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Jon feels like he's missing something.
This isn't exactly an uncommon feeling—when it comes to social interactions, he generally feels like everything goes straight over his head—but this feels like a bigger something. A specific something.
It started a few weeks back.
Tim had always been a touchy friend. Back when they worked in Research, he was always pulling Jon under his arm for a hug or ruffling his hair. When they got transferred down to the Archives, it had faded somewhat. It was less to do with decorum (Tim had never cared about that), and more to do with the fact that they're just never side-by-side anymore. Jon has his office, and Tim is out in the bullpen with Martin and Sasha. A real, genuine Tim Stoker hug became more rare than commonplace.
Jon tries not to miss it, even though he really does. It's so much harder to seek physical touch out than it is to receive it, and so he sits in his office and wallows, instead. Or, would wallow, if he was missing it. Which he isn't.
But one day, as they were all packing up for the day, Sasha turned to him. "D'you want to get drinks with us?" she asked.
The other three all turned their gazes to Jon, and he froze. Yes, he wanted to say, but really, he shouldn't. He had an image to maintain, and besides, they didn't really want him there. They were just offering to be polite. So he shook his head, wrapping his scarf around his neck. "No thank you," he said.
"Next time?" Martin asked.
"Maybe," he amended.
Tim pointed a finger at him. "I'm holding you to that," he said. "Do something fun. Get some rest. Don't keep working at home, too. Got it?"
"Alright, yes," Jon grumbled.
"Excellent!" Tim leant forward and loudly kissed Jon on the cheek. "See you tomorrow, boss!"
Jon stood in the doorway to his office long after they left, a hand on his cheek, a blush creeping up his neck, and a warm feeling expanding in his chest.
It only got worse from there.
Every time Sasha came in to drop off statements he'd asked for or ask a question about follow-ups, she squeezed his shoulder with a fond smile. Whenever Martin brought him tea or some files, he'd pat Jon's hand with a nervous, sparkling look in his eye.
(He had had trouble getting... acclimated to Martin, when they first all got transferred down here, but after a particularly nasty lecture from Sasha after she'd caught Martin returning from the loo with red, teary eyes, he'd tried to make amends. It took a while, but Martin was kind, and good at his job, once he'd actually been taught what he didn't know.)
All that to say, it's been going on for a few weeks now. Jon's a researcher at heart—he's desperately curious as to what the sudden shift is about. So, as they're all packing up for the weekend, when Sasha turns to invite him out for drinks, he pauses. He knows what he should say (boss, decorum, inappropriate, etcetera, etcetera) but part of him wants to say yes. Wants to see if this affection continues outside of work, too.
Because he likes it. He could never admit it to the others, but he likes the hugs and shoulder squeezes and hand touches. He's afraid if he keeps saying no, they'll stop, grow distant.
He worries at his lip.
"Oh, come on," Martin says. "It'll be fun!"
"You said yes to the next time," Tim reminds him, and, well. If they didn't want him there, maybe they wouldn't be pushing him so hard to come.
"...Alright," he relents. Tim cheers loudly, and Sasha laughs. Martin gives him a small smile, and Jon's chest fills with butterflies.
It's a short walk to the pub, maybe ten minutes. Tim and Sasha walk in front, Jon and Martin behind them, as they all talk amongst each other.
"Am I the only one not wearing a turtleneck?" Tim asks.
"Aren't you the only one freezing your ass off, too?" Sasha teases.
Tim pulls a joking scowl. "Yeah, well, I'm out here looking hot as hell in my blazer, so I would hardly say it matters, anyways."
"The blazer you have wrapped around you?" Martin asks.
Tim releases it from his hold, clutched tight around his body to try and protect him from the autumn wind. " Et tu, Martin? Jon's got a turtleneck and a scarf!"
"Maybe it's to look hot as hell ," Jon jokes quietly, if to hide the fact that the only reason he actually wears the scarf is because he does, in fact, think it makes him look attractive. In a sophisticated way, not in whatever way Tim means, but he isn't sure how good of a defense that is.
"Can't say it's not working, boss," Tim says with a wink, and Jon feels his face flush red.
Sasha smacks Tim's shoulder, saying, "At least give him a bit!" and Tim laughs, turning back around and not acknowledging Jon's blush. Martin bumps their shoulders together lightly, a small grin on his face, and says nothing.
The pub is a lovely little place, warmly lit and quiet enough that Jon doesn't feel overwhelmed just by stepping in the door. They all move to claim a booth tucked away in the back corner, one of the ones with one long, curved bench. Tim doesn't sit down. "I'll get the first round!" he says, and walks to the bar to order.
"He didn't ask us what we wanted," Jon says.
"First round is Tim's pick," Sasha says. "Whatever atrocious cocktail he thinks has a funny name, he buys for us all. Better to get it over with so we can wash it down with something better."
"There's been a few good ones!" Martin protests, and Sasha raises her eyebrows.
"No, it's just, er-" Jon clears his throat. "I don't drink. Alcohol, that is."
"Oh!" Sasha says. "No problem." And then, instead of getting up to tell Tim like any sane person would, she cups a hand around her mouth and yells, "Tim! Make one a virgin!"
And to think, Jon thought she was reasonable, still.
Tim glances over and shoots her a thumbs up before turning back to the bartender.
When he finally returns, juggling four drinks in his arms, Jon makes a face. "I'm nervous."
"You should be," Martin says, patting him on the shoulder. He lingers slightly before removing it, and Jon feels warmth radiate from the spot.
Tim gives an affronted gasp. "How dare you! I have excellent taste in picking these: whatever sounds most off-putting, I pick. Today's beverage: coffee and coke! Er, this one's alcohol-free. I'm assuming it's for Jon, unless either of you have suddenly decided to change your alcohol consumption."
"Hell no," Sasha says, and then, "Sorry, did you say coffee and coke?"
"I did indeed!"
Jon stared at his drink in distress. "So, without alcohol, this is literally...coffee, and coke."
Tim winces. "Ah, yeah. May not translate very well. But come on! Be adventurous!"
Jon picks up the drink and steels his nerves.
"Chug, chug, chug," Sasha starts chanting, and Tim and Martin join in quickly. He's drafting dismissal letters in his head as he puts the glass to his mouth and takes a swig-
-which he almost immediately gags on. He manages to swallow it without spitting it all over the table, and immediately shoots Tim a glare. "What the fuck," he asks, and Martin throws back his head and laughs.
"Good?" Sasha asks, shoulders shaking with laughter.
"Tastes like someone combined a cold cup of coffee with a can of coke," Jon says. "And a hint of orange juice, inexplicably."
"Oh, dear Lord," Sasha groans, staring at her drink with renewed terror.
Tim chuckles, rubbing his hands together like a cartoon villain. "Oh, I think I picked good tonight, lads," he says. "You know the rules! You gotta finish Tim's Drink!"
To Jon's surprise, despite the general complaints, the other two all start to drink. He does too, if only because this probably cost an exorbitant amount of money, and he isn't going to let that go to waste. Also, maybe, just a little, to fit in.
The drink does not grow on him.
The night does, though. The others progressively get drunker, and Jon finds himself loosening up a bit, too.
"-the worst part of it is, we had to treat every single thing seriously. We- we once had to look for information regarding how best to exorcise a fish," Tim says. Jon laughs, groaning at the memory.
"Oh, God, that reminds me of the little old lady who came in, asking if we had any books on holding seances for cats," Martin says.
"Well, did you?" Tim asks.
"Of course not! But- but she was so sweet, I couldn't tell her that, so we spent ten minutes looking to see if we had anything," Martin admits sheepishly.
Tim reaches forward and shakes Martin's shoulder. "You're too good, Martin!" he says. "You're too cute! It's not allowed."
Martin's face darkens even more past his inebriated flush and he ducks his head.
"We had a mirror that made everyone who looked in it think they were a cat," Sasha deadpans, and they're all set off into fits of laughter again. "You think I'm joking! You think I'm fucking joking! We had, like, four employees meowing at each other on the ground, and every time someone else came over to see what was going on, they'd start fucking meowing too!"
"How does Artefact Storage even function?" Jon asks.
"It doesn't," Sasha says, shaking her head. "God bless you for saving us, Jon. What would we have done without you?"
"All hail," Tim and Martin say in dead unison, which is just unnerving enough to make Jon burst into flustered giggling. Tim bows, and Martin follows suit half a second later, fumbling and awkward as though he's trying to make them seem in sync again. Sasha leans against his side.
"You can stop bowing now," he says. They both stop, but Sasha doesn't move from her place. He gives her a fond smile.
"You're blushing," Tim says. Jon regrets not saving any of his coffee and coke and orange juice to throw in his face.
They all stagger out of the pub at what is definitely too late a time. "This was fun!" Tim cries. "Boss, this was so fun. You have to come out with us more. You can't hole yourself away! We're your best friends! We love you!"
Jon had been about to make a joke about having better friends (which is entirely untrue), but the words die on his lips at Tim's confession. It means nothing. He's drunk and speaking on behalf of everyone in the group without asking, and it means nothing. He doesn't even know why he cares that much. But still, the warmth of the words settles deep in his chest, curling into his heart. It makes him want to cry, a little, but that's just because he's tired. He settles for a smile instead.
"Yes!" Martin exclaims, unaware of Jon's inner turmoil. "Yes, you've got to!"
"Okay," he laughs. "Okay, I will."
"You better," Sasha says. She presses a kiss to his cheek. "Okay, I have to run if I have any chance at catching the next train. See you all Monday!" She kisses Tim and Martin, too. Neither of them seem as flustered with it as Jon does. Maybe this is typical for them. She makes it halfway down the block before turning and yelling, "Timothy Stoker, you take the same train!"
"Shit!" Tim yells. "Bye, guys!"
"Bye, Tim!" Martin shouts, waving as the two of them disappear down the road. Martin turns to face him. "I'm actually the other direction," he says. "You?"
"Oh, I'm not long of a walk away from mine, actually," Jon says. It's a little longer than he'd normally go for, especially this late at night, but he feels good. It's refreshing, being out here.
"Okay," Martin says, and pulls him into a tight hug. Startled, Jon pauses, before slowly returning the gesture. Martin is warm against him. "Be safe, okay? Call if anything happens."
A lump forms in Jon's throat at the kindness of it all, the casual caring. The intimacy. "Of course," he whispers, hoarse. "You too."
Martin gives him one last squeeze and lets go. "Sleep well, Jon," he says, and starts down the road.
Jon watches him go until he disappears into the darkness. "Goodbye," he murmurs, and starts toward his house.
His heart doesn't stop pounding the whole way there.
It's a few weeks later when Tim catches him on the way out. "Boss-man!" he says. "You busy this weekend?"
Jon's plan was to work on some more statements that he had crammed into his bag, but his co-workers— friends, his friends—always give him a disappointed look when he says that, so he just shrugs instead. "Not really," he says. "Why?"
"Movie night at mine! Saturday night! You're in!" Tim says, grinning.
"Well, hang on-" Jon starts.
"Nope! Absolutely not! You said you weren't busy. You dug your grave, come lie in it."
Jon gives a long-suffering sigh. By the look on Tim's face, they both know it's for show. "If you insist."
"I sure do!" Tim claps him on the shoulder and makes to move away, but stops. He turns back and points an accusing finger. "And no workwear! Wear Jon clothes!"
"These are Jon clothes," he says, looking down in confusion at his button-down.
"No, no. Jon clothes."
"But- Jon owns these clothes," Jon protests, before realising how dumb he sounds. He flushes. "I mean, they're mine. Of course they're Jon clothes."
Tim thrusts his finger toward him and narrows his eyes. "Jon clothes," he stresses, and leaves the building.
Jon shakes his head, unable to stop the grin on his face as he watches Tim go.
Saturday, at five in the evening (as confirmed by Tim's incessant text reminders), Jon knocks on the door and leans back on his heels. He's- he's nervous. As long as Tim and him have been friends, they've never met up for anything more than after-work drinks or lunch breaks. Being here, at his house, feels...well, he's not sure. He tugs at his shirt and tries not to feel self-conscious as he waits for the door to open.
Tim swings open the door, a smile bright in his face and his mouth open, ready to say something. He stares at Jon. He screams.
Jon flinches, whipping around to see if anything's behind him, but he's alone in the hallway. He turns back to Tim, who looks manic with delight, as Martin and Sasha scramble into view behind him. "What?" Sasha shouts. "What's the matter?"
"Jon's punk!" Tim exclaims.
Jon blushes. "Yes, well- you told me to wear Jon clothes," he grumbles.
"Oh, god, I thought you'd be boring! This is the best day of my life. Martin! Jon's punk!"
"I can see," Martin said, his own face a deep shade of pink.
"It's hardly punk, anyways," Jon says.
"You're wearing ripped jeans."
"Will you please let me inside?"
Tim throws the door open wider and lets him last, cackling in glee. Jon is starting to regret his choices.
"Ignore him," Sasha says, leaning in for a quick hug. "He's being...well, he's being Tim. It looks good on you." She lets go and walks away, as if that didn't just make him blush harder. Christ, he needs to get a grip.
The living room has been entirely ransacked. Most of the couch cushions are on the floor, pillows scattered around and blankets draped over everything. The coffee table is loaded with snacks—crisps and biscuits and sweets, of course. Tim knows no other kind of snack.
He gingerly takes a seat on one of the couch cushions. Martin drops down beside him. He's got a jumper on, softer than the ones he usually wears to work. There's a large, knit cow on it. His glasses sit crooked on his nose. He looks endearing, and Jon has to look away. "I see you've provided a healthy meal," he says, in an attempt to distract himself.
Tim nods proudly, grabbing a bag of sweets and eating a handful. He sticks it out towards them. "Of course! Marshmallow?"
"Don't mind if I do," Martin says, reaching in the bag.
"Er, no thanks," Jon says. "I can't eat marshmallows."
Martin looks at him, curious. "How come?"
"Every person I've ever told has hated me for it," Jon warns.
"No, come on! Tell us!" Sasha begs, dropping on the couch behind him.
"Gelatine isn't halal because it's, er, made from...pork muscle."
Martin's jaw drops open. He looks in horror at the bag.
Tim cackles. "Oh, that's disgusting!" He takes another handful.
"I'm not sure I can eat marshmallows, either," Martin murmurs, looking a little dazed. Sasha rubs a hand along his back in sympathy.
Tim makes an impatient noise. “What, did we come here to make Martin question all his life choices, or did we come here to watch movies?”
"Alright, alright, God," Sasha grumbles with a wry grin. She picks up the remote and turns the telly on.
It takes another ten minutes of bickering before they can finally settle on a movie. In the end, they don't really settle so much as Sasha clicks whatever pick she's on, and they all settle back with only minor complaints.
"We'll get to them all eventually, anyways" she says.
They make it all the way through the first movie (Tim's pick, some cheesy superhero movie which is only good because it's dumb) before Sasha pauses and looks over the rest of them. "Takeaway?" she asks. "My treat."
"This is my night, Sasha!" Tim protests. "I'm supposed to pay for the date!"
"Well, I've decided I'm paying for this part of the date."
"Well, now I'm not contributing to the date." Martin frowns.
"You brought some snacks!" Tim reassures him.
Jon...well, quite honestly, he has no idea if they're joking or not. "What did I bring to the date?" he asks, feeling his face grow warm.
"Just your presence, boss," Tim says. He's teasing, of course, but there's a slight touch of genuine pleasure in his voice.
For God's sake, Jon never used to blush this much.
They're halfway through their third movie—Jon's pick, a little astronomy documentary that he'd been dying to watch—when he feels a warm weight on his shoulder. He turns to see Martin, slumped against his arm. He's vaguely annoyed, because how could anyone fall asleep during such a fascinating show (and Sasha had already fallen asleep ten minutes ago, because the people he liked had no taste), but Martin looks so soft and vulnerable, in the glowing blue light of the telly screen, and Jon gives his sleeping form a fond look.
"He really likes you, you know," Tim says.
Jon startles, almost enough to dislodge Martin, but not quite. Martin mumbles sleepily against his shoulder and shifts. "What do you mean?" he whispers.
Tim gives him a look, and Jon's gaze drops. "We all really like you, Jon," he says.
"You don't mean that," Jon murmurs.
"I do," he says.
"But you don't. You like when I come to drinks with you, or- or this, but at the end of the day, I'm still the prickly, asocial boss who always says the wrong things. You don't want that. You don't need that."
"How about you let us decide what we want, huh?" Tim suggests, his voice gentle. "We talk about you, y'know."
"You do?"
"Yeah. So believe me when I say, we're all in agreement here."
Jon shakes his head, murmurs something unintelligible.
"Pardon?" Tim says.
He squeezes his eyes shut and tilts his head towards the ceiling. He feels too bare in the quiet. Every emotion he feels, he buries before he can look too closely at what it is. And here Tim is, asking him to show it all to him like it's nothing.
"What if it's not in the way I want?" he whispers.
Tim shuffles away from him slightly, worry creasing between his eyebrows. "Oh. Oh, Jon, I'm sorry. Has this all been too much? Sasha told me not to take this approach, but, well—I remembered how much you liked contact from Research, and I thought maybe it might be a good hint for you-"
Jon clears his throat in a desperate attempt to interrupt Tim's rambling. "No," he says. "Or, yes, maybe, but…" He sighs. Finds the thing he's been avoiding, kept close to his heart. Looks at it.
If we're exposing ourselves here, then…
"What if it's too much because it's not enough?" Jon asks. His eyes are still closed. He's too afraid to open them. To see whatever look is on Tim's face.
For one achingly long, heart-pounding moment, Tim doesn't react. Then slowly, carefully, he feels a hand slip into his, turn his palm over, and lace their fingers together. He gives it a testing squeeze, and Tim squeezes back.
"All you have to do is say the word," Tim tells him.
Jon finally builds up enough courage to open his eyes. Tim stares at him, a soft smile on his face. "I want to," he says breathlessly. "All of you, I—the feeling is mutual."
"Can I kiss you?" Tim asks, and Christ, Jon's heart stutters at that.
"Y- yes," he stammers.
And Tim kisses him.
It's nothing long or deep, just a simple press of lips, but Tim's hand cradles his jaw and his thumb brushes Jon's cheekbone and Jon feels a little bit like he might cry. When they withdraw, Tim chuckles a little. "The others are going to be so jealous I got to kiss you first," he says, and Jon blushes and glares at him. Undeterred, Tim adds, "Anyone ever tell you that you look cute when you blush?"
Jon sputters and shoves at Tim, who's too busy laughing to care. "It's true!" Tim says. "Fight me all you want, but you ask the others, and they'll tell you. Sasha and I have a bet going on how often we can make you blush. I think it's killing poor, sweet Martin."
Jon glances at Sasha, curled up like a cat behind him, and Martin on his shoulder. "And, the other two, you're sure…"
"Trust me, boss," Tim says. The nickname feels wrong in a moment like this, and Jon wrinkles his nose in disgust. "At first, it was just Sash and I, and then one night out for drinks with Martin we got to talking, and then...then it was the three of us. But we caught Martin pining over you, and so we had another talk, because so were Sasha and I, honestly, and... All this to say, we've all talked about it. I'm sure they'll want confirmation from you, but...we're all in."
Jon's heart feels full to bursting. He feels wanted. He feels...well.
Loved.
He takes Tim's hand in his and squeezes it a little. Tim chuckles. "Sleep, Jon," he says. "You look a little overwhelmed. We can all talk about it a little more when we're all awake. Are...are you okay?"
Jon nods. "Better than okay," he admits with a little smile.
"That's what I like to hear." Tim brings their conjoined hands to his lips and presses a kiss to Jon's knuckles. "I'm serious. Get some sleep. We'll all be here in the morning."
With Martin against his shoulder, Sasha's head brushing the back of his own, and Tim's hand held tight in his, he slowly drifts off to sleep.
They'll all be there in the morning.