Chapter Text
Dreams have been odd since he’d donned the Watcher’s Crown, they’d been plaguing him like nothing he’d ever experienced before, and it had begun to get annoying. He’d watch people suffer, he’d watch everyone he’d ever asked for a statement suffer through the events leading up to him finding them, everything they’d suffered. And it isn’t fun suffering by himself, but now that he wears the Crown and he Sees how these people have suffered, he feels it on a whole new level.
It’s painful and raw and hits him where it hurts and he isn’t even sure where that is anymore. He isn’t human, so he’d begun to resign himself to the fact that things that would normally kill a person wouldn’t necessarily kill him. It certainly lifts a weight off his shoulders, and he’d even begun to wonder if his sense of pain would diminish…
But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt to watch innocent people suffer in ways that no one ever should. He’s supposed to be helping people, he’s trying to at least, but it’s so frustrating that when he became an all seeing being, he didn’t become an all powerful being.
Annoying.
Not something he’d ever have anticipated being annoyed by (because who in their right minds anticipates becoming any sort of being?), but his life has been a chaotic hellscape for however long now, and Jon has given up attempting to anticipate anything anymore.
He dreams more often than he doesn’t, nowadays, which makes the rest he just woke up from all the more odd.
He didn’t dream.
At all.
When he wakes up, Jon doesn’t open his eyes because he doesn’t remember if he turned off the light before collapsing at home and he doesn’t want to get up from bed yet. So, like the very reasonable person he is, Jon keeps his eyes closed and lies there, waiting for his alarm to tell him it’s time to get up and attempt to make his hair look like it hadn’t been shoved under a toque for two years. He’s warm, really warm, and he finds something akin to a sleepy, barely there smile working its way onto his face.
Since when had his bed retained heat this well without being cold or scorching before? Since when had his covers not suffocated him when he awoke? Since when had he had a bed that almost felt like corduroy.
Wait.
Jon shoots upward with such force that he falls to the floor with a loud thump and a dismayed cry. His shoulder hits the hardwood floor at an odd angle and Jon winces sharply, scrambling a little to untangle himself from the frankly wonderful blanket as he blinks wildly, waiting for the world to come into focus.
When it does, it becomes apparent to him that he is most decidedly not at his apartment, and he had certainly not been asleep in his own bed. He hadn’t been asleep in a bed at all, as the thing he is staring at is a couch made of a corduroy-like material.
A very familiar couch made of corduroy-like material…
It clicks and Jon groans, tilting his head back and staring blankly up at the ceiling in defeat as the prior evening’s events rush back into his freshly conscious mind.
(Along with about three dozen other sets of events and facts that he hadn’t wanted nor asked for.)
The floorboards squeak and writhe beneath him as he shifts and sits up, scrubbing his eyes with his fists. When he pulls his hands away, his vision is speckled with spots that shift in colour and brighten when he blinks. They remain for a few moments before Jon shifts and starts to climb to standing, mind only a little fuzzy. But he unfortunately stood up just a little too fast and his vision swims with shadows and he feels his knees buckle.
Thankfully, there is a wall (or a bookshelf, he can’t really tell which) next to him and he leans his weight gratefully against it as he waits for his vision to clear a second time. This wait is shorter and, before he knows it, he’s standing up on his own two feet and looking at what had turned into the ‘lounge’ of the Archives. Three couches, one easy chair and a coffee machine and kettle, along with bookshelves and what looked like an empty television stand occupy the room, and Jon revels in the silence for however long it lasts.
“You’re awake.”
He hadn’t heard Martin coming, but he can’t say he’s all that surprised or even startled by his appearance. Jon hums in acknowledgement and turns to look at him, standing up off the bookcase and brushing his static riddled hair out of his f had been getting long and he’d been considering getting a cut because, well, ninety percent of his job is reading and he can’t read anything if his hair is always in his eyes.
Martin’s smile is easy and a dimple on his left cheek swallows a handful of his freckles that definitely, 100% does not do something downright awful to Jon’s psyche. No, sir, it doesn’t do anything to his psyche because Jon is definitely Not Looking. And because he is Not Looking, he doesn’t acknowledge the faint heat rising to his cheeks as he remembers-
(“Like hell I don’t mean it.”)
He remembers that he kissed Martin. On the mouth.
He kissed Martin.
Well.
That certainly brings him to a whole new level of ‘I Am Such An Idiot Sometimes.’
Jon clears his throat and avoids eye contact, only really hearing a fraction of what Martin says and, admittedly, he does note that Martin’s smile is still on his face the entire time. He seems as energetic as he usually does, hyped up on tea (or perhaps coffee) and ready to spill a box of files or something that would make Jon snort internally. That’s something that Jon’s always liked about Martin, how consistent he is. He’s not really one for mood swings and reacts almost always how you’d expect until he does something that you’d never expect and it’s like a breath of fresh air.
The cups of tea are set down on the coffee table with two soft clunks and Martin finally turns to fully face Jon, adjusting the cuffs of his sleeves as he smiles. He says, “You look better already.”
“Do I?” Jon highly doubts he looks less like a mess, but-
“Less like you haven’t slept since 2006 and more like you haven’t slept since 2012.”
Ah. That is something Jon can believe.
He snorts and shakes his head, too drowsy and tired to stop the faint and rather fond smile as it spreads on his face, probably sending a crinkle down the honeycomb scars on his jaw. Absentmindedly, he pushes a hand through his hair as his thoughts jumble themselves up like a bunch of cats being unsuccessfully herded. It’s a habit he’d picked up from Daisy, the hair not the thoughts, and it seems to have stuck and doesn’t seem all that intent to let go.
“Hey,” Martin says after a moment, “Do you feel a little better?”
When Jon looks up at him this time, Martin is a good deal closer, close enough that Jon could count his freckles if they both stayed still long enough. His breath catches in his throat because Martin may not be handsome, but he’s… really pretty, in an odd, cute, bookish sort of way. He’s certainly pretty enough for Jon to think he is, and it’s now that Jon realizes that he’s thought that way for a long time which is a sobering thought.
He must be particularly not self aware for something as glaringly obvious as this to pass him by. He’s emotionally closed off, not an idiot, so this is… something of a new low, for all that it shouldn’t be something he beats himself up over. But, because it is unfortunately how he functions and, well, he beats himself up over it. Only a little bit. Progress?
Unfortunately for Jon, however, Martin must see some sort of signal in his eyes because the next thing Jon knows, Martin has got a hold of his face and is searching it rather intensely. His eyes go sharp in a way that Jon didn’t know was possible, and his mouth is pulled into a thin, tight line.
The words seem to have been stolen from him because Jon opens his mouth to speak and nothing comes out but a silent breath. He tries valiantly to speak, clearing his throat a little and swallowing what little moisture remains in his mouth, but nothing seems to work until he makes a soft noise of confusion. It’s quiet, small, and something so out of character for him that he almost takes a physical step back to examine it. Almost.
Martin’s hands remain on his face, unmoving. Jon can only guess what he’ll say next.
“Jon,”
Jon feels dread pool in his stomach.
“You have to sleep.”
Not as incarcerating as Jon had perhaps anticipated, but it still shocks him. Anything would have shocked him at that point, had it come out of Martin’s mouth.
With a sigh, Jon mutters, “I do sleep.”
“No, clearly you don’t.” Martin laughs, eyes glittering with mirth and smile returning. “You just passed out for ten hours and then passed out again for ten more! You clearly don’t sleep enough if you’re tired enough to drop into what is almost a coma.”
That logic is something not even Jon could argue against, but that’s not to say he doesn’t try. He grumbles something under his breath, something not even he hears, and averts his eyes from where they’d been locked on Martin’s everything. It’s not exactly easy because Martin’s face is close enough to his that there isn’t much in his field of vision that isn’t Martin, but again. He tries.
And then he desperately grasps for a distraction from this topic because conversations about his horrid sleep schedule are not exactly something he takes much pleasure in.
“So…”
Smooth, Sims.
“Last night.”
We’re getting somewhere.
“I kissed you.”
Jon can almost feel his own mental face-palm because he’d believed himself to not be an idiot but here he is.
Martin’s eyes widen and his smile drops and he stares at Jon like a deer caught in headlights, like he is the one that kissed Jon out of the blue. Neither of them say anything for a long time and Jon can feel the heat reaching its boiling point in his cheeks. He’s burning, burning-
“You said you meant it.” Martin’s tone is virtually unreadable, “And you kissed me.”
Jon swallows, throat a desert, and he nods. The movement is nearly imperceptible because of Martin’s insistent hold on his face which, after remembering its existence, causes Jon’s cheeks to darken even further.
“You want to kiss me.” Martin says quietly.
“I do.” Jon hasn’t the faintest clue where his voice came from.
“And you…” Martin pauses and Jon watches the cogs in his brain turn as he mulls over what to say.
Finally, Martin speaks.
“You realize I wanted to kiss you too.”
It’s a statement, not a question, but Jon can’t help but feel like he’s been put on the spot to answer a question in front of a crowd. He opens his mouth but nothing except for dry air and the last shred of his hope fall from his lips. So he closes his mouth, silent, and proceeds to feel like an absolute idiot.
Martin wanted to kiss him?
(Martin wants to kiss me?)
And before he knows it, Martin’s lips are on his and Jon can’t breathe.
Neither of them move much at all for two seconds and Jon isn’t even sure if he remembers how to kiss someone. But then the tension leaks out of his spine in one fell swoop and he practically melts into Martin’s embrace, eyes falling shut and hands grasping weakly for a hold on the front of Martin’s shirt. He kisses him back, feverish yet slow and nervous.
He’s lightheaded, Martin breaks one kiss to press another to his lips, and Jon commits himself to memorizing the shape of Martin’s mouth.
It’s a long time before they part.
When they do, Jon has to catch his breath, ducking his head down and panting into the barely there space between the two of them. His hands shake where they’re gripping the front of Martin’s shirt.
He shivers when Martin’s lips press to his forehead, one of Martin’s hands gliding up to brush his hair out of his face. Jon knows what scar he’s tracing, soft presses of his lips, brushing over his marred skin like it were a painting rather than-
“Jon,”
Jon jumps a little and looks up at Martin, whose eyes are kind and soft and warm and everything Jon ever wants to look at for the rest of his life.
“Are you okay?”
Quite frankly, Jon had never been so ‘okay’ in his life. But he can’t seem to speak and so he just nods, pressing his lips together and trying not to collapse into a puddle of blushing, flustered Archivist.
Martin’s eyes crinkle at the corners with his smile. “Can I kiss you again?”
By all means, is what Jon wants to say, but he can’t speak so he is doomed to nod. And when Martin kisses him this time, Jon is more than ready to be swept off his feet.