Chapter Text
“Jon.”
No.
Jon absolutely and entirely refuses to be awake right now. He’d been awake all week (not that he was going to divulge such information to anyone) and he had finally fallen asleep the night before and he was definitely not waking up now. It’s clearly been an awfully long time to be asleep, and his neck will be complaining for at least the next day and a half, but he had been blissfully asleep and-
“Jon, come on.”
“No.” Jon’s nose wrinkles and he hides his face back in his arms, already feeling the beginnings of a stabbing pain in the side back of his neck. But, again, he purposely ignores this and the person speaking to him in favour of letting his eyes stay shut. Perhaps sleep will find him again, perhaps it will drag him back under once more in a way that he won’t be strong enough to say ‘no’ to. That would be wonderful, really.
Passing out had never been particularly high on his list of things he enjoyed, but right now? Right now, passing out had never seemed so inviting. He wanted to sleep for the next month and a half, perhaps longer, and the person who was seeking his attention would not deny him this-
“Jon.”
Oh, for Christ’s sake.
Jon sits up and turns his head to glare sharply at the person who’d come to wake him up, vision too blurry and pain in his neck too strong for him to properly make out who it is. He’s blinking blearily, eyes almost pained with how raw everything seems, how dark having them closed had been, how bright everything is. What kind of lunatic had he become to leave the lights on when he’d gone to bed?
The wood beneath his forearms finally registers and Jon looks down at them to find that he hadn’t, in fact, been curled up on his bed. No, instead, he’d been slumped over on his desk at the Institute, right on top of a pile of papers that he recognizes as the statement he’d last been reading before he’d fallen unconscious. There’s a cup of tea sitting on a pile of books he’d yet to read or put away (he can’t remember which) and there are about one, two, three… seven pencils scattered around his entirely too cluttered workspace.
With a grumble of something akin to a profanity, Jon starts putting the papers in order and tapping the bottom of the pile on his desk to get them all to stack nicely. Then he grabs the pencils and tucks them into the top drawer of his desk. There’s something buzzing in his ear this whole time and-
(Fly on the wall, perhaps?)
But then his name is clear through the buzzing and it becomes apparent that this is either a fly that can speak or it is very much not a fly at all.
It’s Martin.
Jon sighs and drops his head to the desk once more. “Martin.”
“Jon, you-”
“Have been asleep here since you left last night, yes I know.” He hears Martin shift his weight anxiously and he knows for a fact that he wants to ask something. So, after a moment of silent not-sulking, Jon looks up at him again and mutters, “Spit it out.”
“How did you know I…” Martin trails off and shakes head, “Nevermind, sorry. I just… You have a flat, right?”
“Are you asking if I’m homeless?” Jon retorts, glaring lightly.
Martin purses his lips, a spark of fear in his eyes, and he gives Jon a very pointed once over that makes Jon’s hair stand on end. He’s sure he definitely looks homeless, what with his messy hair and old rumpled clothing, but he can’t really help that this is just how he looks, right?
“You need a shower and a change of clothes.” Martin says, with an uncharacteristic amount of finality in his voice.
“I need sleep, which you interrupted.” Jon mutters.
“Get up.” Martin grabs him by his shoulders and hoists him up. Jon blinks and barely swallows a soft ‘eep’ at that and, before he can protest, he’s being thrown over Martin’s shoulder like a sack of potatoes or something akin to that.
For a moment, Jon can’t even properly process what exactly is happening here. Martin had never really been the confident ‘I am going to do this thing now without caring how other people will react’ type of person, and he’d always seemed less than comfortable being within five feet of Jon, so- so picking him up and hoisting him over his shoulder like he weighs nothing at all is new.
Very new and very shocking and, had Jon not wanted to observe the phenomenon at work, he’d have yelled at Martin to put him down right that instant. Of course, it could have also been his absolutely exhausted mind keeping him still in a weak and fruitless attempt to get him to sleep again, but Jon is hardly thinking things through correctly and, as of this moment, he’s chalking it up to shock. A flimsy excuse, perhaps, but it is what both his rationality and his pride can agree on so it is what he is going to stick with. Later, when he is a bit more conscious, he may regret this decision (or at least think twice about it) but for now he is fine.
When he is gracelessly dropped onto something that could count as a soft surface, Jon grunts. But then, almost immediately, he relaxes into the soft thing and grumbles something under his breath because fuck this, he isn’t going down willingly after being dragged out of sleep so rudely. It’s probably a couch, judging by the way his left arm is starting to mash its way between two cushions beneath him. Probably the one that’s made of a cheap corduroy material that always makes the back of his neck crawl but is also somehow comforting in that stupid way…
“Jon,” Martin’s voice finds him (somehow) and it’s soft, kind, warm, and so achingly familiar. “When was the last time you slept?”
“You know,” the strength of Jon’s voice even surprises him, “They say that it’s not tomorrow until you’ve truly gone to sleep.”
“Then when are you?” Martin’s smile is audible in the way his words lilt.
Jon thinks for a moment, genuinely pondering this question for all its worth. Then, very quietly, he says, “I suppose I’m a week in the past.”
Martin barks a laugh and it warms Jon right down to his toes (sideways to his toes?), drawing something like a painted smile to his face, though it’s none so grotesque as the memories that statement brings up. He lets his eyes open and he watches, forcing himself to focus, as Martin laughs and snickers and tries valiantly to stop.
(For my sake, probably. He’s always taking care of me.)
Jon huffs a small, silent laugh to himself.
(I’m an idiot.)
“Martin,”
“Jon?”
“Kiss me.”
The words are out of his mouth before he can think and, before he can truly process what he’d uttered, Martin’s entire face has gone a lovely shade of maroon. It’s a bit like an odd little freckled sunset on his face and it’s stupid. Stupid. So stupidly cute. He’s choking, that much Jon can hear, and for a moment, Jon thinks he’s killed him or something drastic like that. Weariness is making him delusional, clearly, because something like that wouldn’t kill someone.
Would it?
No matter, Jon drags his head from its position in the fog of exhaustion, sitting up and getting a not so good look at Martin’s face because his eyes just will not focus. He grips Martin’s shoulder for stability, which is poetic in a dumb way that almost makes him laugh again. On his way to offer comfort to Martin, he seeks support from Martin. Stupid stupid stupid.
And he is rather stupid, isn’t he?
Really, at this point, Jon isn’t even sure. But he grips Martin’s shoulder and gives him a weak shake that he’s not even certain actually effected Martin in any way, and he says, “Martin, I-”
“Jon.”
Jon’s words die on his throat, on his tongue, behind his teeth.
Martin slowly looks at him, properly looks at him, and his eyes are the only things that Jon can properly focus on right then which should set off alarm bells but he’s exhausted, damnit. Despite this being an odd and possibly bad sign, Jon maintains eye contact and keeps his words trapped behind his teeth. He will speak, eventually, but not until Martin has spoken. He isn’t afraid of what Martin will say.
Eventually, Martin seems to find his voice.
“You don’t mean it.”
Ah.
That crack in his chest shouldn’t feel as real as it does.
“You don’t mean it, Jon, you’re exhausted and delirious and-”
“Like hell I don’t mean it.”
Martin’s eyes are wide as dinner plates and that should not be as cute as it is on him. He blinks. Then he blinks again. Then Martin goes to say something and-
Jon regrets it as soon as it’s happened.
He pecks a kiss to Martin’s lips.
Nothing happens for a long, long time.
Then, very softly, Jon says it again. “Like hell I don’t mean it.”
Martin could have said something, he could have said anything, he could have gotten down on one knee right there and confessed his undying love for Jon right at that moment and Jon would never have been the wiser because-
Because sleep had finally reared its head at him and dragged him under, a selkie dragging him into the ocean by his hair.
His last conscious thought is something along the lines of: ‘We will talk when I’m awake.’