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flywolfwriting · 2 years

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Paranoia Sharp as a (Bread)Knife

Jon was not a brave man, but he was growing used to the idea. Not everyone could be brave - not everyone needed to be brave. It was okay to not be brave.

The point was, he didn't know what had come over him. He'd been so angry about Helen, but it's not like he could have made Michael bring her back. Of course attacking him hadn't gotten him anywhere - nowhere except stabbed. Of course that's where it got him; Michael's fingers were basically knives. Of course Jon had leapt without looking. Of course he was here.

He'd stayed still for some time, watching for more doors, but only his normal office door remained. Jon thought about waiting for someone to find him, but he disregarded that idea quickly; he couldn't let anyone see him like this. What if whoever found him was Gertrude's murderer? They could easily take advantage of his weakened state. No, best nobody saw him.

That meant he had to find a way out without crossing paths with anyone and with as few doors as possible. The canteen would likely be empty; no one should be on lunch this time of day. Getting upstairs that way had the added benefit of only one door - his office. After that it would be a straight shot outside. That would be the hardest part to do without being seen, but first thing's first: the canteen.

Jon slowly stood, using his desk to help pull himself to his feet as he ground his teeth against the pain. He gave himself a moment to let the world stop turning, then made his way to the door. He hesitated for a long time before finally reaching out and turning the knob.

Nothing beyond the ordinary; just his assistants' desks surrounded by piles of books and statements, the main staircase leading to the rest of the institute on the wall opposite. It would be a shorter path, but a more populated one. Not safe.

He turned and staggered down the hall, one hand pressed to his side and his other using the wall for support. Each step was harder than the last. Jon had to stop and rest at the bottom of the stairs, breathing hard and struggling to hold back a whimper with each exhale. He couldn't remember ever being in so much pain.

How long had it been? Would anyone notice he wasn't in his office? Had he closed the door? He needed to hurry; if anyone came looking for him…

Dragging himself up the stairs was one of the most agonizing experiences Jon had every subjected himself to. By the time he reached the top he was all but crawling, held upright only by his grip on the railing. He'd left a splattered trail of blood, but he didn't have it in him to care at the moment. Nobody but the archives team used these stairs, and all of them had already gone on break. Nobody would see the stains until tomorrow.

Jon rewarded his victory by leaning against the counter and taking deep breaths until he stopped crying. He still had so far to go just to leave the institute, and then he still had to get a block over to the A&E… he was lucky they were so close.

"Oh hey Jon, when did-"

He whirled around and finally the pain was too much; he cried out, collapsing back into the counter and sliding down its front to land hard on his butt. He curled his knees to his chest and clutched at his side. His lungs struggled to remember how to work, drawing air in ragged gasps as Jon's side screamed.

"J-Jon? Are you oka- oh my god." Martin's hand was at his elbow, trying to draw his hands away from his side.

Jon flinched. "Don't touch me!"

The movement caused his vision to darken for a terrifying moment, but he saw the flicker of hurt over Martin's face as he pulled away. "What happened?"

Jon frantically cast about for an excuse, anything but the truth - Helen was as good as dead because he'd failed to save her. His eyes caught on the handle of a knife poking out of the sink. "I, ah, cut myself with the bread knife," he said.

Martin's gaze flicked to the object in question, eyebrows twitching upwards. "The bread knife."

"...Yes."

Martin's frowned. He reached forward again and Jon cringed away. "Let me look," he said, voice somehow soft and commanding at the same time. Jon grudgingly shifted so Martin could see, refraining from stopping his assistant when he gently lifted his shirt out of the way. Martin inhaled sharply. "I'm calling an ambulance," he said, standing and reaching for his phone.

"No!" Jon scrambled to his feet, leaning heavily against the counter and choking back a scream. Why did moving hurt so much?

Martin stopped and turned back to him. "That's going to need stitches; you have to go go the hospital."

"I can get there perfectly fine on my own," Jon said through gritted teeth.

"Jon, you can barely stand-"

"I made it from my office, didn't I?" Jon snapped, and didn't realize his mistake until it was too late.

"Your office?" Martin said. "You said it was a bread knife."

"It. Was."

Martin's lips pressed into a thin line but he didn't question it further. "Fine," he said. "No ambulance, but I'm taking you to the A&E."

Jon started to protest, stepping forward, but his traitor legs wobbled and he collapsed again. Martin caught him, quickly adjusting to not put additional strain on the wound.

"You're losing a lot of blood," Martin said, face pale.

Jon got his feet under him again and tried to push Martin off, but his assistant wouldn't release his shoulders.

"I can carry you-"

"No!"

Martin made a frustrated noise in the back of his throat. "Fine! Just let me help you!"

There was really no point in arguing now; Martin had seen, and even if he was lying about something Jon didn't think he'd go to all this trouble just to kill him somewhere else. Both of them, and the kitchen, were smeared with Jon's blood anyway. He couldn't get away with it even if he did want to murder him. Jon finally nodded. "Okay."

"Thank you." Martin carefully guided Jon's arm around his waist and wrapped his own around Jon's shoulders to support him, leaving Jon free to press his remaining hand against his wound. "I don't drive," he said apologetically, "so we're going to have to walk, unless you've changed your mind about-"

"I haven't," Jon said. He needed to focus on putting one foot in front of the other or he wouldn't make it. It would be absolutely humiliating if Martin had to carry him. He couldn't let himself be that vulnerable.

Martin sighed but didn't argue, merely adjusted his grip on his boss and steered him down the street. They got a few looks, but for the most part they managed to keep their heads down. Or maybe Jon simply stopped noticing, focused on staying conscious as he was.

Only a few people occupied the seats in the A&E waiting room, so Martin guided Jon to one in the corner before going to the desk to get the paperwork. Jon sank gratefully into the chair, swallowing great gulps of air and willing the pain to go away. He wondered, if he'd actually undertaken the journey on his own, if he would have made it. He pictured himself collapsed in a gutter, bleeding out, unnoticed until someone called the police on an apparent drunk.

"Jon."

He looked up to find Martin sat next to him, holding out a clipboard for him.

"You have to fill this out."

"I've been stabbed," Jon muttered blearily, taking the paperwork. "What else do they need?"

Martin's eyes narrowed but he merely shrugged.

When Jon started writing his hand was followed by a smear of blood across white paper. Martin gently took the clipboard and pen back. "Maybe I should write for you," he said.

Jon nodded. He should be suspicious of Martin's motives, worried about the personal information he was freely telling his assistant - his suspect, the man he knew without a doubt was lying. He had the proof tucked in his drawer. Right now, though…

He was just too damn tired.

He tried to stay awake. They were in a public place with cameras so there’s no way Martin could make a move against him, but he couldn’t let his guard down. Martin was just trying to win his trust, but he didn’t know that Jon knew he was lying. Still, try as he might, Jon found himself nodding off, slumping against Martin’s shoulder.

Jon was suddenly jostled roughly awake by Martin shaking his shoulder and repeating his name, eyes wide with worry. Before he could fully process this, he was being pulled to his feet by unknown hands. Panic rose in Jon’s throat and he flailed his arms weakly to fend off his attackers.

“Jon! Jon, it’s okay, they’re taking you back now, it’s alright,” Martin soothed, grabbing Jon’s wrists and gently but firmly holding them still.

Jon’s vision slowly cleared enough that he could see the strange hands did in fact belong to doctors - doctors who were now frowning at him. They began to guide him towards a wheelchair, but the moment Martin began to sit down instead of following Jon panicked again.

“M-Martin!”

His assistant looked up in surprise, then his gaze flicked to one of the men holding Jon up. The man shrugged. “If you can keep him calm, you can come back.”

Jon sagged with relief and allowed them to settle him in the wheelchair. He stiffened when they reached the door but before he could protest they were pushing through into the sterile hallway of the A&E. As soon as he was settled in a bed they were attaching IVs and making calls and Jon couldn’t follow along anymore. He was just so tired. Assured that Martin wasn’t going to leave him to the mercy of the doctors Jon allowed sleep to pull him under.

—--------------

Quiet cloaked the room when Jon came to, the steady beeping of machines the only sound piercing the fog. He didn’t want to wake up, but he didn’t like to sleep either; plagued as his dreams were by statements. He didn’t mind this half-existence, floating on the edge between sleep and consciousness. It was peaceful. No thoughts, no dreams… only him.

Jon slowly became aware of throbbing pain in his side, just below his ribs. It was dim, but there with each beat of his heart. He groaned.

Immediately there was motion. “Jon?”

His eyes snapped open. Martin sat to Jon’s left, watching him with wide eyes. “Martin, what-”

Moving was definitely a bad idea. Pain flared through him and Jon dropped back with a yelp. Martin jumped up. “Do you need anything? I can go get a nurse-”

“No, no,” Jon said quickly, “that’s not necessary.”

Martin hesitated, but sat back down. It was only then Jon became aware of Martin’s hand resting on his own. He looked down where they lay on the blankets and Martin snatched his hand away, face flushing and looking anywhere but Jon’s face. “You were out for a while,” he said with a cough. “You lost a lot of blood and needed a transfusion.”

Jon grimaced. “How long have you been here?”

“The whole time; they let me stand in the corner for most of it.”

“Most of what?”

Martin shrugged, still not looking at him. “Just cleaning it and stitches really. It’s not very deep.”

Jon wrinkled his nose, grateful he at least hadn’t been awake for that. He was not a fan of needles. “Why didn’t you leave?”

Now Martin met his gaze, startled. “Y-you asked me not to,” he said.

Well that didn’t sound like him; he hated Martin. Right? But… he didn’t want to be left alone. Not here.

A gentle knock came from the door and Jon jumped. Fortunately it was merely a nurse checking in, smiling when she saw Jon. “Oh good, you’re awake. How do you feel?”

“Like I got stabbed,” Jon said flatly. Martin made a noise in the back of his throat but was once again avoiding looking at him.

The nurse hummed. “You’re lucky; the wound is long, but shallow. As long as nothing changes, you should be able to go home in a few hours.”

Jon sighed in relief.

She checked the machines before leaving. She didn’t close the door, at Jon’s request. As long as he could see into the hallway, Michael couldn’t trick him with a false door.

They sat in awkward silence for a while, not looking at each other. Martin fidgeted with his hands. “Tim called,” he finally said.

“What did he have to say?” Jon said acidly.

“J-just… they went looking for you and found your blood all over your desk. He thought maybe…”

“I wound up like Gertrude.” It came out flat.

“Erm… yeah.”

“Bet he was disappointed to find I’m alive,” Jon muttered.

“Jon, you know none of us are trying to kill you,” Martin said reproachfully. “Why would we want that?”

“I don’t know, why would anybody want Gertrude dead? I certainly didn’t, and I ended up with her job, which makes me the next target!”

Martin growled with frustration. “I wish you would just trust us!”

“How can I?” Jon snapped, then took a sharp breath as his side twinged.

Martin’s face immediately softened. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t argue. It’s just… I- we’re worried about you.”

Jon looked away and they fell back into silence, the machines a metronome to time passing. Finally, Jon broke the silence. “Thank you.”

“What for?”

“...Staying with me.”

A small, shy smile tugged at Martin’s mouth and Jon had to firmly remind himself that he hated him. “Of course, anytime. Oh- um, that is to say, I don’t want you to get hurt, just, um, if you need help. You can count on me.” His face burned red again.

He could be a murderer, and don’t forget he’s lying about something.

“Yes, well.” Jon sighed. “I wonder how long they need me for.”

It turns out they didn’t need him much longer. They loaded him up with pain medication and antibiotics, cleaning instructions, and informed him the stitches would dissolve on their own. Thank goodness for that - he didn’t want to have them taken out. It would be too much like… well, it would be unpleasant.

Martin insisted on taking a cab back to Jon’s flat with him and seeing him inside and settled on the sofa, a large bottle of water and a cup of tea on hand.

“Do you need anything else?”

“No, Martin, I’ll be fine,” Jon said, exasperated. He hadn’t wanted this much help anyway. He certainly didn’t want his assistant hanging around, hovering over him in his own apartment. “Go home. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Martin suddenly grew stern. “Oh no, you are not going to work tomorrow. You are going to stay right here and rest, like the doctor told you to.”

“Martin-”

“Jon.”

They stared at each other for several beats before Jon relented. “Fine! Fine. I’ll take tomorrow off.”

Martin relaxed. “Do you want me to stop by?”

“No, Martin. I’m fine.”

He frowned but turned away anyway. “Call me if you need anything,” he said, then left, locking the doorknob on his way out.

Jon stared after him for a long time, sitting in the dark of his apartment. He didn’t move until hunger drove him to the kitchen. He turned on all the lights, made sure every door was open, heated up canned soup, and settled back on the sofa.

Martin’s shy smile and flushed cheeks danced through his mind. “If you need help. You can count on me.”

Jon let out a heavy breath. “Fuck.”

-------

AO3

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