Work Text:
Martin isn’t exactly what you’d call a social butterfly. He goes out enough to not be seen as a hermit, but finds comfort in his own loneliness.
Which is why his stomach twists when Sasha strolls over to his desk on a Friday afternoon while he works (plays minesweeper on his ancient computer), smile wide and some folders clutched in her arms.
“Busy tonight, Martin?” She asks.
“Um,” he responds. Eloquent as always. “No?”
She brightens. “Fab! Tim and I were going to order a kebab and go to mine, maybe have a few drinks? Rough week, y’know.”
Martin did know. In the few weeks he’s been in the archives it's been stacks upon stacks upon stacks of work, with a rather disapproving boss coming with them. Tim and Sasha seem to take Jon’s snippy attitude in their stride, rolling their eyes at his impatient requests and overall rudeness, but Martin can’t bring himself to do the same. He doesn’t exactly possess the same particular set of social skills they do, so instead tries to extend an olive branch through tea.
It goes as well as you’d expect, but he is nothing if not determined.
“Come about eight, okay?” Martin nods, and Sasha rests a free hand on his shoulder and squeezes lightly, her skin warm through his jumper. When she finally walks away, plimsolls thudding against the worn carpet, his eyes flicker towards the dusty clock on the wall.
Five hours until eight.
He can deal with that.
Sasha’s flat is nice - well, as nice as it can get on an institute wage and in London. It’s adorned with prints in rustic copper frames, a big worn sofa that you can just sink into (accompanied with handmade pillows). Her living room also seems to function as an office, what with the desk and bookshelf neatly set up in the corner. A welcome mat saying be nice or leave! in cursive greets Martin when he toes off his shoes and hangs his coat on a hook. The room smells of greasy food and indie rock is coming from the small kitchen at the back. Tim has made himself at home on the counter, beer in hand, and is peering over Sasha’s shoulder as she takes the portions of food from the plastic bag.
“Give me the box of chips that haven’t been near the cans of coke the whole time, then they won’t be as soggy- Martin!”
Martin gives a shy wave and slots himself into the cramped space that’s left. “I brought stella?” He offers, holding up a six pack.
“Mmm, I think Mr. Alcoholic over here has us covered on the drink front, but thank you,” Sasha says, turning around so her back is flush to the counter. She’s stuffing steaming hot chips in her mouth. It’s fogging up her large, round glasses. “Maybe Jon will have one or two, though.”
Martin freezes. “Jon?”
She rolls her eyes. “Supposedly. I asked him, but I’m pretty sure he’s gonna beg off. Too much work, obviously. But anyways!” She claps her hands together and bundles most of the food cartons in her arms. “Grab the whiskey?”
Moving almost in slow motion, Martin takes the bottle. Jon, willingly choosing to spend time with them outside of work. Him, especially? The thought makes his hands sweat.
The pair have placed most of Sasha’s pillows on the floor, an invitation to sit in a circle around the coffee table rather than her (tiny) dining table. They splay the spread of food onto it and begin to greedily tuck in without preamble. Martin does the same, albeit awkwardly.
“This garlic sauce is rank,” Tim says around a mouthful of donner meat. Martin huffs out a breathy laugh at his offended tone.
“I’ll be sure to move closer to a kebab shop that better suits your delicate sensibilities,” Sasha shoots back drily. She leans against the sofa and puts her legs in Tim’s lap, wiggling her toes contentedly. Tim passes his left hand over her shins absent-mindedly. Martin feels a strange tug in his chest at their natural closeness. “Make any headway on that Swain statement, Martin?”
Tim groans and tosses his head back dramatically. “No work talk, please? Christ, it’s as if Jo-”
There are two sharp knocks on the door.
“Speak of the devil. Come in!”
And there, in the doorway, looking very much not boss-like, is Jon. Martin has to blink a few times to make sure he’s not hallucinating.
“Tim. Sasha. Martin.” He’s a little uncomfortable, clearly, but has abandoned the jumper, tie and pressed trousers combo he favours day in, day out. He’s pulling off tight-laced black boots, which are paired with dark denim jeans, a loose fitting plaid shirt, and- a leather jacket?
Martin decides to crack open a can rather than offer a response. If he drinks, he can’t talk, and he’s afraid of what will come out if he does.
“Who are you and what have you done with our boss, hottie?”
“You’re fit! Like, proper fit!” Sasha gapes.
Jon scoffs. “Hardly. I just like to be comfortable when spending time with...co-workers, outside of the office.”
“You can say friends, Jon, it’s not gonna kill you.” Martin drinks faster.
Jon ignores Tim. "I was promised alcohol and minimal amounts of party games?"
“And food!” Sasha pipes up.
Tim hefts himself up from the floor to the kitchen, then returns to solemnly hand Jon a bottle of wine. "As per your request."
"Wow. A screw top bottle of echo falls. You spoil me," Jon says, as dry and flat as the plains of the Sahara.
"Only the best from bargain booze for the boss!"
Martin should say something, right? Start a conversation?
Before he’s even cleared his throat to push out some kind of greeting, Jon breezes past him to the kitchen, pulling down a wine glass from the cupboard as well as a plate. It's as if he owns the place. Has he visited before? Have they hung out before without Martin? No, he doesn't want to know. It's easier that way.
“As sure as I am that you’re all sufficiently hygienic, I’m not taking handfuls of meat and chips from the same carton all night, thank you.”
He settles in a cross-legged pose atop a pillow, methodically pouring his wine and using cutlery to portion out his dinner. Martin is...kind of fascinated. If he were being ridiculous, he’d say it was adorable. Jon is so small, if he pulled his legs close to his chest he could fit his whole body on the pillow. Apparently his bites are as small as he is, as he cuts his chips in half before primly dipping them in sauce.
“Apologies for being late. I was at the office. Damned statement was keeping me-”
“No, no, no, enough,” Tim interrupts, thoroughly exasperated. “If I even hear one more word about work, I swear I’ll blow my brains out. Next to mention anything about that institute has to drink.”
“I was promised no party games,” Jon points out.
“You were promised minimal party games,” Sasha throws back.
He holds up a hand in surrender. “Fair.”
The silence settles around them all weirdly. Martin realises, despite all of their banter, all they do is talk about work. Aside from Tim and Sasha, they were practically strangers. It had been, what, a month with them, and he didn’t even know the general area where they lived? Which bus route do they take to work?
“I like your jacket,” Martin offers, startling Jon. He looks like a deer in headlights.
“Thank you. It isn’t mine.”
He perks up. Maybe there’s a story there? “Oh? Whose is it?”
“An old friend’s.”
Jon fails to elaborate.
“Oookay. Good talk.”
Tim and Sasha are preoccupied with some funny video on Tim’s phone, enveloped in each other. Jon sips his wine delicately, Martin his beer, and they very pointedly do not speak. Jon takes off his jacket at some point. His shirt is a dark green. It matches his eyes.
Not that Martin looks into his eyes much.
If he were being hopeful, which he usually is, he would say Jon is steeling himself to say something. He keeps checking his phone, putting it in his pocket, mouthing something, deflating and going back to his food. Martin stubbornly waits. He said the jacket thing.
Tim and Sasha move onto another video, then they go to clear away some of the cartons and top up their drinks. Jon clears his throat for the third time in a minute.
“Martin, I was meaning to ask you about the Sw-”
“Nope! Nooooope! ” Tim yells from the kitchen. “Work talk! Work talkers drink!”
“You didn’t know I was going to talk about work,” Jon huffs, shoulders hunched.
“Yes I did. The Swain guy. Sasha already asked about it.” He and Sasha deposit themselves back on the floor, fresh drinks in hand.
“Sasha is a good employee.”
“Sasha is a bloody teacher’s pet is what she is.” That gains Tim a shove and his whiskey and coke spilling on the floor. “Drink time. Drinky drinky drink. Good boss,” he coos, dripping with condescension.
Jon’s mouth is a thin line, his face set in stone. If it were anyone but Tim they probably would’ve pissed themselves with fear by now. He’s grinning like a fool, eyes bright, then he begins slapping a steady rhythm on his thighs. Sasha accompanies him, just drunk enough to actually go along with whatever Tim is doing.
"Weeeee like to drink with Jooon- " He half-sings, half-chants.
"I hardly think chanting some dull thing from Secondary school is going to make me-" Jon says over the din of Tim’s bellows, it being cut short by Sasha’s higher voice.
"'Cos Jon is our mate, and when we drink with Jooon- "
Martin, fully feeling the effects of his beer now, barks out a laugh and finds himself joining in, his insistent slaps on the hardwood floor in time with his colleagues.
"He gets it down in eight -"
"Good Lord, Martin, not you too," Jon whines (well, as close as someone like him can get to a whine), his hand curling defensively around his glass.
“Seven! Six! Five! Four! Three! ”
Then, he actually concedes, to Martin’s shock, taking the glass in hand and draining the remainder of it. The long line of his throat is exposed while he swallows, and his mouth is glistening when he pulls away. He wipes a palm over it and rolls his eyes. “Happy?”
“Very,” Tim grins.
The night steadily gets fun from then on. Sasha and Tim match Jon drink for drink, leaving the three of them swaying on their feet (when they’re actually able to stand). Martin is happy to watch from the sidelines, barely making his way through three cans and only taking one shot with the rest of them.
"You're just lovely," Sasha coos, loose and honest from the drink. She’s sitting in Martin’s lap, stroking his face. Her and Tim have always been generous and unashamed with their affection, clapping a hand on Martin's shoulder or touching the small of his back. It feels nice, sometimes. For a touch to come without the pain shortly after. "Isn't he just lovely, Jon?" She winds a finger around one bright red curl.
Jon scrunches his nose, and Martin is very briefly reminded of a rabbit. A scrawny, grumpy rabbit, but still. “He’s...alright.”
Sasha lets out a rather dramatic wail and drapes herself over Martin, burying her face into his neck. “Why are you so mean to our Martin, Jon?”
“Yeah, boss,” Tim chimes in, crouching beside the cuddle pile and nuzzling up against Martin’s side. “You’re the meanest .”
Martin feels warm, and loved, and there’s just enough alcohol in his system that his mouth feels like it's stuffed with cotton wool, so he blurts out, “Yeah, Jon, why are you so mean to me?”
There’s a chorus of oooohs from his colleagues, and Jon’s eyes widen in surprise. As if he didn’t expect Martin to have a backbone. Well, he does. So there. Before he can be smug about it, push it just a little bit more than he would if sober, Jon schools his expression into something more distinctly unimpressed. He takes a swig of his wine and points his finger accusingly at Martin.
"You." He narrows his eyes, leaving dark black slits. "Fired." There’s not much malice in it, but Martin sputters anyway.
"You." Next is Tim. "Definitely fired."
"And you. " Sasha beams, bright and self assured. "You're on thin ice."
"Ha! Favourite! I knew it."
“I don’t have favourites.”
“Liar. Liars have to drink.” Tim taunts.
Jon sighs, loud and dramatic, and throws back more wine, leaving a little sloshing around at the bottom of the bottle. “There has to be some kind of company policy against this.”
“Nope! No more work talk, remember? Anyways, you better not be recording this, boss man. We're off the clock."
Jon rolls his eyes. "I would never- Tim."
"Just check-ing," Tim sing-songs, rummaging through Jon's jacket carefully draped over the back of the sofa. "A-ha! Got you." He triumphantly holds up a tape recorder.
Jon looks genuinely bewildered. "I didn't-"
Tim straightens his posture and adjusts invisible glasses. He clears his throat. "Statement regarding Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist and all around uptight dickhead." His own affectations have been replaced by Jon's own, all perfect enunciation and lofty tone. "Subject seems…slightly less intolerable in social situations." He's pacing back and forth, observing Jon like a specimen, much to Martin and Sasha's delight. "Whether he can dislodge that giant stick from his arse remains to be seen. Will give the subject more wine and assess in a few hours."
“That’s institute property,” Jon snaps, cheeks flushed with embarrassment. He’s hiding a smile behind his hand, Martin is sure of it.
“You’re institute property,” Tim returns. “And who do we have here?” He stage whispers, “Why, it’s Martin Blackwood. Resident tea maker and poet extraordinaire. He seems to be in line for employee of the month, what with all that hard work knocking over files and letting dogs into the Archives.” Martin swats at his shins, embarrassed.
Tim makes a beeline for Sasha, who has dislodged herself from Martin’s lap and is at the other end of the room. He crouches next to her, a hair’s breadth away from her face.
"Sasha James , archival assistant who probably should've been Head Archivist-"
"Probably?!"
"... definitely should've been Head Archivist. Subject is smart, funny, and way too capable to be working with her aforementioned colleagues." Tim hums and makes a circle around the living room. "Her single flaw? The undying love she has for Timothy Stoker. Rather embarrassing, really, and a HR debacle waiting to happen."
"Oh, piss off." Sasha throws a pillow at his head, which lands with a soft "oof” and leaves Tim sprawled out on the floor.
Then Jon laughs. Honest to god, laughs. It’s a brief thing, sharp and harsh, as if it's been pulled out of him against his will. But it's there. It makes something warm flare up in the pit of Martin’s stomach.
The more Jon drinks, the more the laugh occurs, even at Tim’s ridiculous outbursts. There’s a red flush on his high cheekbones, the looseness of his shirt is exposing bare, dark skin when he leans back on his elbows. Martin swallows and tries not to let his gaze linger for too long. But it doesn’t matter really, because he’s good at being an observer rather than being observed. People tend not to notice. Jon never notices, never puts all his attention onto him, unless he’s doing something wrong.
Until.
Until-
Jon takes another swig from the bottle, eyes wide. At some point he’d decided that Martin was worthy of this certain stream of consciousness. “It was one of the largest libraries in the world. The pinnacle of knowledge. And it just crumbled.” Jon’s face seemed to crumble with it, God, was he going to cry? “It didn’t even all burn immediately, it just didn’t get enough funding during the Roman period. They let it die. Martin, Martin, are you listening? All that knowledge. Gone. Poof.” He makes a small explosion noise and gestures emphatically. “Fuck Julius Caesar.”
Martin nods solemnly. “Fuck Julius Caesar.” He clinks their bottles together in solidarity. They’re in a comfortable silence, now, Jon having shuffled closer as the night progressed. He was less co-worker, more friend. Not like, a friend friend, but someone you could text if you needed a lift after you’ve rang your first five emergency numbers. Better than nothing.
Jon is tracing the lip of his bottle with one spindly finger, contemplating something. It’s strangely hypnotising.
"I...I would like to apologise," he grits out finally, making Martin jump. "I just- what Tim said earlier is correct, Sasha should have taken Gertrude's place. I am nowhere near as qualified as her, and if I'm to take the job she rightly deserves, I'm damn well going to make sure I do it perfectly.” He looks over at their two colleagues dancing drunkenly in the kitchen to some cheesy pop song. “I hold myself to a high standard, so I can project that onto others sometimes. When I see you- being kind of...ah…"
"A bumbling idiot?"
Jon flushes deeply. "Not quite. Regardless, your...minor missteps are inconsequential to the important work at hand, and I shouldn't scold you for it. For that, I am deeply sorry. Sasha is right. You are...just lovely." He finishes lamely. He steadfastly does not look Martin in the eye. Probably best, because Martin can't seem to close his mouth from the shock of the whole thing. Jon, apologising? To him? With a compliment to boot? His jaw clicks shut firmly when Jon raises the wine bottle to his lips.
"Thank Christ we're both drunk enough to forget this in the morning," he mumbles around the rim.
Martin does not say he hasn’t had anywhere near enough alcohol to warp his memory to save Jon the embarrassment. Even if it were, he wouldn't be able to dispel the sight of his boss right now - disheveled, loose, kind. His hair is falling out of its hasty updo, strands of dark brown and grey spilling from the tie and down his neck. Martin doesn't stare, but he doesn't try to look away either. He shakes the fog from his mind, just in time to soak in Jon’s words.
“I’m talking too much, God, sorry, what...what are your interests? I’d like to know.” Now he's pulling the tie out of his hair, letting it fall loose around him. It looks soft. Martin's tongue feels thick and useless in his mouth.
“Me? Uhm, I guess I like poetry? I got the complete works of Shakespeare not so long ago, too. That’s cool.” Martin cringes internally. His interests seem dull in comparison to Jon’s niche and fascinating topics of conversation.
Jon grimaces. "Never had the stomach for Shakespeare, myself. Despite my small stint as an 'actor' at Oxford."
"An actor? "
He waves a hand dismissively then rests his chin onto his folded arms, sinking into the sofa. "A few plays with other students. I didn't really want to do it, was more pushed into it. Apparently I was perfect for it. Can't think why."
Martin snorts. "I don't know if you've noticed, Jon, but you're pretty dramatic. You spend your days in a dark room monologuing into a tape recorder, for crying out loud."
Jon's mouth turns up slightly at the corners. "I suppose you're right. Just this once." His tone is light, teasing, and his words are slurred from the wine. Martin notes with a delayed panic that Jon is moving closer, his eyes half lidded and a small smile on his face.
"Do you- are you- d'you want a blanket? You look kind of...sleepy."
"Mmm," Jon replies, which isn't much of an answer. He mumbles something else.
"What was that?"
"No. 's warm. You're warm. Hot water bottle."
"Oh," Martin croaks out. He's hyper aware of the contact, now. Jon's knees are poking into his thigh, his right elbow hovering near his arm. His hair is tickling Martin's skin, and lo and behold, it is soft.
He is shockingly sober all of a sudden.
“Maybe that blanket would be good for you, actually, since I should be going…” he trails off. Jon is practically asleep. The floor is also dreadfully uncomfortable, so, without considering all of the godawful ways this could go wrong, he scoops him up in his arms. Jon snuggles into his chest. He smells of coconut body wash and his fingers brush against Martin’s shirt. The frames of Jon's glasses are digging into him. It’s - intimate. Almost too much. His throat is tight and it's so overwhelming for a quick transition from floor to sofa. Martin lets out a small sigh of relief when Jon barely stirs. The blanket on the back of the seat is draped over his small frame. It's practically swallowing him.
Tim and Sasha are moving around each other with practised ease in the kitchen, bottles clinking and being placed in the recycling bin by the fridge. Martin raps a fist on the counter gently to get their attention.
“That was sweet,” Tim says, only teasing a little.
Martin laughs shyly. "He kind of weighs...nothing."
Sasha snorts and nods towards the Jon shaped lump. "He looks like a baby bird."
They all cast their eyes over to the sofa where Martin placed Jon, and his mouth twitches up into a small smile. The soft grey blanket covers him completely, with only his head and the tips of his socked feet showing. His face is mashed against the plush cushions and lacking the bored expression he usually schools it into. Without all of that worry, and terseness, and suspicion, it takes about ten years off of him. He's the complete opposite of Martin. He uses every inch of himself to suggest power and authority, despite his minute stature. He could - and does - scare people twice his size. But Martin? He makes himself as small as possible, relishes the shadows and silence most, hunches over to hide his frame and be as accommodating as possible. Maybe that's why he's so intimidated by Jon. He's unashamed of being seen.
"You look knackered. You can stay here, if you want? Kick Jon off the sofa," Sasha offers.
Martin grimaces at the prospect of waking up in the same room as Jon tomorrow, hungover and hating him again. "Nah, I'll get a taxi. Thanks, Sash."
Sasha kisses him softly on the cheek, followed by Tim giving him a decidedly sloppier kiss on the forehead. "Text when you get home?"
He makes an affirmative noise and goes for his coat, already bracing himself for the brisk, grating cold outside. Just as his hand grips the door handle, he hears a soft, disgruntled noise from the sofa behind him.
Jon has moved in his sleep, letting the blanket slip from his shoulders. He's shivering already, for God's sake, and Martin's nurturing instincts take over and he's already rushing over to tuck him in again, firmly pressing the blanket around his shoulders and into his sides.
He's so small under his hands. It makes Martin tremble.
"Goodnight, Jon," he whispers, barely audible to even himself. He steps away, and finally, finally, steps out into the chill, lets it seep into his thin coat and his feet and his bones.
He hails a taxi.
He does not think about Jonathan Sims.
Monday morning is normal.
Martin doesn't know what he expected, but he's disappointed regardless.
Jon is already holed up in his office, only lit by an orange glow that emanates from his old lamp (which Gertrude owned for a good few decades). The office itself is filled with Tim and Sasha's bickering and chatter, a comforting soundtrack to accompany the click clack of his computer keyboard.
Jon's deep, confident voice, dripping with scepticism and a little bit of disdain, drifts through the room every so often. There isn't as much vigor in it today, though. Martin almost misses the cadence that came with the slippery slope of too much wine - Jon didn't bother to sound so sharp and authoritative that night. He dropped his Ts often without thinking, his vocabulary erring on the side of normal instead of pretentious.
Martin is well aware that he can't be criticising his boss of all people for being a professional, especially since he's only seen him outside of work once , but...
He liked that side of Jon. He'd stopped playing a role for one night, so to speak. More rounded edges than hard corners. He was someone he could be friends with, someone he could confide in, someone he could eventually, maybe-
Well. He's content to put that small piece of information to the back of his brain for a long, long time.
"Maaaaaartin," Tim drawls, long and grating. He bends backwards so he's looking at him from his chair. "Tea time? Pretty please?"
Martin glances at the clock. Right. 11am. Too lost in his own thoughts. "Sure, yeah. Sorry."
Tim grins. "I'm a lucky, lucky man. Maybe I'll even put out for you tonight, dearest."
"I'm deciding I have selective deafness and am choosing not to hear that," Sasha says loudly. "Honey and lots of milk for me, please?"
Orders taken, Martin hums and busies himself around the kitchen. Lots of stray mugs on the counters that tend to pile up when you have co-workers obsessed with caffeine. Most have obnoxious slogans or quirky patterns that he occasionally picks up in charity shops when they make him smile, and usually when he has someone in mind. His are usually pastoral landscapes or animal themed (they sit comfortably in the cupboards, away from the bustle and mess of the others). The spoon tinks a comforting rhythm against the ceramics, the kettle bubbles happily.
Lots of milk, spoonful of honey.
A splash of milk, three sugars.
Enough milk to make the brew the colour of a werther's original, one sugar.
His, Tim's and Sasha's mugs sit proudly, steaming and ready.
Martin pauses.
He grabs the mug that says tears of my employees, and smiles to himself.
No milk, two sugars.
The pair let out a collective sigh when Martin hands out their drinks, both of them sinking low into their rickety desk chairs.
"You're a saint," Sasha moans. "Never leave us."
“Wasn’t planning on it!”
The contents of Jon’s mug are sloshing around in Martin’s tight fisted grip. Is he shaking? Is that weird? It probably is.
He raps quietly on the office door three times and clears his throat. Jon's rapid speech peters out and is followed by a sharp "come in."
"Sorry, I just...tea?" Martin offers, holding out the mug.
Jon sets down his tape recorder and exhales shortly from his nose. "If you could perhaps wait until I've stopped recording before interrupting, please?" He looks put upon and tired, as always. There's a distinct furrow between his brows that almost never dissipates. Martin wants to smooth it out, fuss a little, tell Jon to chill out, please. Instead he just sets the mug next to the abandoned recorder.
"I know, I know, but everyone else was having tea and you sound kind of, I dunno, extra tired today? That's a lot, even for you, and maybe this will perk you up? Plus I didn't want you to feel left out, this is your workplace too," he babbles, wanting to stuff the words back in his mouth like a magician does handkerchiefs up a trick sleeve.
"I'm aware that I do, in fact, work here too," Jon snipes, but there's little malice in it. His face softens, and he looks up at Martin from his chair, so small but so, so impressive, and the wind is knocked out of him for a second. "But thank you, Martin. I needed this."
His lashes fan out against his dark skin when his eyes flutter shut as he takes a long, deep drink and actually ahhhs in satisfaction. The tightness in his shoulders seems to loosen, and Martin gives himself a mental pat on the back.
"Lovely," Jon sighs, running his tongue over his lower lip. Martin reddens at the word.
Just lovely.
It's then that he realises that he's been staring at his boss drinking for a ridiculous amount of time, and said boss is looking right at him. He quirks a brow. "Anything else?"
"Oh, what? Um...no! Tea. Just the tea." Martin nearly trips over a full stack of manila folders in his haste to leave the confined space, Jon's silence speaking for itself.
"Enjoy!" He squeaks, before promptly and inelegantly slamming the door.
The brightness of his computer is, unfortunately, beckoning him to his work on a statement, and he settles back into mundanity like a familiar - if not scratchy - blanket.
He opens up a file.
He drinks his tea.
He chats with his friends.
(He thinks about Jonathan Sims, just a little bit.)