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Jon has already been at work for an hour and a half when his first assistant arrives. It isn’t Tim, as it usually is, which is sort of a relief. Tim is an obnoxious and irrepressible morning person, and while Jon generally gets to work between seven and half past, that’s only because there’s so much work to get done, not because he actually wants to be there. It’s not even Sasha, who tends to arrive next after Tim, bleary-eyed and quiet until she’s drunk the coffee Tim always puts on her desk. Instead, it’s Martin. He walks into the breakroom, where Jon is grabbing a hasty biscuit to appease the grumbling of his stomach, and absolutely beams at Jon. It’s a little unnerving.
“Oh my god!” Martin cries. “Jon! Thank god, I was so hoping you’d be here!”
Jon blinks at him, not quite sure how to respond to this excessive enthusiasm. “Yes, well,” he says, rather vaguely. “It… seemed like the place to be?”
Martin laughs as though he’s made quite a good joke. “Guess I can’t fault you for that one, it’s where I ended up coming, too.”
And then, before Jon can formulate some kind of response to this nonsensical babble, he strides across the break room and stops in front of Jon. Like right in front of him, so close that he’d only have to lean forward an inch or two and he’d be pressing Jon up against the breakroom cupboards. Jon’s mouth is suddenly dry. He’s never seen Martin’s face this close before, round and pink and, well, he’s always thought Martin rather lovely, even when he was being absolutely horrible to the poor man. Martin looks down at him with a little, happy smile.
“Kiss?” he says.
“What?” Jon squeaks, and Martin laughs again.
“Are you okay for me to kiss you?” he says.
Jon’s mind whirls. Yes, all right, his relationship with Martin has improved dramatically since he stopped, you know, bullying him, but this seems kind of sudden. On the other hand, Martin is and has always been extremely beautiful and he’s so much bigger than Jon, which is nice, and he’s got those lovely strong hands, and…
Oh, what the hell?
“Yes,” Jon says decisively.
And then Martin is, indeed, kissing him.
Somehow, Jon had expected him to start out slow. It’s their first kiss, after all, and, well, it’s Martin. A gentle press of warm, soft lips, he’d thought, perhaps pulling away immediately, or maybe lingering a moment or two, a brush of fingertips against Jon’s cheek, soft breaths and shining eyes in the aftermath.
What he gets is Martin’s arms wrapping tightly around him, pulling him flush against Martin’s body from shoulder to knee, raising him up on his tiptoes, and Martin’s mouth slotting perfectly against his, firm, insistent, tilting Jon’s head back as if by design and pressing his mouth open. He’s got Jon crowded up against the cupboards and he’s breathing hard and his tongue is doing something Jon finds he likes a lot, and it goes on and on and on, until Jon’s hands, caught between them, curl helplessly into Martin’s jumper and his knees go weak and he feels almost dizzy with it all. He’s kissing back, though a lot more tentatively than Martin’s kissing him, and he’s reasonably sure, at this point, that the only reason he’s still upright is Martin’s strong arms still wrapped firmly around him.
When, eventually, Martin loosens his arms and pulls his face away from Jon’s, although that’s as far as he goes, Jon sags against the cupboard, staring up at him. He feels as though the kiss has melted his entire brain. He can’t remember the last time his head was this empty. He stares up at Martin, vaguely aware that his mouth is still open, that his lips must be shining and swollen from Martin’s ministrations, that his chest is almost heaving.
“So,” Martin says. “D’you want to… oh.”
Someone in the doorway has cleared their throat loudly. Martin turns round, finally taking a step away from Jon, and Jon leans slightly to the side to look past his bulk, and feels his mouth, which he’s only just closed, fall open again.
It’s… himself. He’s standing in the doorway, not wearing his usual neatly ironed trousers and polished shoes, but a pair of rumpled jeans and a cardigan that he should frankly be ashamed of letting himself be seen in in public. His hands are in his pockets and he’s looking at the two of them with his eyebrows raised, although one corner of his mouth is twitching slightly.
Martin goes very pink.
“Oh, um, hi, Jon!” he says, addressing Dishevelled Jon. “Or rather, other Jon. Um. Original Jon, I guess? Okay, this isn’t as weird as it looks, I swear. Me and this Jon…” He waves a hand to indicate Jon. Real Jon. “We’re time travellers. We’re from the future!”
“I’m not from the future,” Jon says. The last five minutes have been extremely confusing, but he’s sure of that. “I’ve got no idea what you’re talking about!”
Martin turns to him, his expression morphing into one of alarm.
“You’re… not?” he says.
“Certainly not,” Jon says, drawing himself up with as much dignity as he can muster after… everything.
“But if you’re not…” Martin says, and turns to look at Dishevelled Jon, who now looks as though he’s only holding back laughter with a great effort. “Oh my god,” Martin says, in a hushed voice. “Shit! I kissed the wrong Jon!”