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Martin doesn’t know what to do with himself.
That is, he knows what he’s doing, in the immediate sense. Making tea, that’s something he could manage in his sleep. He’s not altogether convinced that he’s not asleep right now. It would make more sense for the situation he’s in to be some product of his subconscious.
The situation being, he’s alone in the Institute with Jon. That bit’s not so unusual, in the scheme of things.
The situation being, he asked if Jon was trying to hold his hand.
The situation being, he did hold Jon’s hand. Sort of. Almost.
The situation being, he ran away from that faster than he ran from the flesh worms or Gertrude Robinson’s body.
It’s just—
Martin looks at his own hand, where it rests on the countertop while he waits for the kettle to boil. His hand that he used to squeeze Jon’s, and Jon’s hand was incredibly warm where it lay on his, and he’d rather like to do that again.
For a bit longer this time, maybe?
But that’s a daft thought. If he wanted to properly hold Jon’s hand, he ought to have taken his chance back there, because it’s not possible that he’s going to get another. Not with Jon, who doesn’t even like him. Jon thinks he’s unqualified and incompetent and useless, and sometimes Martin thinks maybe he’s a little bit right (or a lot right, completely right in some senses), but even if he felt like he could ask for a transfer or quit, even if he wasn’t stuck or caught or whatever it is the Archive has done to him, even then he wouldn’t go anywhere, because then he wouldn’t see Jon anymore and the thought of that sucks the air right out of him. That besides, office romances are a bad idea at a normal workplace; giving it a shot in the Archive probably isn’t the best idea.
But—his fingers curl and he thinks about Jon’s face, a touch off-guard, and he thinks about “do you want me to?” in place of the scorn he’d expected, braced for, and—he really, really wants to.
The kettle whistles. Martin jumps, but the distraction is welcome. He’s fastidious as ever where the tea is concerned, and for those few minutes he’s not actively dwelling on how the rest of his night will play out. Or how the rest of his career at the Institute will play out. It occurs to him that this might have some impact on tomorrow (which is today, really), or the next day, or the next, and he feels a bit ill.
Jon’s not like that though. He won’t let Martin’s little moment of stupid hope change anything. Jon will be perfectly professional, and Martin will just have to do the same. He can do that. Of course he can.
Martin rifles through the cupboards for biscuits. It’s a ridiculous time for them, but they’ve a package of the kind Jon likes best, the ones with the chocolate drizzle, tucked away. Jon’s never outright said they’re his favorite; just he always reaches for them when Martin brings out a mixed plate, and he looks disappointed when they’re not there, and Martin pays attention to little things like that. So he puts everything on a tray, chocolate biscuits included, and is careful where he puts his feet on the walk back to the Archive.
The office is as dimly lit as it was when he left. Jon’s got the mess cleaned up, the files returned to stacks that aren’t as precarious as they could be, and he’s sat behind his desk. His laptop is open in front of him, but he’s not using it. Martin has spent a not-insignificant amount of time learning Jon’s facial expressions. He can’t place this one, and thinks it must be new, and wonders what it means, and wondering doesn’t mean he’s going to ask.
“I brought tea!” he says brightly, easing the tray onto a clear bit of desk.
Jon acknowledges him with a slight incline of his head. “So you said. Fresh tea.” He pauses. There’s something in that pause that makes Martin nervous. “Before you left.”
“Jon,” Martin says, knowing he sounds somewhat desperate, “we don’t have to talk about that. I’m just tired.”
“Are you?” Jon asks. His tone says he’ll accept that answer, if it’s the one Martin really wants to choose. Jon will let Martin say that he’s tired, and they’ll both go on and never talk about this again, and that sounds lovely and it sounds absolutely horrid and Jon’s hand is on the desk and Martin wants so badly to touch Jon’s hand, or his face, or maybe his hip, and if this goes badly he’ll hate himself, but he’ll also hate himself if he lets the opportunity mosey right on by.
“No,” Martin says, walking around the desk without thinking to do so, and Jon’s got to lean his head back to look at him. “Well, yes, I am tired, but that’s not why I—that’s not why I said—what I said—” It wouldn’t be fair to say he’s losing steam, as that would suggest he ever had steam to begin with. He gives up on the whole business with words, and he grabs Jon’s hand, as it’s just sitting there.
“So,” Jon says, “you do want me to hold your hand.”
“Yes,” Martin says, and is surprised there’s not a bit of quiver in his voice.
Jon turns his palm up, just the way Martin did before, and laces their fingers together; Martin’s stomach performs an Olympics-worthy series of flips.
Martin says, cautious, “Jon, I, um—do you want to hold my hand, or is this just your way of trying to stop me feeling humiliated?”
Jon gives him a look he would call withering on any other day. Now he’s not sure what to call it. “Martin.”
“Okay,” he says, and tries not to feel absurdly pleased about something as simple as holding the archivist’s hand. It doesn’t work, of course. It’s not often he’s got an excuse to smile this much, and it’s not often—it’s not ever, before now—that he’s got Jon looking at him like he’s never really seen him before, and he squeezes Jon’s hand, and Jon’s thumb rubs along his knuckles.
“This is nice,” Martin says.
Jon reaches for a biscuit and says, “Yes, it is, isn’t it,” and Martin likes that it’s not at all a question.