Work Text:
Jon places the pile of papers held in his hands on his desk. Martin won’t notice, and if he does, he’ll be forced to finally talk to Jon. He slides across the floor on his chair and unlocks the door. He spares one last glance at the door before picking up the papers.
Maybe it’s stupid, him grasping at straws to feel closer to Martin. But he doesn’t care. He misses the man that works just down the hall.
He still leaves tea on Jon’s desk.
Jon looks through the pieces of poetry. It’s scrawled in messy handwriting, the edges crumpled, adorable little doodles in the margins. Jon lets out a small sigh.
His finger underlines the words that Martin had wrote just for himself, and he can almost hear his voice. It doesn’t matter if it’s well written — it’s not, but could Jon do it better? — because it’s Martin. Sweet, kind Martin, who writes about the important and the mundane.
And Jon. He writes about Jon.
It’s vague, metaphorical, but Jon can understand it. The doodles at the top of the poems that seem to be about Jon are filled with drawings of hearts and swirls. It makes Jon smile, the picture in his mind of Martin doodling mindlessly, presumably while he’s supposed to be doing work. He could still be doing that right now, but Jon wouldn’t be able to see. Only Peter Lucas would. Jon’s smile turns to a frown.
Jon decides to get over himself. He grabs a piece of stationary paper and a pen. He’s going to return the poetry, and he’s going to let Martin know he had it.
My dearest, Martin,
He pauses. This isn’t very professional. But then, why would Jon care? After everything that has happened, professionalism with a coworker should be the last thing on his mind.
I hope you are doing well. I would like to start by extending my appreciation to you for the tea you give to me each morning. I also want to apologize for taking your poetry without your permission. I would’ve asked you, but you weren’t around. I enjoyed your poems. Despite my reservations involving poetry, it was all very heartfelt and sweet.
I end this letter with a question.
Jon taps the pen on his chin. How should he phrase this?
Could you meet me just outside of the Institute tomorrow afternoon? I need to talk to you. We need to catch up. It’s been a while.
Yours,
Jon
He leaves the poetry with the letter on top outside of Martin’s office, before knocking on the door and running away like a schoolchild leaving a love letter on a peer’s porch. Although it was, in some ways, most ways, a love letter. The closest thing Jon might give to a confession. The best way for Jon to express his feelings.
The next day, Jonathan Sims is left standing alone, his letter still unread on top of a pile of poetry in the trash.