Work Text:
I would like to watch you sleeping,
which may not happen.
I would like to watch you,
sleeping. I would like to sleep
with you, to enter
your sleep as its smooth dark wave
slides over my head
and walk with you through that lucent
wavering forest of bluegreen leaves
with its watery sun & three moons
towards the cave where you must descend,
towards your worst fear
I would like to give you the silver
branch, the small white flower, the one
word that will protect you
from the grief at the center
of your dream, from the grief
at the center. I would like to follow
you up the long stairway
again & become
the boat that would row you back
carefully, a flame
in two cupped hands
to where your body lies
beside me, and you enter
it as easily as breathing in
I would like to be the air
that inhabits you for a moment
only. I would like to be that unnoticed
& that necessary.
— margaret atwood, "variation on the word sleep"
It's late – 1:08 in the morning, but Jon doesn't know that, as he refuses to allow timepieces at his desk. They mock him, with their ticking and their numbers and their ostentatious reminder of the inexorable march toward… whatever kind of doom is impending. He knows it's late, though, because everyone else is gone, and the last cup of tea that Martin brought him is ice cold to the touch, and perhaps most telling, he's yawned nine times while trying to record this statement.
After the tenth time, he lets out a groan of frustration, which threatens to turn into a scream of frustration. “Alright, fine,” he grumbles aloud to the empty room, or possibly to the tape recorder.
It’s mocking him, too, in its own way. He turns it off, imbuing the act with as much irritation as he can put into a single press of a button, and shoves it in a drawer. “You’re a piece of plastic,” he says quietly, shaking his head in the direction of said drawer as he pushes away from his desk and shrugs on his sweater. “You don’t tell me when to sleep. I decide when to sleep. Smug bastard.”
Maybe, Jon thinks, maybe he’s more tired than he thought. It’s fine. He’s fine. He toes his shoes off before leaving the office, pads down the hall in his socks. By the time he reaches the document storage room, he already regrets it, seeing the ancient carpet in the archives with its thousands of mysterious stains, feeling the chill seep into his bones as if leeched directly from the ground.
It occurs to him distantly, vaguely, that there may even be worms around, and that thought is enough to have him watching his feet as he walks across the room, stepping lightly, like trying not to set off a land mine. He makes his way to the cot by the wall on muscle memory alone, his higher brain functions almost entirely turned off to save his energy, all of which is directed into instincts such as lie down and look out for worms.
The cot in document storage is relatively sturdy and new, unlike everything else in the archives, because Jon bit the bullet and invested in it himself when he got the head archivist job. It's more a bed than a cot, really: a basic twin sized mattress on a collapsible wire frame. They always say if you have to splurge on just one thing, go all in on the compact bed you keep in the corner of a storage room in the basement of your place of employment for the frequent and inevitable occasions when you work past the time when the most convenient bus route to your flat stops running.
That’s a thing people say, right? Jon is fairly sure that’s what they say. In any case, it’s proven useful over the last months.
He climbs onto the thin mattress fully dressed, his eyes already shut, ready to not exist for a few hours before he has to get back to work. There’s a bit of sensory data that his mind can almost – almost, but not quite – process: a warmth, a solidity, a softness that shouldn’t be there.
The bed is always comfortable, for a certain value of comfortable, but it normally feels more dead. Not that the bed itself is alive at the moment, but that it feels somewhat lived-in, in a way Jon can’t conceptualize in his current state of mind. He ignores it, leans into the warmth, curls up into a ball like a cat and falls asleep instantaneously.
Martin is sleeping soundly – as soundly as he ever does these days, at least – when a weight settles on the mattress next to him. Not a hefty weight, mind, but a weight nonetheless. He surfaces from a dreamless abyss with a hazy grunt, not going so far as to open his eyes, stirring only as much as he must in order to shift and make room for his guest.
There’s a gentle pressure on his shoulder that Martin can’t quite place – resting against him, lying on him, leaning on him. He moves reflexively, still all but unconscious, to wrap his arm around the weight, to slot their shapes together harmoniously.
Even mostly asleep, and with his self-preservation instincts being what they are, Martin can sense that it’s probably a very bad idea to just – let this happen. He knows on some level that he should likely be jolting himself awake in shock and horror, pushing away whoever – or whatever? – has decided to climb into bed with him in the middle of the night. He doesn’t know if it’s more or less hair-raising here in the archives than it would be if he were still in his flat.
It doesn’t matter, in the end, because all of these doubts present themselves in his mind not as coherent or articulate thoughts, but as a vague and fleeting sense of unease. Where it might normally be the kind of thing that leads him to panic, at the moment it’s hardly enough to earn any place in his mind at all. He ignores it, moves his arm a bit to better accommodate the change in position, and falls back asleep without a second thought.
A soft noise pulls Jon from his slumber easily – he’s never been a very heavy sleeper, and recent events have done nothing to mitigate that particular issue. He blinks several times in the darkness, his brain buffering as he tries to discern where he is, and then the noise comes again, a small moan of distress that seems to resonate in his ears despite the low volume. Trying to sit up, Jon realizes he’s trapped, held in place with a loose grip wrapped around his upper body; there’s some give, he can move his legs and bend his arms at the elbow, but ultimately he can’t do much more than wriggle uncomfortably.
Moments pass in stillness and silence, and then the arm around Jon tightens in a jerky, spasmodic motion, accompanied by another low sound. It’s almost a word this time, and it wakes Jon up enough to fully come into himself again, albeit rather groggily. He still can’t see much of anything, but he remembers – not only where he is, but also the key bit of information that slipped his mind before – that Martin has been staying in the archives for a few weeks, now.
It’s a hell of a relief after the last minute of confused apprehension, to understand what’s happening. That it’s Martin’s arm around him, Martin’s voice making those little noises. Jon lifts a hand to grab Martin’s wrist, unthinking, and tugs gently in an attempt to make him release his hold.
“Martin,” he whispers, too quietly.
Rather than waking up, Martin continues mumbling protests and twitching in his sleep. His speech is beyond slurred, but Jon is sure he can pick out a few words, a “Please” and a “No” and a “Go away” mixed in among the pained cries and moans.
“Martin,” Jon tries again, louder, pulling harder at his arm. “Martin, wake up.”
It’s hard to tell in the dark exactly when Martin wakes up, or exactly when he starts crying, but within the space of a few seconds he’s extricated himself from Jon, moved back a few inches, and begun some sort of frantic movement that Jon can’t place. He breathes in massive, desperate inhales and shaking, sobbing exhales while Jon tries to talk him down.
Jon is unaccustomed to comforting people at the best of times, and this is rather a bizarre circumstance, and he’s entirely unsure what to do. “It’s okay,” he says awkwardly, “you’re – you’re okay.”
"Get them off," Martin says, a mumbled, whining plea. "Get them off, get them off."
Cocking his head to the side, squinting in the dark, Jon tries to see what Martin is doing, exactly, but he can’t make sense of it. He moves to settle a tentative hand on Martin’s knee, reaching with his other hand to feel on the wall for the light switch, which he finds quickly thanks to experience. With the benefit of the light, several things become apparent at once.
First, Martin is holding a knife. It doesn’t look particularly sharp, but it’s alarming, to say the least.
Second, he’s running his empty hand up and down his arms and legs with a broad, open palm, exploring every inch of exposed skin, as if he’s searching for something.
Third, there is quite a bit of exposed skin. He’s wearing boxer shorts and a plain tee, an almost comical contrast to Jon’s button-down shirt, thick cardigan, and tight, rigid jeans. The blanket is tangled up in Jon’s legs, not covering any part of Martin, and it's – interesting.
“Martin,” Jon says, pulling back from his hold on Martin’s knee in order to grab the hand that’s desperately roaming over his skin, stilling it. “It’s okay, Martin, I’m h– it’s alright. Try to breathe, can you do that?”
For the first time, Martin seems to actually notice that Jon is there, looking at him with wide, tear-filled eyes and giving him a single nod. Jon nods back at him, slowly, and says, “Can you put down the knife?”
It takes a long moment before Martin follows Jon’s gaze to his hand, sees that he's clutching the knife with white knuckles. His eyebrows shoot up as he drops it unceremoniously on the bed, holding his now-empty hand in mid-air as if he expects it to hurt him. Jon takes that hand as well, before Martin can do anything else, and begins rubbing soothing circles into his skin.
Martin is shaking violently, his fingernails digging into Jon's palms almost hard enough to draw blood. He takes in huge gulps of air and slowly, slowly, his sobs turn to measured breaths, though tears continue to flow freely from his eyes.
"God, I'm sorry," he says after a good few minutes, giving Jon a pained look, the kind of expression that you get when you've been inside all day and finally step outside in the middle of the afternoon when the sun is high, and even without looking up, the brightness of the daylight brings that dull throb to your eyes.
Jon furrows his brow in a mix of confusion and concern. "It's okay, Martin," he murmurs gently, but Martin doesn't seem to hear him.
"Sorry, sorry," he repeats like a mantra, his voice thick and rough. He looks away from Jon's face eventually, begins scanning his arms and legs with his eyes now that his hands are captive.
"What are you looking for?" Jon asks bluntly, squeezing Martin's hands to pull his attention.
Martin blinks at him, thrown by the interruption, and thinks on the question for a long moment before speaking, slowly and clearly, as if the answer is obvious. "Worms."
Taking a quick but careful inventory of the space around them, Jon confidently assures him, "There are no worms here."
A grave look flits across Martin's face for half a second before it's replaced by a resigned sort of calm. "Okay," he whispers, his voice breaking. "Sorry."
"It's okay Martin, really," Jon insists. "I'm – I'm sorry." And he is, for what it's worth, sorry – a general sympathy for Martin's nightmares? An apology for crawling into bed with him in the middle of the night? Regret for bearing witness to such a vulnerable moment? Jon isn't entirely sure, but he is certain he has more reason to be sorry than Martin does at the moment.
"You've got no reason to be sorry," Martin says tearfully, as if responding directly to Jon's thoughts. "I'm just –," he sniffs, turns his face away to hide the way he crumbles, though the whine in his voice gives him away when he continues, "God, this is pathetic."
"It's not," Jon responds immediately, fervently.
Martin frowns at him, tilts his head at an angle, his expression almost patronizing. "It is," he argues. "Crying in front of my boss is bad enough, but this is a whole different level."
He doesn't know why, but Jon recoils at Martin calling him boss. He almost physically cringes at it. It feels like a slap in the face, though he knows it isn't meant to be. Jon's always been the one putting distance between them, resisting Martin's friendliness, and he can certainly see why Martin wouldn't want to be overly familiar when he's already so exposed. Still, though, it makes his chest hurt to hear it.
Jon opens his mouth to respond, to say something reassuring, but Martin seems to rather abruptly realize his state of undress, and Jon is cut off mid-breath by the choked sound of Martin's cry of distress, quickly followed by the sharp yank of the blanket being pulled from him. Martin hides behind it like a shield, his eyes wide and unfocused as he looks anywhere but at Jon.
"I can leave," Jon offers, "if you want."
"No!" Martin objects far too fast. "I mean – you don't have to. If you'd rather, erm. Well, it – it's still the middle of the night, is all, and you can s– can stay, if you'd like. To get some more – more sleep."
Jon gives him an inscrutable look, narrowing his eyes. "I don't want to impose," he says, speaking slowly and diplomatically. "You're staying here, after all. I still have my actual flat, and it's – it's not fair for me to take up your time and your privacy like this."
There's a moment where it seems like Martin might say something immensely stupid – Jon knows the look well – but he bites his lip hard and shakes his head, holding back for now. "It's okay," he says, and then lowers his voice to add: "It's better not to be alone."
"Oh," Jon replies lamely.
"Yeah," Martin says in a timid whisper. "Just – when I have the nightmares, I mean, it's –,” he hesitates, closes his eyes and takes a breath, tries to clench his fists but realizes his hands are still clasped tightly in Jon’s. He gingerly pulls them back, flexes his fingers a few times before continuing, “I usually don't get back to sleep on those nights. You were – what you just did, I mean – it was very, er. Helpful."
"Oh," Jon repeats absently, his mind in a thousand places at once. "Do you want me to stay?"
"I'm not asking you to," Martin says, hasty and nervous, "but don't leave on my account."
Taking a moment to weigh the situation out in his head, Jon presses his lips together in a tight line. It's weird, that much is inarguable. Jon just isn't sure if weird is a good enough reason to leave, especially when Martin doesn't seem to mind him staying. It's not like they haven't had their fair share of weird, and at least this is the harmless kind of weird, the kind of weird that can't hurt them except perhaps to make their relationship more awkward than it already is.
He can do all the mental gymnastics he wants in order to justify staying, but the truth is that more than anything, Jon is just dead tired. "Alright," he sighs, trying not to sound too put-upon or too enthusiastic. "Suppose we could both do with a bit of – of restful sleep."
Martin's eyes go wide at that and he clutches the blanket tight to himself for just a second before releasing it completely. "Okay," he says, though it's more a squeak than an actual word. "Would you, er – I can sleep over the blanket and you can sleep under?"
"Don't be silly," Jon replies with just as much exasperation as when he scolds Martin about his work. "You'll get cold."
"But… you'll get cold, too," Martin protests.
Jon rolls his eyes. "The bed's big enough for two. The blanket's big enough for two. Unless you're afraid of my cooties."
"God, no, of course not," Martin answers without missing a beat, then his eyes widen as he realizes how hasty his reply was. "I mean, if you're alright with… with that, then – I guess I am as well."
"It's the most sensible way, I think," Jon says, plain and simple and unabashed.
He doesn't wait for a reply before removing his glasses – they're filthy, after he slept with them on, but he'll worry about that later – and placing them on the little table where he sees Martin has put his own glasses. He scrubs at his face aggressively with his hands, letting his fingers drag down his cheeks as he huffs out a tired sigh. When he turns back to face Martin, he catches the quick whip of his head as he tries to make like he wasn't looking at Jon.
Nudging Martin's leg with his foot, Jon draws his attention – his gaze, more accurately, because his attention never left Jon, but now he's meeting Jon's eyes again, and that's what Jon was going for. "Are you going to be able to sleep?"
Martin just stares at him, uncomprehending, and Jon groans internally. Apparently, it will be necessary to address his concern directly, rather than through vague implications like he would prefer. He has to steel himself for that; it's never been his specialty.
"It's just… I know it's… awkward," he says, his words slow and stilted, "and I know that – well, my presence is not generally a… calming factor for you."
He pauses, swallows hard, looks up at Martin to gauge his reaction, hoping he's gotten the point and Jon won't have to explain himself in more depth. Alas, Martin shows no real response, save the fact that his face is a bit paler and his eyes a bit wider.
"I just want to be sure," Jon continues reluctantly, "that… my being here won't be a source of too much anxiety for you."
A small noise escapes Martin, a short whine in the back of his throat, and then he says in a strained voice, not quite a question, "You mean because you're my boss."
There's that word again. Jon has to stop himself from wincing at it, and he doesn't know why. It's the truth, isn't it? What else could he have been talking about? Martin has always been nervous around him, and it is because Jon's his boss, isn't it?
He takes a deep breath. "Yeah," he sighs, exhausted. It's not the time to get himself worked up about the issue. "Just want to know you won't get in your head about it. It's weird, but it's okay, right? I'll leave if it's not okay."
Some of the tension seems to melt from Martin's posture, much to Jon's relief. "No, it's okay," he says with a shake of his head, wringing his hands in his lap.
“Good,” Jon begins gently, then clears his throat and injects the usual gruff indifference back into his tone before continuing, “because your work really suffers when you don’t get enough sleep.”
Martin smiles at that, not like he’s happy, but like he’s thinking about a private joke that actually makes him rather sad. He looks almost wistful for a moment, then shakes himself out of his thoughts. “Can we –,” he stops, sets his jaw and corrects himself, not asking but stating: “I’m going to lie down now.”
Satisfied, Jon gives a small nod, waits for Martin to get comfortable before he reaches to turn off the light. In the darkness, he can just make out the form of Martin’s body under the blanket, facing away from him, breathing low and easy. An impulse flashes through his mind, a sudden whim to touch Martin, just to stretch out his hand and rub Martin’s shoulder or something, anything – he resists.
He soundly, solidly resists, abruptly turns to lie down so they’re back to back with only inches separating them, the warmth of Martin’s skin radiating from him and permeating Jon’s cold bones. Thankfully, Jon is asleep before he can think too hard about it, and he stays asleep, which is nothing short of miraculous these days.
Jon sleeps through Martin’s alarm and Martin’s minor anxiety attack at the sight of him and Martin’s morning routine, and only wakes sometime around eight o’clock in the morning to Martin gently nudging him and murmuring something about coffee.
The first thing he notices is that he feels rested, for the first time in months. The second thing he notices is Martin. Martin, whose hand is warm on his shoulder, even through his layers, whose face is dangerously close as he rambles about how he let Jon sleep in because he seemed to really need it and he’s sorry and he really should have woken him up earlier and he’ll work late tonight to make up for whatever time Jon’s lost.
Dazed, Jon shakes his head to dismiss Martin’s worries, sits up and wipes a bit of drool from the corner of his mouth. Embarrassing, he thinks, and doubly so because he knows Martin saw, because he noticed the way Martin’s eyes widened just a bit. He’s not self-conscious, but he’s a professional, damn it, and he needs to have the respect of his archival assistants and how is he meant to be authoritative when Martin’s seen his awful bedhead and the imprints of pillowcase wrinkles on his cheek?
Martin doesn’t mention it. He offers Jon some clean clothes and a sincere apology for the fact that they’re too big, as if it’s his fault, as if he could have anticipated the need for a Jon-sized outfit, as if Jon shouldn’t have thought of it months ago. Jon changes and washes his face with hand soap and brushes his teeth with his finger, and when he’s done Martin has a hot cup of coffee waiting for him.
Black with cinnamon, exactly how he likes it. It’s difficult to stifle a rapturous moan at the first sip – Martin’s a master in the art of bringing Jon whatever he needs, even when he doesn’t know how to ask for it. Not that he’ll ever admit that aloud. But he does manage a “Thank you.”