasn’t his fault that he was gay and had eyes.
The man, who hadn’t seemed to notice Martin’s absent staring yet, reached up suddenly and pulled his collar out from under the neck of his sweater. Martin stilled and then looked away quickly.
“It didn’t look bad,” he thought.
The game had gotten a bit away from him, but there was something kind of fun and comforting about pretending you had a connection with a stranger. It wasn’t that different from what Martin used to do when he was by himself in a park or at a train station, finding people in the crowd and writing stories for them in his head, little histories of the lives of people he’d never met. It helped pass the time, and he thought it might make him more empathetic, even if none of what he thought was true.
“Are you pretending you can’t hear me? It doesn’t matter. I know you can.”
Did the man stiffen a bit or was it Martin’s imagination? It probably had something to do with what he was reading. The man looked away from his reading and up at the rest of the cafe, and it wasn’t until his eyes darted past Martin’s that Martin realized he was staring again. He turned away immediately, busying himself with taking a drink. He had to head back to work anyway--the warmth of the drink and his little game had woken him up from his mid-afternoon slump enough.
“You caught me,” he thought as he got up. “I’ll leave you be.”
He bustled out of the cafe and into the bright, frigid air, feeling a bit lighter for all that he hadn’t actually spoken to anyone, and started for the university campus.
--
It seemed as though the man with the long hair had recently become a regular at the cafe, or Martin had somehow stumbled into a wild coincidence, because he was there almost every time Martin walked in for the next two weeks. Just as the first time, he always had some papers with him, in a manila folder, and he stayed glued to them the entire time.
Martin thought it was just fine with him. The man wasn’t hard to look at, not that Martin was staring, obviously, and he gave Martin something to do while he psyched himself up for customer service. That “something to do,” of course, was carrying on a one-sided, mental conversation with the man. He knew it probably wasn’t for the best, to feel like he knew someone he’d never spoken to, had only seen a few times, but the man’s apparent skittishness meant that he had a habit of looking as though he were reacting to Martin’s thoughts.
Martin knew it was just the man (whom he had named “Walt,” mostly at random, because Martin always named the people whose lives he made up) jumping at sounds, or reading very animatedly. It was a nice, safe little way for Martin to spend his time, entirely in his own head, having a pleasant conversation with someone who couldn’t answer him and complicate it.
The third time Martin saw “Walt,” it seemed like he had more papers spread in front of them than usual, and he looked a bit more tired, if that were possible. He leaned on his hand as he diligently read through the material, occasionally taking short notes with an ancient-looking green pen. He nibbled on the end of the pen when he wasn’t writing.
“Are you always working or do you just come here to do that?” Martin asked in his own head. The man pursed his lips and flipped a page over. He wrote something down, and when he lifted the pen he seemed to hesitate for a moment, finally resting it absently against his lip instead of in between his teeth. His lips were thin but pretty. He was pretty all over, if not a little rough. Martin felt a little warmth in his chest, the glow of seeing someone attractive and realizing it and having the secret just for himself.
Martin realized that he must be staring quite a lot to notice all of these little things, and with anyone else he’d be worried about being discovered, but Walt seldom looked up from his work, even to drink his colossal coffee. When he did his eyes were often a bit unfocused, like he was only looking away from the pages to think about something very abstract. He also always looked a bit annoyed.
The constant staring meant that Martin saw it a half second in advance when one day Walt went to reach for his coffee without looking and missed, knocking the cup over and spilling its contents all over the table.
He jumped about a foot in the air and gathered up his papers frantically. Martin tensed as he watched. Other people were looking over as well, and Walt seemed to be acutely aware of that. Once the papers were out of the way he righted the cup, not that it mattered anymore, and stared at the table with a look somewhere between resigned and forlorn. Coffee was dripping onto the floor.
Martin was up before he recognized what he was doing, grabbing a large handful of paper napkins from the counter and rushing over. Walt blinked at him in confusion as he flashed a small, apologetic smile.
“Happens to the best of us,” Martin said, recognizing absently that it was the first time he’d actually spoken to Walt, and that the man’s name was probably not Walt, and that he didn’t really know what to do, because he’d been having conversations in his head that the man had no idea about, and that they were complete strangers.
An employee was coming around with a towel, and Martin’s little pile of paper napkins were not doing a very good job with the amount of liquid on the table. When Walt was done with the coffee it had to make up about a quarter of his total body weight. It didn’t seem very healthy.
“I didn’t ask,” Walt said, a bit sharply, and Martin blinked at him in surprise. The employee showed up, thanked Martin for helping, and assured them that he’d take over. Martin stepped back. Walt had the papers clutched to his chest, though they didn’t seem to have entirely escaped the coffee accident.
“You’re welcome,” Martin replied, a bit testily. He’d been caught off guard. He’d come over to try and help and the man was looking at him now like he was some kind of waiting criminal.
“That’s not…” Walt started, and then closed his eyes. Despite the rude introduction, Martin thought his voice was nice. “Thank you.” It sounded like he was being held at gunpoint.
“Of course,” Martin said, not sure exactly how to proceed. Should he go back to his table? It seemed like the other man was on the verge of saying something else, but that could also just have been his face. Was it weird that Martin was lingering? How long had he even been there? Not long. The employee was almost done wiping up the table. Walt looked like he was ready to bolt.
“My name is Jon, not--” he said suddenly, emphatically. There was a momentary pause, then his eyes widened. Martin stared back. “...by the way,” he finished lamely.
Jon fumbled with something in his pocket for a moment, pulled out a couple of bills, and handed them swiftly to the employee, apologizing for the mess. The employee tried to give them back but Jon was already out of there, walking alarmingly fast for someone as short as he was.
Martin just watched him go, mind whirring.
--
“I’m being ridiculous,” Martin said.
“Yeah, probably,” replied his coworker Isabelle, who was standing at the counter and scanning in books.
“Do you believe that people can read minds?”
Isabelle coughed on her own laugh. “Excuse me?”
“Nothing,” Martin said quickly. Isabelle turned to look at him.
“Of course I believe in it,” she said. “I’m reading your mind right now.” She wiggled her fingers and made a woooo noise.
“I was joking,” Martin said. Isabelle smiled and went back to the large stack of books in front of her.
“Why? You need to read someone’s mind?”
“What if someone were reading mine?” Martin asked after a moment.
“I don’t know, are you thinking anything salacious?”
“Obviously not!” Martin said. He thought about explaining his little game and decided that it sounded strange and probably very sad to someone who wasn’t him. “It was just a joke.”
Isabelle hummed noncommittally. Martin looked back at his computer and sighed softly. He’d just had an awkward interaction with a stranger and that’s why he was thinking about it so much. It was just anxiety , about talking to people, not about a man in a cafe happening to have magic psychic powers. Martin wouldn’t be that lucky, or unlucky, or whatever it was.
The door to the library opened and Martin glanced up, and maybe he actually was that unlucky. Jon stalked in, a messenger bag over one shoulder, looking distant and a bit stern. He looked around, eyes finally lighting on the front desk, and he walked over like he was on a mission.
Isabelle slid the stack of books to the side and put on a pleasant smile while Martin hoped that by staring at his computer with enough intensity he could become invisible.
“How can I help you?”
“I’m looking for this,” Jon said impatiently, setting a small slip of paper on the counter. Martin chanced a glance up and managed to catch Jon at the moment he saw him and realized who he was.
The rational part of Martin’s brain told him that there was absolutely no reason he should feel weird around this man, this complete stranger who knew nothing about him. That was hard to keep in his head when Jon’s eyes narrowed at him.
“Okay,” Isabelle said, turning slightly toward Martin, “can you help him? I’ve got to finish up these books.”
“Of course,” Martin said automatically. He stood and came over a bit awkwardly, looking at the slip of paper. “It’s on this floor. This is going to be in the back left--”
“I’m in a bit of a rush,” Jon said. “Can you just bring me there?”
Martin swallowed and nodded. Then, because it was a habit now, when he saw Jon’s face, he thought, “Have you slept at all?”
There was no reaction except for Jon’s expectant look. Martin went around the desk and started toward the section of the stacks where Jon’s book would be. He could sense Jon’s presence behind him in a strange way, the feeling of being stared at, and of being seen .
“It’ll be right in there,” Martin said, pointing toward a small section of shelving. Jon swept past him, scrutinizing the books for a moment before pulling out a particularly thick one in a book jacket that was ripping at the edges. It looked quite old. “Need anything else?”
Jon opened his mouth, closed it again, and looked at Martin sharply. “Silence while I’m working,” he said, seemingly before he caught himself.
Martin’s eyebrows went up and he realized with a big, single rush that all of his anxiety had been for nothing, because Jon was simply antisocial. His tension slipped away from him in a wave of relief and he nodded primly. “Got it,” he said.
Jon’s brow furrowed briefly and he stared at Martin for a moment more. “Thank you,” he said perfunctorily, with the same tension he’d had in the cafe, like he’d only just realized that it was something humans said to each other. It was as good a dismissal as any, and Martin took it.
Isabelle must have seen his face when he returned to the desk, though he’d thought that he’d schooled it into something less obvious, because she snorted.
“Have a good time?”
“He’s a piece of work,” Martin said, but he didn’t explain further. Isabelle worked the same job, so she understood. Some patrons were just like that .
“Shame,” she said as Martin rounded the desk. “He’s cute. In that Edwardian mad scientist way you like.”
“Oh my god,” Martin complained as he sat. “I can’t tell you anything.”
“Okay, shh, he’s coming back,” Isabelle said, plastering her customer service smile over her face again. Her voice changed almost scarily. “Find everything you need?”
“Yes,” Jon grumbled, plopping the large book on the counter. Isabelle checked it out for him. Martin noticed that he had a public library card instead of a university ID. Not that he was watching.
“I liked my mind-version of you better,” Martin thought as Jon started to leave, the same far away purpose in his eyes. “Not that it’s your fault.”
Jon hesitated, shot a glance over at Martin, and then hurried away, just like he had in the cafe. Then the door was closing behind him and Martin let out a huff of a laugh.
“What book did he get?” he asked. Isabelle clicked through the checkout report and whistled.
“It’s a mouthful. An Exploration of Exmoor: And the Hill Country of West Somerset: With Notes on Its Archæology. That’s “archæology” with that a-e letter. 1893.”
“Sounds properly stuffy,” Martin said. Isabelle laughed.
“That must have been a really bad fifteen seconds you were out there with him,” she said.
“I saw him when I was getting tea before I got here,” Martin said. “He spilled his coffee and when I helped him clean it up he just snapped at me and ran out.”
“Not exactly a meet-cute.”
“Not at all,” Martin said, and he took a private second to mourn the little one-sided conversations he’d had.
--
Jon didn’t show up at the cafe for the next week, and Martin definitely only barely noticed. He didn’t send out his message to roaming mind-readers and drank his tea in peace before heading to the library. In fact, Martin was absolutely paying so little attention that he didn’t care enough to be caught off-guard when he walked into the cafe and saw Jon, sat at his usual table, which was covered in papers and folders. His coffee had a lid this time.
When Martin ordered his regular tea he saw Jon look up out of the corner of his eye. Martin didn’t meet his eyes--his own gaze slipped over Jon’s general area like a magnet being repelled, and he went to sit at a booth with no regard for the eyes that may or may not have been on him.
The true staring didn’t start until a couple of days later. Every day Martin would show up, would get his tea, would see Jon sitting there, and would do nothing except sit and drink. Then the sensation of those eyes on him, of being watched, struck him, and he looked up just in time to see Jon’s gaze dart away.
Interesting.
Martin kept catching him, kept watching Jon avert his eyes and stare furiously down at his papers. Did he have a problem with Martin? They’d interacted a total of twice, and in both of those instances Martin had been helpful and Jon had been snappy. It seemed as though if anyone should have a problem with anyone, it should be the other way around.
And Martin couldn’t really help it, when he caught Jon looking at him again.
“Do I have something on my face?” he thought pointedly. Just a nice little nightcap for his own inside joke.
And then Jon froze, eyes wide, staring down at his work, like a search beam had found him and he was naked. Martin’s wry smile dropped in an instant.
Coincidence, again. Jon was jumpy and he’d been caught staring at a stranger off and on for almost half an hour. He seemed high-strung enough to get embarrassed about that, or at least annoyed.
And Martin absolutely did not believe in magic powers, or psychics, or telepathy, but he continued anyway.
“I’d say it’s rude to stare, but that’d be hypocritical of me, wouldn’t it?”
Jon took a deep breath and set his brow, picking up his pen and scribbling something quickly.
“Though you don’t seem to have a problem with being rude.”
Jon’s hand jerked and he scrunched up his face before setting his jaw and crossing out the mistake. There was no way. Martin was a human, and humans were great at finding patterns that weren’t there, and he was doing that right now, interpreting Jon’s unrelated actions to fit his own internal narrative.
Then Jon looked up, like he had many times that day. He seemed a bit startled to see Martin already looking at him, but he didn’t look away.
“If you can hear me, look embarrassed and pretend to read.” Martin knew he was being a bit cheeky, but there was some strange floaty sensation in his stomach, a sense of unreality and discovery.
Jon’s eyes snapped back down and he did look properly chagrined, but then he paused, as though he were gaining some kind of self awareness, and shot Martin the briefest look possible before taking his drink instead.
Martin could have laughed. There was no way. It was a joke . A made up thing he did in his own brain to pass the time. There was no way in the world he was interpreting this correctly.
“I can see why you’d be so grouchy if you can hear everyone’s thoughts all the time.”
Jon closed his eyes and rested his forehead on his hands briefly. He looked exhausted, but from what Martin had seen that was his usual state.
“Why would you work in a public place if you can read minds? Seems counterproductive.”
And finally Jon stood, gathering up his papers and drink. He took a long swig and shoved the papers into his shoulder bag.
Martin could almost make out that Jon was muttering something to himself, unable to hear anything but seeing his lips moving minutely.
And it looked a bit like “why, indeed.”
Jon walked quickly toward the door, and if Martin didn’t know any better, he’d think that Jon spared him a quick glance before the door jingled closed behind him.
--
“So what, are you a paranormal investigator now?” Isabelle asked. Martin laughed self-consciously.
“Crazy, more likely,” he said. Isabelle snorted.
“I don’t know, seems pretty legitimate to me. Though if I had someone staring at me in a coffee shop every single day I think I’d look pretty suspicious, too.”
“I haven’t been staring,” Martin said, and he couldn’t even lie convincingly to himself. He sighed deeply. “He probably thinks I’m some kind of serial murderer.”
“What, for staring? You’re a teddy bear, Martin. You could stare at someone with a butcher’s knife in hand and they wouldn’t think anything of it.” Isabelle finished wiping down the services desk and jumped up onto the tall chair at her computer. “Anyway, if it turns out he can read your mind, he probably just thinks you’re a dork.”
That was also a possibility. “It’s just that I can’t go up to him and ask him point blank if he can read my mind,” Martin said.
“Why not?” Isabelle asked.
“What?”
“Why not just walk up and ask?”
Martin furrowed his brow and looked at Isabelle blankly. “He would think I’m...you know…”
“Insane? What does it matter? It’s not like you know him.”
Martin considered this, fidgeting with a pen. Why couldn’t he just do that, just come by Jon’s table at the cafe and ask him if he’d been secretly reading Martin’s mind for the past month…? and just the idea of it sent Martin into a mild fit of anxiety. He could see Jon’s face, his tired eyes, as he would say something like “what in the world are you on about?” and Martin would stutter and backtrack and in the end he’d really have no more idea than when he started, because if Jon were some kind of feral telepath he wouldn’t just disclose that to any stranger who asked, would he…?
“Just can’t,” Martin said. Isabelle raised an eyebrow and then, to Martin’s dismay, a slow grin stretched across her face.
“Don’t want to mess up your chances?” she asked conspiratorially. Martin made a noise and leaned back in his chair, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes.
“Don’t even.”
“I’ve only seen him once but he really is your type, hm?”
“I really have work to do,” Martin tried.
“Little mousy professor man, wearing sweaters, looking grumpy? He was handed to you from God.”
“Oh my god, I have perfectly normal taste,” Martin asserted, giving up. “It’s not just... mousy professor men, whatever that means, and I’m never going to talk to him, anyway, so it doesn’t even matter.”
Isabelle giggled. “Whatever you say.”
“I do say,” Martin shot back with a bit of a pout. Isabelle smiled knowingly and spun back around in her chair. Martin could hear her typing. He looked at his own computer screen, a split screen between the library’s fossil of a database program and a document of a half-written poem.
There were a few minutes of relative silence, besides students coming and going and the occasional book checkout. Then Martin heard Isabelle gasp a little. She swung around, eyes bright.
“Wait, you’ve heard about that weird old...oh, um...what’s it called? The spooky old ghost library. But it’s not just a library. Do you know what I’m talking about?”
Martin searched his brain for the nearby libraries, or at least the ones they often loaned books to or from. “Spooky old ghost library” wasn’t ringing any bells, but there was a name on the tip of his tongue.
“The Institute!” Isabelle said suddenly. “The something Institute. Starts with an “m.” Anyway, I have a friend who thought she saw some kind of ghost, in her office bathroom or something, I don’t remember, and apparently you go there and tell them whatever paranormal story you have, and they look into it for you.”
“...okay?” Martin said.
“Well, you should go there and tell them about Mr. Short, Dark, and Telepathic! Have them do a little sleuthing for you.”
“Oh,” Martin started, looking pained. “It’s really not that big of a deal.”
“I’m sure they get all kinds of terrible stories about someone’s...I don’t know, someone’s dog getting possessed or Eva’s clogged office toilet. If you come in with ‘mind reading’ I’m sure they’d think it was interesting, at least. They must believe in all this, if it’s their job.”
“And then what, they ask him if he can read my mind for me?”
Isabelle shrugged. “Maybe. Worth a shot, if you seriously think it’s true.”
“Do I?” Martin asked, mostly at himself. “It’s pretty ridiculous.”
“Well, what if they confirm that he can read your mind? Then the next time you see him you can start putting the moves on him, entirely in your head! No one but him would even know. Sounds perfect for you.”
“This is really what you’re caught up on, huh?” Martin asked, a bit more resigned. He opened a new browser tab and his fingers hovered over the keyboard.
“I have to live vicariously through someone,” Isabelle said wryly. “My husband wouldn’t appreciate me having these fun little crushes myself.”
Institute, Martin typed, pausing. Institute london ghosts. Let no one say he couldn’t do an efficient Google search.
There it was, the name that he’d seen before but which had escaped him. “The Magnus Institute,” he said. Isabelle squeaked.
“That’s it! Wait, are you looking it up? Are you going to do it?” She seemed more excited than she needed to be.
“Maybe,” Martin said, narrowing his eyes a little as he read. He clicked on a map. It was close. Less than a fifteen minute walk, if Martin was quick about it. He didn’t really walk slowly, anyway. There was too much anxiety balled up inside of him for him to amble. “Only maybe!”
“Let me know,” Isabelle said, smiling brightly. “Eva said that one of the guys in the office where she told her story was a real looker.”
“Can you not try to set me up with every living man?” Martin appealed half-heartedly.
“I was just saying! Something to keep an eye out for.” She winked. Martin rolled his eyes.
--
The building was definitely old, but it didn’t seem to be in any kind of disrepair. It was austere, the words “The Magnus Institute” set in gold lettering above the door. Martin clutched at his phone, the walking directions still open. He suddenly felt very silly, standing in front of the building. Mind reading? He was being ridiculous and they’d think he was ridiculous. He didn’t even know where to go.
The door opened and Martin jumped. There was a young woman leaving, and she raised her eyebrows at him, holding the door. Martin took a second to process that she was holding it for him, and he thanked her quickly and scurried inside. Well, that was that. It would be even more awkward for him to come right back out.
The main lobby was rather nice, if not outdated. It certainly seemed official enough. There was a woman at a desk near the door, and she looked up with a warm smile as the door closed behind Martin. He swallowed and quickly pocketed his phone.
“Welcome. How can I help you?” the woman asked. She was a bit round and seemed very pleasant, and it calmed Martin’s anxiety a bit. Not quite enough, though.
“I’m, uh...someone told me that, um, this is where you go if you have, you know…” Christ, he was really unable to control his own mouth. The woman watched him patiently. “A sort of...paranormal...story?”
The woman didn’t quirk an eyebrow or seem particularly phased by the question. “Of course. Do you have a statement you’d like to give?”
Martin nodded, shifting from foot to foot.
“Did you call ahead?” the woman asked, and Martin grimaced.
“Oh, no, was I supposed to? I can...I can do that and come another time…” Which was a lie. If he walked out of the door without talking to someone, he wasn’t going to come back.
“No, no,” the woman assured him. “It’s okay, dear. Just checking. Just sign in right here. You’ll want to go down to the Archival Office. B-1 on the elevator, right over there. Just say you’d like to make a statement and they’ll take care of you.”
“Right. Thanks,” Martin said, returning the woman’s smile as well as he could. These things were always so much easier than Martin thought they’d be beforehand. With one marginally successful interaction down, he headed for the elevator and called it.
There was a chart by the elevator doors. Next to B-1 read “Archives.” It seemed a bit ominous, and it being in the basement also didn’t do much to comfort Martin. He supposed, though, that it did add to the ghostly ambiance.
The trip down was uneventful. There were three desks in the cosy office area of B-1, which was a little warm and carpeted. At two of the desks were a man and woman, both of whom looked up as Martin approached. The man had to be the one Isabelle had mentioned, because he was indeed very handsome, in a roguish sort of way.
“Hello,” the woman said, looking up at Martin expectantly.
“I have, uh, a statement?” Martin said. “I was told to come down here for that.”
“Ah, right!” the woman said. She took a moment to shuffle through her desk for something, and then pulled out a piece of paper. “Fill this out and we can take your statement in a little bit. You can give a written statement or have it recorded. I’m Sasha, by the way, and that’s Tim,” she continued, handing Martin the paper and a pen. “Let us know if you have any questions.”
“Okay. I’m, um, Martin,” Martin said, taking the offered items. He looked around, and he must have looked sufficiently lost, because Tim leaned over and patted the corner of the empty desk by him.
“Right here, mate.” If the secretary in the lobby had had a warm smile, Tim’s was almost blinding, in a nice way. Sasha smiled a bit like she was in on a fun inside joke with you. Martin wasn’t sure when he started classifying people by smile, but he supposed that as methods of judgment went it was a positive one.
Martin sat gingerly in an uncomfortable wooden chair by the desk and looked at the paper he was given. It was a form, simple enough, asking his name, some contact information, and the nature of his “experience.” It was all easy enough, although Martin felt a bit silly writing the words “suspected mind reader.”
“You got his one, Sash?” Tim asked. She glanced at him and nodded. Then, to Martin, Tim said, “Nothing to do with you, don’t worry. Boss’ll get crabby if I don’t finish all twenty assignments he gave me by five.”
“I can imagine,” Martin said, shoulders loosening a bit. This was perfectly pleasant, and he wondered why he was so worried. He finished up the form and brought it to Sasha, who looked it over quickly.
“So what phantasms bring you in?” Tim asked. Martin huffed out a laugh.
“Mind reading,” Sasha answered for Martin. Tim and Sasha shared a quick, unreadable look. Tim hummed.
“Definitely spooky. Should I keep my internal monologue PG-13?”
“Not me,” Martin clarified. “Um...someone I met.”
“Ah, well, for the best nobody sees what’s going on up here.”
“Ignore Tim. So do you think you’d like to write it down?” Sasha asked. “Or I can just have you record it here. Either way, you just tell your story, no pressure.” She tapped a small USB microphone on the edge of her desk.
Writing seemed to Martin like it would take much longer than he wanted to spend there, regardless of how okay the company seemed. “I can record it. If that’s easier.”
“Roger. It’s just like a little interview, and you can give as much detail as you’d like.”
Sasha set up the recording software and angled the microphone toward herself. “Statement of Martin Blackwood, regarding a suspected mind reader. Statement beg--oh, really.” She glared at her computer. “It crashed.”
“Again?” Tim asked. Sasha sighed sharply and opened the program again.
“Take two,” she said. “Statement of Martin Blackwood, regarding...oh, you’re not serious.”
“Do you need to update it?” Tim asked. “Martin, you can come over here. My computer’s at least an epoch less ancient.”
“Like you haven’t had it crash,” Sasha drawled.
“I don’t know what she’s talking about,” Tim said, beckoning Martin over. He had a microphone of his own, which he set up quickly. Martin brought the chair over to Tim’s desk.
“Testing, testing, bippity boppity, one two one two. Okay. Lemme see your sheet.” Tim scanned Martin’s form and nodded. “Cool.” He cleared his throat. “Statement of Martin Blackwood, regarding a suspected mind reader. Statement begins.” A pause. “So you said you met someone you think can read minds. Can you walk me through how that happened?”
He had a pretty decent interviewer voice. He looked expectantly at Martin, who cleared his throat. “Well, I’ve been going to this cafe for a while, pretty near here, actually…”
“Hold on,” Tim said, scrunching up his nose at his computer. He held out his finger. “Okay, Sasha, not a word, but it stopped picking up the sound right after the test.”
“Is it one of those ones?” Sasha asked.
“Probably,” Tim said. Then, to Martin, “Might have to foist this one onto big old boss man. No one ever told him computers were invented so he records everything on cassette tape. Which I guess has the advantage of not crashing.”
“Depends on how hard you throw,” Sasha said.
The elevator ding’d and Tim gave Martin a grim smile. “That’ll be him, right on time.”
There were footsteps in the short hall and then, to Martin’s sudden and absolute horror, Jon appeared in the doorway.
For a split second Martin had the hope that Jon was also there to give some kind of paranormal statement. Though it would probably be about the stranger who was staring at him in coffee shops. It didn’t matter. It would be better than if he were--
“Hey, boss. Sufficiently caffeinated?” Tim asked. Well, there went that.
“Quite,” Jon said, unwrapping a scarf from around his neck. Then he paused, eyes finally lighting on Martin. They were locked like that for a second, Jon’s eyes narrow and Martin’s blown wide.
“Hi,” Martin said, surprising himself with his own voice. He suddenly regained control of his body and got up, nearly upsetting Tim’s microphone in the process. He glanced at Tim and Sasha. “You know, it’s really okay, if it can’t record maybe that’s a sign, huh? Hah. I’ll, uh, I’ll stop bothering you.”
“That’s gotta be a new record,” Tim said, almost silently. Sasha rolled her eyes. “Quickest Jon victim.”
“We’ve been trying to get Mr. Blackwood’s statement down, but the audio isn’t recording well,” Sasha explained.
“Ah,” Jon said neutrally, finally taking his piercing gaze away from Martin. “Right. I’ll take care of it. Keep...working on follow-up for the Hillard case.”
“Right-o,” Sasha said. Jon turned and went to unlock a heavy wooden door that Martin hadn’t really noticed. He’d been paying too much attention to Tim and Sasha and his own anxiety. A plaque on the door read “Head Archivist.”
There was no way he’d be able to give a real statement now, with the object of it sitting across from him, potentially able to read his mind and know that that’s what he was here for...if he could read minds, anyway. What would the point even be? Or maybe Jon would pretend that he had no idea what Martin was talking about, like he wasn’t the man in the cafe, and he’d send Martin on his merry way with no intention of ever looking at his story again. Or maybe he was a mind reader but had to keep it under wraps for some reason and now that Martin had discovered his secret he was going to quietly strangle him in the office and Tim and Sasha were his accomplices and they’d hide Martin’s body. Martin had wrinkled his form a bit from holding it so tightly.
He followed Jon into the office, which was smaller than he’d expected. The air was a bit staler here. Jon gestured for Martin to close the door behind him, and Martin’s heart rate jumped.
“You can relax,” Jon said, in a way that gave Martin the sense he didn’t use the word often. He draped his long coat over the back of his chair and cleared off a small portion of his large oak desk. “Sit.”
Martin cautiously perched on the old armchair across from Jon. He held out his form but Jon shook his head, instead steepling his hands in front of him on the desk.
There was a long moment of the tensest silence Martin had ever been a part of. Jon stared at him, like he had done in the cafe the week before, like he was simultaneously utterly focused and very far away, deep in his own head, a little worried. For a split second it was familiar. Martin took a deep breath.
“It’s really fine,” he said. “I, I don’t need to...I’m only here on a dare, really,” he tried for a laugh. “You know how it is, uh, friends and…”
“Martin.”
Martin fidgeted. “Yeah.”
“Would you like to make your statement?”
Martin considered his options briefly. He could stumble his way through making up a story wholecloth, something he’d never been particularly good at on-the-spot. He could tell the actual story, watch the ridiculous nature of it dawn in Jon’s eyes, and never be able to go back to that coffee shop again. Or he could make his escape with some dignity left, and forget that he’d ever suspected anyone of being able to read his mind.
Something seemed to flicker in Jon’s eyes, but his expression remained constant.
“I have to get back to work, actually,” Martin said, each word a bit difficult. “I thought this might be a quick little...I don’t know what I thought. Sorry for...uh...for wasting your time.”
Jon scrutinized him for a moment before blinking out of whatever thoughtful reverie he’d been in and nodding. “No harm done, if you’re sure. Should I have one of my assistants show you out?”
Martin shook his head, feeling distinctly as though he’d lost some kind of game. “I’m good. Um, thank you? Or sorry.”
“It’s fine,” Jon said brusquely. “If you change your mind, we’re here all business hours.”
“Right.” Martin stood, did an awkward little nod that almost seemed like a bow, which would definitely have been weird and out of place, and did his best not to look like he was hurrying out.
“Didn’t record analog either?” Tim asked when Martin reappeared, closing the Head Archivist door behind him.
“No, I didn’t...I just realized that I’m late for something and, you know.” Martin let out a deeply insincere laugh. “Sorry for taking you away from whatever you were...okay, bye.”
He made for the elevator, feeling very silly. Now there were at least three more people in the world who thought he was weird and awkward, and he didn’t have anything else to show for it. Except for now knowing where Jon worked. It was an unbelievable coincidence.
Martin waved to the nice secretary as he left. “Have a nice evening, Mr. Blackwood,” she said brightly.
“You too,” he said, smiling a little more easily with her, since she hadn’t seen his about-face downstairs. One success out of four, then.
The wind on the street was alarmingly cold after the cozy warmth of the Archival Office. He paused for a moment by the doors, calming himself.
Have a nice evening, Mr. Blackwood.
Martin, would you like to make your statement?
Martin couldn’t remember if he’d ever given Jon his first name.