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Martin had made a mistake.
It wasn’t even a little one. It wasn’t even, like, the type of putting mismatched socks on in the morning because you were too tired mistake. It was like coming to work when your extra-strength painkillers hadn’t worked but you were too stubborn to stay home kind of mistake, and now Martin was trying very, very hard not to start crying at his desk, over Jon’s tidy notes and his own research from the past hour.
… not that he’d got much done in the past hour, except bracing his arm against his abdomen and trying not to double over when he had to walk. Which he was trying not to do, because, well… periods sucked. And he knew, they sucked for everyone, he wasn’t doing that kind of whining, but he… was just… really ready for this part of his life to be over. But money, and his cycles hadn’t been regular since he’d started T, anyway, and when they hit, they hit like goddamn truck: with no warning, and the certainty he was dying.
He should have stayed home. He should have stayed home. Or at least brought the damn meds with him. He was due another dose, even if they weren’t helping enough to let him get on. Going the rest of the day without painkillers of some sort made him feel faint.
It wasn’t like he wanted to ask anyone, either. He could go upstairs, probably, and anyone would be able to pop him a couple pills and be none the wiser. But that was up.stairs. As in, a walk, and at this point, Martin wasn’t sure he’d be able to walk through the archives let alone get himself upstairs without keeling over or breaking down. Either, or both.
He was probably being dramatic. Probably. Maybe. Maybe it was in his head. It was definitely, at least partially, in his head. Mostly the… dysphoria, and he hated that word, but there was nothing else– how else were you supposed to describe blood pouring from your vagina when you shouldn’t even have a vagina to begin with?
Vaguely, there was a noise, filtering through the back-end of his consciousness. The part that was rational enough to hear it, and recognize that it was… oh. Him. In a noise that was undoubtedly a sob– pull it together, Martin. He took a deep breath and winced. He needed something. He needed to go home. But he needed something to take the edge off before he could go home.
Even downstairs, the options were… well, they weren’t the best. No one knew. No, that probably wasn’t true. Elias probably knew, seeing as how he knew… everything that happened in the archives. So if Martin was bleeding, Elias probably knew. Had known, even though Martin had been so very careful in not disclosing that particular bit of information when he’d been hired. He’d been hiding a lot of things at the time. Just another secret on top of them all. Besides, it wasn’t like he couldn’t do the job, either way.
So yeah, Elias probably knew. But Elias was also not in the archives right now, probably, and Martin would honestly rather not. Ever. Elias would see through the most vague of questions, and probably bring up the falsehood to boot. No. No.
There were Melanie and Basira, of course, two, good… logical… choices. But… they were new. Mostly new. And Melanie would ask why he wanted painkillers, anyway, so that was a definite no. Basira… he didn’t know that well, even less than Melanie at this point, but she seemed… good. She probably wouldn’t say anything if he showed up at her desk, sweaty and looking for pain pills. But… he didn’t know her well enough, either. God, he didn’t even know if he would have asked Sasha, back when things were still mostly normal and okay.
He was being stupid. It was just medication, normal everyday medication. It wasn't like he was asking for benzos here, but he couldn't shake the feeling: what if they figured it out.
And Tim, he didn’t seem like the type to carry about pills, would probably suffer through until he got home. Or he’d just leave. That, too. Which left Jon, and that… was opening up a whole other can of worms that he probably shouldn’t. Because he wanted to complain to Jon, a little. He was still pining over how Jon had taken care of him, after those long two weeks when he’d been stalked by Prentiss (yes, he was still hanging onto that. Both the campaign of terror and how Jon had looked at him when he’d offered him tea and the spare room, sue him.) He wanted Jon to offer… something. He wanted Jon to offer a lot of things, really.
Anyway, Jon worked all hours, complained about headaches and being tired all the time, and probably had some kind of painkillers on him… still can of worms.
But Martin wasn’t even sure he cared much, at this point.
… he should just go home. He should definitely go home. If he got a cab, then he should be fine. And even if he keeled over in the back of it, they could just take him straight to hospital and let them put him out of his misery. He was joking. Mostly. Probably. Either way, he needed to get this follow-up back to Jon, and then… maybe ask if he could leave. The whole thing had him trembling on principle, really, he just really didn’t want to move. But he had to. He couldn’t sit here all day.
By the time he made it to Jon’s office, though, he was just shaking. Actual, physical, full body shaking as his head swam and he… God. He didn’t know. He didn’t know.
“… followed up,” he mumbled in greeting, and Jon didn’t look up from whatever he was working on. Okay, maybe he didn’t sound as bad as he felt. Part of it was definitely in his head, so…
“Good, I was… what’s wrong with you?”
Or not. Now Jon was looking at him, eyebrows drawing together with a slight crinkle that Martin would have wanted to smooth out if he didn’t feel so like bursting into tears from Jon just asking what was wrong.
So much. Too much. I can’t do this, Jon. “S–Stomach ache,” he squeaked out instead, and clenched his hands so tightly that his nails bit into his palms before blurting, “do you have any ibuprofen?”
Jon was looking a little surprised, which was… fair, but he caught himself, anyway, and then nodded. “I do, but sit down before I have to pick you up from the floor.”
Martin had already been heading for the chair. It wasn’t until he was sitting and placing his follow up on the desk that he realized with mild dismay he’d crinkled up the notes. His apology went unheard over the rattle of a pill bottle, and then Jon was handing over three ibuprofen to him. He must really look terrible. Or maybe Jon just regularly took over the recommended dose himself. He didn’t care right then.
“I can go upstairs, or–” He held up the bottle of water sitting at the edge of his desk, half empty. A question, weighing Martin’s urgency versus sharing drinks.
Probably, Martin would feel a bit bad later for taking Jon’s water. But right now, it didn’t matter. He held his hand out for the bottle, and swallowed each pill with a few gulps. (The indirect kiss nature of the thing was, too, only a small notion in the back of his mind. If he ever stopped feeling like death, maybe he’d actually feel giddy later.)
He pretended he didn’t notice when Jon nudged the bin a little closer, so that it was set within Martin’s reach. He probably thought he… had the flu, or had eaten something that’d gone off. Better that than the truth, he guessed. Tried to breathe through the pain, a bit.
“I’m taking you home when you catch your breath,” Jon was saying, and Martin barely had the strength to mumble something about a cab that Jon immediately shut down. And, anyway, that Jon taking care of him conundrum. It was nice. Offering to take him home. Martin would let him, this time.
The drive home was quiet. He couldn’t bring himself to speak, and Jon had never been one to fill the silences with inane chatter like Martin was used to doing. It was tense, a little. Martin just rest his head on the window and braced his arm against his stomach and tried not to focus on it. Maybe he ought to have focused on anything besides the pain, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t.
The head rush at the door nearly got him. He grabbed ahold of Jon before he could think about it, desperate to keep himself on his feet. Somehow, he ended up on the couch, sitting on the edge and half doubled over with his arms around his stomach. Dizzy and hyperventilating a bit from the gnawing pain and anxiety. His pulse throbbing with a denial on each beat that he couldn’t do this, couldn’t keep this up.
He’d almost forgotten Jon was in his house until he was leaning over the table to offer Martin a glass of water.
“If this doesn’t clear up, I’m calling 999,” he warned.
Because he still thought Martin was sick (you are, Martin) because of course he still thought Martin was sick, because what other conclusion was he supposed to come to when all Martin had said was stomach ache. It wasn’t even a fitting description. But how did you say it was worse, so much worse, when there were no accurate words to describe it–
“– reathe, Martin.” Jon had abandoned the water. His hand was on Martin’s shoulder. “Breathe. I’m going to–”
“I’m trans, Jon,” he blurted, hurried, anything to stop Jon calling a goddamn ambulance and having to live through that humiliation– and then. He realized. The words. He’d– The world jerked to a halt. For a second, he didn’t even feel the pain. It ought to have been blissful. It wasn’t.
Jon looked… well, Martin didn’t know. Surprised, maybe? Or just neutral. He wasn’t very expressive to begin with and Martin could barely focus. He’d just… just–
“– explains the tampons on the bathroom counter,” Jon was saying.
Martin blanched. “Oh, fuck.” He’d forgotten. He’d forgotten about those– he was so good at hiding things and he’d just forgotten–
He wasn’t sure if that was the moment the tears started, but it was then that he was overly, hyper aware of them.
“Martin. Martin.” Jon was still talking. “Do you have a heating pad? Or a hot water bottle?”
Oh. He thought he was crying because of the pain. Maybe he was. That wasn’t all, though. It took Jon repeating the question a few more times before he was even able to answer, rasping out guidance to the top shelf in the bathroom cabinet.
“Right. I’ll be right back. Try not to move.”
Martin didn’t think he could if he wanted to. And he really wanted to. He wanted to crawl under the coffee table, curl into a ball, and stay there. He stayed where he was, gently coaxed out of his anxiety attack by Jon’s presence, and an eventual cup of tea as he held the hot water bottle to his stomach with one hand.
“The tea’s helping,” Jon remarked, and Martin wearily raised his head to look at him. Jon had taken a seat in the armchair awhile ago now, half reclined but with a… pinched look on his face.
Martin vaguely wondered how long that had been there. “… maybe a bit,” he mumbled.
“I figured if it didn’t help the cramps, it might help relax you, at least. It has to be better than drinking cold water, anyway.”
… oh. This was… menstruation knowledge? Martin hadn’t really noticed, but now it… made sense. What didn’t was that it was Jon who was doing all of it. “How’d you… how’d you know to do this stuff…?” he mumbled, turning his face very firmly back into his mug. The steam felt nice. At least he’d stopped shaking so much.
“Georgie,” Jon said matter-of-factly, and yeah… Martin supposed that did make sense. “We did date for some time, Martin.”
He made a noncommittal, understanding noise.
“And I lived with her, for awhile. I just learned along the way, I suppose.”
“Oh.” Another vague noise. He didn’t know what to say. He wished he hadn’t said anything at all. Sort of. It was… oddly not as terrifying as he’d thought. After the initial panic. Maybe.
… because it was Jon. Because, through all of the annoyance he’d gotten from him two years ago when they’d started working together, through all of the worms and the spiders and the countless times they had been in danger because of their association with The Archivist, through all of Jon’s paranoia and general… not good behavior… Martin trusted him. And would always trust him. Even with this. Even if it was scary as hell. Even if he didn’t know what to say now.
“If you need to take tomorrow off, please do,” Jon continued. “Elias–”
“Probably knows,” Martin mumbled. It came out as barely more than a whisper. The thought from earlier revisited, slightly more terrifying now that he was a little bit more out of pain. At least he was in the safety of his own home, which meant he could… think, a little bit more. And yeah, Elias knowing… even though he probably had for the past two years… Martin shuddered.
“Probably,” Jon agreed. The look on his face was almost… as perturbed as Martin was feeling. Almost. “Because he can keep secrets from us, but we can’t keep them from him… I’m sorry, Martin.”
“Oh.” He wasn’t sure what he was expecting… actually, he wasn’t expecting anything right now. He didn’t have the mental strength to anticipate anything further right now, but… he hadn’t expected an apology. Especially not like that. “Er, not your fault,” he said, a touch awkwardly, and hesitantly leaned forward to set his mug on the table. “Really, you’ve been…” What did he even say? “… good,” and that was lacklustre as hell.
“I…” Jon paused, and made a tiny face as he continued. “… also apologize if it seemed like you… had to mention it.”
“No.”
“I just thought you maybe had the flu.”
Martin laughed wearily, easing himself back into the cushions. “I figured. It was… a fair assumption, though.” He hesitated, and then said, softer, “I didn’t exactly mean to tell you, either. I just… you know.”
“I’m… not sure–”
“I trust you,” he interrupted, because he recognized the look starting to spread across Jon’s face. “It wasn’t compulsion or anything, I swear, okay?” It hadn’t been. He knew that feeling, but this was just… simply… trusting him.
And he wanted to be exasperated that Jon’s mind went to compulsion first, and not trust, because of course he trusted Jon. Jon never really seemed to realize it, though; if he did, definitely not the extent of it. “I was… scared, and hurting and it was you, and it just… happened.” A tiny glance from the corner of his eye to the armchair. “It doesn’t…” He didn’t want to ask. He did not want to ask, but he had to know. “… it doesn’t bother you?”
“Why would it bother me?” Jon asked, and he looked so genuinely baffled that Martin couldn’t help but stare.
Jon didn’t get it. Or maybe he just… really didn’t care. Jon was like that, wasn’t he? Saving his resentment for liars and frauds and tolerating anything else. Maybe even accepting, but they never really talked about their opinions on hot topic social issues at work. Those always seemed to be the unspoken things you left at home.
“Because I’m a man…”
“Yes.”
He shrank a bit into the couch, and pressed the hot water bottle more firmly into his stomach. “… having a period.” Having something so intimately feminine that it made him feel the dredges of earlier panic cropping up again just by saying it aloud.
But Jon just shrugged. “In the realms of unexpected things that have happened at the Institute, this is very low on the list.”
It didn’t take much to realize he had a point. Even Martin couldn’t argue. If the situation was reversed, if it was him finding out Jon had been keeping a secret like his own, versus, say, worm hosts or spider people or the potential end of the whole universe as they knew, he knew which one wouldn’t bother him.
“That’s… true.” Saying the words seemed to take all of the wind out of his sails, and Martin sagged fully into the couch. Still aching and uncomfortable, but… okay. He was okay.
“You should try to sleep.”
“Yeah.” He didn’t feel like telling Jon he couldn’t sleep until he took the binder off. “I’m just still a little… shook up, I guess? I’ll just relax, a bit, for now.”
Jon nodded, still so no nonsense and unperturbed. “I can leave you to it, if you’d prefer?”
“Yeah.” Really, he wanted Jon to stay– he always wanted Jon to stay, regardless of where they were– but he couldn’t think of a single thing that would suffice to keep him there. Short of I don’t want to be alone, and that was far too vulnerable, and… as much as he did want Jon to stay, Martin kind of… did want to be alone, too. He could openly suffer, then, at the very least. “Thanks, Jon…”
“Like I said, Martin, small in the scheme of things.” He picked his car keys up from the table, and paused, twisting them around his fingers. “Did you… want me to get anything, maybe?”
Martin blinked. “Like?”
“As in a Tesco run.”
“Are you offering to buy me tampons?” Martin blurted, and that was the second time his mouth had gotten ahead of his head in less than an hour. God.
“The long and short of it, Martin, yes.”
“Are… wait, are you serious?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?” Jon replied, so nonplussed by the fact that Martin didn’t know if he wanted to laugh or cry. He decided not to do either. It was still too much of a toss-up.
“Um. No… thanks.” He still smiled, a little sheepish. “That would actually probably make me feel worse, so…”
“Ah. Well, the offer stands if you ever need it, or anything else. Tampons need not apply.”
“Two a.m. chocolate cravings…” Martin murmured. It felt… strange to joke about. The whole thing. He didn’t even get cravings. He’d take those in a heartbeat over the cramps if he could.
It was even more strange to feel like definitely laughing at the look that crossed Jon’s face– only for a second, but it was absolutely there. Something like a mixture between annoyance and resignation and dry humor, although Martin couldn’t exactly put his finger on it.
“If… if necessary,” Jon finally said, a little begrudgingly, and Martin actually did laugh. A little.
“I’m kidding. Thank you, though, Jon, it’s really… it’s not your responsibility.” He shrugged, a little, even though he had been certain for some time that it ought not to be his, either. “They rarely happen nowadays, anyway. I’ll be fine.”
“Either way.” Jon stood there for a moment longer, fingers twitching at his keys and looking awkward in Martin’s crappy little sitting room. But the usual awkward. The I’ve closed myself off from all human emotion, and don’t know how to express it consciously awkward kind of Jon that Martin was used to when things got serious. It was… reassuring. He liked when Jon got like that. “Text if you need me. The Institute’s not far.”
“Right.” He nodded. “Thanks.” Another expression of gratitude, and then his own kind of hurried, awkward need for reassurance. “But, uh– Jon, about… m–me–”
“You’re safe with me.”
Martin exhaled.
“Text me if you need anything,” Jon repeated. He locked the door on his way out, and then was gone, leaving Martin alone, very much still in pain and feeling… oddly good. Good…ly odd? He wasn’t sure how to describe it, really.
Not bad, his mind supplied, and that was enough.
Considering it was Jon who he’d told, because it was always Jon, it always had been and always would be Jon… it was more. More than enough.
In a moment, he’d drag himself off the couch. Go the bathroom, take care of things, and change into something soft and worn and comfortable before crawling back into bed. But, for now, he stayed where he was, looking at the vacated armchair and cooling cup of tea, and smiled wearily as he held the hot water bottle closer.