Work Text:
I.
Martin yawns, suddenly aware of how late it is. A month ago, he would have been curled up in his flat watching trashy reality TV at this hour, but now… He chews on his lip, trying to brush away the visuals of crawling worms and hollow eyes that rise unbidden to the back of his mind. His limbs are stiff when he stands, and he clumsily shakes out his wrists, poking his head out into the hallway. Everyone else should have gone home by now, and he doesn’t particularly like the Institute at night, but at the very least it’s better than Prentiss. Marginally. The lights are still on, humming fluorescent illumination that makes everything feel just a step outside of reality, and Martin sighs, shivering against the coolness of the archives.
He clicks off his own light, making his way down the hall to the room where he’s sleeping — Jon’s room, a deep and secret part of his mind whispers — when he notices the lamp in Jon’s office is still illuminated, the brightness bleeding through the crack where the door is slightly ajar. He pauses, listening for Jon’s voice; he doesn’t want to interrupt a recording, doesn’t want to be chastised by Jon again, but he is met only with silence. There isn't even the rustling of paper or the scratching of Jon's pen. Cautiously, he nudges the door open with a soft “Jon? Sorry, I just thought I’d let you know that—“
The words die between his lips as he notices Jon slumped over the desk, and for a split second he feels panic tightening his throat. He's caught up in visions of Prentiss' sickly smile, of the ominous things lurking in Artifact Storage, in whatever it was that happened to Gertrude, and he is seized with worry, but... no. Jon’s shoulders are steadily rising and falling, and as Martin quells his rising nerves, he finds the gentle outline of a smile tracing its way over his lips. Jon looks— peaceful, in his sleep. The sharpness and worry in his face are softened, the tension in his movements drained away. It's nice. He's nice. He really is very pretty, Martin thinks to himself, and his cheeks immediately begin to burn. Quietly, he steps closer. He doesn’t want to wake Jon — heaven knows he needs whatever shreds of restfulness he can get — but he can see the way the frames of Jon’s glasses are digging into his nose, and he’s quite sure that when he wakes up his face will be marked with angry red lines.
He wavers, staring at Jon for a long moment and trying to ignore the way his heart flutters. He doesn't want to be improprietous, and he certainly doesn't want to upset Jon by overstepping his boundaries, but on the other hand he knows how irritating smudged lenses and twisted frames can be. He sighs again, angry at his own indecisiveness. Then, making up his mind, he gingerly slides Jon’s glasses off and neatly places them on the corner of the desk. His fingers brushes against Jon's cheek, just for a split second, but it feels like an eternity, and Martin pulls his hand away as if burned. It's too gentle, too close for comfort, and to distract himself from his racing pulse he picks up the cold, half-empty mug of tea by Jon's head. He retreats back to the safe emptiness of the break room, tea clutched tight in both hands, and carefully puts the mug away with a heavy finality. He is not going to be pathetic and ridiculous and watch Jon sleep. He is not going to think about his feelings for Jon, which he definitely, absolutely, does not have. He's going to bed, and letting Jon be, and that will be the end of it.
Except that, once he’s pulled on fleece pajama pants and crawled under the thick duvet, he becomes aware of how cold the basement rooms are. His mind drifts back to Jon, overworked and certainly not taking care of himself, and Martin feels guilt pool like lead in his stomach at the thought of leaving him in the cold. He chews on his lip, debating with himself for what feels like an eternity, but finally drags himself upright again with a sort of resignation. It's a nice thing to do for someone, he tells himself. It doesn't have to mean anything. The way that his breath catches in his throat at the way Jon's hair loosely falls around his face, well — that's just coincidence.
When Jon wakes up, groggy and confused, he’s alarmed by the soft cardigan that’s been mysteriously draped over his shoulders. It’s unsettling. Too thoughtful, too nice, too much kinder than Jon Sims actually deserves, so it has to be some kind of ploy. He wraps the sweater tighter around himself, and moves Martin to the top of his suspect list.
II.
Jon dies, and Martin mourns.
III.
Jon wakes up again, and everybody seems disappointed at his continued survival. It’s only fair, he supposes; he got Tim killed, got Daisy killed, broke his promise, wasn’t smart enough or capable enough or knowledgeable enough to save the people who relied on him. Still, the disappointment stings just as much as the new scars that crisscross his body. He doesn't know how to begin apologizing. He's not sure that it would even help if he tried. But he misses the old days, misses the laughter and the good-natured teasing, misses seeing people smile. Hell, he doesn't know the last time he's smiled, not properly. He doesn't think he can, not anymore.
Of all of them, Martin's rejection is what hurts the most. Jon knows Martin is still coming in to work. Martin has to be coming in to work, because sometimes notes will appear in Martin’s handwriting, and files he leaves scattered on his desk will be organized in neat stacks when he comes back the next day, and the kettle has clearly been in use but he's never seen Basira making tea.
Which means Martin is ignoring him.
He doesn’t expect to miss Martin’s presence as much as he does, although he refuses to consider why exactly his chest aches so hollowly at the absence. He starts taking breaks from work, punctuating his research with short walks through the hallways to stretch his legs, and if his meandering route happens to take him past Martin’s desk, well. It doesn't have to mean anything, doesn't have to be an apology, or concern, or loneliness. It can just be a walk.
He pays attention to Martin's desk, though. He is vindicated after a couple of days, when he notices that the desk is changing. Jon has to bite down the hope that flutters up in his throat every time he sees new papers stacked in Martin’s neat organizer tray, new post-it note reminders stuck to the top left corner of the table. Sometimes when Jon visits, there are cups of tea, gone cold; sometimes the tea is still warm, and that stings the most, because it means that Martin is actively avoiding him. Which is— fair enough, all things considered. It still hurts though, a bitter coiling sadness that starts in the pit of Jon's stomach and ends up dampening his cheeks with tears. He misses Martin, he thinks to himself, and that alone is more of an admission than he can bear.
Once, Jon adds his own note to the corner of the desk, a simple “I’m sorry” written in a sharp and jagged handwriting that stands out amid Martin’s soft looping letters. The next time he passes by, the note is crumpled and tossed into the bin, and his chest tightens.
But despite all of this, he still doesn’t see Martin.
And then— one evening, late enough that Jon should theoretically be home by now (not that he goes home, not that he has a home) he goes to the break room to make himself a cup of tea. He doesn't even want to drink it, not really, just wants to feel the heat prickle the sensitive skin of his scarred palm to remind him that he has a responsibility as the Archivist. Somewhere between his office and the break room, though, he gets distracted, finds himself wandering off towards Martin’s desk. It’s almost a force of habit, at this point, to look at the empty chair, to remind himself how little Martin wants to be around him, to reopen that wound of absence over and over, and as Jon rounds the corner, he is prepared for the guilt to bury itself in his chest again.
Except that, this time, the chair isn’t empty. Martin is slumped over, asleep with his head in his arms, and it’s familiar but so strange all in the same breath. His hair sticks up, unbrushed and messy, and in the soft lamp light it haloes his face in a gentle golden glow. He looks almost like he did when he first became Jon's assistant, and it makes something deep within Jon sting. Jon stares in surprise for a long moment, his breath shaky, unsure of what he’s meant to do.
And then he remembers the cardigan, and he understands, years too late. He turns, runs back to his own bed and pulls off the blanket. Carefully, softly, he drapes it over Martin’s shoulders, lets his hand linger on Martin's arm for a few seconds longer than he really should, and when it overwhelms him completely, he turns away. “I know you don’t want me around,” he whispers. His mouth twists into a hollow smile. “It’s alright, I suppose. I don’t want me around, either.” Gently, he reaches out and clicks off the lamp, staring back over his shoulder for a moment before heading off to bed.
He doesn’t notice the post-it note clutched tight in Martin’s grip, rescued from the garbage and smoothed out with a loving hand. For an Archivist, he really is terribly unobservant.