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"Jon."
"Jon."
Jon, barely processing his name being called, makes a curious noise as Martin reaches out to pull his hand away from where he was - oh, he was picking. Again.
"You're picking again."
"I realize that."
Jon scratches the table in frustration and shuffles away from Martin. At this rate he'd be falling off the end of the table in less than an hour. The large, suspiciously kind man was fussing over him constantly, now even more than ever.
"...What does it matter to you if I'm picking?"
"Well, for one, you leave blood everywhere. That's a bit of a hazard. And, well, I don't like seeing you hurting."
"It doesn't hurt. It feels good. That's why I do it."
Martin makes a face, probably a concerned one but it's not clear out of the corner of Jon's eye, which is the only way he's capable of looking at Martin right now. He realizes he just said something Bad, that normal people don't say. He is going to ignore it, and hope that Martin does too.
Martin does not ignore it.
"Just because something feels good in the moment doesn't mean it's good for you. Picking off scabs is going to leave you with worse scars, and you might get infected, or something."
Jon grits his teeth. "I don't care about scars. And infections can be treated. I'm fine."
Martin is red, not the pleasant flush when he gets a compliment, but a shade that can only be interpreted as a very visual sign of anger. His hands in particular get red when he's angry. Of course he's angry at Jon. Who wouldn't be?
"Fine. You sure as hell aren't going to take care of yourself, so I guess I'll just have to be selfish. I don't want you to have worse scars, and I don't want you to get infected. I caused this, remember? I was the one with the damn corkscrew ripping into your skin, I made these scabs."
"But the worms-"
"Fuck the worms! I don't know what they would have done, but it wouldn't have left you like...like this! Obsessing, pulling off your own skin every time you start to heal, bleeding all over your precious statements, bleeding all over the Archives. You don't even realize that you hiss whenever you pull one off. It hurts to hear, but all your muddled brain can focus on is the OBSESSION with the picking! And god knows what else you're obsessed with, because it's certainly not your own well-being, and you're scaring everyone, and you're scaring me, Jon, and I don't know how to help."
There's a silence for some time then. Martin exudes pure guilt, and Jon doesn't know what to say to make it better, to make him better, to make anything better.
"...Do you really think I'd be better off as a flesh hive?"
"God, Jon, is that all you got from all that?"
"No, but it's the only thing I know how to respond to. I wouldn't want you to have to live with the regret of having saved my life."
Martin rubs his face with his hands. They're still red, but not as red as before.
"I saved your life because I care about you, Jon. I realize that digging a sharp object into the skin of someone who's filled with worms isn't really the most common way to show you care, but there was no way I was letting you become what Prentiss had. I had that...thing sitting outside my window for ages, remember? And all I could think about when those worms dug into you was, that is not going to be Jon."
"Oh, so you don't want me to stand ominously outside your flat while you eat tinned peaches and cry? I never could have guessed."
Martin laughs wetly, the sound of a man who doesn't know if he wants to cry or not. "No, Jon, I don't."
There's another silence, but it's softer this time. Jon notices his hand moving back to his arm and stops it himself. He sighs and looks at Martin, directly, for the first time since this conversation's started.
"Just know, I only ask this since you seem so keen on caring for me, to the detriment of all your other duties."
Martin tilts his head slightly, like a puppy who's just been told a new trick.
"Would you...cover these? So I can let them heal. I know if I touch them I'll just pull everything off again, and it's clear that you're not the biggest fan of my bleeding on everything."
Martin's eyes widen and something metaphorical clicks behind his eyes, in his brain. He eagerly stands up from the table, gently taking Jon's less-scabbed arm in his hand.
"I have a first aid kit in the upstairs toilet. Come on, the statement can wait. You've just been staring at a pile of papers for the past half hour, anyway."
Everything in Jon screams at him to wrench his arm away, push Martin out the door and lock himself into his office. But he goes. He walks, slightly dazed, up the stairs, and suddenly finds himself sitting on a small stool while Martin gently washes his scabs with warm water and a soft washcloth (where did he get that?), puts an odorless cream of some kind on the worst spots, and covers them up with adorable little plasters. Jon's head swims as he looks down at the smiling flowers and cats stuck to his arms. He absentmindedly reaches to scratch them, but is predictably blocked. A wave of comfort washes over him as he rubs his finger gently over the spot he just tried to scratch, now a smooth plastic strip with rainbow stripes and not a bleeding hole.
"Thank you. I'm going to go back to my work now," Jon says abruptly, and leaves. Stupid. Martin did all that for him and that's all he responds with? He storms back to his office and tries to avoid the glances of Tim and Sasha at his newly-colorful arms and neck.
He feels Martin watch him as he goes, though, and there's no annoyance. No huff of embarrassment. Just the kindest eyes he's ever felt and the most loving smile he's ever not seen.
God damn it.