Work Text:
“Oh, okay… thanks,” Martin finally spoke after an embarrassing silence which stretched between them until Jon had raised an eyebrow expectantly as though he had always cared about Martin’s wellbeing, and offering him a bed which Jon apparently slept in was entirely in character for him. Martin said as much.
“To be honest I didn’t- didn’t expect you to take it seriously,” and then Jon explained the text messages, the irrefutable logic behind allowing Martin to stay in the institute, and the feeling of warmth which had surged through the blond quelled a bit. A bit, but not entirely
It wasn’t until later that night, when everyone had gone home and Martin was left with just his thoughts and a small but comfy bed nestled in a room he hadn’t noticed before that he really took in what Jon had said. ‘I use it to sleep when working late’. Martin was a relatively new addition to the institute, sure, and he knew Jon was… enthusiastic about his work (he’d had enough reprimands from him about reports ‘not being thorough enough’), but to actually go as far as to fall asleep in the institute? Martin felt an uncharacteristic pang of worry for his boss, before remembering his insistence on ‘due diligence’ was the reason he was in this mess in the first place and promptly pushing the thought from his mind as he changed into some comfier sweatpants and a shirt.
Martin was becoming increasingly difficult with each passing day. If there was one thing Jon couldn’t stand, it was laziness. And calling Martin’s reports lazy would’ve been an understatement. Technically, there was nothing wrong with them. But really, in this line of work, you're expected to go the extra mile. Break a few laws, talk to a few witnesses, etcetera. Not complete a quick Google search and hand in a word document peppered with spelling mistakes. And all this was back when Martin actually attended his job. The first two sick days, Jon could look past. But a whole week? It was absurd, especially when you were as new as Martin to the position. So, when his assistant had finally returned yammering on about worms and flesh hives, Jon had been more than a little exasperated. He was harsher than he needed to be as he set up the recorder for Martin’s statement, all the missed reports in the forefront of his mind. And then Martin had explained, and it had actually sounded quite terrifying, and the poor sod had actually gone back to the Vittery house a second time just because of Jon’s strict work ethic. He couldn’t exactly let Martin return to being held captive in his own home.
This is what lead Jon to reluctantly offer the spare room. The thought of having Martin’s constant presence in the Archives was bad enough, but the thought of him taking up Jon’s only place to sleep when he worked late? Even worse. It would be a miracle if Jon made it through the next few weeks without actively seeking out Prentiss to kill him first.
Jon decided to avoid Martin altogether during his stay in the institute, a strategy which worked remarkably well for all of three days. Jon was re-reading a statement referencing a hypnotic table which had recently been delivered to artefact storage, and he decided to go and see the thing for himself. He gathered the relevant file, and busied himself with sorting the papers inside as he made his way out of the office and walked straight into Martin, who’s fresh mug of tea spilled almost comically down Jon’s front and across the paper in his hands. Jon yelped at the sudden burning heat, and looked up to see a mortified Martin in a hoodie and joggers staring at the brownish stain on Jon’s blue jumper.
“Martin!” Jon exclaimed, loud, because of course it was him, everything that went wrong was always somehow Martin’s fault, “Bloody hell,”
“Shit, sorry! Sorry!” Martin apologised, dashing into the breakroom to grab some paper towel as Jon dramatically shook out the now soggy statement. He watched the ink bleed to an unintelligible splash of black and groaned. Martin returned, dabbing at Jon’s chest and Jon brushed him off, taking the wad and pressing it to his jumper himself and watching as it quickly became sodden with tea. He fixed Martin with an unimpressed glare.
“Watch where you walk next time,” He spoke, ignoring the fact he himself hadn’t even looked up as he left his office. Martin nodded, scratching his head.
“I-I’m really sorry. Was that… important?” He winced, gesturing to the unsalvageable statement.
“Very,” Jon said, coldly. He didn’t mention that he’d already made a VHS recording of it. Martin looked guilty. Good. “That’s hardly work attire,” He added, and Martin looked down at himself and then back to his boss.
“I… I’m not working. I was about to go to bed, actually,” Jon just stared, utterly lost. Bed? At… oh. He glanced at the clock on the wall, and realised it was in fact ten at night. No wonder he couldn’t hear the usual ceaseless chatter of the other staff.
“Right,” Jon said, curtly, before returning to his office and stripping off his stained jumper. It had been new.
As if his presence in the institute wasn’t distraction enough, Martin had taken to humming. Actually humming. Jon was at his wits end. The statement he was reading seemed to share similarities with several others, but every time he came close to connecting them the links seemed to crumble away into nothing, leaving Jon with more questions than he’d started with. It was insufferable. Then Martin passed by his office to presumably put the kettle on, still making that infernal noise, and Jon had had enough. He opened his office door, startling Martin who’d assumed he was alone at this time in the evening.
“For the love of God, would you stop humming?” Jon asked, exasperated, and this time Martin didn’t apologise. He stopped, and fixed Jon with a cold glare, mouth set into a firm line. Jon suddenly felt like a complete ass.
“It’s… distracting,” He added, weakly.
“I’m sick of you acting like everything that goes wrong around here is my fault!” Martin suddenly exploded, months of reprimands bubbling to the surface. “I’m new, Jon, surely you were once new as well? You're telling me you never messed up a report or spilt a cup of tea? You could try being a little less pissed off all the time. It’s not my fault you have some freaky obsession with recording statements until the day you drop dead at your desk.”
Jon stopped, stared. His mind immediately went to Gertrude, of the fate of his predecessor which he’d begun to fear would be his as well. Martin seemed to realise this, because his expression seemed to soften from annoyed to just plain tired.
“Whatever. I’ll stop humming, even though it’s well past the end of everyone’s shift. But you realise I am literally living here because of you, last time I checked.” With that, he turned around and abandoned the breakroom, instead heading back to his temporary bed. Jon stayed there, silent, watching him retreat. He… he was right. Jon was being a prick. A pit formed in his stomach as he thought back on the unneeded reprimands, the reports he’d demanded re-done. Martin was just so easy to get annoyed at, because he never stood up for himself. And Jon had been so annoyed, what with case after case all seeming to connect but with that final piece of the puzzle just out of his grip. So he’d taken it out on Martin.
Jon groaned, the thought of apologising filling him with dread. Instead, he went to the breakroom and made a cup of tea. He didn’t know how Martin liked it, and probably didn’t make it very well considering he was more of a coffee person, but he tried his best and grabbed two of Tim’s digestives from the cupboard. He carried the steaming mug carefully to Martin’s room, knocked on the door, and at the lack of reply took it upon himself to just go inside. Martin was sat on his bed, knees to his chest, staring intently at something on his phone. He looked up at Jon as he came in.
“What now?” He asked, and Jon felt that pit grow deeper. He held out the mug, and Martin’s eyes widened.
“Oh,” He took it, and the biscuits, and just sort of stared at it like he couldn’t quite understand what had possessed Jon to make him a cup of tea.
“I… shouldn’t have been so hard on you. None of it was your fault,” Jon began, resolutely looking anywhere but at Martin. “I’ll try and be better,”
Martin just stared at him for an excruciating few seconds, then took a bite from the digestive.
“Okay,” He said, with none of that earlier annoyance and a small smile on his face that Jon allowed himself to commit to memory before he turned on his heels and left.
Jon was tired. This was nothing new, in fact he’d recently started to prefer being tired to being awake; it meant he got through statements faster, not focusing so much on each word as it fell from his lips. It was around eleven at night — his shift had officially ended six hours ago — but there were still a few folders on his desk he wanted to record before making the commute home. Blearily, he made his way to the breakroom as he did most nights to make a far too strong cup of coffee. His head was pounding, and he wiped his hands down his face as he entered. The clatter of plastic in the sink made him jump, immediately fearing the worst, and he blinked at the striped tube of toothpaste Martin had fumbled. Jon sighed, leaning back against the wall in relief as Martin held a hand over his heart.
“Jon…” He began, laughing a little breathlessly — a sound which Jon’s sleep-deprived mind locked onto and filed away — and picking up his toothpaste. “You’re still here?” He asked. Jon rolled his eyes.
“Evidently,” He said, dryly, and immediately regretted it as Martin’s eyebrows furrowed and he turned his back to his boss, focusing on squeezing the toothpaste onto his brush. Jon suddenly felt incredibly embarrassed, the situation seeming far too intimate for co-workers, as though they were teenagers having a sleepover or… something worse.
“I was just going to get a coffee, but… I think I’ll go home,” Jon spoke without thinking, the unread statements momentarily forgotten. Martin just nodded, said something like ‘bye’ through a mouthful of toothpaste, and then Jon was out the door and in the underground before he could think twice about leaving his work unfinished.
It was quite remarkable, really, how instead of fighting off thoughts of wriggling parasites and esoteric literature Jon found himself fighting off thoughts of blond hair and plaid pyjama bottoms as he got a good night’s sleep for the first time in weeks.
Jon decided not to use the breakroom after hours again, despite how much he relied on his coffee. This wasn’t too difficult, as shutting himself in his office and becoming completely engrossed in recording statements was steadily turning into Jon’s normal day at work.
“Statement of Leanne Den—” a creak outside his door made Jon whip around, immediately searching through the somewhat grimy glass for any writhing silver worms. All he caught was a flash of red plaid.
He left to retrieve a reference book ten minutes later, and stopped dead in his tracks when he returned to find a steaming mug of black coffee on his desk. Something horribly reminiscent of a blush spread across his cheeks as he sat back down tentatively, as though one wrong move could cause the mug to disappear entirely. He checked the clock, eleven- eleven thirty? Jon could’ve sworn his shift had finished only a few minutes ago… that left Martin as the only possible culprit, unless Prentiss was in the habit of making people cups of coffee before she attacked them. Jon snorted at the notion, returning to his work, but he couldn’t shake the odd feeling the gesture had brought on. It was stupid — Jon hated just how stupid it was — but the fact was he just wasn’t used to… affection? Was that the right word? Hardly. It wasn’t as though he and Martin were even friends. It was more just being thought of, rather than blending in with the rest of the Archive like he was just another — albeit irritable — part of artefact storage as the others sometimes treated him. He didn’t blame them, of course, between assigning them endless research and occasionally asking they re-write a report, Jon had hardly tried to ingratiate himself to the others.
What’s more, it was exactly how Jon liked it. Strong — so much so that it was practically deadly, and he wondered how the hell Martin had known. Maybe he’d just thought Jon needed something to keep him awake. He wouldn’t be wrong.
Having spent entirely too much time dwelling on a cup of coffee, for God’s sake, Jon dutifully turned the tape recorder back on, and didn’t stop working until he fell asleep at his desk three hours later. If Martin noticed he hadn’t gone home that night, he didn’t say anything.
The coffee became a regular thing. Jon had long since memorised Martin’s schedule (for reasons he preferred not to think about, he found he got a lot more work done if he managed to avoid seeing Martin look so… soft, with sleep-mussed curls and a drowsy look on his face), and it seemed Martin had both memorised Jon’s schedule and realised his boss’ careful avoidance of any interaction between them after work hours. It wouldn’t have bothered Jon, except for the fact that Martin kept bringing coffee the moment he left the office. It made him feel a complete dickhead, not even being able to thank him. How stupid.
It was night eight when his conscience finally got the better of him, and he found himself opening and closing his office door rather dramatically but staying firmly put inside. Sure enough, three minutes later there was Martin, carefully opening the door with one hand and carrying a steaming mug in the other.
“Martin—”
“Oh! Jon— I— sorry, I just—”
“No, I—”
“Thought you’d want—”
They both shut up, standing awkwardly a few feet apart. Jon wanted to die. He almost willed Prentiss to just get it over with and kill him. Whatever his ‘scarlet fate’ was, surely it was better than this. And then there was that soft laugh again, and Jon felt immediately better, immediately drawn to it, as Martin spoke.
“Here,” He handed over the mug, and turned to leave.
“Martin, wait,” Jon called, and Martin stilled, looking at him expectantly. Great.
“…Thank you,” Jon managed, and hated that Martin looked surprised. Surely he wasn’t that rude?
“Why….?” He began, and Martin just shrugged.
“You looked like you needed it,” He said, simply, and left.
Martin wasn’t so careful to avoid him after that. Every night once it passed ten, if Jon was still there, Martin would bring him a cup of coffee whilst cradling his own mug of tea. Jon found it quite fitting that Martin would favour a drink like tea. He tried not to dwell on these thoughts, but Martin’s continual presence seemed to snap him out of the trance he often fell into when working, to the point where he found himself asleep in his own house most nights. In the second week of Martin staying at the institute, Jon woke up at his desk with a familiar pain in his back. He groaned, rubbing sleep from his eyes and realising with a start that not only had he fallen asleep at seven PM, but there was a pillow between his head and the hard wood of his desk. He sat up with a start, and a blanket slid to the floor with a thump. Jon had used both often enough in the weeks before Martin’s stay that he knew where they had come from. He blushed, unable to help it, and realised with a start that the pillow… the pillow smelled of Martin.
It smelt like a mixture of tea and whatever aftershave he wore. Jon couldn’t help but try and commit it to memory. He winced internally as he realised that now he was awake, and it was approaching a normal bedtime, he’d have to return the items. Nevertheless, Jon wasn’t about to let his co-worker sleep on a mattress with no pillow or blanket like a tramp. So, begrudgingly, he got up, grabbing the pillow and wrapping the blanket around his shoulders while steadfastly trying to dismiss the thought that hugging Martin would probably feel quite similar.
His assistant was reading one of Jon’s books when he found him. Jon knocked on the door and Martin looked up at him in surprise through the glass window before beckoning him in. He was sat cross-legged in those same pyjamas on his now bare bed, a well-loved leather book in his lap. Jon recognised it immediately as Daemonologie by Charles VI, a book he must’ve left in the room the last time he used it. He handed over the blanket, which Martin wrapped around himself (Jon tried to ignore how sharing a blanket made him feel — he was acting like a crazed schoolgirl), and the pillow which returned to the end of the bed. Martin thanked him and returned to his book, but Jon just stayed there, absently shifting his weight to the other foot. Why was this so difficult?
The truth was, Jon had begun to like Martin. And considering the fact he wasn’t particularly good at his job, that was very rare indeed. Jon had always been an introvert, sure, but he hadn’t realised quite how isolated he’d been since he joined the institute until he found himself unable to speak a kind word to Martin, even when he would insist on noticing Jon’s presence and reacting by making him drinks and bringing him blankets. So now here he was, stood like a creep and unable to say a word as Martin just stared back at him. He opened his mouth and promptly closed it again. Suddenly, (thank the lord), something like understanding seemed to dawn on Martin’s face as he looked back down at his book for a moment, then back up at Jon, and asked:
“You’ve read this, right?”
Jon breathed out, finally able to talk about something he understood.
“Yes, though I can’t say it hits the mark on anything about witchcraft. I read it more as a comedy than an actual reference,” Martin giggled, and Jon actually smiled. He noticed the way Martin’s eyes followed the curve of his lips and it made him want to do it more often.
“Still, I don’t understand this paragraph. Can you explain it?”
Jon knew a lie when he heard one. Martin may be a little incompetent when it came to investigations, but he was far from stupid. Moreover, he didn’t turn the book around from where he was sitting on the bed for Jon to see, and instead just stared up at him expectantly. Jon flushed, hoping it wasn’t too obvious, but sat down beside him on the bed anyway. This was much, much worse than that night in the breakroom. He could… he could smell Martin again, that warm scent that was so entirely him, and he could feel a warmth radiating from his hands as he passed Jon the book and pointed to a seemingly random paragraph. Whatever Martin’s reasons, Jon was hardly in a state to question him. So, he tried to ignore the all-consuming experience of being so close to someone and explained the paragraph, pausing a few times to scoff at the clearly incorrect interpretations and relishing in the little laughs Martin gave in response.
When he’d finished, Jon reluctantly got up to leave. Martin settled back within the covers and Jon tried not to stare as he finally voiced what he’d been meaning to say.
“I’m not… I’m not very good at this,” He admitted, the words coming out halted. He looked at the wall above Martin’s head. “At being friends with people,” he managed. Martin nodded, and Jon’s shoulders relaxed.
“I can tell,” He smiled, “I have to say I never thought I’d hear one nice word from you after all the shit you gave me when I started,”
Jon winced.
“I apologise. It was… unprofessional. I can get rather caught up in my work, you see, but—”
“It’s okay, Jon,” Martin said, shaking his head, and Jon found himself caught on how he’d said it, soft and understanding in a way Jon most definitely didn’t deserve. He suddenly realised if he didn’t leave he’d say something embarrassingly emotional. He gave a quick nod and a ‘goodnight’ which Martin returned easily, before turning on his heel and leaving the institute.
Jon knew the Prentiss attack was coming two months before it did. It was nonsensical, he realised, but somehow that watched feeling intensified and he felt more and more drawn into the statements, until he would only make it home one out of five nights a week. Oftentimes he would wake up with a pillow or a blanket or both, feel incredibly guilty, and return them to find a sleeping Martin curled up on the bare mattress with his hair falling into his face and a peaceful expression on his features. It was nice, seeing him so unbothered. Lord knows things had been… difficult, recently, and they were all more than a little paranoid. It was three minutes before Jon realised quite how weird it was to watch another man sleep, and set about draping the thick blanket over Martin as gently as possible so as not to wake him. The pillow was more difficult. Obviously Jon wasn’t going to touch Martin, so he settled for just sort of sliding it up against him until the soft pressure caused Martin to frown slightly and turn over in his sleep, usually so that he was lying on the pillow.
The third time he did this, Martin shifted, grabbing at the blanket around him and mumbling something like “thank y… Jon… g’night…” before promptly falling back asleep. Jon just stood there, silent, his thoughts stuttering to a halt. Liquid warmth flowed through him, colouring his cheeks and dripping down his throat until it pooled distractingly in his stomach. Whatever this thing that he kept feeling when he and Martin interacted was, it was distracting him from his work. For the first time in his life, he couldn’t bring himself to care.
Things only got worse from that point. Jon found himself trying to bump into the blond, leaving his office to conveniently make a cup of coffee at the exact time he caught a flash of Martin passing by. It was quite amazing, really, how easily they were able to talk after that night. Sure, unless it was about a statement, it was mostly Martin doing the talking and Jon making sarcastic comments which no longer brought a furrow to the other’s brow but instead a laugh which Jon had decided was officially his favourite sound.
Oh.
Oh.
Fucking hell.
It was one of those particularly bad nights — or, more accurately, early mornings — when Jon found himself mindlessly recording statement after statement, throwing himself into one bad dream after another, to the point where sentences blended together as he spoke them and the different experiences became one lingering sense of dread that settled on his shoulders and kept him in his chair until he ached from exertion. The words tumbled from his lips of their own accord, an endless stream he was helpless to stop. The coffee Martin had brought him earlier that night lay cold and coagulated on the desk, and the ceaseless whirr of the old tape recorder filled the silence of his office. So entranced was he in this particular statement (that of David Laylow, regarding an industrial abattoir) that he didn’t hear Martin open the door, pause in surprise at the fact Jon was still awake and not slumped at his desk, and then call out.
“Jon—”
“Killing things and butchering their flesh for a living—”
“Jon,” Martin pressed, louder this time, shifting the pillow and blanket he’d brought under one arm and standing behind Jon, looking over his shoulder at the statement he was reading. Jon didn’t stop, despite the fact he must have heard Martin.
“I mean, I don’t do it anymore, obviously—”
“Jon,” He tried again, but still no reaction. It was horrible. Martin reached out and placed a hand tenderly on the other’s shoulder, causing Jon to flinch and finally stop speaking, turning around to stare wide-eyed at Martin.
“Jon, what the fuck?” Martin breathed, concern etched on his features, and he didn’t move his hand. Jon was entirely too overwhelmed, trying to understand why he hadn’t heard Martin enter his office, how long he’d been sat unmoving at his desk, why his heart rate was so high and — most importantly — why Martin had his hand on his shoulder.
“You— didn’t you hear me?”
Jon managed to catch his breath, swallowing thickly.
“I— no. Did— did you need something?” He glanced at the hand on his shoulder and Martin let go. Jon immediately wished he hadn’t.
“You need to sleep. This isn’t healthy,” He said, with so much certainty Jon was forced to consider it. He’d heard it before, Elias had given him the odd “go home” as he left the institute (as was required by law) but no one had ever… well, no one had ever seemed to actually care what he did. And now Martin was looking at him like he was even more frightened than Jon was, and he was saying something about Jon using the bed and him staying in the office when Jon pushed his chair back, stood up and hugged him.
Martin stopped mid-sentence, dropping the pillow and blanket to the floor before freezing and almost losing his balance at the sudden pressure of Jon wrapping his arms around him. Slowly, he returned the embrace. Jon bit his lip to stop himself making an embarrassingly choked sound, and instead just focused on Martin’s hair against his cheek, the smell of him, the feeling of Martin’s arms around his shoulders and waist. This was… good. Jon realised for the first time that he actually enjoyed hugging. And then it was suddenly too much again, because though Martin had stayed blissfully silent throughout the whole thing that probably just meant he didn’t know what to say, and if Jon stayed like this much longer he might never want to leave, and what the bloody hell was he even doing? Martin was his co-worker, possibly his friend, but did friends… well, yes, friends hugged. So why did this feel different? He tore himself away, that confused and slightly hurt look Jon hadn’t seen in a while returning to Martin’s features as he called something out to him but Jon was already halfway out the door, the blood rushing in his ears far too loud to discern a word Martin was saying.
He called in sick the next day, much to Elias’ surprise.
Jon knew he couldn’t avoid Martin forever. Still, he purposefully did not go searching after the report that was due on his desk days ago which Martin had neglected to hand in. A part of him wondered if the tardiness could have been on purpose — some attempt to lure him out of his office of his own accord — which only made Jon all the more willing to let this one slide. Both Sasha and Tim visited him while he worked under the guise of some pointless question about one thing or another, before rather unsurreptitiously asking what the fuck had happened between him and Martin because he hadn’t said a word all day and Jon had taken a day off for the first time in… as long as they could remember, and Jon just had to wave them out with a half-hearted comment about meddling in other people’s buisness. He had far too much to deal with what with the increased number of silvery parasites squirming into the institute to be concentrating on his feelings.
With this mindset, and the fact that Jon was now a day behind, he worked well into the night. This time he heard the knock on the door and knew it would be Martin before his assistant let himself in.
“Martin, I’m quite busy—”
Martin was pressing something into his hands wordlessly. A sandwich.
“Oh,” He said, staring dumbly at the package. Prawn and mayo. It was at this point that he realised he hadn’t eaten since breakfast. Martin sort of hung there awkwardly for a moment, but when Jon made no move to either tell him to get out or tell him to stay, he took it upon himself to do the latter and perched uncomfortably on Jon’s desk. Jon finally looked at him. Martin took to rambling.
“I— it’s from my lunch. I’d usually get the tomato pasta from Tesco but I thought you might be hungry because I never see you eat anymore and— well I was hungry too, so I had the Oasis and the Yorkie, and then I wanted to give it to you but you seemed quite intent on ignoring me so I waited until—”
“I’m sorry,” Jon interrupted, and it came out softer than he’d intended. Huh, apologising wasn’t as hard as he’d made it seem. “I’ve been unprofessional, and I’ve made you uncomfortable—”
“You haven’t,” Martin said assuredly. “Well, maybe you have been unprofessional, I don’t know, but you didn’t make me uncomfy,”
Jon nodded slowly.
“I’m glad. And… thank you. For the sandwich,”
Martin flushed slightly, staring down at his feet now swinging idly against the desk. If it was anyone else Jon would’ve told them to stop. He stayed quiet.
“You should go home, Jon,” Martin said at last, and the way he spoke his name made Jon want to hear little else ever again. But he couldn’t go home, he wasn’t finished. He opened his mouth to say as much but Martin got there first.
“Please?”
Jon stared at him and couldn’t find it in himself to refuse.
“Fine,”
The smile he received in response made it worth it.
Jon now found that one in four statements he recorded were interrupted by Martin at some point. If anyone ever listened to the tapes he poured his precious time into, they would most definitely begin to talk. Something about that fact gave him a delightful thrill.
Jon thought about Martin a lot. It was embarrassing, really, how easily the blond would consume his mind until paranormal experiences and gruesome deaths were replaced with red plaid and the smell of tea. He wasn’t even thinking about anything interesting. One moment he’d be fully absorbed in a statement, as was usual, and suddenly there he was hugging Martin again, and he could feel the gentle pressure as Martin hugged back. Or suddenly Martin was handing him a mug of coffee, or a sandwich, or he was just sat at his desk doing nothing. You understand, then, why he quickly became less and less adverse to Martin’s night time visits. Martin could tell it had gotten bad, Jon’s obsession, after that night with the abattoir case, and he had decided to make sure it didn’t happen again. At about nine PM (still technically later than he’d have liked for Jon to take a break, but he knew anything before that was pushing his luck a little too far) Martin left his temporary bedroom and walked the familiar path to Jon’s office, book in hand. To tell the truth, he hadn’t even glanced at the inscription on the cover. It was something in curling silver script embedded in soft leather — old enough to be believably difficult to understand. He tucked it under his arm and knocked on the door, letting himself in before Jon had time to respond. He heard the click of the tape recorder pausing.
“Sorry, I was just wondering if you could explain this passage to me?” Martin asked, innocently, and flipped open the book to a page on specters and their various manifestations. Jon nodded, now turned around in his chair, obviously expecting Martin to bring it over to him.
“Great, thank you,” Martin smiled, noticing the way Jon’s eyes became fixated on the movement, before promptly turning on his heel and walking back to his room. He felt rather than saw Jon’s confused look, before the sound of his chair scraping against the floor signalled he was following. He didn’t comment on the inefficiency and overall pointlessness of having to explain it in Martin’s room, and instead just followed wordlessly. How very British of him. Martin tried not to feel too pleased with himself as he shuffled on his bed to make room for Jon, who hung awkwardly in the doorway for a second before murmuring an “Uh, right, okay,” and sitting down next to Martin on the bed.
Martin learnt a lot about Jon that night. One, that he was incredibly knowledgeable on seemingly any subject Martin could think to ask about. Two, that he was actually more than happy to ramble on about one thing or another and forget about his work entirely if he felt like he was being listened to. And three, that he had quite an endearing habit of reacting to Martin’s every move. The blond would reach out and brush Jon’s hand to point to a certain word and Jon would stiffen, his cheeks colouring before he answered. He would absentmindedly wet his bottom lip and Jon would seem drawn to the movement, however much he tried to concentrate on the battered old book in front of him. Huh. This was new, but not unwelcome, Martin quickly decided.
His strategy for drawing Jon from his work proved very successful. Martin would find a book in artefact storage, bring it to Jon, and they’d sit on Martin’s bed for what felt like hours talking about its contents until Martin eventually became tired and would ask if Jon was going home, to which the time between his boss looking at Martin and inevitably replying “Yes, I think I will,” was becoming shorter and shorter. Jon really had to stop giving in to Martin, it was giving him a complex.
It was one of these nights, and Jon was telling Martin rather animatedly about the difference between preserving books in a warm place and a cold one, when Martin found himself drifting off. He should’ve made sure Jon went home, but he’d grown rather fond of listening to him talk and nights spent trying to get to sleep in the empty institute were more than a little unnerving, so Martin just let his eyes close, leaning back against the wall behind him.
It took Jon another ten minutes to realise he’d been talking for so long that Martin had actually fallen asleep, and even then it was only because the blond had slipped slightly and practically fell into Jon, by some miracle not waking as he now slept with his head on Jon’s shoulder. He stiffened, words stuttering to a halt. Warmth was radiating through his body in waves from where they made contact, and Jon was suddenly acutely aware of Martin’s hair tickling his neck, of his soft breathing against Jon’s collar. Jon discarded the book next to him, instead occupying himself with fiddling with his hands in his lap. This was… hardly professional. He should— he should move Martin. Yes, he should move Martin. Jon lifted a hand to do just that, and unsure where to even begin he just let it hover in the air for a moment. Then Martin moved, humming, and shuffled so he was pressed even further into the crook of Jon’s neck. Jon let his hand fall back by his side. Shit.
He woke to a stiff back and a stiffer neck from where he’d slept against the wall all night. He groaned, rubbing feebly at his vertebrae, and blearily looked around as his brain caught up with his surroundings. Oh. Right. Jon’s cheeks flushed pink as he realised how he’d slept — who he’d slept with — and thanked whatever gods there may be that Martin seemed to have already got up. He checked his watch: seven AM. The others would be arriving soon. He stood up, grimacing at the rumpled state of his shirt and jumper, and almost tripped over the mug of coffee by his feet. It was still warm. Jon hated the way his stomach fluttered as he picked it up and returned to his office.
They didn’t acknowledge those nights, though they became more frequent. Martin was still determined to stop Jon from overworking himself, and truthfully he got a much better sleep with him than without, so it just seemed the logical course of action that they would talk, he would fall asleep, and sometimes wake up to find himself pressed against Jon. He imagined that when he didn’t unconsciously seek out Jon’s warmth after he’d fallen asleep, Jon would just go home, and Martin would wake up cold and aching from the weird position an hour later. To his annoyance, Jon had begun to anticipate Martin’s inevitable arrival at his office. Even worse, he had begun to look forward to it. He wasn’t stupid. He knew Martin didn’t actually need him to explain anything from those old books, but what his reasons were for luring Jon into his room every night just to listen to him talk about subjects which Martin surely found boring he didn’t know. He didn’t really care, as long as it meant he kept getting to sleep with him.
Jon would hear the familiar steadying of Martin’s breathing as he drifted off, and keep reading and explaining things a little more quietly until he was sure Martin was asleep. Then he’d just wait. He didn’t want to think about why he found himself sat there for so long, just waiting for Martin’s head to drop onto his shoulder, or for him to lean into his side. He didn’t want to think about how reluctant he was to eventually get up and leave should that not be the case, lest Martin wake up and realise Jon had just been sitting there for hours while he slept like a total weirdo. The only downside to waking up on the cramped bed was the sharp pain Jon felt in the morning after sleeping sitting up. Somehow, Martin managed to put a stop to that too.
That night, Jon had begrudgingly resigned himself to going home now that an hour had passed with Martin sound asleep next to him, but still a good few inches away. He grimaced at the thought of the cold underground at this time of night, but still made to get up.
“J…Jon,” Martin mumbled, eyes scrunched shut, and reached blindly until he had purchase on Jon’s shoulder. Jon’s breath caught in his throat as Martin mumbled something incoherent and tugged him down onto the bed, until they were haphazardly pressed together on the small mattress. Jon finally regained the ability to speak, the threat of Martin doing something he’d regret overtaking him.
“Martin, we shouldn’t— you don’t want—” He stuttered out, but his body was buzzing with the fact that Martin was everywhere, he was pressed against him, and Jon could smell whatever he washed his hair with and that scent that was so undeniably him.
“‘S okay, Jon,” He mumbled, and Jon could feel his lips against the skin of his neck and couldn’t suppress a shiver. He felt Martin’s smile in response, before the blond promptly fell back asleep.
Jon thought he might die. His heart was pounding so hard he was sure Martin could hear it, because they were that close, and he felt the rise and fall of Martin’s chest against his and it was making Jon so incredibly warm that he wondered if he’d contracted some sort of fever. When he woke up, he thought it might have been the best sleep of his life. He was also startled to realise Martin was still beside him, except now he was on his back, playing some colourful snake game on his phone. Jon was suddenly very awake. He sat up, watched as Martin’s snake crashed into the wall and he cursed at the red ‘GAME OVER’ which taunted him on the screen. Jon was very, very nervous. Martin seemed to sense this, and looked over at him with a concerned expression like he didn’t know why Jon might be uncomfortable, like waking up next to your co-worker in a bed most definitely made for one was a totally normal experience.
“Are you okay?” He asked, voice tinged with sleep, and Jon found himself nodding.
“You?”
“Mm-hm. I never did sleep very well alone,” He said, simply. Jon suddenly realised that he didn’t either, he’d just never had anything to compare it to. Martin was still looking at him with that patient, concerned look.
“It isn’t weird? Us, uh…” Jon trailed off, and Martin looked down for a second before recapturing Jon’s gaze.
“I don’t know,” Martin supplied, honestly. “Do you feel weird?”
“Yes. But… good?” Martin smiled at that, and it was like a weight was lifted from Jon’s chest because it meant that they were alright, that they wouldn’t have to stop whatever it was they were doing.
“Me too, I think,” He replied, before turning back to his snake game. Okay. So they did this now.
Martin didn’t even bother with the book anymore. Jon only saw his own bed on weekends. It was a wonder they didn’t get sick of eachother, the way Martin would just knock on Jon’s door every night and Jon would follow him soundlessly back to the small bedroom where they’d sit, and talk, and eventually fall asleep in the much more comfortable horizontal position. Jon would wake up to Martin playing his snake game, or reading, or sometimes just looking back at him. That always caused Jon to flush and turn over to face the wall, to which Martin would respond with something like a giggle which didn’t make things any easier.
If Sasha and Tim noticed the change between the two of them, they had the decency not to comment.
I itch all the time. The words seemed to slither and writhe their way out of Jon’s mouth as he recorded the statement of Jane Prentiss, and it was as though those wriggling silver parasites were speaking for him, burrowing into his brain and forcing their way out of every orifice they could find. To say the experience was unsettling would be an understatement.
“Something in this statement has got to me a bit. I’m… I’m going to go lie down,” He confessed to the tape recorder, and tried not to shiver at the feeling of hundreds of worms squirming across his skin as he clicked it off. Jon shut his eyes, focusing on his own erratic breathing and failing to control it. This was bad. He hadn’t had a panic attack in years, but now he was more than certain that was what this was. Suddenly he felt something sliding along his neck — real this time, not a phantom impressed upon him by Jane’s statement — and he jumped, desperately brushing at his neck. It was a thread from his jumper. Jon thought he might scream.
The bright light of his office thrummed relentlessly, as though taunting Jon as he cradled his arms around his head and hoped the pressure would cause the feeling of being utterly helpless abate. It didn’t. He sat on the floor, then promptly got back up and took to pacing his office. He glanced at the clock, nine thirty, the wall, his feet, the desk, the clock again. Nine thirty-one. He couldn’t do this. Rubbing his hands against his pockets, he opened the door and tried not to focus on the tremor in his fingers, and God were the lights even brighter out here? And then he was at Martin’s door and Martin was looking at him with so much concern on his face Jon didn’t quite know what to do. He didn’t do anything. Just stood there, wringing his hands, chest heaving, trying to understand what it was Martin was saying. And then there was a soft hand against his own, and his hearing returned to him, and Martin was repeating something about it being okay, that it was going to pass, that he was there. And then he was there, and so was Jon, they were lying on the bed and Jon could feel the sturdy softness of the mattress and he knew where he was and who he was with and he came back to himself with a choked sort of sob. Martin turned the lights off. Jon was eternally grateful.
Jon was shaking, his hands were shaking, the blanket Martin threw over them both was shaking. He could barely discern Martin’s features in the near-darkness, but they were there, and they were inches from his own, and Jon concentrated on mapping the moles, the flutter of his eyelashes, the way his pupils dilated in the inky black. It was familiar. Martin took his hand under the blanket and two minutes later the shaking stopped. Jon exhaled slowly, attempting to breathe the tension from his shoulders and the anxiety from his stomach. It was like Martin was pouring into him from where their hands met, driving out the horrible silvery worms and enveloping Jon until he could finally speak again.
“J-Jane,” He managed.
“Her statement?” Martin asked. Jon nodded, and Martin was quiet for a while.
“C-could, Martin, could-” Jon began, hated his wavering voice, and squeezed his eyes shut.
“Hm?” Martin coaxed, far more gentle than Jon probably deserved.
“Would you hold me?”
Martin replied almost instantly.
“‘Course,” And then he was wrapping his arms around Jon’s middle, and Jon was doing the same, and it felt secure and safe and good. Pressed together as they were, Jon felt Martin’s slow breathing both against his chest and against his neck. His hair was soft on Jon’s shoulder. Somehow, he actually managed to fall asleep.
Waking up tangled with Martin, with his head buried in Martin’s hair and that familiar smell enveloping him was possibly the best Jon had ever felt. And then Martin made a soft sound, shuffled back a little and Jon felt careful fingertips against his skin and no, this was the best he’d ever felt. It was easier to keep his eyes closed than to have to talk to Martin, to find words to explain this and whatever they were and how he felt. So he feigned sleep and fought against his every instinct so he didn’t react as Martin brushed the hair from his forehead and traced feather light patterns across his cheeks. Jon’s heart was pounding. He wasn’t an idiot. Friends didn’t do this. He opened his eyes, pretending to wake up. Martin startled, cheeks flushing, and drew his hand back to his chest as if burnt.
“Morning,” He said, voice heavy with sleep. Jon couldn’t stop the edges of his lips quirking up as he replied.
“Good morning,”
Martin was looking anywhere but at him. He got up, clumsily untangling himself from Jon, but he wasn’t halfway off the bed before Jon was sat up and grabbing at his arm. Martin stopped, and finally met Jon’s gaze.
“Martin I… I think I…” He began, then frowned. He never had been good with emotion. “Look, what I’m trying to say is that I think I—”
There was a loud crash from somewhere within the institute followed by a string of curse words which could only have come from Tim. Martin jumped up, eyes wide, and Jon forgot all about his confession in favour of making absolutely sure his professional credit wasn’t in question.
He got up, smoothed his rumpled shirt as best he could, looked at a slightly stunned and still half-asleep Martin and ran a hand through his hair to neaten the curls (this step was entirely unnecessary, as Tim knew Martin was sleeping here anyway, Jon may have just wanted the excuse to touch him again before he left), tugged down his jumper and left. He saw Tim in the hallway, sweeping the remnants of a potted plant into a dustpan. He looked only slightly surprised to see his boss — everyone knew of Jon’s tendency to come in early and stay late — and gave him a disgruntled “alright?” to which Jon responded with a curt nod. Yes, he was alright. He could deal with his feelings later.
‘Later’ turned out to be the day Prentiss attacked the institute. Jon silently thanked the lord that he’d managed to get trapped with Martin rather than anyone else.
“Why are you here, Martin?” He asked, biting back the pain surging from the wound in his leg.
“Well, Prentiss is out there and you can’t run so—”
Jon rolled his eyes.
“I mean at the Archive in general. Why haven’t you quit?”
Martin gave a breathy sort of laugh.
“Are you giving me my review now?”
Jon resisted the urge to snap at him to be serious, that this might be their last conversation, and Jon still hadn’t told him—
“No… We’re clearly doing a whole heart-to-heart thing and, truth be told, the question’s been bothering me. You’ve been living in the Archives for four months, constant threat of… this. Sleeping with a fire extinguisher and a corkscrew,” He conveniently left out ‘and me’, “Even you must be aware that’s not normal for an archiving job? Why are you still here?”
Martin considered this for a moment. He fiddled with a loose thread from his sweater.
“I… I considered quitting. After I started sleeping here, I wrote a few resignation letters. Almost gave you one of them,” Jon felt a little like he’d been punched in the gut. “But… I couldn’t. I couldn’t leave you to fend for yourselves, especially after I brought that thing here—”
“Martin, you didn’t bring them here. I was the reason you even went to the Vittery house—”
“Well, it doesn’t matter now. I can’t leave. Not after… well,” He glanced up at Jon. “I wouldn’t want to leave you,”
And there was that aching warmth, blossoming in Jon’s chest and filling him with so much adoration he hardly knew what to do, because Martin was somehow here for him, despite the worms and the threat of death and Jon’s own tendency for self-destruction. And he was looking at him with that nervous smile and a flush on his cheeks like he was embarrassed by this act of total selfishness, and Jon couldn’t take it. The pain in his leg fizzled to nothing compared to the buzzing in his chest as he shifted over to Martin’s side of the room and finally kissed him. Martin made a muffled noise of surprise which Jon delighted in swallowing, before pressing back.
It was rather desperate for a first kiss, which, Jon supposed, was to be expected considering their current situation. He couldn’t say he minded, the firmness of Martin’s lips against his felt like the final piece of a puzzle he’d spent four months putting together. Martin obviously felt something similar, as he threaded his hand into Jon’s hair and Jon’s mouth fell open in a gasp, inviting. Martin didn’t need much convincing, and he was quickly moving to straddle Jon but suddenly the searing pain from the gash in his leg burst through the pleasure, causing Jon to wince and cry out.
“Fuck, sorry, sorry!” Martin rambled, clambering off him and back to his side. Jon just laughed — it hurt, but he did it anyway — and rested his head back against the wall. If they were to die, he thought he would probably die happy. And then Tim came crashing through the wall and was spouting something about gas and worms and they were moving, and they were escaping, and Jon realised that, at least for now, they were okay.