Chapter Text
Martin might not know much about his new coworkers, but something about Sasha and Tim, arms wrapped around each other and grinning proudly, felt entirely familiar. The only odd part was the campervan they were standing in front of which was a garish shade of yellow to match what they had apparently decided to wear as an odd version of a couple’s outfit.
Martin didn’t like to judge people as a general rule, but on this occasion it was entirely warranted. He found Tim’s bright yellow jeans particularly awful, though the smiling cartoon suns on Sasha’s shirt were a close contender.
“We’re going on a research trip ordered by the Head of the Institute in… that?” Jon said, gingerly touching the side of the cab as if the colour could infect him. A familiar sneer graced his face as he studied it, looking for all the world as if it was the most horrible thing he’d ever seen.
“It's a family heirloom, Jon!” Sasha said in mock-indignation, leaning against Tim with a comfortable grin, “In that Tim and I are a family, and it’s old.”
“Not as old as your car though!” Tim added gleefully. His yellow tie was nearly fluorescent in the sun, and Martin found himself more focused on it than the brewing argument. If he was being honest with himself, which he never liked to be, that was probably for the best.
Something about watching their banter always felt comfortingly familiar, like old friends who had long since fallen into old patterns of bickering. Martin was pretty sure that was what they were, but Tim and Sasha spent so much time gently ribbing Jon it was hard to tell.
Looking at it made something in Martin feel warm, the fondness he could see even as the three of them engaged in heated debate over the definition of an heirloom. The feeling of being an outsider didn’t go away though, as if he was marked separate from the rest, a clear outsider in the friendship they’d built long before he came into the picture.
They cut strange figures, Jon’s streak of grey hair illuminated in a strangely captivating way and the flashes of teeth from raucous laughter almost brilliant in the sunlight.
For a moment Martin felt suddenly, painfully out of place before Tim spun around to grin at him and say, “Well, Martin? Let’s hear it!”
“Oh, like Martin is going to know,” Jon scowled, but there was a strange light in his eyes that Martin hadn’t seen before, energised and almost happy. That was excitement Martin was seeing in the tilt of his frown, the rapid tapping of his fingers.
Martin, it turned out, might have more than a little crush on his boss. Just a crush though, which was perfectly fine and manageable, really. “I think it has to be passed down from someone who, uh, died? To qualify as an heirloom.”
The quick, faintly surprised and even more faintly impressed look that flickered over Jon’s face didn’t help said crush. The half-hearted boos or warm grins from the other assistants did though. They made him feel comfortable, in that off-kilter and terrifying way that sometimes left him panicking late at night.
That feeling didn’t leave when Tim threw open the trunk so they could pile their bags in, or when he settled into the backseat with a grumbling Jon. Or when Jon and Tim voiced their thoughts on the organisation of this trip with vitriol. Not even when Tim started singing along to a pop song to calm himself down.
The ease didn’t last, of course. The anxiety set in within ten minutes, the distinct and familiar feeling of being the new guy rearing its head soon after. Of being unwanted, trying to befriend people who didn’t like him being he was missing some secret rulebook handed out in kindergarten.
“Just accept you can’t sing, Tim,” Jon said, pulling one of the colourful throws piled in the back over his legs. He looked almost soft like that, ponytail a little frazzled and frown slipping into something closer to a smile with the barest hint of teeth. The three of them seemed to work perfectly together as a trio, whatever had happened in research bonding them impossibly closely.
Or maybe it was friendship, plain and simple, because Martin had never been good at spotting that.
“I can sing extremely well! Fans gather from miles around to hear my voice,” Tim said, nose lifted in the air like he possessed great dignity and talent. Martin ducked his head to hide grin, catching Sasha’s secret smirk in return.
“No you- Sasha ,” Jon’s stopped himself short, eyes fixed on the dashboard, at the point where Sasha’s feet were resting, ankles neatly crossed. She’d replaced her sensible work shoes with worn-in sneakers that, if Jon’s glare was anything to go by, were probably caked in dirt in his opinion.
“Oh! Sorry Jon, didn’t know you minded,” Sasha said, swinging them back down and offering him an easy smile as an apology.
Silence fell after that, Tim’s out of tune humming and the vaguely worrying rumble of the engine the only sound to be heard. It made Martin feel itchy, like when his mother was holed up in her room or when he said something so obviously wrong that everybody stared.
“So are we going around to cases individually?” Martin asked, partially out of honest curiosity and most in desperation to break the silence and. Besides, Elias’ orders were always hard to figure out through all the creepiness and phrases like ‘taking a more personal approach to feedin-, researching paranormal events’.
“Who can tell through all the cryptic bullshit?” Tim grumbled, the edges of a scowl just barely visible from the bench Martin sat at. There were two on either side of a low coffee table, both covered in colourful rugs and pillows.
“Your guess is as good as mine,’ Sasha punctuated her words with a showy shrug. Martin had never thought of shrugs as something that could be showy, but she managed admirably.
“If you actually listened you would know that we’ve been picked for the honour of doing field research,” Jon flicked his gaze around the room, dark eyes strangely intense. “We are visiting places with documented cases of higher paranormal activity so we can confirm some of the more… outlandish statements.”
“We’re going monster-hunting!” Tim exclaimed, his earlier good mood returning.
“Clarifying the truth of various folklore and-”
“Looking for cryptids,” Sasha interjected.
“Well, it gets us better pay,” Jon snapped, his dry irritation seeming almost exaggerated. It was only when Tim and Sasha started laughing that Martin got that he had been right, that Jon wasn’t angry but instead making a joke so he could laugh with them.
Martin found he loved Jon’s laugh. Really it was more of a short chuckle but no less genuine for it, even if it was nearly drowned out by Tim’s wheezing. As for Sasha, she didn’t so much as laugh as grin widely, amusement practically radiating out of her.
Martin could help but feel at ease as he joined in, the constant whispering of anxiety in his ear drowned out by their repeated attempts to pull him into the group. Even Jon seemed less actively hostile than before, as if leaving the Institute had stripped some great weight off his shoulders. His manner was not easy or kind certainly, but when Martin looked closer his twitchiness looked more like nerves than disdain. Then again, he’d never been the best at reading people, always taking off-handed comments too close to heart.
But he wouldn’t have gotten that was a joke if it wasn’t for the other assistants. And when Martin looked back at how nervous he had been all this time, how clearly scared of Jon he was, things started to make sense. How he probably hadn’t gotten other jokes, or dismissed offers of friendship disguised in Jon’s awkward ways.
“It’s actually really interesting, if you cross-reference between the statements and old stories you can see-“ Sasha must have been talking for awhile now, judging by excitement filling her every word. She made the driest of analysis seem so interesting, and Martin could help but be captivated as she talked about the connection between folklore, statements and prophetic dreams.
“On the topic of uh, spooky dreams, where are we going to sleep?” Martin blurted out, blushing as he realised that he had derailed the conversation in his absentmindedness.
“Sasha and I can share! How do you guys feel about heights?” Tim seemed unphased, like it was an entirely normal thing to just change topics suddenly. Martin couldn’t help but get the itching sensation that everyone in the car was watching him, and for a moment he wanted to just fade away.
“I find them acceptable,” Jon said, back ramrod straight and as stiff as his voice, like it was either a confession or a lie. Ever so briefly Martin considered saying something about it, but the thought of Jon’s glare made him want the ground to open up underneath him.
“Right, We’ll take the one closer to the kitchen - Jon is not allowed to make breakfast,” Tim’s voice held an easy kind of companionship, that kind borne out of late nights and long conversations. Martin found he ached for it, that something in his chest twisted and reached for that kind of teasing companionship.
“What about when Georgie comes?” Jon asks suddenly, and the off-hand mention of ‘a friend of his who needed a lift’ abruptly seemed much more real..
“Georgie as in your ex Georgie?” Sasha asked, twisting around so she could give Jon a teasing grin, “That shouldn’t be awkward at all .”
“We’re friends, Sasha,” Jon snapped, his voice holding all of that neatly pressed professionalism again, “I am simply repaying a favour.”
“Riiight, and that part where you have a giant-“ Sasha’s eyes flickered over to Martin and she bit off whatever retort she was about to say, instead sinking back into her seat with a frown. “If you think it’s best,” was all she said.
Jon twitched like he wanted to reach out for her hand before zeroing in on how Tim and Sasha’s hands were intertwined, “Tim! Both hands on the wheel!”
“Right, right, sorry grand- sorry boss ,” Tim wraps both of his hands around the wheel, giving his best charming smile to everyone else in the campervan.
“So, why is Georgie coming with us?” Martin asked, because he hated how the silence stretched out before him and because he had always been a little nosy.
“She wishes to see the phenomenon for herself, as research for her ghost podcast ,” Jon spat those last two words like he had tasted something foul, his cracked lips twisted down into that familiar scowl.
Martin shouldn’t be noticing that his lips were, but really it wasn’t that different from memorising the exact tone of Tim’s laugh, or the lingering awe when Sasha said, “Because Jon’s ex Georgie is Georgie Barker, from What the Ghost.”
“Wait, what?” Martin asked, and it felt entirely natural to copy Sasha’s awe-filled grin, to smile a bit at how put-on Jon’s frowning was.
“Yes, and before you ask we dated before she started that… podcast, and why we broke up really isn’t any of your business.”
“Of course! We are honoured to have a celebrity joining us,” Sasha said, smiling a little as if to show that there was no harm done.
“I’m sorry!” Martin offered him a tentative smile, which only grew wider at Jon’s slight nod, notably absent from the customary accompanying scowl. For a second at least, but Martin would take what he could get. It did little to help with his guilt though, but Martin was used to flinching at even the most well-meaning criticisms, and his therapist was helping him with it.
“Hmm,” was all Jon had to say on the matter, though with him ‘said’ never felt quite right, like there should be a more formal alternative, “Your apology is accepted. Georgie and I can share a bed if needed.”
“If you’re comfortable with-“ Tim must have seen something in Jon’s face to reassure him, because he hit the wheel with one hand and grinned, “It’s settled, then!”
Something about it did feel final, and Martin wasn’t sure if it was the elation of leaving the Institute behind or just the satisfaction of organisation (definitely the former), but Martin felt at ease. Looking at Jon now, leant back against the seat opposite him with a few black strands falling around his face, eyes closed in contentment, he looked almost like a cat in the sun, lazy and stretched out and beautiful in the sunlight, his face a study of shadows and golden tones.
It made Martin feel like- well, like he could write poetry. It made him feel impossibly, deeply fond of someone he’d only known a few days, like all he needed was Tim and Sasha laughing in the cab and Jon happy.
It made him feel like this wouldn’t be so horrible after all.
*
Nobody ever liked to be woken up, much less at G-d-knows-what in the morning by an urgently whispering colleague. But Martin had made a life out of being exactly what someone needed to be, and if that happened to be a person who didn’t need sleep, Martin could manage that. He just didn’t have to be happy about it in the safety of his own thoughts.
“Mm? What is it Tim?” Martin mumbled, reaching for his glasses and slipping them in with the ease of someone who was used to getting up quickly.
“Oh, good! You’re awake; look, Sasha and I were wondering… the stars are really pretty and you seem kinda anxious and well, you’re awake now...do you want to go stargazing?”
Martin blinked rapidly, trying to tell if this was some weird, vivid dream. “We’re only just outside the city, we won’t be able to see anything anyway.”
“I mean, probably? But we’ve already woken you… hmm, that might have been more an asshole move than we thought,” Sasha groaned and flicked on the nearby lamp, tilting it so that the light was low enough it wouldn’t disturb Jon.
“What about Jon?” Martin asked, more awake by the second and a little touched they’d thought of this. Mostly he was pissed off, but it wasn’t like he could tell them that.
“C’mon, do you really think Jon would join us? Plus he sleeps so rarely and we didn’t want to wake him… um, not that we wanted to wake you up?”
“It’s fine! I’m a light sleeper anyway, and to be honest I was only just getting to sleep,” Martin lied, giving them a smile that was only half-faked.
“Great! Let’s go then!” Sashe’s voice was filled with enthusiasm, the infectious kind that got Martin smiling too. It was with some reluctance that he got out of his lovely, warm bed (it was only lumpy in some places!), and with some embarrassment - he’d already seen Jon’s disdainful look at his duck-patterned pyjamas.
The others didn’t seem to mind though, just went about gathering a few blankets and pillows from the benches while he secured his kippah and got them cups of tea from the dying campfire outside. Cooking it over a fire was strange to start off, but he thought he got the hang of it fairly quickly.
They did it all with utmost silence too, creeping around and whispering with the occasional glance to the overcap. It still felt a little like something out of a dream, soft and quiet and secret like whispering on a sleepover.
There was a lot of balancing to get everything outside, but finally Sasha laid out the picnic blanket and Tim sorted out the blankets so Martin set the cups down and sat down.
Neither of them had bothered to get out of their pyjamas either, Tim wearing a worn-out, unusually subdued shirt and sweats. Sasha still had her silk scarf wrapped around her hair, the only addition to her gaudy sleep shirt a pair of fuzzy pink slippers.
Martin pulled a red-and-brown throw over his shoulders, arranging it so it covered his legs and didn’t knock over the mug he had balanced there. It felt delightfully warm against the cool night air, and when he tilted his head up he really could see the stars.
Normally the sight of the sky made him feel lost, tiny under the great, lonely expanse of the world but with Tim and Sasha curled up beside him, making appreciative noises at his tea he let himself enjoy how beautiful it was.
“Do you know any constellations?” Sasha asked, voice hushed as if the heavy quilt muffled her words. Or maybe it was reverence, he thought, fingers itching for pen and paper because he knew this would make a great poem (by his standards at least; Martin had never had any illusions about his abilities but it was fun .)
“Uh, no? I tried learning once to impress a b-boy,” Martin’s eyes flickered quickly over the two, but Tim was playing absently with Sasha’s hand, listening intently along with her. “Didn’t work out,” he finished quietly, something in him easing a little - it wasn’t that he had to come out, or that he’d thought they’d react badly. It was just a relief, he supposed.
“Well, Sasha here knows all the constellations because she was going to be an astronomer,” Tim said, tone mocking but so obviously full of pride that it fell short.
“I decided I wanted to go into library sciences after… um, doesn’t matter! Either way, Tim here is just jealous that he never got to go into science.”
“Hey! I’ll have you know that my PhD thesis has 89 citations and that’s not even counting my… oh, stop laughing!” Tim swatted lightly in the general direction of his girlfriend, trying to hold back his own laughter. Martin felt a little self-conscious watching them, the pressing anxiety of they’re going to find out you lied drowning everything else out.
“So, how long have you guys been dating?” He blurted out, promptly turning the approximate shade of a ripe tomato.
“We’re… not?” Sasha pulled at a loose thread in the quilt, squeezing Tim’s hand slightly to reassure herself in a show of anxiousness Martin found almost out of place with his understanding of her, “It’s called a queerplatonic partnership, it has the same level of commitment… look, you can always google it.”
“Oh! I’m sorry, how long have you been partners then?” Martin asked, feeling a little like he wanted to curl up and drop through a convenient hole in the ground. He’d read a statement like that once, but the man said after climbing out it mostly made a fun party story. Turns out that the ground wasn’t all that bad, and being in a small enclosed space was a real confidence booster.
Martin had to admit he was surprised, considering they were around his age and he’d been a little envious of Tim’s showy, jokey romantic gestures. Still, it comforted him a little to know they were queer too.
“Two years! We hooked up once and then we talked… well, you don’t need to know the full story,” Tim said, his smile nothing like the protective scowl he’d taken on a moment before. “I’m glad we got ourselves sorted out though, Sasha is without a doubt the best partner I could ask for.”
“That story is very embarrassing for him,” Sasha said, leaning in a tad conspiratorially, nervousness replaced by a secretive smile, “But, well, I got out of it doing quite well for myself!”
“Like you turn out looking perfect in that story! Remember that incident with the boiling water?” Tim- squeaked really was the only word for it, and Martin couldn’t help laughing.
He kept on laughing as they told the story, watching them bicker and poke each other until he felt comfortable enough to join in, his empty mug of tea still cradled in his hands. Something about this moment felt perfect, Sasha leaning comfortably against him so she could gesticulate wildly, occasionally combing through Tim’s hair with her other hand as he talked excitedly from his position on her lap, hands fisted in his long dark hair. The blankets had become tangled by this point, the throw and patchwork quilt rumpled but warm. There was a fish pattern on the latter he noticed, orange and red in slightly sloppy stitches.
Sasha moved on to talking about the stars eventually, and Tim teased her about being a nerd but like this, watching them illuminated by the low light of the moon he could tell how much they loved each other. And it was just a little shitty patch of grass in the camping spot but it felt safe. Like he had friends.
Martin slept soundly that night, and woke up feeling surprisingly well-rested given how little sleep he’d gotten.
**
Martin listened to exactly one episode of What the Ghost in his life, but he’d quite liked it at the time. The host’s laughter was infectious, and she could make even the most ridiculous of stories or ads seem fun. Things had gotten so busy after that though, what with the new job and moving and all the rest. Needless to say, he hadn’t had the time.
Now, driving towards Georgie Baker’s apartment while her ex grumbled about the right kind of tea brands, Martin took the opportunity to listen to another episode. He started sometime midseason three, with his shitty earbuds jammed firmly into his ears.
He found he liked this one too - it was the old story about that thing near the library that everyone pretended didn’t exist. She managed to skirt around the topics that everyone avoided with ease while spinning an entertaining mystery, complete with hammy sound effects and spooky voices. Martin could definitely see why the podcast was popular.
He’d just finished episode thirty-five when Sasha’s hand was stuck in front of him (yellow nail polish instead of bright blue (electric blue in fact, she’d told him when she had been painting them).
Martin frowned and tapped his earbuds to indicate that he couldn’t hear her, but she grabbed his phone and pressed pause anyway.
“Martin! We’re almost at Georgie’s apartment, so we’re going to tidy up so we won’t completely embarrass ourselves when she steps in,” Sasha paused briefly, chewing on her bottom lip, “Or at the very least try our best to not disgust her.”
“Aww, do you want to impress her?” Martin said, throwing in his best smirk even as he set to clearing the table and benches. Sasha made a vaguely strangled sound and hit him lightly on the shoulder, grinning back at him when he turned around. It felt nice, he realised, a comfortable routine that he didn’t have to think about anymore.
Not that their cleaning attempt lasted, Sasha’s delicately stacked tower of unread books falling to the floor at Tim's terrifying attempt at parking. (Martin could remember who decided that they needed half a library on this road trip, but he’d bet on it being mostly Jon and Sasha’s.)
They pulled up in front of a row of apartment buildings, comfortable looking but not too fancy. Nicer than Martin’s, but that was probably because they were in what Martin classified as ‘the country’, though his old high school boyfriend would have laughed at him for that.
There was a pretty black woman with her long hair in a ponytail and copious amounts of piercings sitting out front, poking her fingers through the top of a cat carrier. A large-ish red suitcase was propped up beside her, currently being used as a makeshift armrest. It fell over when she stood up to wave enthusiastically at them, smiling in a charismatic way that made him understand why Sasha was so flustered.
“Hey! Thank you so much for this opportunity, it’s great to finally meet you,” Georgie said as they piled out of the campervan, smiling like her words were practiced. She immediately went in for a hug and a kiss on the forehead with Jon. Much to Martin’s, and for that matter Tim and Sasha’s, surprise, he accepted it with minimal grumbling. There was even a small smile on the corners of his lips, a sudden ease to her posture that made Martin smile a little himself.
Sasha seemed more focused on Georgie, talking a mile a minute about how amazing her podcast was, swaying slightly in her enthusiasm. Tim leaned against the van and watched them, smiling and nodding in all the appropriate places until he was finally pulled fully into the conversation.
Jon for once seemed entirely comfortable, leaning against Georgie with one of her arms slung over his shoulder, making his normal acerbic comments Martin wished he was always like this, smiling a little and without his normal professional rigidity.
Jon’s arms were held at an odd angle that looked more natural on him, and as he started rambling his hands started flapping slightly.
“Hey! Martin, have you heard of The Lady in White?” Tim asked, making Martin startle and blush at being found out in his blatant staring.
Martin nodded, rubbing the back of his neck and shifting his weight as he answered, “Yeah, uh, she’s supposed to be the ghost of a grieving mother, right?”
“Yeah! I’ve been wanting to talk about her on my show for ages, but it's a fair bit of a drive and I heard Mel- er, nevermind!” Georgie was an animated talker Martin noticed, twisting her hands together in excitement as she spoke.
“ We are here to check to see if she’s real and if the details of the statements about her are correct so we can get an, uh, official file on her,” Jon said, the harsh tone of his words significantly diminished by the fact his hair was still messy from Georgie ruffling it.
“Don’t be rude, Jon,” Georgie tousled his hair again, grinning at his half-hearted attempts to duck out from under her arm. His smile only grew wider, and oh, Martin was distracted again.
“I, uh, did some research? Checked some of the old statements, that sort of thing…” Martin stammered out, his unmoving hand still resting on his neck.
“A lot of the details are consistent with some of the other cases too,” Sasha piped up, glancing quickly over at Georgie as if to see if she was impressed. Judging by the amazed smile she sent Sasha’s way she was, just like anyone in their right mind would be after meeting Sasha.
Martin never quite lost that initial wide-eyed amazement, even when she slacked off work to organise an assistants-only game of monopoly, which she promptly cheated at. After the two hour argument over the etymology of the word calliope with Jon he was pretty sure he’d never stop being impressed. He’d started getting a lot less nervous about asking her for help though, and a lot less surprised when she didn’t always have the answers.
“Ghosts don’t exist,” Jon muttered, sounding remarkably like a petulant child for someone with such a withering glare. Martin felt himself caught between shrinking back and laughing, so he settled for blushing. Not consciously of course, just as a matter of his stupid traitorous face.
“You work at the Institute of Spookiness, how can you not believe in ghosts?” Tim asked, disbelief colouring the amusement in his tone. From Jon’s scowl Martin got the impression that this wasn’t a new joke, or even in the realm of being funny anymore. Sasha laughed anyway.
“Studies on humanity’s belief in the supernatural is better relegated to discussions on the cultural and philosophic reasoning behind it, not gathering up fake stories,” Jon scowled. “In fact, I never said the supernatural doesn’t exist, simply that we shouldn’t be chasing hoaxes and so-called cryptids.”
“Right, sure, but don’t you think that-” Tim said, and they trailed off into mindless bickering as they helped Georgie load her suitcases and what looked like some rather heavy recording equipment into the van.
Soon enough they were comfortably settled in, Sasha taking her turn at the driver’s seat with Tim beside her. Jon for his part was busy working, or what looked like a lot of fussing around with files that probably didn’t contain any new information.
“Hi, you’re Martin right? Jon has told me all about yo- ow!” Georgie rubbed her shin for no reason Martin could discern, accidentally elbowing Jon in the process. She had made a beeline to sit next to her ex on one side of the table, sprawling slightly on the bench.
“Uh, that’s me?” Martin gave her a thumbs up that he instantly regretted, still stuck on the fact that Jon had been telling her all about his failures. Like that time he’d gotten the filing system mixed up, though really it wasn’t like he was the only one. “I hope he hasn’t said anything too bad.”
“Oh, no bad, not at all- stop that!” Georgie yelped, smirk falling off her face.
“That table is a bit of a menace, isn’t it? Tim says that it’s important to preserve every inch of it, but you’d think with legs like his he’d hate a low table.”
“Ah, it’s not so bad, the table has got a weak kick,” Georgie smiled, “Uh, edge that is. Weak edge. I’m sorry, what was that about legs?”
“Please Martin, be professional ,” Jon remarked without looking up from his scribbled notes. Martin nodded, though he didn’t quite understand what he was being unprofessional about.
“Anyway! I’ll be recording while we check out the most common places for sightings, I just wanted to check if you’re comfortable being featured on my podcast?”
“Oh, uh… I guess? I'm not entirely sure how that works?”
“That’s alright! I’ll tell you about it while we record and run it by you guys during the editing process, if that’s alright with everyone?”
Martin nodded and settled in a bit more for the long drive ahead, gaze still focused on Jon bent over his files and humming softly as he worked. He really did have such a beautiful voice, and beautiful hair and-
Jon was a very beautiful man, to put it simply.
***
Martin had always been a light sleeper, even if he was dead tired from his turn at driving. Maybe that was why he was the only one who woke up to the sounds of pen scratching against paper and soft curses.
For a moment he was frozen, bizarrely terrified that one of the ghosts they were hunting had broken in to edit their travel plans. He recognised that voice though, the practiced accident that had been the subject of at least one poem.
“You should be asleep,” Jon said before Martin can even fully register his presence, swapping what looked like an itinerary for a file. He seemed so much quieter suddenly, sitting bent over in the dark.
That’s ridiculous though, Jon was hardly a small man and he always seemed so much brighter and harsher than everything else even without that, like a cat who’d fluffed himself up to twice his size.
Speaking of the Admiral, that’s what that sound was, like a rusted- well, there was no metaphor Martin couldn’t think of that properly described how both comforting and awful his purring was.
“I could say the same thing,” Martin replied, a little harsher than he’d like, but it got hard to keep his voice under control when he was tired. Jon was an easy person to get annoyed with, probably, but it wasn’t like his crush was anything but surface level.
“I’m working,” Jon said, focusing on the statements spread out in front of him like they could prove his point more than his pointed tone could. Everything about him seemed sharp-edged in the night, more so without Tim and Sasha there.
“It’s,” Martin scrabbled wildly for his phone, squinting at the bright glare in comparison to Jon’s own use of a dim flashlight, “Nearly midnight, you woke me up.”
“Oh, well, I’m so sorry, ” Jon snapped, looking up so he could glare at him properly, the effect rather lessened by how blood-shot his eyes were.
“Just… go to sleep, we’ve still got two hours of driving in the morning for you to finish whatever you need to,” Martin said, missing ‘patient and helpful’ by only centimeter. Being a people pleaser was hard at midnight after a day of sitting in a cramped van, it turned out.
Jon stared at him for a moment, giving him a look remarkably similar to the Admiral’s own stares of startled affront. He seemed to consciously opt out of replying in favour of picking up the flashlight and returning to working one-handed with remarkable skill.
“Come on, you’ll wake up Georgie” Martin tried, wondering why he didn’t just go back to sleep in a uncharacteristic lack of self-awareness.
“She’s a deep sleeper,” Jon said flatly, “I didn’t mean to wake you, go back to sleep. Or I’ll fire you,” he tacked on.
“Don’t be an ass, Jon,” Martin finally hissed, rolling his eyes a little in irritation at how remarkably bull-headed his boss could be.
Jon glared at him finally, and Martin bravely attempted not to wither under his look of utter disgust, which he wore very well and did make Martin feel vaguely warm and fuzzy inside. This was his secondary look of utter disgust after all, the one that meant he didn’t really mean it but did think you were incompetent.
“I still need to braid my hair, and brush my teeth and…” Jon trailed off as he stared fixedly at something in Martin’s face, rocking slightly as his voice got louder.
“I-I can braid your hair? If you want?” Martin asked, rubbing the back of his neck with an awkward smile, “I’m not that good but I am quick and… uhm.”
“That would be… acceptable,” Jon said, looking as if that concession was being torn out of him by force. He busied himself gathering up the files scattered over the table, batting away Martin's hand when he tried to help, muttering something about improper filing techniques.
While Martin googled how to braid hair Jon changed in the bathroom, emerging wearing what would be oddly professional pajamas, if it wasn’t for the cat-patterned pants. He sat cross-legged on Martin’s bed without a word.
Jon with his hair down was a sight to behold, and one Martin wanted to see again if he had any choice in the matter. It fell to around his mid-back and framed his face very nicely, managing to make his shoulders look even better than Martin thought possible
“This is unprofessional,” Jon said as Martin tried not to marvel at how beautiful his hair was, even in the unflattering light of the flashlight, which really wasn’t helpful at that angle.
“Half of us are wildly unqualified for this position,” Martin said flatly, a little emboldened by the lack of sleep and the fact that he had his boss/crush’s really very nice hair in his hands. “We passed the bounds of professional long ago.”
“So you admit that you're bad at your job?” Jon asked, and Martin refrained from answering as he tried to figure out what counted as an even split. He wasn’t entirely sure if it was a joke or not, and he really wasn’t keen on embarrassing himself.
“I lied on my CV,” Martin blurted out instead, which definitely counted as embarrassing himself.
“That does explain the incompetence,” Jon said, a little harsh but when Martin craned his neck he was pretty sure that was a smile, “But I, ah, don’t mind? This job is a bit of a joke, and it’s not like any of us are qualified.”
Martin laughed, shaking a little in relief, “I always figured you were, what with the whole ‘fifty year old professor’ thing you have going.”
“Oh, good lord, no,” Jon said, shaking his head slightly and messing up Martin's already poor attempt at a braid, “I just dress like this because… well, I’m sure I don’t have to spell it out for you.”
Martin nodded, face falling a bit before Jon actually laughed. It was, Martin was forced to remind himself, a very nice laugh, which Martin would quite like to hear every day for the rest of his life if he could land it.
“This is kind of ridiculous, isn’t it?” Jon said, grinning a little as he reached down to lift the Admiral into his lap, scratching his presumably empty furry head. Martin would be picking out orange hairs from his bed for the rest of the trip, but maybe it would make the Admiral more agreeable to him.
“Besides, Georgie is here, and if she has her way I’d be dressed head-to-toe in the kind of clothes you’d expect from the lead singer in a neo-folk band,” Jon said, which was very inconsiderate as Martin struggled to deal with that mental image.
“Are you close then?” Martin managed to choke up, sending his thanks up to G-d and hoping this wasn’t the only payoff he was getting from fasting on Yom Kippur last year.
“Mm, it was a very amicable breakup,” Jon says, before hesitating and narrowly avoiding shaking his head again, “Well, the breakup was messy, but we couldn’t figure out how to… not live with each other? As friends that is.”
“That’s sweet,” Martin said softly, groping absently for the blue hair tie to finish off the braid, which looked horrifically misshapen but probably passable for a first attempt. Jon didn’t seem to mind, though Martin couldn’t quite place the look in his eyes when he gently touched it.
The rest of the night passed without incident, as Martin grappled with his nonexistent hair braiding skills.
Martin fell asleep to the warm, vaguely fuzzy knowledge that he’d just spent the last twenty minutes with his hands buried in Jon’s impossibly soft hair, listening to him talk in a quiet, enthusiastic voice about cats as he petted the Admiral.
He had looked beautiful, and Martin had wanted to kiss his forehead very badly.
When Martin woke up that morning Jon had his hair in Martin’s clumsy attempt at a braid, wearing dark jeans and an old band shirt that Georgie shoved at him the second he woke up. The sight of it made something warm in his chest unfurl, heavy and comforting.
The next night Jon asked him to braid his hair again.
(His crush might not be surface level.)