Work Text:
| Martin
| 12:37 AM
| can i call you?
Jon almost missed the text. His battle with his phone’s charger was hurtling towards an ignoble surrender--maybe 7% battery would last until morning--when the phone buzzed again in his hands.
| Martin
| 12:41 AM
| nevermind i know it’s late there
| sorry
He hit the call button. Never mind Martin’s never mind. It was, what, 5 in the morning back home? If it was important enough for Martin to text him this early, it was important enough for Jon to call back. Half a dozen nightmare scenarios leapt to mind in the space between every ring. The Institute was attacked. Detective Tonner killed someone. Tim killed himself. Prentiss was back and she had Martin’s phone again and Jon would hear her voice when the call connected and he knew those weren’t really her ashes and--
“Hi, Jon,” said the voice on the other end of the line, soft and familiar.
“Martin,” Jon breathed. The wave of relief that crashed over him would’ve knocked him to his knees if he weren’t already sprawled on the world’s least comfortable motel bed. His heart still jackhammered against his ribs, but Martin was alive and talking to him. One terror knocked off the list. “What happened? Is it Tim? Were you attacked?”
“No, nothing like that.” Martin’s voice quavered, raw and ragged around the edges. “It’s just, just some personal--” The last syllable cracked into a sob. “Sorry, I...” He took a long, shaky breath. It did little to steady his voice. “I shouldn’t have bothered you. I didn’t mean to make you think the world was ending, or...anything like that.”
“What happened?” Jon tried again, wide awake now. He pitched his voice as gently as he could. “Even if it’s not--it doesn’t have to be about work. If there’s anything I can do to help...”
“My mum died.”
“Your mum?” His mouth echoed the words while his mind screeched into gear. It took far, far too long for his brain to produce, “I’m so sorry,” before immediately mucking it up with, “Are you alright?”
“No.”
Shit. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to compel--”
“It’s okay,” Martin said. But of course he did. That was what you said, wasn’t it, when someone stuck their foot in their mouth and you didn’t want to embarrass them?
“No, it’s--”
“I mean it.” For a moment, that tremor left his voice. “To be honest, it’s kind of nice to be able to just say, ‘No, I feel horrible. Thanks for ask--for--’” He broke again. Jon could almost see those heavy sobs wracking Martin’s shoulders, Martin’s teeth sinking into his lower lip as he tried and failed to hold the sounds at bay. “Sorry,” he whispered.
“Don’t be.” Jon half-lifted a hand, chest aching with the need to reach out and pull Martin against his shoulder and tell him that he understood. But did he understand, really? His mother died when he was five. He barely remembered her. And Martin...he adored his mother. “You don’t--please don’t apologize. I--if there’s anything I can do...I--I ’m sorry. I’m not good at these things.”
“No, no, I shouldn’t--I didn’t know who else to--but you’re my boss , I should’ve just put in for leave. Not--”
“Oh.” Boss. Right. “Of course. Take any time you need.” Being the boss was easier than being...whatever he was trying to be. He could do something. “If Elias gives you any trouble, let me know. I’ll talk to him.”
“Thank you, Jon,” Martin said. “That’s good to hear.” Something in his tone didn’t sit right, gnawing at Jon with the nagging sense that he’d missed something , that Martin had been looking for something he hadn’t given. Martin took another breath, steadier this time. “I, um--I should probably go. Thanks for taking the ti--”
“ Wait. ” Jon’s fingers tightened on the phone, as if he could somehow catch Martin’s wrist from thousands of miles away. The fear that sent his heart into another frantic staccato was nothing like the dread that had gripped him when he’d first called. It was sharper, more immediate. Martin didn’t speak, but there was no tell-tale beep of an ended call.
“Martin, listen, I--I know I’m bad at this, but I’m glad you wanted to talk to me.” Jon forced the words around the lump in his throat. He needed to say this, while he had the nerve. “I’m glad you felt like I’m someone you can talk to. I know I haven’t...I haven’t always been...” Kind? Fair? Remotely worthy of the consideration Martin had always shown him?
“Someone I could talk to?”
“Yeah.” The gentle reproach cut deeper than any harsh condemnation. “But I want to be. I’ll probably make a hash of it”--he half-laughed the last few words, and earned a soft chuckle in return--”but I don’t want you to think that means that I don’t--” He stumbled. “--care.”
“Thank you.” Martin’s voice held a sad smile. “That...that means a lot.” Silence stretched out between them. Companionable or awkward or something else--Jon couldn’t tell. It could have been seconds or hours before Martin said, “But I really do have to go. I’m her last surviving relative, and--and there’s a lot to take care of.”
“Of course.” Jon’s throat tightened. “I meant what I said earlier. Take all the time you need.” He tried to say goodbye, but his tongue caught around the word. He didn’t want to end this call as Martin’s boss. “Maybe when I’m back, we can get lunch and--and talk? If you want. No--no pressure.”
“I’d like that. I--” Something unsaid hung in the air. “I’d like that a lot. I’ll talk to you soon.”
“Talk to you soon.” Jon watched as call ended appeared on the screen, heart heavy in his chest.
In the near-silence that followed, his ears caught the familiar whir of a running tape recorder. The treacherous little thing sat on Jon’s nightstand, shameless. He dove for the stop button, jabbing it with a growled, “You really needed that one?”
The recorder clicked off.