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1.
Martin has always fallen in love easily. It’s a bad habit, but he can’t quite… help himself. Probably says a lot about himself, but… he doesn’t really want to think about it. He falls in love easily, that’s all. It gets his heart broken regularly, but he gets used to it quick.
So it’s kind of… not a surprise when he falls in love with Jonathan Sims. It’s stupid, though, really. He’s known him for all of two months when he can safely say he’s in love with him… and Jon’s barely had more than ten conversations with him. And he can count on less than one hand how many times those conversations have been personal, and not work-related. But there’s just something about Jon that Martin likes.
He thinks maybe it’s the whole vibe he’s kind of given off towards the rest of the Institute. Mysterious, everyone else says. Martin… guesses he agrees. Jon’s mysterious in the same way that water is wet. That doesn’t mean he doesn’t like splashing in the waves, that he doesn’t appreciate the cool on his skin, it’s just… well, he doesn’t rightly know. He guesses that’s the mysterious part.
Jon is pretty much what you see is what you get when it comes to most things, though. Martin doesn’t really think there’s a secret there to crack. Jon’s just… Jon. Reserved, proper, probably a bit more gentle around people he cares for, even if he doesn’t seem to care for anyone, but then, that’s how most people are, aren’t they?
It’s funny. He’s not even particularly kind. A bit… tetchy, actually. Especially to Martin. (That bit’s fair, though. Martin screws up a lot around him, because he’s… nervous, alright? He’s nervous about a lot of things. Lying on his CV and falling in love with one of his co-workers happen to top the list.) But, hey. You liked what you liked. And Martin liked Jon.
Jon goes the most attractive shade of pink when his stomach growls in the otherwise silence of the library, when it’s just him and Martin researching the latest report that’s come down to them. Martin’s usually good about ignoring that kind of thing. He likes to spare people embarrassment, yeah? But Jon goes flush and he makes a tiny noise of something akin to mortification– “er–” and it’s so quiet that it’d be more ridiculous to pretend he hadn’t heard.
Jon looks so awkward that, in the moment, Martin can’t help but laugh. “Sorry,” he apologizes quickly, tries to sweep that amusement under the rug because Jon’s not the type of guy to like being teased. But it’s hard to. Jon looks nice, a little embarrassed and a little down to their level. He always seems to hold himself a bit… posh. Normal, little domestic things are nice, on Jon. “Sorry, didn’t mean to laugh.”
How someone can sigh testily but still manage to look sheepish, Martin doesn’t know. But Jon manages it, as he says, “I forgot to bring a lunch.”
“You didn’t go out?”
Jon shakes his head, and Martin doesn’t ask why. He’s seen Jon eat fast food, so that isn’t it. Maybe it’s money or something, and they aren’t close enough for him to want to get into that kind of accusation. Besides, it wouldn’t help. He has better solutions up his sleeve or, more accurately, tossed into his bag every day before work.
“I have some stuff, if you want–”
“Oh, no, Martin. It’s really not–”
Martin ignores him. “I’ve got Hobnobs, Mini Cheddars, uuuhhhh, oh!” He grabs the single, wrapped confection from the bottom of his bag, beneath his journal of poetry and ID card. “Tea cake! It’s a bit, er, smashed, but… yours if you want it! And I’ve probably still got some granola back at my desk, if you–”
“No,” Jon interrupts. His voice is a little more smooth, determined again. “We’re already behind as is. Let’s keep reading.”
“Sure,” Martin agrees, making it a point to be casual. “But if you wanna eat, feel free. I always bring a bunch of snacks, I won’t miss them.”
Jon doesn’t eat. Not at first, anyway, sitting stiff again as they return to research. But the work pulls him in, as Martin has noticed for awhile now it always does, and Jon’s hand eventually reaches for the tea cake like he’s on autopilot. He peels the foil away without looking, and munches on it while still reading.
Jon has a sweet tooth. Martin had noticed that a while ago, too. A piece of the chocolate falls from the meringue, and Jon chases it with nimble fingers and still seems oblivious enough to it all, focused as he is.
You’re so cute, Martin wants to say. I love you, is the thought that comes unbidden next. He doesn’t say it, of course. He’s not that weird. It’s just Tunnock’s tea cake, for God’s sake. No reason for tripping over himself at Jon licking his fingertips while eating one.
“I think we’re gonna have a hard time finding anything to corroborate the, uh, sighting,” he says instead, and nods at the folders. “That study was so isolated, it’s gotta be a rare case thing, right?” He grabs the pack of Hobnobs, and tears them open.
Jon agrees, although in a small, dismissive way that says he doesn’t want to agree. They give it a go, though, poring over the materials provided, while Martin occasionally goes to fetch another book.
Jon nibbles on the biscuits, too, and they don’t figure out anything on the study assigned to them, but Martin thinks it was, all in all, a good day at the Institute regardless.
2.
Jon gets promoted to Head Archivist, and Martin is proud of him. That’s weird, maybe, because Martin’s been here longer than Jon but Jon just up and gets promoted, but… he’s not jealous. Jon is good at his job, a single-minded focus Martin couldn’t match if he wanted to. And, you know, Jon probably hadn’t lied to get a job here.
He’ll be good at being Head Archivist, Martin just knows it.
As it stands, he gets upgraded to archival assistant, along with two other researchers Martin knows, Tim and Sasha, so it’s not like he doesn’t get that promotion, too. It’s a little uncomfortable– a… lot… uncomfortable, because he knows Gertrude had to have died after all the blood they had found in her office, and the more he hears about these assistant positions, the more it seems like the previous assistants have just… disappeared, or left– but it’s a meagre pay raise and working directly with Jon, so he’ll take it.
Jon goes to and fro about the archives, frantically trying to take up the mantle that Gertrude had left behind. It’s a mess, for awhile. Martin helps to sort it best he can.
Up until the moment he meets Jane Prentiss, then it all goes downhill(?) from there.
On the bad side of things, he’s spent nearly two weeks trapped in his own flat by a worm-infested dead woman. He thinks he’ll be dreaming about that for years, and he still hasn’t stopped shaking since he bolted to the Institute.
On the other hand, Jon makes him tea and takes his statement and doesn’t utterly disregard him as crazy. Martin knows the look on his face is at least partially pity, but it’s… kind. And Jon’s made him tea. And he leads him to the spare room, old storage containment for whatever cases must be really important, tells him to sit down while he goes to talk to Elias and lingers in the doorway when Martin takes an exhausted seat on the cot.
“I’m going to close this,” Jon says, and taps a finger against the heavy, sturdy-looking door. “Like I said, it’s meant to have been humidity-controlled at one point, so you’ll be safe. I’ll be back after I… tell Elias.” He sighs, and it’s still pity, and kindness, but he’s perturbed in his own way (because it’s Jane Prentiss they’re dealing with.)
Martin just nods stupidly, and watches Jon close the door, and thinks oh my God, I love him after he’s gone. He doesn’t feel quite as guilty for that one, because he’s tired and stressed and needy, and Jon is being so much nicer than he usually is, and, well… pity or not, how could you not love someone when they took care of you like that?
3.
They’re going to die.
Sasha’s probably dead, Tim’s definitely probably dead, and God, it’s just a matter of time before the worms get them, too, and Martin’s so tired of being trapped by bugs?? God!
But Jon’s here now, at least. Still breathing unevenly, pained, blood soaking through the gauze Martin had taken to having a stash of (for good reason! See?!) but stuck here, with him, too. So, Martin guesses if he has to die, he’s really, really glad that Jon’s here.
He fills the silence with babbling– he can’t help it, alright?– and Jon’s actually… scared enough that he doesn’t complain too much. Martin doesn’t even really know what he’s saying. He’s just… talking. To fill the silence. To pretend things are normal. He’s talking, and he doesn’t know what he’s saying, but he knows it isn’t what he wants to say.
I love you, I have loved you, I’d do anything for you and I know we’re going to die so I know none of this matters, but it isn’t fair for you to die thinking that no one loves you– not that you think that, just– I don’t– I don’t want you to. Die thinking that. Because I’m always going to be there for you, and I’m always going to care for you in ways that you’ll never care for me so I know this whole thing is selfish but I can’t not say it because we’re about to die–!
He thinks he almost says it. Several times, it feels like he’s parting his lips to blurt all of it out and then he’s… he doesn’t know, talking about the state of the mug he’s left on the desk and wondering if it’s been swept up in a horde of worms, or something.
He wants to tell him. Desperately. Trapped together in this tiny, shitty room that he's learned to call home, certain death waiting for them outside of the safety of its four walls, Martin needs to tell him.
But then the banging in the wall starts, and the only noise that wheezes past his lips is a whimper, and he almost trips over himself in his haste to get to Jon’s side again in case he needs to… protect him, or something. He’s terrified. Jon is, too.
When it turns out to be Tim, Martin is… relieved, of course he is. Tim’s still alive (although what does that mean for Sasha?) and he’s fine, albeit a little high, Martin guesses, and they have an escape route instead of just sitting there waiting for death, so that’s good.
At the same time…… he’s almost… disappointed. In himself. In the words still tied on his tongue. But it’s better. Being alive is much, much better than dying confessions.
They help Jon up, and head into the tunnels.
4.
“I told you!”
Tim is… spiraling out of control, and Martin can’t much blame him. He doesn’t think he’s seen so much blood before. Just in movies, and stuff, but that doesn’t count. That’s not real, this is. This is real, and this man is dead, they’ve been missing for God knows how long, trapped in that– that thing’s hallways, Sasha– Sasha might have– no, he can’t think about it. There’s a body in Jon’s office, and Jon is gone.
“I told you,” Tim repeats, and he’s angry and… scared. He has to be scared. Martin is terrified.
And belligerent.
“Jon didn’t do this–”
“Bullshit!”
“D’you honestly believe he could?!”
“I don’t know what to believe, Martin– Jesus Christ, I haven’t for years!” Tim’s yelling. Martin thinks he’s going to start crying, himself. That’s a bad habit, too. “All I know, he’s been spiraling out of control the past six months and now this. Now this!” He jabs his finger at the body.
You don’t understand, he wants to say. I trust him. I love him. I know him. He wouldn’t do this. You don’t understand.
He doesn’t say any of that out loud. He doesn’t want to be the subject of Tim’s fear any more than he already is, and… Tim really wouldn’t appreciate the confession right now (even though he’s positive everyone except Jon figured it out years ago.)
“I’ll get Elias,” Tim says. “Stay here.”
Martin stares at the body, at Jon’s things, at the tape recorder he’s still got in his own hand. Like he’s going to go anywhere. (Like he has anywhere to go.) Like he would, anyway, because whatever this is, it’s not Jon’s fault, and Martin’s going to prove it.
I’d do anything for him.
He doesn’t think Tim would understand, even if he told him.
5.
For a second– one second, that he won’t admit to anyone– Martin envies Jon. He looks so… peaceful, laying there in the hospital bed. Small and drawn and pale, but peaceful, and Martin… wonders what peace feels like. He hasn’t felt it for so very, very long.
He wonders what it’s like to sleep without dreaming. But then again, who says Jon isn’t dreaming? He doesn’t know.
“You have to be okay.” He goes as far to touch Jon’s hand, pass his fingertips back and forth over his knuckles and back of his hand. He’s alone, now. That’s becoming a common thing. He doesn’t want to think about what that means, but Peter Lukas won’t leave him be, so he’s pretty sure he already knows. But he’ll deal with that later. Somehow. Right now, it’s just Jon. “You have to wake up, Jon. I– I need you to wake up.”
It’s selfish. None of this is about him. Well, asides the Peter Lukas part, and if Jon was awake, then, maybe– but no, it’s not Jon’s responsibility to fend The Lonely off from Martin. Just like it isn’t anyone else’s job at the Institute to check up on him after his mom’s death, either. Things have just been… rough, lately. And Martin doesn’t want to be selfish, but… okay, he really, really does want to be. He wants Jon to wake up. He wants Peter Lukas’s offers to not be so enticing, and he wants to pretend he’s at all capable of protecting Jon.
… mostly, he just wants Jon to be okay. And the rest of them. And him, if he’s lucky. But mostly Jon.
Selfish.
He doesn’t say the most selfish words of all. Because, who says Jon isn’t listening? Who says Jon can’t hear him? And saying I love you right now would be the most selfish thing Martin could do. Especially if he’s been marked by The Lonely.
He doesn’t say anything, just sits by Jon’s bedside, and dares to hold his hand a bit, and pretends that Jon’s still new at the Institute, and they’re all normal, and Martin’s biggest worry is a huge lie on a tiny CV and falling in love with his tetchy co-worker.
+ 1
“I love you.”
It just happens, and the words fall from his lips before he can think about them, or stop them, or anything else, for that matter.
At this stage, that’s happened a lot. Another bad habit. Martin doesn’t mind this one, though.
Jon glares up at him, weak, pale, shaking. He shoves his hair out of his face and then has to brace a hand so he doesn’t pitch over. Still, he slumps further down. “I cannot imagine why you’re telling me that now.”
Oh. Right.
Because Jon’s been puking for the better part of the last hour, shirt soaked through with sweat and curled around the toilet, looking miserable. Probably, Jon being in the midst of suffering through food poisoning isn’t a good time to be spouting romantic talk.
“Oh.” Martin gives a tiny, sheepish laugh. “Sorry, right. It’s just–” He kneels next to him, and holds out a hand in warning of touch. “Can’t help it, sometimes, you know? It just kinda… slips out.”
Jon groans, and shifts so he can lean against Martin instead. “Don’t say it when I’m ill.”
He hums, a tiny note meant to placate Jon more than anything else. “But I still love you when you’re sick. Even if you threw up in the sink.”
“Don’t remind me.”
“We’ve been through so much worse, Jon.”
It’s been three years since they were freed from the Entities. Jon, through a confrontation with Jonah, Martin? He’d hung on to The Lonely’s protection up until the second he betrayed it. They’d suffered for it– Jon’s eyesight, the real kind, had never totally recovered, but, as he liked to say “it hadn’t been perfect before, either”– but… three years of normal, everyday life. Yeah, everything still felt like a dream (nightmare) sometimes.
They’d burned the Institute to the ground so they could have food poisoning like normal people. Amongst other, much more pleasant things.
“Don’t remind me,” Jon murmurs again, but he gives a tiny laugh, anyway.
“Sorry.” He kisses at his sweaty hair– really, it’s a blessing for them to be gross over normal human things and not, like, covered in blood or flesh or spiderweb– and then relinquishes hold on Jon when he squirms from his arms again. “Sorry,” Martin apologizes again. “But you should go back to bed. Get some more sleep.”
“That’s all I’ve been doing…”
We didn’t sleep for a very long time, is what he thinks, but he knows Jon’s just talking about the food poisoning, and he’s already referenced the past few years more times than any of them like, so he doesn’t say that, too.
Instead, Jon’s struggling with his sweaty t-shirt, and Martin reaches out questioning. “Help?”
“Please,” Jon says, sounds defeated, and Martin smiles faintly as he helps Jon out of it.
God, their trauma lingers. It’s been three years, and Martin still wants to cry at the extent of Jon’s scars. Sometimes he does. Sometimes Jon does. They don’t talk about those moments. He shakes himself out of that before it can begin, tosses Jon’s shirt towards the laundry bin, and offers a hand to help him up.
Jon kisses him before he can drape himself back into bed again. It’s at his neck, lips just beneath his collarbone, closed-mouth and quick. Martin– damn it all, it’s been three years– laughs like he’s nervous, and… he still sorta is. It’s been three years, but it’s only been three years. It’s not as pathetic as it sounds with what they’ve been through, he swears.
“I’d kiss you properly, but I’m revolting.”
“You’re not revolting.” It’s a knee-jerk reaction. Jon-The-Archivist had done so many things by the time the Beholding had been wrenched from his body. (Then again, so had Martin-Avatar-of-the-Lonely.) But Jon’s just Jon, now, again, and… revolting is so unkind, even if he’s just talking about the puke. “Besides…”
He could kiss him. They’ve had worse things, and Jon had already drank some water since the last bout. Martin doesn’t care, he really, really doesn’t. But Jon would care, a lot. So Martin only ducks his head to kiss Jon’s cheek, and smiles when Jon leans a little into the pressure.
“Any kind of kiss is a proper kiss, really,” he says, and beams as Jon rolls his eyes a little and crawls back into bed. “I’ll make you some more tea. Be right back.”
He doesn’t know how he can drink tea, anymore. He doesn’t know how making tea is still soothing, after all the tea they’d gone through at the Institute. But it’s the same calming motion, unchanging, familiar. They can pass the time comfortably with tea, and then Martin will curl up next to Jon and maybe hold his hand or stroke his hair, and let Jon fall asleep against his chest until he feels better or has to throw up again.
Tea, he thinks, is I love you, and it’s been that way for a long, long time.