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“Make sure to give that to her, will you?”
“What?”
“Hm?”
“Who?”
“Martin.”
“You said her.”
From the corner of his eye, Jon watched Martin’s hand falter at his cup of tea. The conversation had been filtering, the usual here; if Jon started listening to everything, he’d never get any work done. Elias in the archives was a distraction, but still easily ignored past first contact, until… that slip of the tongue had come through.
Unwittingly stumbling upon the fact that Martin was transgender, three weeks ago now? Had more or less slipped his mind when he’d left his weary looking assistant curled on the sofa that day. Very small in the scheme of things, he’d told him. Worms and The Unknowing… Martin’s gender identity didn’t affect the work, and Martin was still Martin. (Thank God.)
But then maybe he was taking his, ah… privilege… for granted here. It was a big thing, to Martin. He’d crumbled under the weight of it and left Jon to fumble around trying to drag them both afloat and it probably hadn’t just been because of the pain and discomfort of a menstrual cycle. Martin had only really broken down after he had blurted out the truth to him.
And now Martin was still frozen, fingers still clutched around the string of the teabag he was dunking into his hot water.
“Him,” Elias said, and glanced at Jon through the break room door. Jon stared back, the flicker of uncertainty turning to a spark of fire. “Obviously. So sorry, Miss King, my mind’s occupied elsewhere,” he continued, moving past Jon’s line of sight.
“Do you ever stop spying on people?”
“Perhaps about as much as you stop scheming against them.”
“Not scheming against them,” Melanie muttered. “Just against you.”
There was no way that had been a slip of the tongue, and the timing was too suspect for it to be a coincidence. Besides, he didn’t think those happened here, anyway.
Martin relinquished his death grip on string and tea, only to brace both hands against the counter and slump ever-so-slightly.
Jon, for his part, was going after Elias. He was barely halfway to his feet when Martin interrupted him.
“… don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Just…” He swallowed, and then shook his head. Like he was chasing away a fly, a bad memory, Elias’s voice. “Don’t worry about it.”
“Martin–”
“It’s not a big deal.”
… Jon lacked a fair amount of empathy, he knew, but that was an utter lie. “If think, if anything three weeks ago taught us–” He watched the line of Martin’s shoulders tighten at the mention of that, curling in on himself at that memory. Jon pushed on, sparing detailed reminder. “– it’s that it’s a very big thing to you. Just because he can See, doesn’t mean he has the right–”
“He’s Elias,” Martin interrupted, sounding tired. “He can do whatever he wants, Jon.”
Martin… wasn’t wrong, but still. “Nevertheless, I can talk to him and–”
“No,” Martin blurted. “No– j–just… no,” he repeated, and then looked stricken with himself. “I–I don’t want to deal with that. He hasn’t…” He took a breath. “He hasn’t said anything before, and he’s had to have known. S–So, this is fine, it’s fine, he didn’t do anything, didn’t tell anyone else or anything–”
“He used the wrong pronouns. On purpose, Martin. That’s… it’s bad enough, I think.” He was wholly untaught on… labels, on orientations and identities. Hell, Tim had given him a whole crash course on pansexuality last office party and Jon thought he might have been just drunk enough not to understand most of it. He didn’t think about those things. But Martin did. “You’re upset,” Jon continued quietly, “so that’s enough.”
“It's fine, Jon,” Martin said. “It's… I mean,” he laughed, once, a breathless noise of forced humor, “not like it's the first time someone's misgendered me or anything.”
“Even still…”
“Really, it's okay! My mom never even called me by my pronouns!” Christ. “So I've gotten used to it, yeah? Really no– no biggie–”
A stalemate, ever so brief. Jon stared in something he thought was close to horror– maybe even pity, unwilling– and Martin looked back, a tremulous smile that wavered as he made himself to be okay directly to Jon's face. And then he wasn't, and the smile trembled, and Jon winced at the first beginnings of tears and dithered on the spot. He hadn't intended to– he just wanted to address the issue– try to rectify what Elias had done––
“Crap,” Martin muttered, swiveling away. “Sorry, I'm– u–um, fine–”
“Martin…”
“No! I’m just– just, it’s– it’s been a, uh, b–bit of a day– fuck.”
Right, which was probably why Elias had picked now to drop that particular bomb outside the break room when both Jon and Martin were there. Jon didn’t know why it had been a day for Martin– hadn’t noticed anything, but… but it didn’t matter because it was all… bad.
Martin’s back was to him, fingers quick at the tears Jon had started to see fall in the moments prior. And… and Jon ought to give him some privacy, let him try to collect himself without any more eyes than usual looming, shake off old memories and try to get on with the day. Right.
Jon lingered, just another breath, sharp and uneven from Martin, and then went to close the break room door.
But he didn’t leave.
Sometimes, he thought he and Martin were almost alike. Just in some ways. Wildly different in others. Whereas he would have fought for solitude in having a breakdown, Martin was… Martin wasn’t like that. Martin talked to fill the silence, checked up on Jon and the rest of them throughout the day, stood too close in the dark or cold or after a particularly grueling statement. Martin was… the type of person who needed that.
Jon didn’t really understand that, the overwhelming urge to be around people. But then, he wasn’t the one upset here.
“Martin.”
“Oh– G–God, Jon, I thought you… I thought you left.”
“Not quite.” Although he may as well have, for all he was doing. Standing useless.
“You can if… if you’re busy. I mean, I–I’m sure you are. So, it’s okay. I’m okay. I’m just– it’s been awhile. That… startled me, I suppose.” He still spoke with his back facing Jon, although scrubbing his sleeve across his face was still an obvious motion even from behind.
Jon patted his pockets. Damn. Nothing useful. Even looking around the room… very little by way of comfort, sans the kettle, and Martin’s tea was probably bordering bitter now as was. Various snacks, Jon’s picked over lunch. Vending machine humming away in the corner. Useless. “The one room in The Institute without a box of tissues,” he muttered, and didn’t even realize he’d said it aloud until Martin laughed, once, a wet, miserable sound, and half turned to glance at him.
“Don’t worry. There’s still the kitchen roll.”
“Bit rough on the nose, though.”
“That’s true,” Martin agreed faintly. “Can’t be helped, I s’pose.”
He… he might be missing a cue here. “Did you…” He gestured vaguely. “… want –”
“No, no– thanks.” He rubbed his arm across his eyes again. Mostly facing the cupboards again, so a start. “I’ll just use my sleeve– ha, kidding, Jon. Just– just kidding.”
He might have gone to steal tissues from someone’s desk, on that account. As it was, Jon just hummed, noncommental, and smoothed his hands against his shirt. “Right,” he said, again, and made a tiny face at himself. Christ, but he was bad at this.
“Sorry,” Martin murmured. Jon tore his attention, halfhearted, away from a stain on the wall and looked back at him. “I’m… it’s just…” A small shrug.
“I know. I mean–” Another bad choice of words, wasn’t it? He licked his lips and pushed forward. “I mean, I’m– I don’t know, I think I’m grasping the concept now more than ever, but you– you’re allowed to have reacted. That’s… Sorry, it’s– it’s simple, isn’t it? Pronouns? It’s not– y–you’ve never been anything asides Martin, so…”
“Might have been,” Martin mumbled. “Once.”
“But not now. Not– not since you…” He shook his head. They were both overthinking here. “You’re Martin,” he said firmly. “Regardless of what might have been. We might have been in a normal archiving job, too,” he said, dry, “but here we are instead.”
“I– heh. God, Jon…”
He watched him lean forward, elbows on the counter to put his face in his hands. Scrub against the remnants of tears and agony, pressing his fingers against his eyes. Then Jon stepped forward, hooking a finger into the handle of Martin’s mug to pour the tea down the drain.
“What– what are you doing?”
“Making another cup.”
“Oh…”
This was a familiar motion, if nothing else. Martin might be their… resident tea-preparer, but at least Jon could say with vague confidence he could make a cuppa on his own. If the mood struck, anyway.
“… it’s not always so black and white,” Martin murmured, eventually.
Jon urged the mug over. As much silent encouragement as he knew how to give in the moment.
“There’s… people don’t see the way you do. Or… or the way a lot of people do. It’s… simple, to you. Because you’re a good person. And– and people like my mom,” Martin said, curling over the mug a little, “she was… she was good, too, but she just… didn’t understand. And I wasn’t… I was never going to be anything to her except what she wanted me to be. Even… even when I wasn’t.” He sighed, a puff of steam over the mug and a tiny, tired smile. “I think it should be simple, too, you know? Especially today? But… but it hasn’t been, and… and, yeah, I know Elias is just using it as a power play, trying to keep us in line, or whatever, but… I’m really not sure it’s ever going to be?” He shrugged, and then his fingers tightened around the mug, constricting until his knuckles went taut. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this, actually. Just… you’re good, Jon,” he said, just glancing him in the eye again, “and that’s… good, so– so thank you. Thank you for… for wanting to stick up for me, I suppose.”
All of that, and Martin was giving him a speech. That was… so very him, Jon thought, with an almost resigned kind of fondness.
“I would again. I still will. All you have to do is say the w–”
“Uh uh, um, no. That’s… I really don’t want to give him the satisfaction.”
The and he’s probably Watching all of this, anyway went largely unspoken, there.
“And it’d just cause problems.”
“That’s…”
“I don’t have to correct anyone anymore,” Martin said. “Mostly. Just… just my family, really? And I only ever see mom, and that’s only even when she’ll s– when I visit. Trying to berate Elias is like shouting at the sun, Jon, you know that. I’ll be okay.” He straightened up, actually turning to face Jon full-on this time. And unlike the first time, didn’t look like he was trying to keep himself together. That was another good step. “I mean, with Elias, it’s really the least kind of unpleasant he can be, right? He could do… he could do so much worse.”
“True,” Jon said softly, although it didn’t really change the point. But Martin was… better, and very intent on leaving it alone. So, Jon would. Martin trusted him; he had to trust Martin back. He did. “Still,” he said, “if you change your mind…”
“Then I’ll definitely go with you to tear him a new one,” Martin said, with a wry smile. “I don’t really think that’s happening soon, but one day? Yeah. Sure, definitely. I’ll definitely be first in line. Second in line,” he amended. “Assuming you beat me there.”
“I’ll absolutely be first in line,” he murmured. “No need to worry.”
“Yeah, you definitely, just… won’t be alone.”
Jon tilted his head, half towards Martin, contemplative. “Neither are you,” he said, awkward again, but the importance of the thing outweighed the uncertainty, he thought.
Martin looked a little less surprised than he might have a few weeks ago. That, in itself, was a victory. “Yeah… t–thanks, Jon. Um…” He cleared his throat, turning back to the tea. “Right. Your tea’s probably gone cold, too. I’ll just–”
“I can do it–”
“I want to,” Martin interrupted, and gently nudged Jon’s arm out of the way. “Let me.”
“Alright.” Jon watched him for a moment, tension falling into calm at the old routine of tea again. He almost seemed at home again, settling back in after the disruption. Probably not as simple as that, probably not as easy, but…
“Sure,” Jon agreed, and let him.