Chapter Text
Martin isn’t sure what the protocol for this is.
Jon is on his knees, gripping the edge of his desk with one shaking hand, the other pressed flat against his chest. His breath is labored and uneven, and Martin’s mind immediately goes to an asthma attack, but as he kneels next to Jon on the ground the way Jon turns to look at him tells him it’s something else, eyes unfocused and gaze far off, as if he was looking straight through Martin.
“Jon? Can you tell me what’s wrong?” Martin fights against his urge to touch the man, the caregiver part of his brain wanting to check him over. Jon’s eyes finally seem to focus on him, his mouth opening and closing before he turns his gaze to the carpet below him.
“P-panic attack.” He whispers, barely audible. “I haven’t- I don’t- I-” He takes another heaving breath, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. “I don't know why.”
“Okay, okay. Can I touch you Jon?” Martin asks softly, relieved it’s not a heart attack. He’s seen panic attacks before, he has at least an inkling of what to do. Jon is still for a few long moments, other than the shaking that wracks his thin frame. After what feels like an eternity he nods, still not meeting Martin’s gaze. Martin takes his hand carefully in his own, placing his fingers on his wrist. Jon’s pulse is racing under his fingertips. “Have you ever had a panic attack before?” He tries to keep his tone normal, like he’s asking for the weather. Jon nods again, fighting to keep his breathing under control.
“Is there anything you do that helps?” Martin asks hopefully. Jon shakes his head, still staring at the ugly archives carpet. “That’s okay. Can I help you sit or lay down?” Just like before Jon is slow to give him a verbal answer, but eventually whispers in a hoarse voice.
“Sit, please.” Martin nods, wrapping an arm around Jon’s shoulder, guiding him back to lean against the side of his desk and straightening his legs out.
“Jon? Are you alright?” Tim’s concerned voice calls from outside Jon’s office. The usually sure man lingers unsurely in the doorway, his brow creased with concern. Jon looks up at him, freezing like a deer caught in headlights. When he regains control of himself he shakes his head, turning his gaze to his lap.
“Tim, could you grab me the icepack from the freezer?” Martin feels a little bad for not thinking to close the door but having another set of hands lets him stay to keep an eye on Jon. “And a clean tea towel? Please?” Tim nods, looking relieved he can do something to help.
“Have you ever tried an ice pack on the back of your neck or chest before?” Martin asks Jon, holding back the urge to fuss over the tears now trailing down the other man’s cheeks. Jon shakes his head again, taking the tissue Martin offers him from the box on his desk with his free hand, the other still unconsciously gripping Martin’s after the other man had checked his pulse.
“Pretty…pretty useless when this happens.” Jon chokes out between heavy breaths, “Usually just lay on the floor.” Martin nods, looking around the office.
“You normally have a water bottle with you, right? The metal one with the green rubber boot?” Jon nods.
“In my bag.” He says, tears still falling unbidden from his eyes as he raises a trembling hand to point to the messenger bag on the floor under his desk. Martin shuffles a bit awkwardly on his knees, trying not to pull away from Jon’s grasp as he retrieves the bottle. Jon accepts it gratefully, pulling his knees up to his chest as he takes a few shaky sips.
Tim returns with the ice pack and towel Martin requested, now with Sasha in tow. They peer in from the doorway, unsure of what to do. Jon’s grip on Martin’s hand tightens as he sees Sasha, staring at her as if she were a stranger.
“Tim? Sasha? Could you give us some space?” Martin asks in a tone he hopes communicates ‘stop staring at him.’ Sasha is the first to nod, looping her arm through Tim’s and tugging him with her.
“Yeah, we’ll be in the break room. Let us know if you need anything else, yeah?” It’s hard to ignore the concern etched across her face, or the way Jon seems to stare straight through her as if he doesn't know who she is.
“I’ll text.” Martin assures her, watching her half drag Tim away. He turns back to Jon, using his one free hand to clumsily wrap the ice pack in the towel. “This might help, you can hold it in your hands, or put it against your chest or lay it across the back of your neck.”
Jon takes the ice pack from him, still fighting to control his breathing. After a few moments he hesitantly presses it to his chest, right over his heart.
“I feel like I’m dying.” Jon admits in a small voice, pulling his knees closer to his chest. “Like I’m being stabbed.” Martin nods sympathetically, hoping the ice pack will help even a little bit.
“I know, but you’re not dying, this will pass.” Martin squeezes his hand gently. “Can you manage some deep breaths with me?” Jon lifts his head to look Martin in the eyes, his own still wet with tears he can’t seem to control, and manages a tiny nod. Martin hopes he’s being reassuring as he starts to slowly mimic deep breathing, giving Jon something to focus on.
Jon mimics him with some success, and after a few minutes, it seems like the worst of the attack is over. As the panic fades, embarrassment seems to take over.
“Thank you.” Jon says quietly, pulling his hand out of Martin’s. He slumps back against the side of his desk, looking like he could use a nap. He doesn’t lean away from Martin though, their shoulders still touching.
“Oh! You're welcome! Didn’t know if you would have preferred Tim or Sasha help.” Martin admits, rubbing at the back of his neck and feeling suddenly self conscious. The implication of their current relationship hangs between them. Jon doesn't move, still slumped against his shoulder.
“No.” Jon’s eyes are still far off, staring at nothing in particular across the room. “You’re the only one who knew what to do.” Jon’s admission gives Martin a little flutter of pride. He can count the amount of times Jon has told him he’s done a decent job on three fingers.
“God, this is unprofessional.” Jon groans, pushing up his glasses to press the heels of his palms to his eyes. “I haven't had a panic attack this bad since uni. I’m sorry you had to deal with me.”
“Hey, it’s fine.” Martin rushes to assure him. “I know you can’t control a panic attack. What’s important is that you feel better now. You should eat something and drink some more water, do you think you can stand?”
“Yes, I'm sure I can manage.” Jon sounds exhausted, although a bit of his usual sharpness has begun to bleed back. His words mean nothing though, as Martin helps him to his feet he feels a wave of exhaustion wash over him, and the last thing he remembers is a firm set of arms around him and a startled yelp from Martin.
——————————👁︎——————————
Jon doesn’t remember how he ended up on the couch in the break room but, in a surprising turn of events, the Eye is helpful enough to tell him Martin had carried him here after he passed out in his office. Jon keeps his eyes closed, the last few memories settling into place. Trevor Herbert and Julia Montauk, the Not Sasha, a bleeding wound that Jon couldn’t quite staunch as he dragged himself through the tunnels, pushing himself even as his vision began to fade at the edges because Martin is in danger, Martin is-
Martin is fine, he’s sitting at his desk in the bullpen, a few newspaper articles printed out and arrayed around him as he chews on the end of the highlighter he’s using to mark anything he finds relevant.
Two days isn’t long enough for two years of memories to cram themselves into his brain and Jon is exhausted. It’s like a dam in his mind burst, the memories rushing past him like turbulent water, crashing over him in an instant and disappearing just as fast. The knowledge that his assistants are safe, even though he can no longer remember what from, washes away the most intense panic. The soft sound of whispers and rustling papers eases Jon back into a blissfully dreamless sleep.
——————————👁︎——————————
Tim pops into the breakroom every fifteen minutes or so, just to check on Jon. He’s not hovering like Martin is accusing him of, he’s just worried. But he is there when Jon finally wakes up, bleary eyes blinking at the ceiling above him and obviously confused about why he’s on the couch with Martin’s cardigan draped over him.
“Hey boss.” Tim is careful to keep his volume down but Jon still startles at the sound. He waves Sasha and Martin in from the doorway. “Right on time, we were about to start wrapping up the day.” Jon’s been asleep for just over two hours and he looks like he needs at least double that. He sits up with a groan, hair disheveled and clothes rumpled, more reminiscent of the sleep deprived researcher who sat across from Tim before Elias had picked him for the role of Head Archivist.
“Are you alright Jon?” Martin asks softly, not shrinking back when Jon’s gaze lands on him. There’s no intensity to it, just exhaustion.
“Yes I’m- I’m fine.” Jon slumps back against the couch, scrubbing a hand down his face
“So, what happened?” Sasha asks firmly. Jon squints in the direction of her voice and Martin passes him his glasses. He blinks at Sasha like he’s never seen her before.
“Yeah, what’s going on?” Tim chimes in. Jon is a private person but there’s no way they’re letting this go without an explanation. Jon sighs again, not with exasperation like they’re so used to, but a deep exhaustion that seems to consume him entirely.
“That was-“ Jon sighs again, pushing his glasses up to press the heels of his hands to his eyes. “I had a particularly bad panic attack.” Tim feels a pang of sympathy, he’d had a few panic attacks after Danny had…disappeared. “I’m sorry.” Jon adds softly. “I-I should have stayed home today, I shouldn’t have made it everyone’s problem. I wasn’t exactly…thinking clearly.” He has the decency to look guilty for the worry he put them through.
“Are you feeling alright now?” Martin’s nervousness around Jon seems to take second to his concern. Jon finally lowers his hands. He’s taking their concern surprisingly well, which is the most concerning part of this whole situation in Tim’s opinion. The look he fixes Martin with is surprisingly soft.
“Yes, much better.”
Sasha, drawn in by the sound of voices, returns to the breakroom, a look of concern still etched across her face. “If you weren’t feeling well, why didn’t you just call in? We can handle ourselves here.” Jon looks at her again, as if he was having difficulty recognizing her.
“I um… I didn't realize it was that bad?” Jon sounds like a student who's been called on to answer a question he doesn’t know the answer to. “I haven’t been sleeping great lately and the lack of progress with this mess is causing the majority of my stress so leaving it probably wouldn't help.” Jon’s tone finally gets a bit of bite back to it as he justifies himself. Sasha is unconvinced.
He waves a hand dismissively, “It's happened before, usually I just lay on the floor until I stop feeling like I'm dying. ” He chuckles, probably an attempt to lighten the mood but he just sounds too damn tired for it to be any relief. “I really am sorry,” He repeats again, must be going for a record. He looks worn, fidgeting with the cardigan laid across his lap. He holds it out in front of him, studying it briefly before handing it back to Martin. “They tend to let up quite suddenly and once the adrenaline fades I’m down for the count.” There’s something else, something Jon isn’t telling them. Tim can’t quite put his finger on it but Jon just feels different.
Tim’s seen Jon tired plenty of times when they worked together in research and far more frequently since he took the Head Archivist position. He’s seen sleep deprived, exhausted, and even hungover, but he can’t quite shake the feeling that something is wrong with Jon.
“Are you sure you’re alright boss?” Jon doesn’t snap at him for the nickname. He looks almost sick, like an entire day of sleep would benefit him greatly.
“Yes, I’m quite sure.” His voice is steady, even though he isn’t. “Just tired.”
“Are you going to be able to handle yourself on your bus route?” Sasha asks, a bit of a dangerous question, something Jon would usually snap at. Instead, Jon seems to deflate at the thought of braving public transportation in his condition.
“I will manage.” He sighs.
“I’ll drive you.” Tim offers. “I drove in today since I was doing field work this morning, remember?”
“I… alright.” Jon says, scrubbing a hand down his face. Tim wishes he could feel more relieved that Jon is accepting his help, but he just can’t shake the feeling that something is wrong with his friend.
“We can pop out a few minutes early then,” Tim says, throwing an arm around Jon’s shoulder and herding him towards the breakroom door. “Bye Sasha, bye Martin, see you two tomorrow.”
“Bye Tim, bye Jon.” Sasha says as they leave. Jon manages to return Martin’s little goodbye wave, still seeming slightly out of it as Tim leads him through the door.
“Goodnight.” Jon says, either too exhausted or too ill to try and pitch his voice lower like he seems to do when he wants to be respected.
Tim wishes he could be happy about it but he’s just worried.