Work Text:
1:47
That’s what the screen of Jon’s phone screams at him when he unlocks it in the dimness of his own office, where the only other source of light is the decrepit lamp sitting lonely on his desk. He’s sure the overhead light had been on when he fell asleep, because of course he managed to do that while working. There’s really no point in denying that particular fact right now.
Jon lets out a sigh, burying his face in his hands.
He has no way of going back home this late at night. Yes, he could always get a taxi, or maybe walk. Which. Bad idea, actually. Prentiss might still be around, waiting for the chance to get one of them.
His back loudly protests when he stretches his arms up above his head, bright hot pain travelling down from his neck to his hips, making him bite back a whimper.
Serves me well for sleeping on my own desk.
It’s not the first time it happens, nor the second, but, as a loud noise accompanied by a soft curse reminds him, it’s the first time it happens with someone else here.
Jon is not quite sure why he told Martin he could stay in the Archives and use his cot, just as he can’t explain the wave of worry that took over him as Martin explained what had happened to him.
Maybe it was the look in his eyes, filled with unshed tears, and that desperate, desperate fear lining his every expression.
That must have been it, then. Just the wish of helping a co-worker out, of setting things right after not checking up on him when he disappeared for weeks without notice.
Yes, Prentiss somehow managed to send messages to all of them, but a small, annoying part of Jon’s brain can’t help but think about what he could have done to change it.
If he’d gone to Martin’s flat, or if he’d called to know if everything was fine, or if he’d just cared a bit more, just a tiny bit, then maybe none of this would have happened.
No worms, no Prentiss.
And no Martin living in an old building and sleeping alone at night, terrified out of his mind. Especially when that same old building is his workplace. And especially when his workplace is the Magnus Institute, which houses a whole collection of haunted artefacts and Leitners.
(Jon still remembers Sasha’s wild stories from her employment in Artefact Storage. Once she told him about a brass candlestick that would make your skin drip like hot wax. Disgusting, really.)
Another stretch, another complaint from his back (he briefly wonders how he managed to hurt every single one of his muscles in just a few hours of sleep) and Jon gets up from his chair.
At least he won’t have to record the whole statement again: the tape recorder sits silent and still next to Jon’s notes.
He must have turned it off in his last moments of consciousness, before drifting off in an oddly deep sleep. It’s not like these things can do it on their own, after all.
He leaves his office quietly and, just as expected, there’s pale yellow light spilling out of the tiny breakroom the Archives offer.
“Martin?” Jon calls out from the threshold.
The man in question manages to hit his head against the top of the cabinet he was looking into. Jon flinches as Martin lets out a quiet ow, massaging the back of his head.
“Are you ok?”
Martin’s laugh is high-pitched and clearly embarrassed as he straightens up, brushing invisible dust off the soft-looking t-shirt he’s wearing.
(Those must be the clothes he sleeps in, something whispers in Jon’s brain. He promptly tells it to shut up.)
“Yeah, you just… startled me. I’m not used to anyone being around this late at night,” Martin says, looking everywhere but at Jon’s face.
“I’m sorry,” Jon says in return, “what were you looking for?”
Martin’s eyes are wide open behind his wire-frame glasses, setting his face in a ridiculous expression. Did Jon ask something stupid?
Please, tell me I didn’t ask something stupid.
“What?”
That’s all Jon’s brain can come up with, apparently.
“Oh nothing,” Martin answers, as he turns around to keep rummaging in the cabinet, “it’s just that I’ve never heard those words coming out of your mouth: I thought you weren’t physically able to say them or something.”
Jon is frozen for an instant, before a soft laugh escapes his lips.
Martin lets out a soft sound of satisfaction as he places a small box on the table, next to a stack of papers. Martin’s curly handwriting covers the top one and Jon tries not to think about all the times he has screamed at him for not completing any kind of work on time.
“It’s just that I couldn’t quite sleep: worms and nightmares and nightmares about worms, you know?” he says, waving his hand around, “So I decided to try and get some work done and to make myself some tea, but Tim always manages to put the teabags in the wrong place.”
Jon knows enough about nightmares, probably more than an average person with an average childhood does: there aren’t any worms in his dreams, but it’s hard to go back to sleep with the image of a blood-coloured door and eight spindly, twitching legs branded on the inside of your eyelids.
He just nods and then picks up the box, telling Martin to sit down.
“Before you stop me,” Jon says, setting up the kettle, “I do know how to make tea the proper way, as you like to say.”
Martin stares at him from his place at the table, eyebrows so high on his forehead as to be covered by a few stray curls falling down on it.
“What is it this time?” Jon says with an exhale, picking out two clean mugs for them to use.
(And if he makes sure to pick the lavender one for Martin, it’s absolutely not because he always sees him smiling at it whenever he finds it ready to be used. It’s really not.)
“Well, you’re not screaming at me. You’re making me tea. And you even laughed at a joke I made earlier,” Martin answers, counting on his fingers.
“Maybe,” Jon says, “I’m just not thinking about that.”
He tries to put as much vitriol in his voice as he can, nodding his head towards the statement and the hand-written notes, innocently sitting next to Martin’s hands.
Martin’s smile reappears on his face.
(It’s not even, Jon notices, looking at how the right side of his mouth rises up more than the left one. He has a dimple on that side too. And maybe it’s not something Jon has ever thought about, but he does like that smile.)
(Wait, what?)
“Either that or you’ve been caught by some kind of body-snatching demon living down here in the Archives.”
Martin’s voice snaps Jon out of his thoughts (thoughts which he refuses to acknowledge as his own); he promptly snorts as he lets out a laugh, like the dignified boss he pretends to be.
“And that makes it two jokes,” Martin says.
Jon nods and sits down in front of him, placing his elbows on the table.
“Did you turn the light off in my office?” Jon asks after a few seconds, not quite sure how to start a conversation with a person he barely knows. Because, whether he wants to face it or not, he’s never really talked to Martin, has he?
“Yes. The tape was still going, but it was too close to you for me to touch,” Martin answers, setting the papers in order as he speaks, “it looked like you needed the sleep anyway.”
Jon hums and Martin stares at him questioningly, one eyebrow raised up
(He does have a lot of freckles, that insistent part of Jon’s brain tells him cheerfully. Jon shushes it menacingly.)
“It’s just,” Jon starts, before lightly coughing as his mind decides to make him notice how much the pastel yellow nail polish Martin is wearing suits him, “it was off when I woke up?”
Martin follows Jon’s gaze to his hands, swiftly putting them on his legs under the table as if to hide them.
“I know it’s not professional and…,” he starts, his voice softly wavering.
“I think it looks nice,” Jon says at the same time.
“…I just… oh,” Martin stops as Jon’s words catch up to him, his face blushing furiously.
The silence falls thick between them, embarrassment filling both of them up to the brim.
“I used to wear it too, when I worked in Research,” Jon says.
And why is he even trying to make Martin feel better about something that’s not even his fault?
“You did?”
Jon doesn’t know if he should feel proud of the slight surprise coating Martin’s voice, but he does anyway.
“Yes. Usually something a bit darker, though. Yellow doesn’t really suit me,” he says, showing his hand to prove his point.
“Oh, I can see that,” Martin mutters, now placing his hands on the scratched surface of the table again.
“Yellow is probably my favourite, but I have a black one in my bag. I bought it together with this one a few days ago,” he continues, “if you want to try it?”
Jon’s stomach does something a gymnast would be envious of, twirling around and making his heart skip a bit.
“I would like that?”
It sounds more like a question than anything else, but Jon is still surprised at how steady his voice is. And he would really enjoy it, a quiet shared moment like the ones he used to spend with Georgie.
Luckily, the kettle seems to be done and Jon can use it as an excuse to get up.
He takes two tea bags and places them in the steaming water, before realising something.
“Two sugars,” Martin says, unprompted, “no milk.”
Jon thanks him, as thick shame pools in his belly. Martin knows how Jon takes his tea, how everyone in the Archives takes their tea. He probably knows how those who work in the library take it as well.
(He stores that small information deep in his mind, so as not to forget it. Maybe he’ll manage to make Martin tea again: he wants to be ready when it happens.)
When he’s done, he gently places the lavender mug in front of Martin and then sits back at his place, his own warm mug held tightly in his palms.
They both take a sip and a surprised sound makes its way out of Martin’s mouth, as he leans back to stare at the steam gently rising up in front of him.
“You’re telling me you’ve been making that thing you call tea all this time when you could have made this?” Martin asks, the disbelief palpable in his tone.
“Maybe,” Jon says, taking another sip (one sugar with a splash of milk, just like Martin always makes it for him).
“Well, then I hope we’ll do this more often,” Martin continues as a bright smile settles on his face, that one dimple sitting innocently on his cheek, unaware of what it’s causing to Jon’s insides.
“I hope so too, Martin,” he says softly.
And if Jon doesn’t say it out of pure courtesy, but also to quieten that insignificant voice in his mind, well, it’s between him and himself.