Work Text:
“Statement ends.”
Jon broke into a coughing fit, leaning against his desk as he hacked so much he thought he’d throw up an organ.
Once his coughing finally died down, he let out a pained groan and hid his face in his hands, closing his eyes tightly and blocking out the world around him. He stayed like that for far longer than he should have, his body weak and mind clouded in a deep fog. He might have fallen asleep. He honestly couldn’t tell if he was asleep now; everything felt far away, like a weird dream.
“Uh- Jon? Jo- oh, Christ…”
The voice cut into Jon’s consciousness like a horrible, jagged knife, sending sparks of pain shooting through his aching head. He groaned, trying to just will away whoever had entered his office. He couldn’t even tell who it was. To his horror, the intruder got closer, their footsteps ringing in his ears and further feeding his headache. A hand found his back and he reared up with a hiss, whipping around to meet the concerned gaze of Martin.
“Good lord, Jon, you look awful.”
Jon sighed and rolled his eyes. He opened his mouth to defend himself but broke into another coughing fit instead, ducking his head down in order to not cough directly onto Martin, who was now staring at him in horror.
“Jon, I’m taking you home.”
“Absolutely not,” Jon interjected immediately, though his voice was cracked and raspy. “I'm not done. I’ve-” He coughed. “I’ve got more work to do.”
Martin sighed. Before he could shoot something back, though, the door slammed open and Jon winced again at the noise.
“Hey Boss, Martin! What’s going- Oh my god, Jon, you look like shit.”
“Tim-” Martin stared, pleading.
Jon buried his face in his hands again, trying to hide from the two, too tired to shoot back any type of retort.
“Jon, please. Let me take you home.”
“Ooo, Mar-” Tim started, a familiar teasing lilt in his voice. Martin quickly cut him off with furious shushing. Jon could practically hear Tim’s grin.
“Martin’s right, though, Boss, you’re clearly sick. You look like death. I’ll tell Elias that you two are going home.”
Jon was far too weak to protest that, despite knowing the implications of Tim telling Elias. He would surely exaggerate it, spinning it into some tale of them going home together together, or running off to go on a date, or… Jon shut down that train of thought. It was not the time for Jon's crush-on Martin or the little one on Tim- to rear its head. Frankly, any story Tim could spin up would be better than Elias knowing he was sick.
The feeling of both their waiting eyes on him shook him back to the present.
“Fine,” He hissed.
“Alrighty, then! Get well soon, boss!” Tim grinned, giving a giant thumbs-up as he turned on his heel to leave.
Jon sighed heavily and turned to Martin. He attempted to shoot him an impatient glare, but judging by Martin’s expression, it came out more akin to a pathetic plea.
“Let's go, yeah?” Martin said softly, reaching out a hand to Jon.
Jon scoffed. “I can stand on my o-own-” He protested, even as he stood up and immediately stumbled, his legs far too weak to hold up his weight. His dizziness became impossibly worse, the fog clouding his mind getting so thick he couldn't think. He grabbed his desk to steady himself, pulling himself up.
“Jon!” Martin yelped, his hands darting out to steady him. “Please, let me help you.”
Jon sighed. Reluctantly, he accepted, taking Martin’s hand.
“Thank you.”
Martin led him out of the institute, walking slowly as Jon wobbled on his feet. There was no one in the common room, Sasha must have left, so they only had to get past Rosie to get out. The ride on the tube felt like hours. Jon was getting progressively sicker, the effort of appearing fine and well in front of others only draining his energy further. When they finally reached their stop, Jon practically fell out of the tube in his scramble to get home and rest.
Martin led him up the steps to his flat, and after fumbling through fishing his keys out of his pocket, Jon unlocked the door and collapsed on the couch.
Martin followed, shutting the door and putting a kettle on before approaching Jon where he lay on the couch.
Martin pressed a hand into his forehead, his skin pleasantly warm against Jon’s own. In his haze, Jon pressed mindlessly into the touch. Martin stiffened but didn’t pull away, though Jon’s eyes were not open to see his expression.
“You’re burning up. Christ, you’re really burning up.” Martin muttered. “I’ll get you some medicine, yeah?”
Jon mumbled a confirmation as Martin left, barely even words.
He sighed, spreading out on the couch. His entire body ached, blunt and heavy and weighing him down. His skin was hot but he didn't feel it, shivering violently every time the cold air passed over him. The haze that had settled over his mind made everything seem dreamlike.
He let his eyes close, resting like that in the silence Martin had left.
Footsteps. “Jon, I got…” Martin’s voice picked up, then trailed off. Jon could feel Martin near him, feel his eyes on him, but did not make a move to acknowledge him, letting the peaceful silence sit like mist over a lake.
A few seconds passed and Jon blinked open his eyes, tired and slow, shifting to gaze up at Martin. He was just watching him, standing there like he’d been frozen in his tracks. His face was peaceful, his gaze warm. Martin startled when Jon opened his eyes, his face going red as he averted his gaze.
“I- er- sorry. Here’s- uh- here’s your medicine.” Martin stammered, practically throwing the pills at Jon before scurrying off to tend to the tea.
Jon blinked, then carefully swallowed the pills. He barely registered that he didn’t have water to take them with.
Martin returned from the kitchen with two mugs, setting one in front of Jon and taking his own to the other side of the couch, sipping on it slowly as he watched Jon reach for his own. They sat like that, for a while, in silence, drinking their tea. Jon let out a pleased hum when he tasted his own. Pomegranate, one of his favorite flavors- although that was a given, seeing as Martin had to choose from Jon’s own teas. It was made with sugar and a splash of milk, just as Jon liked. Martin smiled at him.
“How are you feeling?” He asked softly, after a few minutes.
“Hhng,” Jon replied eloquently.
Martin chuckled, the sound floating around in Jon’s hazy mind, bringing a blush to his face. Jon laughed with him, weakly.
“I’ll make you some soup. I’m sure you’re hungry.”
Jon nodded softly, accepting. Martin smiled, presumably at his lack of protest, and stood to go to the kitchen. Jon’s flat was small, the kitchen and the living room separated only by Jon’s idea of what the rooms contained. He could watch Martin from his spot on the couch, turning his head slightly on the armrest to gaze at his back as he put the pot on the stove. It was almost domestic, the picture of them existing in silence, Martin cooking- as far as heating up canned soup could be considered- for Jon, taking care of him, while he couldn’t do it himself. If Jon didn’t know better, he’d think Martin truly did care about him. Might even like him. Might even like him.
Minutes passed like that and Martin started humming a tune as he stirred the soup, tapping his foot to the rhythm. Jon smiled, lazily humming along. He didn’t know the tune, suspected it was just one Martin made up, but Martin couldn’t hear his illness-weakened voice from his place in the kitchen, and Jon could deliriously hum whatever came to mind as he listened.
Martin finished, turning off the stove and pouring the soup into a bowl, returning to the living room and placing it on the end table, next to Jon’s head.
“Here, there you go. Eat, at least a bit. Slowly, though,” he added, “Don’t get sick- you’re probably more likely to feel nauseous if you’re sick, plus you haven't eaten all day and-”
Jon cut Marin off with a short noise of acknowledgment, taking the bowl and sipping directly from it, ignoring the spoon. He doubted he could hold it very well in his current state.
Martin smiled and sat back down on the other end of the couch.
“Thank you,” Jon finally managed, after drinking a bit of the soup. His voice was raspy and painful, but the words mattered more than his discomfort. “Thank you.”
“Of course, Jon. Always. I…” Martin stopped abruptly, shaking his head as if to clear his thoughts. He continued with a smile. “I’m honored you let me take care of you. I’m glad you did. I know if I didn’t do something you’d work until you passed out and then collapse on the floor at home.”
Jon smiled lightly. He knew it was true. He would usually fight the accusation, but in his sick haze, he just agreed.
“I love you.” The words just slipped out, unfiltered by his fever-induced delirium. He barely registered that he said it, not until he looked up again and saw Martin’s expression.
His eyes were wide, his mouth hanging open as if it had been paused in the middle of him talking. His face was somehow both pale and flushed at the same time. Jon would’ve teased him for it, the almost comical expression of shock.
“You- you-” He stammered. “You don't mean that. You’re… You’re sick. It’s your fever.”
Jon’s expression hardened. Him admitting it might have been caused by the state of his foggy, clouded mind, but the words, the fact was true. He was coherent enough to know that, and he would still be when he was better, when his fever broke and he was well.
“No. Martin. I mean it,” He insisted, even as anxiety curled in his gut at Martin’s reaction, fearing that he had overstepped and now Martin would flee.
Martin was silent for a minute.
“I love you too, Jon.”
Now it was Jon’s turn to be shocked, though it quickly melted into happiness. He grinned, pushing himself up to sit despite the way his head spun at the action.
Martin laughed. “I’m not going to kiss you, Jon. You’re sick. We will when you get better, alright?”
Jon rolled his eyes but smiled.
“We will. And we’ll talk about it, because that’s important too,” He agreed, then sat his head face-down on the arm of the couch and promptly fell asleep.