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There are any number of ways Jon might have expected to spend his sleepless hours at the Institute.
Stumbling across a statement he’d like to pass off as untrue, and would later set Sasha, Tim, and Martin to researching: unlikely but possible.
Scouring the Archives for some convenient missed clue that would spell out Gertrude Robinson’s murder in painstaking detail: probable, despite the obvious fruitlessness of it.
Dully recording a half dozen incidents without a hint of the truly supernatural about them and bound for the discredited pile: inevitable.
Sitting at his desk, holding Martin Blackwood’s hand: the possibility would never have cracked his top ten. Martin is surprisingly quiet, sipping his tea and occasionally passing Jon furtive looks that suggest he can’t quite believe this is happening; Jon does him the kindness of pretending not to notice. He’s at a bit of a loss himself.
He does want to. That hadn’t been a lie. It simply hadn’t occurred to him it was something he wanted until it was already happening. It rarely occurs to him that people are something he might want. His love life is best described with words like infrequent and sparse and barren; he can’t remember the last time he went on a date, or even the last time he held somebody’s hand. He can’t remember the last time he wanted to. It’s been a long time since Georgie, and there certainly hasn’t been anybody noteworthy since.
Has there been anybody at all?
There could be Martin, he thinks, and wonders what that might look like.
It feels impossible. Out of reach. There’s no sense to somebody like Martin wanting somebody like him. Martin is his subordinate. Martin may have murdered Gertrude; he probably didn’t, but it’s not something he can rule out yet. Martin is sweet and trusting, and Jon is decidedly not. Aside from that, speaking from a strictly superficial perspective, with Prentiss having left her mark, Jon knows he’s—well. Martin, with his freckles and his curls and his nervous smile, would be better suited to somebody closer to handsome.
“Martin,” Jon says, “don’t you think you can do better?”
Martin frowns at him like he’s said he wants to move out of his flat and into the tunnels. “No, I don’t think I can.”
Jon says, “I’m not sure this is a good idea.”
“Oh,” Martin says, and seems to deflate a little. Then, with the same stubbornness he displayed in chasing Jon out of the Archives when he tried to return too early, he sticks his chin out and says, “Does it have to be?”
“Martin,” Jon says again, but Martin barrels on over him.
“You’re my boss, I know, I know, and things are really weird around here lately—er, weirder than usual, I mean, and I’ve always thought you don’t actually like me very much, but that hasn’t stopped me fancying you and I do, I really, really do, and even if it’s not a good idea I’d like to give it a try.” He pauses, red-faced, but not looking away. “If that’s okay with you?”
“Ah,” Jon says.
It’s an exercise in futility, really, convincing himself that he’s going to do anything aside from what he does next: he stands up and kisses Martin, and the sound Martin makes, all surprised and delighted and needy, is plenty enough for him to be satisfied with the decision. He drags his fingers along Martin’s wrist; he feels the way Martin shivers at his touch. Then it seems to dawn on Martin that he ought to kiss back. Jon takes in the details of the moment as though scrutinizing a statement. Unlike a statement, however, he doesn’t find Martin wanting. All of the pertinent details are just there, in front of him.
Martin’s lips are extraordinarily soft. Martin tastes like the tea he’s been drinking, sweeter than Jon takes his. Martin is taller than he is, which he’s always known, but never had much cause to think about.
Jon pulls away, and Martin’s ears are burning red as his face. He tucks that piece of information into the back of his mind for later review.
“That,” Martin says, sounding a little bit stunned, “that was…”
“Good?” Jon suggests.
“Unexpected?” Martin says, and looks mortified. “But also good! Very, very, ah…can we give it another go?”
Amusement washes over him. “Do you want to give it another go?”
“If you’re just humoring me, I’m going to be very put out,” Martin says.
And then Martin kisses him. Tilts Jon’s face up for a better angle, and kisses him, and the first word that comes to mind is ‘lovely’. Martin’s thumb runs along his cheekbone. Jon knows there are scars along that path; he doesn’t really mind that Martin is touching them. He curls his fingers over the back of Martin’s neck, and the Magnus Institute—the Archives—his office—just a foot away from where worms came spilling through the wall—there’s nothing romantic about where they are, but it feels like it can’t have happened anywhere else.
“I still don’t think this is a good idea,” Jon says, and Martin keeps on smiling at him. It’s a stupid smile, a dopey, giddy smile, a smile Jon put there, difficult as that is to believe; he doesn’t remember anybody smiling at him that way in the past. He doesn’t deserve to be smiled at that way now. He feels hopelessly lost. He’s felt lost every day recently, but this is different. “Do you suppose we should go to dinner?”
Martin’s face lights up. “I would love to. Oh, but maybe breakfast?” He’s blushing again, blood creeping its way into his ears, and Jon has the niggling sense that Martin’s not going to be the best at keeping this entire thing subtle, but he doesn’t mind as much as he thinks he should. “Sorry, does that make me sound too impatient? Only with the time, and I have fancied you for a while now, so I actually feel like I’ve been incredibly patient already?”
Jon laughs. He finds Martin’s hand, finds that it’s shaking a little.
Martin says, “So that’s a yes, then.”