Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

His boss was having a stakeout in front of his flat. Martin had sort of been expecting it, honestly, especially after what happened with Tim last week. Tim had been furious about it, ranting in the breakroom about how they were working for a lunatic and he’s going to to bury a hatchet in someone’s back, watch and here’s what his car looks like, Martin, he’s gonna stuff you in the boot.

And yeah, okay, Martin could see why he’d be mad. Objectively, it sounded pretty bad. No. It was a pretty bad thing to do.

Still, Martin had tried to calm him down through soft reassurances and earnest defenses. He mostly didn’t want Tim to go over and start a fistfight with Jon. Not that he would. Martin was pretty sure. God, he hoped so. That was the last thing they all needed, fistfights going on in the Archives.

Mostly … Martin wanted everything to be okay. He wanted Tim to stop being hostile, he wanted Jon to stop being – weird, he wanted Sasha to stop being distant, and he wanted everything to go back to relative normal.

Nobody ever asked for his opinion much, though.

Point was, he’d gotten home from running errands that day and Jon’s car was parked outside his flat. It didn’t have its lights on – the engine wasn’t running, actually, which must have been brutal in the cold.

He didn’t feel angry over it, not like Tim did. Maybe he should have been. He didn’t know. Instead, he just felt … kind of bad for Jon. A little embarrassed, too.

It didn’t feel malevolent, whatever this was. Yeah, yeah, Martin knew that you could never really know people, the kindly neighbor next door could knit human skin suits for his kittens. He got it. But Jon was …

Jon didn’t have to let him stay in the Institute. Jon didn’t have to hear him out. Jon didn’t have to stop by to see how he was doing. Jon didn’t have to do any of that.

Beyond that, they’d been through Jane Prentiss together. He still remembered being stuck in document storage with Jon, listening to him admit that he did believe the statements he was given. All the statements he recorded, it was all real, and he was scared, and it was the most vulnerable that he’d ever seen his kind-of-dickish boss.

And – and yeah, it wasn’t comparable, but Martin remembered thinking: oh, he lies to survive, too. We get each other.

Something had changed between them, then. Martin wasn’t sure what it was, but it probably contributed to his lack of anger towards … whatever Jon was doing.

Honestly, Martin wasn’t sure what Jon expected to see. Jon probably got a good eyeful of him hefting groceries in, running the hoover, and watching telly. He considered watching a B-list action film, thought of Jon’s judgment, and flicked to the news instead.

He was surprised that Jon had managed a stakeout on a weekend. Jon had been looking particularly haGgard over the previous week. Not only that, but he sported a new bandage on his arm. Incident with a knife, yeah, his arse. Jesus, it just made him so mad sometimes, because Martin wanted to help, and –

He couldn’t wring it out of him. Martin couldn’t force it. Jon was pretty much a boulder of a man. His theory was that Jon had gotten it in the tunnels, somehow. A bit of an open secret, that.

Martin hated the idea of Jon going down there alone. He hated that he knew about it and didn’t bring it up to Jon. He hated that he was way, way too scared to go along. Jon wouldn’t want him there, anyway, with the whole …

Maybe killed Gertrude thing.

God, what a thought. He had met the woman maybe once, and she hadn’t exactly left an impression. Seeing her body had done a lot more on his psyche. That had been … yeah. That had been the maraschino on top of the sundae and gave a particularly morbid flavor to his nightmares.

Of course he wanted to know who killed Gertrude. He wasn’t like Tim, who was willing to throw his hands up and say to hell with it, danger’s over, everyone’s fine! Just. The police were handling it. They weren’t police themselves.

And he definitely wasn’t like Jon, who had taken up his one man crusade.

Well. Maybe this quiet stakeout would do well for him. Relaxing night. In his car. In rapidly freezing weather.

Martin managed to push the thought away up until he had to get ready for bed. He brushed his teeth, changed into his pajamas, and turned off the light in his front room. Surely that would coax Jon into leaving? Surely.

He stood back from his window and waited for one minute, two minutes, five. The car didn’t move. Nothing shifted within the car, either.

Jon couldn’t intend to stay there all night, could he? What, was he waiting for Martin to sneak out and commit dastardly deeds? Shift into a monster and go roaming alleyways? Martin waited for another few minutes. He could feel the chill come in through the window. Turn your car on, Jon, Martin tried to transmit, get your heat going, you’re going to freeze to death out there.

Nothing.

The concern turned into flagrant irritation. How could one man have so little regard for his own well-being? Yeah, okay, even if Martin was a murderer – Jon shouldn’t freeze over it. He was going to get cold. He might catch ill.

Jesus, Martin finally thought to himself. I’ve got to go out and say something. If he knows I know, then he’ll have to leave. Right?

Hell, he could hope so. He reached for his coat – and, after a few minutes dallying, brewed a cup of tea as a gesture of goodwill. Martin had gotten in the habit of bringing tea around to everyone lately, as many distinct gestures of goodwill. And yet, it always felt like all-out war was about to erupt in the Archives.

Like he usually did, Martin put a dollop of honey in the tea. Jon’s voice sounded raspier lately. Martin wasn’t going to bring it up. Bit of a dick move.

He held the steaming paper cup in both hands and went outside. It was colder than he thought – his breath puffed out and the steam from the cup curled upwards to the sky. Jesus, Jon must have been frigid. Martin was halfway of the opinion that Jon would speed off the moment he stepped outside.

He didn’t, actually. No lights were on in the car. The engine didn’t turn on.

Uh-oh, Martin began thinking, unable to help himself, over and over. Uh-oh, uh-oh, uh-oh, uh-oh. Anxiety twisted inside of him.

He couldn’t help it. His mind had been consumed with the thought for months, he had been so convinced that he was going to die by one thing … an image of Jon sitting limp in his driver’s seat, worms crawling out of his face, flashed over his mind.

Martin bustled to the driver’s side and saw something that wasn’t much better.

Jon was hunched there, his forehead resting on the top of the steering wheel. He didn’t move. His hands were limp in his lap.

Fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck!

In his haste, Martin almost forgot to try the driver’s side door. He had thought of a dozen different ways to break the window (most involving going back inside, grabbing something large and heavy, and smashing it) as his hand closed around the car door and pulled.

It came open. Jon had left his doors unlocked.

“Jon!” Martin blurted out in a rush, hands going to him. Jon’s body felt cold. He took him by his shoulders and pushed him back against the seat, causing Jon’s head to flop back.

Blood covered the entire front of his face, from eyesockets to chin.

Oh my god. Martin’s mind began to spiral. Oh, god, he’s dead, he’s dead, he’s dead –

His eyelids began to flutter. A globule of blood trickled out of his nose. “D--” Jon muttered, voice creaking out of him. “D-don’t –”

In that moment, Martin earnestly didn’t pick up what Jon had said. He had just seen Jon move, he had just heard Jon speak, and Jon was alive. Martin didn’t have the faintest idea what was going on, but Jon was alive, and he could make do with the rest.

After going for the seatbelt, Martin hefted Jon’s arm over his shoulders.

He didn’t have to drag him, thankfully, though Martin did support most of his weight. Martin half-carried, half-supported Jon getting into his flat. Jon didn’t seem all that lucid, still, pressing his free hand into his face and looking at it with utter surprise when it came back bloody.

Moreover, Jon’s movements themselves were vague and indecisive. He tripped over the first stair they came to; Martin tightened his arm around Jon’s waist to keep him from falling over on his own face.

Martin was not a doctor. Living with his mum hadn’t granted him some keen insight into medicine and nursing. He probably knew a fair bit more about strokes than the average person, sure, but he didn’t know a lot. His best guess right then was that something in Jon’s brain had finally burst. The thought filled him with a panicked, desperate kind of terror.

He pivoted Jon towards the sofa. Jon sat onto it obediently.

Where the fuck had he left his phone? “God, I’ve got to call 999, I’ve – “ Had he kept it in his bedroom? He often threw it on his duvet before settling in for the night. “Holy shit –”

“Why?” Jon asked, tone faraway. He was half-collapsed against the arm of it.

“Because something’s gone wrong, Jon!” Martin hated the harsh tone in his voice. Christ, he felt like he was getting so impatient lately. He’d tried to be kind and patient towards Tim and Jon, but the more they went on – well, it was getting harder and harder not to throw his hands up in the air and say yes, Jon, I shot Gertrude Robinson with my gun and hid her body in the tunnels, you got me, bully for you. “The stress – something in your brain – an – an aneurysm, or something, I don’t know – “

“A nosebleed.” Jon raised his hand and brought it to his nose like a cop had asked him to perform a sobriety exam. “It’s just a nosebleed.”

“You were passed out – “

“I was resting my eyes.” He muttered, and when Martin turned around to lash out at him -what kind of person thinks it’s okay to take a nap while they’re actively having a nosebleed – he felt like he really saw Jon’s face for the first time.

Behind all the blood, Jon looked like he hadn’t slept in weeks. The bags underneath his eyes weren’t just dark, they were puffy. They seemed bruised. Martin thought back and wondered if Jon had had them on Friday, but …

But Jon had scarcely said more than a few words to him, and when he barged in to drop a cup of tea on his desk, he had done that thing he did. Jon would sit at his desk and keep his head lowered, so Martin was really only talking to the top of his scalp.

Jon looked a wreck. Maybe not having-an-active-aneurysm wreck, but … Jon looked like a pitiful wreck, in that moment, and his heart swelled with sympathy.

He wanted to hug him so fucking bad.

Jon looked away from Martin and to the walls of his living room, as if just realizing where he was. Slowly, Jon tugged his legs on the couch and hugged them to his chest. “I … I should … go,” he whispered, his words a struggle. He patted the pockets of his jacket. Martin heard the jostling of keys and something that sounded like a medicine bottle; Jon withdrew the former.

“Uh, no?” Martin stepped forward. He missed the way Jon flinched at the gesture, because nobody had ever been scared of him! He was Martin Blackwood. Someone had once told him he was hug-shaped and Martin took it as an insult. “No, you’re not driving. Give me those.”

Of course he wasn’t going to snatch them out of his hand. Well, unless Jon really insisted on trying. Jon reacted by clambering out of the sofa, and …

Damn it, yeah, okay, he took a few steps towards the door. He stumbled halfway there and caught himself.

Of course Martin felt pity, sympathy, worry, concern. The whole gamut of that shelf. Beneath it all, though, Martin couldn’t shake the little seed of embarrassment on Jon’s behalf.

This was Jonathan Sims. The man, the legend, the terrifying boss. The one who took Research seriously, the one who royally reamed people out when they insulted the Institute, the one who knew everything about the paranormal. Martin had been scared stiff that Jon would try to chat amiably about parapsychology about him and catch him out at once. Thankfully, Jon hadn’t been the small talk sort – beyond the weather and the state of the bins.

If anyone saw him now, he’d look like a drunken lunatic, and the very idea made Martin furious. He was just going through a lot. Everyone did! It happened. Let them get eaten by worms and see how they fared about it.

“Jon, no.” Martin tried to keep his tone firm and as un-commanding-a-Labrador-puppy as possible. “Look at yourself, you can’t drive. Give me the – “ He made a grab for the keys.

In response, Jon stumbled backward. He hit a wall and, instead of moving to the side, seemed to take the easiest route – downward. Jon slid until he was sitting on the floor, looking at Martin with …

Oh, god. Martin’s stomach clenched. Fear. Shit. Jon was pressed to his limits, Jon was overworked and paranoid and desperate – and he was so scared of him, in that moment. Martin watched him press the keys between his shaking fingers. “Don’t -” Jon said, the tone identical to what Martin heard in the car. “Don’t touch me. Don’t.”

His eyes swiveled around, behind Martin, looking around at the walls.

That was a nasty feeling, wasn’t it? Martin had idly fancied, especially as a teenager, that it might be nice if people were scared of him – or just intimidated by him, just a little bit! Maybe in the way that people were intimidated by Jon. He’d been intimidated by Jon, loads.

This, though? This wasn’t what he wanted, not at all, not from Jon.

“Okay!” He replied, handing both hands up in surrender. Martin got on his knees slowly, leaning back on his ankles when he touched the floor. “Okay, okay, okay. Not going to touch you. Sure.”

Jon didn’t respond to that. He still held up his fistful of keys, hand shaking so wildly that they clacked against one another.

“When’s the last time you slept, Jon?” Despite his wishes, Martin felt himself drifting into his please-lay-down-mum voice.

“Uh, I – uh.” Jon took the question and processed it, his eyes squeezing shut in thought. “What day is it?”

Not a good sign. “It’s Saturday night, Jon,” Martin replied patiently.

“Th—” The word got stuck in his throat. Jon swallowed. “Thursday. I think.”

Jesus fucking hell. Martin swallowed the curse before it escaped him. It wasn’t his place to criticize – and he doubted that Jon would listen to him, anyway. “Look, why don’t I call you a cab, okay? So you can get home. Get some rest,” he emphasized. “Maybe don’t go into the Archives tomorrow and just … try to relax?”

He had no idea what people like Jon did to relax. Pontificate on literature, maybe. Brood in front of a mirror. Martin fancied that Jon might play something sophisticated, like the piano. Pianist’s fingers? Was that a thing?

“What, so you can figure out my address?” The question was shot at him like an arrow, so lucid and direct that it took Martin aback. “Stop – this!” The key-hand gestured towards him wildly, his keys clinking together, and …

Yeah, okay, key to the tunnels. Of course that was there, too.

Jon still didn’t look well, but a strange urgency had overtaken his face. He was shaking a little harder, his eyes a little shinier. Honestly, if it wasn’t Jon, he would’ve thought that the man was on drugs or something. “I don’t care about knowing your address.” And then – “Stop what?”

“This – this – “ A growl sounded from the back of his throat, irate and frustrated and … oddly thick. “This playing nice! This – this pretending that you’re not – that you might be - “

“Oh, for God’s – “ No. No, he couldn’t get exasperated, that wasn’t fair. He swallowed it back. “Jon, for the last time. I didn’t kill Gertrude, okay? I don’t know who did, but it definitely wasn’t me.”

“I don’t believe you!”

Oh. Oh, no. Jon’s voice had grown louder, and that shininess in his eyes … those were tears. Anguish filled his voice as Jon bemoaned, “I can’t trust anybody! Any one of you could be against me, could be planning my death, and I’m – I’m trying, but I – but I - “

His face twisted, choked in pain. Pulling his knees up to his chest, Jon buried his face in them and started to weep.

Martin’s heart shattered at the sight of that. God. Six months ago, Jon had been an entirely different man. No worm scars on him, well-pressed clothes, overall put together. He still had a bandage over his forearm from the ‘knife’ incident, now, and those clothes looked like what he might have worn yesterday.

And that was just the physical injuries. He couldn’t even fathom the rest of that. Sure, he’d been through it too, and it was – it wasn’t great, but he couldn’t picture the inside of Jon’s head.

Christ, and here he was, staring like a weirdo as his boss broke down right in front of him. He didn’t have any clue what to do. Jon had said not to touch. This didn’t exactly seem like a time for tea and he sure as hell didn’t know what to say.

Until Jon pulled his head up from his knees and, unthinkingly, tried to rub his eyes with his key-hand.

“Uh, Jon – !” Martin startled, but before he could get out the warning, Jon’s hand snapped forward to grab him around the wrist. The keys fell against the floor, clattering against the fake wood.

“Could you just – “ Jon was still crying, tears rolling down his cheeks. He wasn’t breathing right – kept exhaling before he could get a proper breath in, making him shudder. “Could you just, Martin, please, just – just – just kill me. Just get it over with.”

Uh.

Martin flinched in Jon’s grip, panic and terror flicking through him. There was something so heartbreakingly earnest in Jon’s voice – so tired. So full of despair. “P-please,” Jon repeated again, lips trembling on the p. Tears rolled down his cheeks and dripped off his chin. “Just – just try to kill me, just so I know, just so I can stop trying to find out, just so this can be over --”

It wasn’t rational. It was the sort of dreamy logic people came up with when they were massively sleep deprived, and stressed, and scared.

At least – god, he hoped it was that.

He reacted by instinct, though he half-expected Jon to push him away. Martin put his other arm around Jon’s shoulders in a distanced hug.

Maybe Jon had just been pushed to desperation, because he didn’t flinch. Instead, it was like a dam broke in the back of Jon’s mind.

Jon dropped his wrist to wind both arms around Martin’s middle; his face pressed against Martin’s pajama shirt. Martin heard him start to sob again, felt the front of his shirt grow wet.

Oh, Jon.

He raised his arms to wrap around Jon’s shoulders, holding him close. I figure this is okay, considering he just asked me to kill him? He thought, a touch awkwardly. Martin restrained himself from giving Jon a reassuring shoulder-pat.

Instead, he just … went with the basics. “I’ve got you, I’ve got you,” he murmured, which – shit, he just asked me to kill him. That’s probably not as reassuring, anymore. “You’re safe,” Martin opted for instead. “You’re safe, okay? You’re safe, right here, nothing’s going to get you.”

He nudged himself a little closer to Jon, practically waddling on his knees. Martin felt the rough fabric of Jon’s jacket dig into his forearms. From what little he could feel of Jon’s skin, it was flushed warm. God, he was shaking so much.

Jon was babbling something or other into his shirt, but Martin had no chance of hearing it. He wasn’t exactly going to pull Jon away to decipher.

Jon was holding onto him tight, though, practically breaking his back in half. “Eeeeeverything’s good,” Martin continued to soothe, even if everything was most certainly not good. To hell with it. It was the weekend, they didn’t have to go back in until Monday, everything could get bad again on Monday. “Eeeeeverything’s fine. Yeah. You just need some rest.”

Sometimes in his more bitter moments, Martin had fantasized about walking in on Jon doing something embarrassing. Something that would give him a teeny bit of leverage when Jon went on and on about work ethic and academic integrity and rigorous follow-through. Not even to throw it in his face! Just for himself, a little yeah, okay, maybe I didn’t find the right Angela, but I did see you clipping your toenails at your desk.

Jon wiping his face against Martin’s shirt didn’t count. None of this counted. God, this poor, poor man. His heart twisted in sympathy. God, why can’t you just let me help? Martin internally begged and then, guiltier: Why can’t you just let this go? Please.

Because something was going on at the Institute. And sure, parts of Martin were curious. Parts of Martin also knew that Jane Prentiss, Worm Princess was only scratching the surface of it all, and he didn’t want to see anything else. Anything worse.

Jon started to quiet against him. Good. He shifted one arm to press against the back of Jon’s head, feeling his hair.

Wow. Surprisingly soft.

Don’t be weird, Martin begged that part of his brain, the same part that had lit up like a Christmas tree when he found out that Jon was queer and decided on a favorite Jon outfit against his will. So far, it had ended there, and Martin was very keen on not letting it go any further. Don’t be weird.

Jon shifted closer until he could comfortably lean against Martin’s chest. Martin was grateful for that. The way he’d sat on the floor, his limbs had gotten a bit … akimbo. Flexible, though!

DON’T BE WEIRD.

Jon smelled … honestly, like greasy fast food and sweat, but it wasn’t wholly unpleasant. He was just grateful that Jon was so close, and that he was getting it out. God, Martin wasn’t sure how Jon kept it together so well to begin with. If it’d been him in that situation, he would’ve just curled up in a ball and invited any archival serial killers to have at.

Eventually, even the tears quieted up. Jon leaned against him, practically ragdoll.

“Okay,” Martin said, starting to pull away. “Look, I’m serious, I can call you a c-- “

Jon was asleep.

Fully asleep. Even as Martin pulled away, Jon’s head rested on his chest. He breathed in and out evenly, face … covered in dried blood, yeah, but otherwise perfectly relaxed.

(A) That was impressive.

(B) Poor guy definitely needed it.

Martin sat there for an embarrassingly long period of time, close to a half hour. He didn’t know what to do. He didn’t want to wake Jon (though, even as he curled his legs to make himself more comfortable, Jon didn’t shift), but they couldn’t very well sit there all night.

He looked over to the sofa in his living room.

Was that weird? Strike that, it was definitely weird, but Martin saw little other choice. He wasn’t going to shake Jon awake, not when he so desperately needed the sleep.

He realized with a jolt that he’d never picked someone up before. Sure, there’d been supporting people’s weight (Jon in the tunnels, Sasha when she sprained her ankle in the library, Tim when he had a bit too much at the holiday party), but picking someone up?

Couldn’t be that hard. Loads of people did it. Jon was a bit tiny. Yeah. It would be fine, just had to take it slow.

Gingerly, Martin pulled Jon away to lay him on the ground. It struck Martin that he could just leave Jon there – obviously, he was sleeping well – but he’d wake up with an awful crick in his … everywhere. No, that was cruel.

Slow, Martin thought to himself. Slow. He squatted down, hooked one arm underneath Jon’s knees, the other around his shoulders, and picked his boss up in a bridal carry. Please don’t wake up, he begged, and it wasn’t like he couldn’t explain it, but he was pretty sure he’d die from awkwardness before getting a chance.

He put Jon down on the well-worn sofa, his body sinking into the natural creases of the cushions. Martin reached for the blanket thrown over the back. It’d been knit by his grandparents, once upon a time. Maybe not the coziest thing in the world, but Martin had slept under it a thousand times. Jon’s head was gently raised and lowered onto a pillow.

As he finished his handiwork, he heard the pills rattle in Jon’s pocket again. He plucked them out (didn’t want Jon rolling over on them in his sleep) and glanced at the label.

Great, caffeine pills. That explained how the man had been up since Thursday, he supposed. “You’re going to give yourself a heart attack, Jon,” Martin quietly lectured to a sleeping man, tucking the blanket in underneath him. He paused. “Going to give me a heart attack.”

God. Maybe he ought to wipe that blood off his face. That would be the decent thing to do, wouldn’t it?

Except he thought of grabbing a wet rag from the kitchen and gently, tenderly, wiping Jon’s face.

Look, he liked the guy. He liked the guy quite a bit, in fact. They hadn’t even gotten to hang out more than the occasional lunch or early dinner, and he liked him loads. He worried over him. He was starting to get the feeling that he was on Jon’s side, which was stupid, because – because there shouldn’t have been sides in the Archives. It should just have been them v. scary monsters, instead of whatever was actually going on.

Still, washing his face felt like an odd invasion of privacy – and he couldn’t quite shake the way Jon had initially flinched from his touch, even if he’d fallen into it later.

Martin wasn’t sure if that was normal. God, he’d never been any good at knowing that sort of thing.

They’d sort it out later. Wouldn’t hurt anyone. He was breathing okay. Crisis averted.

He didn’t know what would happen next, but … he was pleased that Jon was going to get a proper night’s rest. Martin did a quick mental check about he had in the kitchen – yeah, okay, he could pull together a decent breakfast, too.

Might have a relatively normal day. Maybe they could have a conversation where Martin didn’t feel like he was being slightly analyzed. Maybe Jon would actually smile again. Wouldn’t that be nice?

Either way. It was late. Martin wasn’t tired much, but he wasn’t going to stand around and watch Jon sleep. Thatwould absolutely convince Jon he was a serial killer lying in wait.

He left his boss sleeping on the sofa, retreating to the safety and familiarity of his bedroom. This was the first time he’d had someone sleeping over – in any flat, ever, that wasn’t his mother. What a strange, isolating thought that was. Almost made him want to nudge Jon awake, have a proper sleepover, make some popcorn.

Funny, that was. Maybe in another life.

Sliding under the covers, Martin reached for his poetry notebook. It was nice to have a routine.

Chapter Text

Jon didn’t wake up that morning.

He wasn’t dead or anything. Martin had checked, actually, roundabouts noon when he’d begun to grow worried that Jon’s heart actually had stopped in the middle of the night. No, he was fine. Breathing well. Sometime during the night, his head had slipped off the pillow and his cheek was smashed into the top of the cushion. It gave him a pretty adorable double chin, along with the way slightly grumpy expression on his face.

Martin hadn’t had any plans that Sunday. It was a bit unfair, actually, he’d had a few near death experiences and no re-energized zeal for life. No new hobbies, no new friends, no whirlwind romances.

Old dependable Martin.

He puttered around his flat, keeping as quiet as he could. Got good bit of reading done. Watched a film on his laptop, headphones in. It was actually pretty nice – not that he ever really forgot about the looming shadow that lurked over his shoulder at every opportunity, but come Monday, he felt about 2% better prepared to face it. That was something.

The day was so relaxing, in fact (and how he used he got to seeing Jon sleeping on his sofa!), that Martin was keen for a nap in the afternoon. He hadn’t actually slept well the previous night, mostly because –

Yeah. That had been a lot.

The nap was good, though. Martin awoke with a sleep-creased face, the bits of stubble he’d neglected to shave that morning scratching against his hand. It was coming up on 4 PM. He idly wondered what he’d do if Jon slept through Sunday night, too … and when he ought to start getting concerned.

In retrospect, he probably ought to Google that. Keen to retrieve his phone in the kitchen, Martin slid out of bed and walked down the hallway.

He almost missed Jon sitting up – got two steps towards the kitchen before realizing, er, there he was. Had been up for some time, it seemed, given the neatly folded blanket next to him and the darkly stained tissues on the table.

His head was in his hands, though. Not crying. Martin was pretty sure of that latter point.

Martin shifted from foot to foot, feeling like a stranger in his own home. “Uh, hey,” he called out, punctuating it with an awkward chuckle. “Good evening, sunshine.”

Sunshine!? Sunshine. Jesus. What is wrong with you? Martin thought to himself, a silent scream dying in the back of his brain.

Startled at the voice, Jon looked up.

Well, he’d gotten all of the blood off. The bags under his eyes were still present, but they looked less … painful, at least. Martin was willing to count that a win. He tried for what he hoped was a friendly smile, because Jon looked like he’d just seen a ghost.

“Martin,” he uttered faintly. “Um. Hey.”

They stared at one another, united in discomfort, before Martin let out a cough he didn’t really need. “I’m gonna make some tea?”

“Yeah. Yeah, that sounds – yes. Thank you, Martin,” Jon responded, so formally that they might as well have been in Jon’s office again.

He was grateful to escape to the kitchen. Definitely a honey-tea sort of day, sounded like.

Unfortunately, Martin couldn’t make tea forever. He was walking back into the living room far too soon, two steaming mugs in both hands, while Jon stared blankly at the opposite wall. His hands were resting primly in his lap, at an odd contrast to his wrinkled, stained clothing.

“Should be better here,” Martin chirped. “Honestly, I swear, there’s something wrong with the water in the Institute, it tastes a little – “

“Metallic, yes,” Jon finished on his behalf. “Uh …” He turned towards Martin, raising a hand. For the life of him, Martin wasn’t sure if he planned on tapping him on the shoulder or touching his wrist or giving him a cheery high-five. The hand was returned to his lap. “God,” he said, voice going weak with embarrassment. “Martin, I – I don’t know how to tell you how sorry I am. I mean, I’m just mortified –“

“Hey, hey, hey, hey, hey.” Apologizing was definitely not making Martin feel any better, but – even as he spoke, he grew confused. “Are you apologizing for the, um, sitting outside my flat and watching me, or the …” Pause. “After.”

Jon sucked in his lips, his gaze going to his lap. “Either?” He suggested. “Both?”

“Well, it’s not … y’know.” Not something you have to apologize for? Jon clearly felt like it was, and Martin wasn’t positive that Jon was wrong. He cleared his throat. “I’m not upset about it. Either of it. You know?”

“Martin.” It wasn’t admonishing, but rather utterly stupefied, like Martin had just proclaimed the Earth was flat. “Let’s not … you’d have had every right to phone the police. I was sitting outside your flat, watching you.”

“Yeah. For hours, freezing to bits. It’s honestly a little impressive.”

Jon didn’t smile at his attempt of a joke. He didn’t say anything else, either, just staring at his hands curled in his lap. His shoulders were slumped – relaxed, at least, but not exactly thrilled.

He wished he knew what to say. He wished he knew whether what he felt was factually correct, whether it was healthy, whether he didn’t just sound like a …

God, he didn’t know. A doormat, maybe, but he needed to get it out anyway.

“Jon, after everything that’s happened …” Martin sighed, leaning against his sofa. “I’m not saying that you’re –” He didn’t need a lecture on it, certainly not from him. Who’d ever listen to advice from Martin Blackwood? “But I’m seriously not upset about it. You’re going through a … you’re under a lot of stress, a lot of pressure. You’re scared.”

Jon scoffed at him, then, and Martin realized he was close to tears. Something bubbled in his throat as he responded, thick, “What, and does my – our shared experience excuse that?”

Was a question with an obvious answer, Martin supposed. “No. No, but … I’m not, like, scared of you. And I think whatever brain circuits that deal with privacy have gotten massively messed up in my head from living in the Institute.” He paused. “Don’t, you know, get your jollies from it or anything – “

The noise of utter disgust that erupted from Jon’s throat broke through the emotion, at least for a moment.

“What I’m trying to say is that I’m not going to hold it against you.” He shrugged. “I guess.”

Jon was actively looking away from him, then, staring straight towards Martin’s front door. Martin let himself look at Jon’s face freely, the new scars that dotted his skin. He’d been found unconscious alongside Tim, dozens of dead worms still half-inside his body. They hadn’t talked about it, which meant that Tim and Sasha had definitely not talked about it with him, either.

Not that he and Jon were best of friends. Well. They were friends, and Martin would like to spend a bit more time together outside of work, because it’d be nice to have an outside of work. Even so, though, Tim had been – pretty understandably disgruntled with him, in Martin’s opinion, and Sasha just distant. He doubted they’d be besties anytime soon.

Maybe not the best time to bring it up. Martin resisted the urge to reach out and brush Jon’s hair away from his ear.

“I’m s-sorry,” Jon repeated, all strength gone in his voice, little more than a hoarse whisper. “God, Martin, I’m so … so sorry.”

Yeah. Why was he getting the feeling that Jon was apologizing for more than last night?

He raised his hand to press it on Jon’s back, right between his shoulderblades. His body still felt warm from sleep. “Hey.” Stop sounding like you’re consoling a child who dropped their icecream. That’s not helping, stop it. “Hey, it’s … it’s gonna be okay.”

He figured Jon would be fully within his rights to mock him, even if he hadn’t heard Jon mock anybody or anything in a long while.

Jon didn’t. Instead, he turned his head to stare at Martin again.

Martin knew that Jon’s face, right then, would be burned into his mind forever.

His eyes were so wet with tears that Martin saw his kitchen lights reflected in them. Jon’s chin was scrunched up, starting to quiver. When he spoke, his mouth was upturned in the faintest, saddest little smile that Martin had ever seen.

“Oh, Martin,” he croaked, voice cracking. A singular tear rolled down his cheek. “I really don’t think it is.”

He couldn’t not hug the man after that, and he desperately hoped he wasn’t making the wrong choice. Martin threw his arm around Jon’s shoulders, urging the man closer. Jon set his forehead on Martin’s shoulder and took one long, shaky inhale.

It took Martin a second to realize that he was getting weepy, too, tears rolling down his cheeks. Damn it. Sympathetic crier. He was lucky to have escaped it last night.

Probably good, though, wasn’t it? Martin hadn’t cried all that much after this. Once in a fit of hysteria, sitting in a hotel room (thanks, Elias) after discovering Gertrude’s body. He knew he probably ought to.

Jon cried against him in a more composed manner than he had the previous night. Hell, Martin couldn’t even say for sure that it was crying. Jon just breathed deeply, in and out, over and over. Eventually, his breaths grew less ragged. Jon still didn’t raise his head from Martin’s shoulder.

This was nice. Not nice, exactly, but … it felt good. Martin rubbed up and down Jon’s back, his thumb brushing against the vertebrae in Jon’s arched spine. The tears stopped flowing for him, too.

“I should …” Jon whispered after some time. “I should let you … let you have the rest of your weekend.”

God, the disappointment that rushed through him. “Um.” He paused. “A-are you sure? You must be starving, I could … we could go get …”

“No, no. Took up more than enough of your time. I’m …” Jon finally pulled his head away from Martin’s shoulder. There were some tear tracks on his cheeks, but nothing actively following. “Again, Martin, I really am sorry.”

Why can’t we talk about this? Martin screamed internally, both at himself and Jon in front of him. Why can’t we talk about our feelings sometimes! Why can’t we talk about how fucked this is! Why can’t we talk about how scared you are! How scared I am! How I couldn’t ever hurt you, because you’re a good guy and I like you! Why can’t we talk about what happens next?

Instead, Martin said: “Er, okay.”

Jon stood from the sofa and brushed the heel of his palm along his eyes, gathering himself together. “I’ll see you at work on Monday?” He said, sickly sweet with forced cheer.

Do you still think I killed Gertrude? “Yeah, I’ll see you at work on Monday. Make sure you eat something, though?”

As if on cue, Jon’s stomach rumbled. Jon pressed a hand to his abdomen in mild annoyance. “Yes, yes,” he responded. He bent to pick the keys off the floor. Martin kept a wary eye on him, but his movements were swift and certain and vaguely impatient. That was the Jon he knew.

Jon went towards the front door and opened it, squinting at the rays of sunlight outside. Cold air wafted into the front room of Martin’s flat. “Um,” he uttered, still looking outside. “Thank you, Martin. For this.” He waved his hand behind him. “I … I really do appreciate it.”

Martin didn’t get up from the sofa. Even if Jon couldn’t see, Martin flashed him a wide grin. “Don’t worry about it. I won’t mention it.”

“God,” Jon muttered like he hadn’t even considered the possibility. “That sounds for the best.” He cleared his throat. “Have a good evening.”

And then Jon was through the door, shutting it behind him. Martin sat for only a few seconds longer before standing and walking over to the front window.

There was Jon’s car. Jon was sat in it, hands tight around the wheel. He didn’t move for a long while, instead staring straight ahead in apparent deep thought. Martin wrapped his arms around himself.

Eventually, Jon did drive away. Damn. That had been a nice parallel park job.

Martin kept staring at the street for a long while after, his mind starting to race.

God, he hoped Jon would be okay. He hoped they would all be okay. But, deep down, deep down … he agreed with Jon. He didn’t think things were going to be okay. Unless he woke up tomorrow and they were all released from this weird curse. Gertrude was murdered by some wandering serial killer and they would all get nice, normal jobs and everything was just a dream and ghosts weren’t real.

It was a nice thought.

Above it all, though, Martin just remembered Jon’s face – brimming with tears, vulnerable, scared. He remembered the smell of Jon’s hair, how he felt as he hugged him against his chest. The almost burning need to share with him, to open up a part of his heart and let Jon take what he wanted.

Martin squinted against the light coming in from the window.

“Well, fuck,” he muttered, a bit in love.