Work Text:
As soon as the door to his office closed behind him, Jon fell to the ground, feeling the weight of the past…lord, had it really been only a month?
He put his face in his hands, breathing in the slightly stale, dry air of the archives. His hands were unbearably smooth, and still smelled faintly of lavender. They didn’t feel right. Nothing about his skin did.
As a child, Jon had had a distaste for any sort of lotion applied to his body. His grandmother had a rough time convincing him to put on sunscreen, considering he was convinced that it was unnecessary, due to him never getting sunburnt previously without it. And he always thought it’d be preferable to get sunburnt to the feeling of lotion on his skin. It always made him feel slimy, like someone had put him in a full body rubber suit. His hands had been the worst of it, though. Jon enjoyed touching things, everything from rough building walls to the smooth metal of a park fence. And whenever his grandmother made him put lotion on, everything felt muted. He had rubbed his hands on everything, just to get the sensation back. The textures didn’t feel right.
As Jon grew, he still rarely used any sort of lotion. Sunscreen, when he finally had to admit that he wasn’t invulnerable, and sometimes small amounts of moisturizer on his face, if he could stomach it. Even for his wounds – he knew he was supposed to apply ointment on the worm scars, to let them heal better, scar better. But he could rarely bring himself to do it. (And he had been quite preoccupied at the time.) Cooling salve for his burnt hand, which he only did because it his sensations on that hand were fucked anyway, and it eased the burning pain.
His reservations seemed laughable, now.
They had moisturized him twice a day – in the morning, and in the evening. (Or at least, he assumed as such, only by the times he managed to sleep. It was impossible to tell time in that place.) They had stripped him down, and then they – the first lotion they used was cloying and sweet on his tongue. He had resisted, but it hadn’t done much good. He soon realized that by resisting he just made the process longer, and took to just…staying as still as possible, trying not to think about it.
The more it happened, the easier it got to just drift away. (The stab of panic and fear as they approached never left, though.) His skin had stopped feeling like his own. Everything felt off, every time he touched something, the texture was wrong, left him with an uncomfortable buzz in the back of his head. Back where they held him, it was easier to ignore. Less sensations, the only thing he touched the smooth wood of the chair, the rough floor of the room. (And their hands, touching him all over, never sexual, no, but intrusive nonetheless, rough and clinical. Got the job done. Jon realized that he had been touched more in that month of captivity than he had been in – in years, likely. Every time he tried to remember what a hug felt like, what a friendly touch felt like, his mind kept coming back to those hands, skin and plastic, cold and smooth.)
Here, with his skin all wrong, his clothes worn and still uncomfortably cold and sticky from the last time they moisturized him, the sensations were too much. At least his burnt hand was probably better off, Jon thought hysterically.
God, there was so much to do, and here he was, having a pathetic breakdown in his office, about skincare of all things. They didn’t even hurt him. Sure, Nikola talked constantly about his skin, about how she wanted to skin it, ran her sharp hands in lines over his body, planning where to cut, but she never actually did it, did she?
Jon tried to breath out, but it came out shaky. His hands were on his face, and they were smooth, and they smelled of lavender, and they were wrong –
He put his hands down.
He wanted to stand up, to get back to work, but everything in his office seemed daunting. The air felt wrong against his skin, the light was too bright. He tried to breathe, but his throat was tight, clogged with lavender. He bit back a whine. This was stupid. He was being stupid, there was nothing wrong –
There was a knock at his door, and his blood turned to ice. Were they back? Did they follow him through the hallways, ready to grab him and strip him and moisturize him, or maybe they were back to finish the job, skin him, because his skin was no longer his, it was theirs, and they were just coming to take back what was theirs –
“Jon?”
Martin. Jon felt a laugh bubble up in him. It was just Martin.
“Sorry, I, uh, It’s just been a-a while, and I thought you could use a cup of tea? O-or not, that’s fine, I get if you need to be alone right now-“
Jon stood up almost immediately, and opened the door. Martin looked a bit taken aback, eyes wide and mouth slightly open.
“I-I’d actually rather not be alone right now.” Jon said. “If that’s alright.”
Martin stared at him for a moment, looking him over, something like worry passing through his face. Jon noticed that he was still blocking the way in, so he moved back. “Sorry, please-please come in.”
Martin did, and Jon closed the door behind him. He placed the cup of tea on Jon’s desk, in the exact same spot he always did. Jon didn’t know why that particular detail made his chest swell. His hands were still faintly trembling.
“Are you – are you..okay?” Martin asked, fidgeting with his hands. “Wait, no, sorry. Stupid question. Of course you’re not, you’ve been kidnapped.” He huffed, and all Jon could do was stare at his hands. Martin’s nails were painted blue, like the last time he had seen him, except the paint was chipped to almost nonexistence. Was it the same coat? Or had Jon been gone long enough for it be a different one?
“W-what I meant to ask, was..um. Can I..Is there anything I can do? To help?”
Jon met his eyes. Not cold, not drawn on with a marker, or made of glass. Just..brown. Earnest. His glasses were on crooked, and Jon wondered if he could fix them for him. If that was acceptable. He was wearing a blue jumper, one of the ones Jon Knew Martin knitted himself, Knew that Martin picked out the softest yarns because he couldn’t stand the texture otherwise.
“Can I..” Jon stammered. “Can I-I just-“ He flapped his hands in frustration and looked at the wall. “I-it’s stupid, but everything I touch feels wrong. A-and I can’t remember what p-people touching me feels like, anymore, without thinking of them. Their-their hands.” He took in a shuddering breath, not daring to look at Martin’s face. “So I just…I thought maybe it would help if I-I..” He gripped his arms tight and frowned. “Nevermind.”
There was a moment of silence, and then Martin said, “Jon? Do you…do you want a hug?”
Jon looked back at him, and felt a desperate longing. If he hadn’t been this exhausted, this drained, he likely would have never considered being so bold.
Martin stammered, rubbing his neck. “O-or maybe you were just saying you wanted a shower, which is. Understandable, of course-“
“Please.” Jon breathed. He couldn’t bring himself to move.
Martin stepped forward, and after a small pause, wrapped his arms around Jon. Jon tensed.
“Sorry, is it too much?” Martin started to pull away, but Jon hugged him tightly, keeping him in place.
“No, I’m just..it’s okay.”
Martin hummed, and Jon buried his face in the blue jumper. It was soft, and smelled of old tea. He could feel Martin’s heart beating steadily against his cheeks. He took a deep breath, and pressed tighter. Normally, he’d likely feel embarrassed by this. But he couldn’t bring himself to care. Something rose up in his chest, and the building pressure behind his eyes broke. His next breath came out as a sob, and he clutched Martin’s jumper tighter, pressing into the warmth.
Martin leaned his head against Jon’s, and held him as he shuddered. “It’s okay,” he whispered. “I’m here. Breathe with me, it’s alright.”
They stood there like that for a while, Jon’s fingers curling into Martin’s jumper, almost trying to meld with Martin, trying to get rid of everything wrong about his skin, about his senses. He could almost imagine that nothing had happened, with Martin’s arms around him, holding him tight.
His sobs eventually faded into steady breaths, to the rhythm of Martin’s own, and when the light flickered above them, Jon grew self-conscious. He pulled away reluctantly, uncurling his fingers.
He wiped his face roughly, avoiding Martin’s face, eyes falling to the stains he left behind on the jumper. “I’ve ruined your jumper,” he said despondently.
“Oh Jon, that’s not-“ Martin inhaled. “It’s fine. It’s-it’s laundry day anyway.”
Jon swallowed. “Even so. T-thank you. You didn’t have to do that, I’m not-I don’t know what came over me. I don’t know why-It wasn’t even that bad.” He looked at the cup of tea on his desk. It was probably going to grow cold. The thought of missing Martin’s tea made his heart clench. He had missed a month of Martin’s tea.
“Jon. You were kidnapped. For a month. With mannequins. If that had happened to anyone else, would you tell them it wasn’t so bad?” Martin’s tone was incredulous, and Jon got the feeling that he had done something wrong. He sniffed. Martin continued, voice gentler. “I’m not-I’m not going to argue with you, okay? I just-you’re hurt. Please just promise me that you’ll go take a break for a bit? Go home, take a shower, sleep. Eat something.”
Jon met his eyes with some effort. He opened his mouth to protest, but Martin beat him to it.
“And don’t say there’s work to do. I know there’s work to do, I know the Unknowing is coming, and we’re all stressed about it, but it can wait one more day. Nikola will be looking for a-a new skin now, right? Nothing bad will happen if you take the day off. Just one day.”
Many bad things could happen, actually, Jon thought. But – Martin was right. Jon escaping had probably put a wrench in the Circus’s plans, at least for a while. But they really should be using that time to their advantage, research more –
“If not for yourself, could you do it for me? For my peace of mind?” Martin pleaded, and the fight left Jon entirely. He felt exhausted. His breakdown earlier had sapped all of his remaining energy, and he noticed he was still quite unsteady on his feet. He didn’t want to leave the Archives, be alone again, but a shower did sound nice.
“Alright,” he rasped. “I promise.”
Martin looked almost cartoonishly shocked for a second, but then he beamed. For a brief, unrestrained moment, Jon thought about asking Martin to come with him. Immediately, his brain stuttered to a halt. He was too tired to feel completely embarrassed about that train of thought, but he still made sure to hastily scrub it out. Martin had already inconvenienced himself enough for Jon. He didn’t need Jon’s feelings to make things more of a mess.
But he still couldn’t stop himself from smiling back at Martin, a bit wobbly.
“Actually, um. I could g-give you a ride, if you’d like?” Martin stammered. “Since the tube probably doesn’t feel appealing to you right now, I’d guess, and I really don’t want you to get kidnapped again, not that-not that I don’t trust you not to get kidnapped, it’s just it might be safer if we use my car? Make sure you get home safely, and all that. I wouldn’t want to i-impose, I, if you’d rather just not-“
“I’d love to.” Jon blurted out. Blood rushed to his cheeks almost immediately. Maybe he shouldn’t have agreed. The boundaries between his brain and mouth seemed to be nonexistent. (But he really didn’t want to be alone, and to be honest, he didn’t even think of the tube problem. Just thinking of going out among people made dread and terror curl in his stomach. Any one of them could be working for the Stranger, could snatch him back.)
“Oh.” Martin’s voice cracked, which Jon found hopelessly endearing. “Um, so, now?”
“Y-yeah. Sure.” Jon answered, heart in his throat.
They went, and Martin kept talking, which Jon was grateful for. It helped distract him from the paranoia lurking in the back of his mind.
He didn’t really know what would happen tomorrow. Likely, they would go back to researching the Unknowing, and he’d have to go record more statements. Figure out a way to save everyone. But now, Jon just felt warm. Cared for, in a way he didn’t really know how to conceptualize. In a way he hadn’t felt for a long time, or maybe had forgotten.
He looked at Martin, who was currently talking about the best takeout places, since ‘You probably don’t have any edible food left in your flat’, and felt his heart swell almost painfully. Their fingers brushed as they walked, and for the first time in a long time, Jon’s skin felt like his own.