Work Text:
It’s a normal day in the archive. A slow day, Martin thinks happily. He has to finish up some reports, maybe do some light filing. It’s Friday so he’ll probably duck out early and grab beers with Tim and Sasha.
Jon is already there of course. He’s wearing different clothes so Martin is reasonably certain he went home since yesterday, though he doesn’t discount Jon keeping clothes in the office. Martin brings him tea, no longer a pretense, now a nice thing to do for a partner. He delivers it with a kiss to the top of Jon’s head, received with a hum like a discontented cat. Martin knows that, much like a cat, if he didn’t give him a kiss Jon would come crying for it soon enough.
“Did you get any sleep?” Martin asks.
“Some.”
“It’s the weekend.”
“I know. And I know what I promised. No work.”
“No work,” Martin says at the same time. “I’ll be keeping an eye on you. No sneaking recorders into the bathroom again.”
Jon grunts but doesn’t protest further. It still makes Martin feel springy throughout the day. He walks around the archives sort of bouncing on the balls of his feet. Three o’clock rolls around in no time and he skives off with Tim and Sasha to get drinks around the corner. He checks in with Jon and he promises to meet up with them later.
And he does. He slides into the booth next to Martin like he’d only been gone a few minutes, beer and crisps in hand. He holds the bag open for Martin so he can take a few. None of this interrupts Tim recounting what happened on the latest kayaking escapade, though Martin is barely listening because Jon is holding his hand under the table.
Sasha says something about settling up and Tim heads to the toilets. Jon leans in to Martin’s ear and says “come back to mine?” Martin nods and drains what is left of his drink.
They stop by some shops on the walk back to pick up things to make for breakfast and once they’re inside Jon’s flat they quickly and silently put it all away. The fridge door and cabinets close with a thud and they’re alone, standing across the kitchen from each other.
“If you offer to make tea right now I swear…” Jon says, breaking the silence and Martin laughs.
“Wouldn’t dream of it. Let’s just sit on the couch.”
Jon nods and leads the way, though he waits for Martin to sit first. That’s so he can sit so close he’s practically on top of him.
“Want to put something on the tv?” Martin asks.
“No.”
“Alright. Good.” He puts his arms around Jon so there’s nothing practical about him being on top of him.
The overhead light shimmers, somewhere between fluorescents flickering and a stroke. Martin feels a moment of disorientation, only a moment.
He’s standing in the archives but his trousers are gone. As is his sweater. He’s in only boxer shorts and a t-shirt. There’s a corkscrew in his hand.
“Martin?” Jon says, voice soft.
“Jon, you’re still here?”
“I fell asleep. You wouldn’t mind… if there’s room…The tube isn’t running any more and...”
“Sleep on the camp bed with me?”
Jon sighs with relief. “Thank you.”
Martin puts away the corkscrew carefully, not too far out of reach from the bed. It’s not a comfortable place to sleep for one let alone two and he’s sure he’s doing his back permanent damage. He can’t complain though, when Jon yawns so cutely and curls up next to him. seemingly without a thought in the world. Martin thinks this is like something out of a dream.
Someone turns the lights back on.
Martin tells Jon the truth about his CV. Jon doesn’t care. He’s actually a little relieved.
Lights buzz and flicker and burn out. They hum even louder when they return.
Martin’s fallen asleep at his desk, woken up by Jon striding into the room. He looks awful. He’s got several new scars and his hair is too long now. Martin always loved his hair, he wants to smooth it out of his face, work out the tangles with his fingers.
“Martin. Martin I had to see you. I understand everything now. I know it all. Let me tell you what’s going on.”
Martin has his own suspicions about what is happening.
Lights flicker again, go all the way out, then back, too bright.
He’s in the hospital. It can’t be a fantasy because who would wish their love into a coma? He’s holding the hand of the man he loves. He feels the fingers curl in his palm, squeeze back. He looks up, not believing. Beyond the bandages and the respirator he sees Jon’s eyes, tired and barely open but awake and looking at him. They crinkle at the corners in an attempt to smile.
Lights flicker and go out.
Jon’s hands are on him, he knows they are Jon’s hands. Through the pain he knows it is him.
“Martin. It’s done. Can’t you feel it? It’s done. We can be free now.”
He whispers his name, so soft he clears his throat to say it again, they can’t read lips anymore. Before he can say anything he feels Jon’s mouth on his, softly kissing him, drawing focus from empty sockets. Jon. He knows him by taste and touch and smell. Knows the softness of his lips better than his own face. He reaches out, needing the press of all of him. He needs to feel something solid. And real.
Light comes in like a spike and envelops him in fog. Jon. His voice. It’s calling for him, calling for Martin. They find each other in the fog. Jon knows the way. The light is blinding.
Martin blinks and his eyes refocus. He’s standing outside the Archives. He’d got a cup of coffee in his hand. He’s going to be late for work.
Jon is already there of course.