Work Text:
When Martin texted that he was going to be out sick for the day the first, panicked flash in Jon's mind was the string of texts he had ignored from Prentiss saying the exact same thing. He thought of Martin, cowering in his flat for a week before barely making it to the institute only for worms to attack there as well.
He understood it was unlikely. Prentiss was dead. He had her ashes and the corkscrew scars from her worms to prove it. Martin was probably just sick, or worse, hiding something. What exactly his assistant could do to plot against him in a single day off Jon didn’t know, but he’d have to keep an eye on it. With a great deal of mental effort he let go of the issue, focusing instead on the more pressing issue of Gertrude's murder.
The second day that Martin texted in sick, Jon angrily muttered about using the damn phone to call in sick instead of just typing out a message. He told himself that it was just more professional that way, that it had nothing to do with making sure that the person on the other end of the phone was actually Martin and not some new horror. He wasn't worried, no. just annoyed. The least Martin could do was call in properly.
On the third day of Martin's absence he received a poorly put together digital file of research from the man via email attached to the message that he would be out of the office again. The fact that the research and follow up statement was riddled with errors as always confirmed to Jon that Martin was the one messaging him.
This, however, meant that Martin was well enough to be doing his (poor quality) work, but was still avoiding the office. Surely something bigger was at play. Was Martin trying to avoid his investigation? Was he using his time out of the office to conspire in privacy? Was he avoiding the scene of Gertrude's murder? Honestly, Jon had put aside the idea of Martin being the offender due to his general incompetence at seemingly everything, but this suspicious absence was moving Martin closer to the top of his suspect list. He was the one that found Gertrude's body after all.
By the fifth day that Martin had called out of work, Jon was torn between which horrible reason was responsible for keeping Martin out of the office for so long. He very honestly didn't know if another bloodthirsty monster trapping marten in his flat or martin being the culprit of gertrude’s murder was worse, but either way he was going to find out what was going on.
It wouldn't be difficult in any form of the word. Through Jon's research on his coworkers he knew where Martin lived (the institute's employment records were surprisingly accessible, something he’d be more concerned about if it wasn't so directly benefiting him) and it wasn't a far distance from the institute. In case he has to escape his flat again and make it to the archives. His brain helpfully supplied.
In any case, all Jon had to do was finish up a few statements and catch the nearest train before he would have his answers. He brought a tape recorder, a knife, and a corkscrew just to be safe. Of course, by the time he finished his statements and actually forced himself to leave the overwhelming pile of work for the next day it was well past the end of the conventional work day.
This meant when he finally stepped off the tube and made his way to where he knew Martin's apartment was, it was almost completely dark outside. (as dark as it got in london, at least.) he knocked on martin’s door with certainty he only had from having staked out the place weeks before, and waited.
No imminent danger at the very least.
From inside there came the rustling of fabric and a faint squeak, and then silence. Jon knocked again. “Who- who is it?” came a hoarse voice he only recognized as martins from the few times he had spoken to the man on early mornings in the archives. He sounded shaken. Maybe there was something then?
“I- I’m warning you! I have a knife!” ah, he must have forgotten to answer.
“It’s Jon, martin. No need for the knife.” he said, and no, he was not smiling at that. That’d be a stupid thing to smile at.
The door creaked open, and he was hit with a wave of sickening heat. “Jon?” Martin asked, peeking out from behind the door. “What are you- here, come in.” he said, opening the door wider to let him in.
Jon stood in the doorway instead, staring at martin. He looked horrible.
“Good lord martin. What the hell happened?” he asked, only feeling slightly bad about the way Martin cringed at his question.
The man had deep under eye circles, the kind Jon only saw in the mirror when he had stayed up for days at a time working on a statement. The kind martin would see and immediately force him to stop working and sleep. His usual stubble had grown out some, and his hair was a tangled and knotted mess. All of the color that usually tinted his face seemed to have drained away entirely.
Most worryingly to Jon, however, was the fact that Martin's usual anxious smile and bright eyes had been replaced with a gaunt and distant look. He looked like all of the life had been sucked out of him. Jon hated it.
“I’ve, uh, I've been sick. Have my messages not been going through? I mean i had to get a new phone after everything that happened and- oh god, oh i totally messed it up didn't i? I'm sorry, i- please dont fire me! I really need this job. I swear I'll fix it. I’ll work over time i’ll, oh! i’ll go in right now i just need to find a mask so i don't-” martin rambled, only stopping when jon cut him off.
“I’m not going to fire you. Jesus you look like you’re about to collapse. Sit down. ” he said, oddly feeling like he was quoting Martin's own words back to him. It felt like something the other man would say.
“Really I'm sorry- oh. Oh, okay. Um, why are you here then?” Martin asked cautiously, seemingly regretting the words as soon as he spoke. “Oh, oh that was rude. I'm sorry I don't, um, oh, would you like tea? Tea always… here let me just…” he mumbled, stumbling his way toward the kitchen.
“No, good lord Martin, you can barely stand. don't make me tea." Jon argued, finally stepping into the flat after him. “That doesn't, that doesnt matter i- i made you mad so i’ll just, i’ll make you tea.” Martin mumbled, barely coherent. This was not a man who was in any shape to be conspiring against him.
“It very much does matter when you can barely stand. Christ martin just sit down i'm not… I'm not angry with you. I'm just very concerned right now and not in the mood to deal with paramedics if you pass out and hit your head or something.”
And honestly, the pure relief on Martin's face when he said he wasn't angry with the man was almost heartbreaking.
“I’m sorry, I'm sorry. I don't want you to, I'll just, I'll sit. I'm sorry.” Martin mumbled, stumbling his way back across the room to the sofa.
As he did so, Jon noticed just how much of a mess the apartment was. Martin was by no means a messy person, he always kept his desk and the employee common areas tidy, even going so far as to almost take the janitorial staff’s jobs while he was living in the archives. Jon was almost certain that Martin liked cleaning. Now though, there was paper and instant food packages strewn everywhere, and almost every surface close enough to the sofa was covered in empty mugs.
He certainly wasn't doing well.
Jon was drawn out of his observation by Martin's hesitant voice. “What, what did I do this time that you had to come here? Was it those reports I sent you? I swear I tried but there's only so much I can do without getting people sick. I- i thought they were okay but obviously not if-” christ, did he always ramble this much?
“Martin! I'm not angry with you. Stop apologizing.”
“I’m sorry. I- i mean, why are you here then?” he asked, voice pitched up. Oh. he hadn't thought this far ahead. He couldn't very well tell him that he thought he could possibly be a murderer. Well, that left…
“You’ll forgive me for being concerned about your long leave of absence with only text communication after our recent, err, infestation.” Jon said, looking away to save himself the embarrassment. He had no need to be worried. Martin was fine. Well, not fine, but not being hunted by supernatural worms again. He had overreacted.
Martin let out a noise of surprise and immediately burst into a hacking fit so severe Jon thought he might cough up blood. “Oh! Oh, um, thank you. I’m sorry I didn't think to call in but really I only just got my voice back and- just, thank you.” he wheezed after he recovered. His face had a bit of color back to it now, Jon realized, but nothing like the brilliant shade of red it tended to be when the man talked for longer than two minutes. He found himself missing the dust of color.
Martin paused for a moment, seemingly just having realized something. “Wait a minute, how did you find my ad-”
“Have you been eating?” Jon cut him off with the first thing he could think of. Explaining to his coworker that he minorly stalked him to get his address was nowhere near something he wanted to do. The empty cup of instant ramen by the couch just happened to catch his eye. He was definitely not worried about how Martin's sweater seemed to hang somewhat looser on him than before.
“I- yeah?” Martin said, confused.
“I seem to remember someone informing me that instant meals don’t count.” Jon said, raising an eyebrow at martin.
“I- well not for you! You’re too skinny already. You need actual nutrition! I’ll survive a couple days.” Martin sputtered.
Jon rolled his eyes. “Right. Well, I'll see what you have to eat here. Last I checked, being named Martin Blackwood doesn't exempt you from your own advice.” he said, making his own way to the kitchen. Hypocrite. The man bothered him every day to ‘eat more’ and to ‘take care of himself’ and then didn't even follow his own advice.
“Really Jon, I'm okay. It doesn't matter just- jon you're not making me food !” Jon turned to glare at him, one hand already tying his slightly too-long hair back into a semblance of a bun. “Sit.” he said, and to his satisfaction Martin listened.
Jon searched through the fridge and pantry as Martin argued from his place on the sofa that it didn't matter, that he was fine, that Jon shouldn't be making him food in his own house, that he should at least be allowed to help, until finally he straightened up.
“Looks like you have the ingredients for omelets or chickpea soup if you're against the idea of solid food right now. Ideally you should eat ‘something with protein’ if I’m remembering your lecture correctly." Jon said, distinctly not smiling when Martin wrinkled his nose at his joke in protest.
“Really jon i’m-” Martin started again.
“Martin. Soup or omelets?”
“... soup,” Martin pouted. It was not adorable. It was not.
“Finally.”
Jon went to work making the soup, humming as he did. His grandmother used to make him chickpea soup as a child when he was recovering from the many colds he contracted, and had eventually taught him her recipe on one of her good days. It was a comfort, really, to cook again, despite the fact that his enjoyment of it definitely fed Tim's ongoing joke of him having ‘old lady’ hobbies.
At one point he turned to ask Martin a question, possibly about his level of spice tolerance, but he forgot immediately when he found marting staring sleepily at him, head draped over the armrest of the sofa to watch. It was frankly adorable, and Jon felt his face heat at the sight.
“Keep humming.” Martin all but whined. “You have a pretty voice.”
And Jon did not give in to that request simply because of the way Martin's eyes fluttered as he tried to stay awake. No, if he kept humming it was only because he wanted to, and he certainly didn’t hum louder so Martin could hear better. Nope. not at all.
When he finished pouring the soup into bowls (Martin's hand painted bowls with highland cows on them were not endearing, no matter what that traitorous voice in his brain was telling him) he brought them to the living area, only to be met with a sleeping martin.
He was sprawled out as much as he could be on the small sofa, one arm slung over his head and his soft lips slightly parted. He looked peaceful.
He looked cute.
But his neck was at an odd angle from how he fell asleep, and he really did need to eat actual food, so Jon set the bowls down on the small coffee table and tried to wake him.
“Martin,” he said softly, “Martin, the food is ready.” He didn't wake up.
Jon placed his hand on Martin's shoulder and gently shook him awake, definitely not marveling at the softness and warmth of the man’s sweater.
Martin groaned but did not otherwise react, so Jon shook him again. “Martin wake up,” he all but whispered and martin leaned into his touch, sleepily grabbing for him. Jon flushed, panicked, and tried to pull away but Martin was strong, even in such a state.
“Mmm, im sleepy.” he whined, absentmindedly playing with jon’s fingers, “i don't want to.'' Jon was not blushing. He was not.
“Martin, please, you need to eat.” he said, trying to keep his composure. “ You need to eat.” Martin mumbled. “You’re too small.” Jon sighed. “Martin, could you at least open your eyes?” he asked, exasperated. Martin did as he was told, smiling foggily up at him.
“You're pretty. Did you know that?” Martin rambled, and Jon just about had a heart attack right there in the middle of martin’s flat. “Martin-” he tried again. Martin reached up and tugged a chunk of hair that had fallen out of Jon's tiny bun. “Your hair is so pretty and soft. And your face is pretty and your eyes and-”
Jon cut him off hurriedly, his face on fire and heart racing. “Martin, let's just sit up, yeah?” he said, helping Martin pull himself to a sitting position. He immediately slumped sideways so that Jon had to hold him up again.
“Sit down.” Martin practically whined, pulling on the sleeve of Jon's shirt to try to get his point across.
“Martin, just eat.” Jon tried, but to no avail.
“Only if you sit down.” Martin said with another tug.
And so, Jon found himself pressed against the side of his overly affectionate coworker eating the closest thing he could describe as a comfort food at 8 o'clock on a friday night. And, as much as he wanted to deny it, he was not at all upset about it.
“You’re a good cook.” Martin mumbled for the third time, lazily scooping the soup into his mouth. “You should cook more so I worry about you less.” jon hummed noncommittally.
“You don't need to worry about me, martin. If anything it looks like you need to worry about yourself.”
Martin hummed his disapproval, shaking his head the best he could as it was resting on Jon's shoulder. “Not important. Someone has to worry about you.” he mumbled.
Jon froze a bit, just staring at Martin for a few seconds. Martin, who always brought him tea and bothered him to take breaks even when he was being nothing short of cruel to the man. Martin, who regularly baked treats for the archival staff and wrote individualized holiday cards to half the people in the building. Martin, who cared so much about a damn dog that he accidentally let it into the archies.
Martin, who kept repeating that he wasn't important.
“Martin, I hope you understand that your health is important to me, to us, I mean. I know Tim and Sasha certainly care about you, as do i." Jon said. It was awkward, and he hated admitting that he maybe somewhat cared for the man sitting next to him, but he was becoming increasingly certain it was something martin needed to hear.
Martin made to argue in his own sleepy way, but Jon continued. “You’re an important person in our lives and… and I apologize if I made you feel differently.”
Martin sighed and burrowed deeper into Jon's side, muttering something about Jon being nice being the end of him, and promptly fell asleep. Jon did not smile when Martin sleepily grasped his shirt sleeve. Not at all. That would be ridiculous.
And if Jon stayed pressed against him for a few more minutes than strictly necessary before laying him down in a more comfortable position, that was completely his own business.
When he finally finished tidying up the apartment and covered Martin with the blanket from the back of the sofa he had one, inescapable, horrifying thought.
Jon was falling in love with Martin Blackwood, and he didn't know how to stop it.