Work Text:
Jon knows better; it’s unacceptable and unprofessional. Not that anything at the Magnus Institute has been acceptable or professional since before he moved from research. He reminds himself of all his job has taken from him—how it continues to break his skin, his sleep schedule, his peace of mind. He tells himself that he spends more hours working than not. Spends more hours trying to stay alive for god’s sake! And that if he’s found something that brings him even a morsel of comfort, his morals can bugger off.
Before he can lose his nerve, Jon starts typing into his phone.
**
“Hi there” Martin says in the softest sweetest voice Jon has ever heard. “Do you have an appointment for today?”
Jon nods his head, face slack. Ridiculous puddle of a human he’s already become.
“You have? Wonderful.” Martin smiles warm and bright and Jon leans into it like a sunflower following daylight. His nose is nearly pressed to the little screen cradled in his palm. “Follow me, we’ll get you all situated and I’ll be back in minute to take care of you”
Jon finds himself sitting in the back room while Martin shuffles through a cabinet looking for something. He can’t draw his eyes away from how Martin is touching the objects he encounters. He’s achingly gentle—with everything--greeting each item as a cherished friend with his fingertips. Jon can hear papers, the soft tinkling of metal, and then the crinkle of heavy plastic. The material is hollow and resonant. Jon may actually be drooling.
“Here we are” Martin coos. He turns around and starts to unfold the black material in his hands.
As he approaches he explains “I’m just going to place this around your neck so we keep your outfit clean” Tentative, he lays the bib out on Jon’s lap. His hands smooth the material over Jon’s shoulders and adjust the collar to cover his shirt. Everywhere Martin touches brings that delightful crinkling and makes Jon’s skin turn goose flesh. Then Martin walks out of sight behind Jon’s chair and ties the ends of the cape together. Jon closes his eyes so he can hear better. He imagines Martin’s fingers bristling against the hairs at the back of his neck.
Martin comes back around, still smiling like he means it. (After everything how can he still mean it?) And then with an incongruous intimacy for their relationship as barber and client, Martin brings his hand up to Jon’s face. He brushes the knuckles of his fingers against Jon’s temple, his thumb smoothing down Jon’s eyebrow. The fizzling that blooms and spreads from Jon’s shoulder blades convinces him to forgive the strangeness of Martin’s gesture in the context of his storytelling.
(A little voice in Jon’s head can’t help but wonder if Martin was thinking of him. Whether Martin would touch him with the same reverence if he asked. Jon has his suspicions about the way Martin feels. Which is, more than anything, what tips Jon’s behavior from moral grey area to definitively not okay.)
“I’m going to step out and get my supplies. Did you want a straight shave or just a regular cartridge razor?”
Cartridge, please cartridge he wants to say. He can’t handle anything that looks like a knife near his neck. Not even if it’s Martin, not even if it’s pretend. He can find another video if he has to, but—
“Just a regular, modern shave today? Perfect. I’ll be right back.” And with a soothing touch to his arm, Martin is stepping out of the room.
Jon lets out the breath he didn’t realize he was holding. He thinks of Martin clutching a corkscrew under his pillow as he laid down for bed so many nights in the archives. And supposes Martin might want as little to do with sharp implements as Jon after their encounter with Prentiss.
Martin comes back carrying a tray with a bowl of steaming water, a towel, a smaller bowl of shaving cream with a face brush, and a plastic razor. He sets the tray gingerly on the table to his side and begins by dipping the towel in the water and wringing it out until its just damp. “I’m going to wet your face a little before I apply the shaving cream” he continues to narrate in sotto voce “I made sure the water was warm so that it doesn’t shock your skin and close your pores.” He’s still wringing out the cloth, the water making trickling noises as it returns to the basin.
“In fact, it should feel quite nice. Like taking a steamy bath or wrapping up in a nice, warm blanket.” Martin touches the cloth to Jon’s cheek, patting the skin slowly. He can hear the loops of the towel’s thread prickle as they meet and lift from his skin with Martin’s motions. Then he’s taking two fingers and placing them under Jon’s chin, “Up a little bit?”
Jon complies on the other side of the screen and Martin gives his neck the same delicate treatment. (For someone to touch Jon delicately. He genuinely cannot remember the last time someone touched him with care, let alone fondness.)
Martin replaces the towel to the tray and picks up the bowl containing the shave brush and cream. He puts two fingers to Jon’s jaw in order to steady and guide his motions. Along with the sounds of the lather being spread, Martin is making these little noises with his mouth. Sort of a gentle tsking to match the circular motions of his hand. He then moves to Jon’s side to lather near his ear. At least that’s what it sounds like as Martin hums contentedly, so close to his skin he can practically feel Martin exhale.
He gives Jon’s other side and neck the same treatment. Jon finds himself getting lost in the hypnotic swirling of the shave brush. His eyes are getting heavy but he doesn’t want to miss anything that’s happening. He doesn’t want to sleep through Martins soft chatter or the way he attends to his work.
That is of course what Martin does at the Institute as well—attends to Jon. However, while he’s wrapped up in statements Jon’s almost never in the right mindset to appreciate it. And Martin would never be this intimate with him at work. Because that would be inappropriate, Jon chastises himself.
On rare occasion, Martin will place a mug of tea just right on the coaster or absentmindedly align papers on Jon’s desk and send a rush of tingles and guilt down Jon’s neck.
Eventually Martin replaces the brush back into the foamy cup with a clink, exchanging it for the razor. “Could you tilt your head up and to that corner for me please?” he asks, hand hovering just shy of touching his cheek. “Perfect.” Then Martin is bringing the blade down on his skin in light, confident strokes. He dips the head of the razor back into the bowl of water every couple of passes.
How does he get these sounds? Jon wonders to himself as he listens to the blade glide across his cheek. He imagines Martin crowded into his microphone, shaving his own face and holding his breath so it isn’t picked up on the recording. Then he imagines Martin making a recording on cassette. Perhaps reading a statement in that soothing tone he uses in his videos. Jon’s frankly not sure how he feels about that so he tucks the thought away for another day.
He’s also in awe of the way the audio syncs with Martin’s hand. He thinks about how much time it must have taken to edit the sound of blade stroke to match the video. It’s so convincing that Jon finds himself lulled yet again, eyes gone heavy under the soothing repetition of Martin’s movements.
**
When he blinks his eyes open, Martin is applying aftershave to his face and whispering some tip or other about skin care.
“—although you do have a great complexion.” Martin compliments, “I can tell you take care of yourself.” Jon snorts but can’t tear his eyes away for the accompanying eye roll because Martin’s hand is brushing stray hairs from his temple.
Before Jon leaves Martin says he has a gift for him and comes back with a gossamer bag of cosmetics. He’s crinkling the fabric and petting at each product as he points to them, sending Jon into another delightful fit of shivers. It’s so good that when Martin finishes, Jon wants to ask him to explain it all again. Until Jon remembers that he can, in fact, rewind the video and does just that. (It’s just as good the second time round.)
“It was lovely to see you today and I do hope you’ll come back soon” Martin says still beaming, giving Jon a look that makes his chest clench. “Have a nice night. Sweet dreams.” The image fades out with Martin blowing a kiss to the camera.
Jon puts down his phone and finds his mind pliant, willing toward sleep. He knows if he lays his head down on the desk he will be able to drift off in a matter of moments. So he scoots his chair back, pillows his face with his arms and remembers the imagined touch of Martin’s hand against his cheek as sleep blessedly overtakes him.