it's early, nearly the end of his commute to work from his flat, when something strikes the archivist. for a moment, dread pools in his stomach. there's that... off kilter feeling, that hunger, that pull, and he — except that's not it, is it? in the same sharp inhale of breath through his teeth, the difference becomes palpable. not a nagging pull, but a pressure. like he's being watched? but that's not quite it, either.
jon stops in the middle of the pavement, mumbling a stuttered apology as someone runs into his shoulder. he steps out of the walkway proper, taking a moment to focus on the thread of that feeling. he follows it, his eyes locking on a figure in a suit across the street, heading in the same direction he is... of course. his jaw sets and he shoves his hands down into his jacket pockets. he moves to the curb and checks the street both ways before crossing. he doesn't bother waiting to reach the crosswalk he usually takes, not wanting to be stopped by oncoming traffic like he would be, knowing his luck.
his pace is brisk, and if the other man was walking with any more purpose he isn't sure he'd be able to stop himself from taking off at a sprint to make it to the institute first.
as he very nearly brushes by, head down and hands still in his jacket pockets, what the feeling is cements itself: it's the feeling of eye contact, unflinching and steady. damn. damn.
of course, he has no proof that the stranger is even heading to the archives; if he tries to see, he knows that will only reveal himself — assuming he hasn't been already. still, he stays his course, intent on getting there first.
jon hates being right sometimes. he makes it into the institute and down into the archives with only a minutes lead, but it's enough to make him feel more at ease. his jacket's discarded without as much care as it usually is over the back of the chair, and he's very aware of one of melanie's opportunity knives in the drawer beside him.
his eyes bore into the stranger's as he steps into the archives proper, the door to the stairs swinging closed behind him. it's only once it's firmly shut that the archivist speaks: “can i help you?”
