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Of the many and varied secrets sequestered within the halls of the Magnus Institute, Jon is certain that he and Martin now share the most harmless.
The next time something goes horribly wrong, it’s not going to be the result of Martin standing closer to Jon than usual while he points out a few particulars that need checking up on in his next batch of statements, leaning closer than is, strictly speaking, necessary.
The next statement monster that comes to call isn’t going to stalk their building due to Martin almost touching Jon’s face when the door to his office is wide open; Martin catches himself, and Sasha and Tim are out of sight.
The next catastrophe waiting in the dark with a nasty smile and rows of too-large teeth isn’t going to strike because Martin has come up with an excuse to step into Jon’s office every ten minutes, approximately.
The way things are going, the entire Institute is going to know within days that the Head Archivist is getting over-friendly with one of his Archival Assistants; the thought is, surprisingly, not an upsetting one. Except the professional misconduct might get Martin transferred out of the Archive, back to research maybe, and while Jon would have taken that as a welcome reprieve when Martin was foisted upon him…well, he likes the thought significantly less now. He wants Martin where he can see him. He wants all of his assistants where he can see them. But especially Martin.
The twelfth—or is it the thirteenth?—time that Martin raps on his door before opening it, Tim calls, “Coddling the boss isn’t going to get you a better review, Martin,” after him.
“He’s right.” Jon waits for the door to close again. “Martin, do you think if we go more than ten minutes without eye contact I’m going to forget that I enjoy kissing you?”
“Oh.” Martin hugs the book he’s carrying closer to his chest. “No, I don’t—d’you want me to keep out for a while?”
Jon looks him over. “Your ears are going to give us away,” he says blandly.
Saying so only serves to turn Martin’s entire face scarlet. Again. Jon smothers a smile and gestures for him to sit down. “What have you got for me now?”
Martin holds the book out: a well-worn text on the architectural trends of London in the 1800s. It’s the sort of reading that wouldn’t see much use housed anywhere else, but a bookmark sticks up from the middle of this copy. “There’s a bit in here on Robert Smirke. It’s not a lot—”
“It never is,” Jon says.
“Right.” Martin opens up to the bookmark. “But it does have a few letters from other architects, and some of them mention rumors that Smirke might have started dabbling in the occult? It’s nothing concrete, obviously, I think only a few sentences, and I don’t know if it’ll be useful, but Tim was reading it and I thought you’d want to see.”
“You thought it was a good excuse to wander in again,” Jon says, but takes the proffered book and skims the page.
“Just because we…” Martin huffs. “I am still doing my job, Jon.”
Jon laughs, and Martin stalks out of the office grumbling about thankless work. It’s not even thirty minutes before he’s back, this time with a tea tray. Jon times it. He doesn’t really recognize the warmth that rises in his chest as Martin approaches the desk with a defiant lift to his chin, like he’s daring Jon to remark on his reappearance.
“Yes, Martin?” is all he says. But it’s a more deliberate choice than it might sound at first glance. Or first listen, as it were. Jon hasn’t missed how Martin responds to it, though it’s a small thing, just a parting of his lips. To any other eye, it would look like Martin is only taking in an unconscious breath; Jon’s eyes are better than most others, and he sees it for the reaction it is. He likes the reaction that it is.
Martin sets the tray on the square patch of desk that Jon has intentionally kept clear for this exact reason. “I want to kiss you,” he says placidly, “and I’m not going to, because we’re at work? Properly at work, not like this morning. But I wanted to give you something to think about. Enjoy the tea.”
It’s the last Jon sees of him. He’s actually rather impressed; he expects Martin to scurry back in after an hour at the most, but there’s no sign of him. More than that, he’s impressed, despite himself, by what Martin’s done. Even without seeing him, Jon catches himself reading the same words a dozen times, realizing he hasn’t taken in a single one of them, because his thoughts have wandered their way to Martin’s mouth. To the shape of his lips and the softness of them, the way they fit against his own.
The third time this happens, Jon sets aside the copy of the statement he’s supposed to have been poking holes in—and laughs. His predecessor is dead, murdered, and her corpse sat undisturbed, rotting for months in black tunnels that run right beneath his desk; he should be investigating, or at least planning his next move, and instead he’s distracted by mouths. By one particular mouth.
It’s ridiculous. So it does fit right in with the rest of his life in that regard.
Jon stays at his desk, hands folded together atop the statement he’s given up on, until Martin comes to collect him. There’s already the barest hint of pink coloring his cheeks, but his voice is steady. “Did you still want to have dinner? With me?”
“I don’t think the clarification was necessary,” Jon says, and rises from his chair.
There’s a whispering in the back of his head as he flips the light switch, as he leaves the Archive at Martin’s side, as they make their way through the familiar halls and out into the cooling London evening. It tells him that he’s not being fair to Martin, suspecting him of murder and taking him out to dinner in the same day, without any plans to stop doing the first. It tells him that he should—if he had any sense at all—put an end to this before either of them can fall deeper into it. But if he had any sense at all, he wouldn’t have returned to his post after Prentiss, after Gertrude.
He hasn’t got any sense, and so he waits until they’re several blocks from the Magnus Institute, and says, “I seem to recall you gave me something to think about a few hours ago.”
The sun hasn’t completely gone down, and still provides light enough for him to see the blood spreading through Martin’s face. Each time he looks at Martin, there’s another detail to notice, some new facet of his being that Jon has missed in the previous looks. Now he takes in a collection of freckles that dot Martin’s nose, spread out just enough that calling them a ‘cluster’ feels inaccurate. They’re more like a constellation. He says, “Well?”
Martin kisses him, and his hands catch both of Jon’s down at their sides. Jon doesn’t intend to sigh against Martin’s mouth; the sound comes out of him anyway. He likes the way Martin’s thumb draws circles on his palm. He likes the way Martin’s head tilts, ever so slight, for a better angle. He likes the way Martin feels pressed up against him. He likes the way Martin says, “I think I’m getting better at this?” after he pulls away.
“You weren’t bad at it the first time,” Jon says, and appreciates the angles of Martin’s face and how Martin beams at him. He thinks that Martin might be able to make him feel loved, given the chance, whether he likes it or not. The whispering in his head says he probably can’t do the same. It says that Martin deserves the same; he doesn’t actually need it to tell him that. Martin deserves a normal life, outside of the Archives, and a normal boyfriend (is that what he is?), and maybe Martin hasn’t chosen the Archives, but he has chosen Jon, who hasn’t done a thing to earn him.
Jon touches a kiss to the corner of Martin’s mouth. “Shall we?”