Work Text:
The tiny printed words on the statement Jon held in his hand seemed to swim on the page as he attempted to read it for the third time in as many minutes. Throwing in the towel, he slid it back into its folder beside the scraps of research and notes Martin left behind when he finally succumbed to the flu Sasha saw fit to spread to the staff before disappearing presumably to recover in peace. A persistent headache resistant to even a staggering amount of paracetamol rested just behind his eyes and Jon removed his glasses, folding them beside the copious paperwork, and let his forehead rest on folded arms.
He was, quite frankly. Knackered.
But there was too much left unanswered to not keep working and Jon would be damned if he allowed a little exhaustion to get in the way of figuring out what the hell was going on. Martin would be back soon and hopefully so would Sasha and until then he would pick up the slack. The sound of footsteps drew his attention and he reluctantly turned his head towards the window in the door, tensing when a Tim-shaped shadow paused for a few seconds before walking on and releasing the breath he was holding in a shaky sigh.
It wasn’t a secret, Tim’s dislike of him, and rather than invite his ire, Jon opted to slog through the work from his ill assistants himself. He’d pulled all nighters before, this was no different and it wouldn’t be much longer, he was sure of it. So lost in thought, Jon didn’t notice the footsteps again until Tim’s bulk was all but blocking the light sifting through the frosted glass. Even with that barrier between them, Jon could tell he was upset, shoulders set stiff, his voice slipped through and it was like he was trying to convince himself of something. Eyes wide when the door knob began to turn, Jon scrambled to sit up straight and look presentable before Tim’s cold presence filled the small office.
“Evening, Tim.”
“Haven’t you been home?” Jon forced himself to stay calm despite the scorn in his tone. There was a time. Before.
Well, that was over now.
“Ah, uh. D’didn’t seem worth it.” Mumbled as he gestured at the piles of research, confused when myriad conflicting emotions flew across Tim’s face and settled on weary indifference.
“Why didn’t you--” Tim shook his head. “You know what. Nevermind. Work yourself into the desk.” The slamming of the door and the rattling of the glass reverberated in Jon’s skull, and he groaned, letting his head fall again.
“Night, Tim.”
Groggy, Jon swallowed around the desert in his mouth, coughing roughly into his elbow. Sleeping on his desk hadn’t been a good plan of action at all and if anything his headache was worse than before. Coffee. Tea. Whichever they had in the breakroom. And some more painkillers. He’d been foolish not to drink much of anything before and was certainly suffering for it now, staggering woozily into the rickety shelves against the wall and kissing a box of organized files goodbye as they spilled all over the floor. All he could do was blink dumbly at the new tile job he’d done, stepping carefully over the mess when he felt like he had a better grasp on which direction was up. When was the last time he’d eaten? Thankfully, with everyone either sick or avoiding him, Jon was able to take his time limping to the breakroom and preparing the tea he’d found. He added a generous spoonful of honey, feeling luxurious today, and closed his eyes against just how good the sweet, hot drink felt on his aching throat.
“You look shite.” The disdain was palpable and Jon swallowed around the clot of sorrow. He wouldn’t cry in front of him. He would not.
“Thank you, Tim.”
“Sound it too.” He couldn’t argue, instead finishing up his tea and setting about washing the mug. “Martin keeps telling me to check on you.”
“I’m doing just fine.” He braced himself on the counter.
“Clearly.” Dry.
“You can tell Martin and be on your way. I don’t want to keep you.” He met Tim’s narrowed eyes much more confidently than he felt, wishing he’d kept the mug so he’d have something to do with his hands.
“Tch.”
The day did not go up from there. Jon felt increasingly chilled, even bundled up in everything he could find. The files were still all over his floor and he couldn’t make himself care enough to do anything about it when he could barely lift his chin off his chest.
“Maybe. Maybe a, a lie down.” He took with him the bottle of water he’d been nursing (Martin would be proud and making him proud had climbed to the top of his priority list without him noticing) and the half empty bottle of paracetamol, having to lean heavily on the wall to even make it to the room that held the cot. The whole of him ached fiercely, like his joints were full of glass dust and he was stumbling through a brush fire, and by the time he arrived he had to admit that he was possibly, probably, ill. “Fan’fantastic.” Oh, he couldn’t pinpoint a time in his life when he felt this poorly. He was shaking too hard to get a grip on the cap, cursing children and their child safety, and ended up sending a handful of pills skittering across the floor. He salvaged four, swallowing them dry, and when he coughed, struggled again to open the water bottle only to spill most of it he sobbed. Frustrated, Jon felt tears spring to his eyes when faced with cleaning up the mess he’d made because all he was good for was making a mess of things and this was why he was alone because he deserved to be that way. He forced down the remaining water, scrubbed his forearm roughly against his face, and collapsed sideways, tossing and turning in increasingly vain attempts to get comfortable and only making himself nauseous. He couldn’t get up again. He didn’t want to be sick, instead leaning over the edge of the cot, Jon pressed his face to the cool tile of the floor, breath slow and measured, trying to focus on settling down. God, is this what Martin was having to go through? He should’ve checked on him. Why didn’t he think to check on him? Should. He should do that now. What if he needed help? He should help.
With numb fingers he fumbled for his phone, hissing through his teeth at the sharp stab of pain the bright screen lighting up caused. It was difficult to work the buttons with only one hand, when his contacts list, laughably small, wavered like a disturbed pond but. Each letter felt like a small miracle. But, if Martin was this poorly he shouldn’t, couldn’t be left alone.
mm artin, jut chdcking in hkw fj you ffele?
He knew he’d misspelled several things but had no more energy to contemplate trying a second time. Pressing send was already too much effort as it was and jamming his device back into the pocket he freed it from was out of the question. He wanted to wait for Martin’s response, felt the worry filling him up, choking him, but the phone slipped from his enervated fingers when his eyes slid closed and he finally fell into blissful darkness.
The notification blinked across the top of his screen and Tim ignored it for the third consecutive time, maintaining focus on the game instead of bothering with whatever Martin wanted. He’d checked on the guy and he was on his feet so job done. Martin calling however was a sight bit harder to ignore and he sighed heavily, rolling his eyes before picking up.
“Tim!” He sounded mostly back to normal at least, feeling better if the energy behind his shouting was any indication. “Tim. Are you listening to me?”
“Yeah, yeah, I’m listening.” Sort of.
“You need to find Jon. S’s’something is wrong.”
“I saw him earlier, he’s fine.” Mostly.
“Tim.” The noise over the line was a cross between frustration and anger. “Tim. He’s not. Please. I’m going to call a cab.”
“No, Martin. I’ll find him. Stay there and I’ll call you back in a tick.” Trust even Jon to cause trouble from another room. He wasn’t in the kitchen, nor was he in his office and the disorderly files littering the ground did send a pang of uneasiness through him. “Jon?” He wasn’t in the stacks and Tim began searching each hallway in earnest, finally considering that he may actually be sleeping and all but ran to storage, throwing the door wide and almost falling to his knees in shock. “J’Jon??” The pills. The water. Martin was right. Something was so, so wrong. “Jon!” When he didn’t move, Tim dropped to the floor, ignoring the medication he crushed to powder under his shoes.
He said he’d call Martin. He needed. He needed to call. 999?
Taking a deep breath and bracing himself for the worst, Tim lifted Jon’s upper body from the floor, exhaling the breath he was holding in a rush when he moaned, brow creasing. He cradled him against his knee to run his fingers through Jon’s loose, sweat-damp hair so he could see his deeply flushed face.
“You’re burning up, boss.” Murmuring absently, Tim let his hand rest on his forehead. Martin. He shifted enough to sit on the edge of the cot, Jon still halfway in his lap, completely out of it, and dialed.
“Tim?”
“You were right.” Tim sighed. “He’s down with what looks like your flu.”
“It wasn’t mine.” Barely audible muttering drifted through the speaker. “How is he?”
“I think. I could use some help here. If you’re feeling up to it.” He looked down. He had yet to remove his hand. Jon had yet to wake up. “He’s, he’s bad off.”
“Should you call A&E?” Martin’s voice went quiet at the same time the hazy brown of Jon’s eyes became visible through fluttering lashes.
“He seems to be coming awake on his own. Uh, see you in?”
“Fifteen.” And disconnected the line.
“Jon?” In response he coughed and it rattled in his narrow chest painfully.
“We, we, w’we’ll need to find a replacement.” Despite all that happened between them, Jon’s strange, slurred words made something in Tim’s chest ache and he laid his palm along the length of his feverish cheek.
“A replacement for what?” Fitfully, Jon turned his head, hiding his eyes from the light in Tim’s shirt and swallowing painfully.
“Teakettle’s.” The wheezing, struggling pull for air wasn’t good. “I’it’s gone walkabout.”
Oh dear.
“Martin’s on his way.” Thank god. “He’ll know what to do, just relax.” This was it, his brain was melting. “We need to cool you down.”
“N’no. M’already cold.” Shivering, like he had to prove it, the whine in his refusal was almost, dare he say it. Endearing. If only because this was so far on the opposite end of his usual spectrum and he was so poorly. “Tim?” Why did he have to be so talkative now?
“Yeah, boss?” Gently he eased Martin’s scarf from around his neck and for someone so oblivious of his own infatuation, Jon clearly had it bad for the man if he’d resorted to stealing Martin’s clothes for comfort.
“If you--stop.” Tim was able to bat Jon’s uncoordinated hands away from where he was working on the buttons of his jacket until the man forgot what he was doing. “If you were a beetle…” Despite himself, Tim couldn’t help but chuff. He should record this. It was gold.
“Yeah, boss?” Pressing his fumbling fingers down again, squeezing lightly.
“What would y’do with your extra legs.” When Tim laughed, easing Jon’s arms out of the sleeves, the archivist frowned so very seriously. “S’for research, Tim.” He shivered again, shaking delicately all over now. Of course there would be a sweater under here. No wonder he was boiling. “Tim?” This time he whimpered.
“Yeah, boss?” And Jon’s voice was the smallest, most broken thing.
“Don’t. I think. Think m’not well.”
“Understatement of the year, I’m afraid.” He heard his breath hitch when he tugged the sweater over his head to find him in his vest.
“Tim?”
“Yeah, boss?” To his dismay, tears slipped down his cheeks into the already sweat damp hair at his temples. Tim didn’t remember there being so much grey.
“M’sorry.” Lips pressed together in a trembling line. “M’so. So sorry.” Now wasn’t the time for this. Where was Martin? Martin who was so much better at this than he was. Who still worried about the man trembling in his lap.
“S’alright, Jon.”
“Tim?” Speak of the devil, Martin swung around the door frame, panting, having evidently run from the cab. “He looks really bad.” He unbundled himself, reaching into the bag he’d brought for a thermometer, passing it off to Tim and unpacking the rest of his supplies which included a thermos of tea. Because Martin. Soft and sure, he brushed his fingers through Jon’s flyaways, smoothing them out of his face. “I’ve brought some Lemsip. Christ, he’s so much worse than I was--what’s it say?”
“39.5. Never anything by halves.” Martin visibly relaxed.
“High, but not dangerous and he’s no doubt miserable. The medicine will help.” He knelt beside them, fixing a smile upon his face. “Hullo, Jon.”
“Y’should be resting.” He seemed confused to see him, limp and pliable when Martin switched places with Tim and knuckled away his tears.
“I will once I’ve seen to you, alright? We both will. Take these for me?” Clumsy, Jon followed his directions, even downing the tea without complaint, and Tim admired Martin’s control of their strong willed, idiot coworker, wished he still felt that easy around him. Martin was petting back his hair and Jon was struggling to stay awake, slightly cross-eyed and basically staring, besotted, at Martin’s face. “How’re you feeling?”
“N’need to.” Jon blinked hard. “Tell.”
“Hush,” he soothed, “whatever it is can wait.” But Jon shook his head, insistent.
“Queen of Egypt melted, ‘nd I’ll say that ye may love in spite of beaver hats.” The hell? Martin’s eyes went wide at his nonsensical rambling and Tim began sputtering.
“Was that part of a statement? Is he going all,” Tim wiggled his fingers for emphasis. “Spooky?”
Martin shook his head, clamping down on what appeared to be laughter as Jon finally slipped sideways into sleep.
“He just recited Keats. I am never letting him live that down.” It was Tim’s turn to laugh.
“You dunno the half of it, Marto.”
After tucking Jon in and cleaning up the mess he’d made earlier; only paracetamol, he’d probably felt ill but spilled the bottle in such a state, Martin checked his temperature again and found it lower.
“How’re you doing, Tim?” They were tidying the files Jon had knocked off his shelf earlier and even though Martin had given him an out, he found he wanted to help. He’d been scared earlier, finding him like that, and all the animosity between them unresolved made it worse. They were friends once. And like Martin said, Jon was going through things right along with them.
“Tired.”
“Thank you, for staying with him until I could get here.” Martin tapped together a neat stack of folders. “I know.” He sighed. “Well. I know.”
“He took over all your paperwork, so I owed him one.”
“Of course he did.” He began grumbling to himself about fools and their tendencies to not use their brains, compiling reports much more aggressively than before and it was Tim’s turn to shake his head because Martin.
He had it just as bad.