Chapter Text
“To be quite honest, Martin, I’m really rather relieved,” that was the last thing Jon said to Martin before his assistant went home for the day. Jon wished he had said more, perhaps something about how having a friendly face beside him seemed to lighten the pressure on his chest. Or maybe that, out of everyone, he was happiest that Martin was innocent. Yes, something sappy like that.
But, no. Jon had just let him go, without so much as an apology. He watched Martin leave for the day. His colleague was unusually brisk while he headed out the door, Martin didn’t even pop into his office to say goodbye, something that had become a daily routine for him. Instead, he was quiet and distant for someone that commonly broke up Jon’s day with tea and long chats about nothing in particular.
Jon felt like he had kicked a puppy. Martin’s big, brown eyes didn’t help that feeling at all.
In an effort to finally confront the man and find answers, Jon had pushed him away. He could still see the fear in Martin’s eyes when he slammed his firsts against the desk, demanding the man to finally be honest with him. Except, he had been, the whole time. Every instance of gross incompetence could simply be chalked up to Martin not actually having a degree in this field, rather than some malicious action.
Jon felt like a prick. By every measure, he was. But, this was something Jon would have to rectify tomorrow.
With a heavy sigh, Jon pulled a stack of papers closer to him. It was a pile of statements in need of being recorded. He knew he should have tried to head home and get some sleep, that was what all his colleagues were doing after all, but he needed a distraction. Whenever he closed his eyes, all he could see was Martin’s frightened expression. So Jon continued.
“Statment of-”
__________________________________________________________________________________________________
“Jon?” A voice startled him from his sleep, not that his dreams had been particularly peaceful anyways.
He looked up, half-lidded eyes still coated in a bleary film of sleep, and saw a concerned Martin looking down at him.
“Martin? What are you doing here? Didn’t you already go home for the day?” Jon asked, trying to rub the drowsiness from his eyes.
Martin’s face knitted into an expression of confusion for a moment before he said, “Jon, that was yesterday.” He looked concerned as he spoke, and Jon swore he saw the man reach out a hand before pausing, and decided instead to draw back.
Jon was about to argue, but was stopped short by the small analogue clock ticking away atop his desk. Sure as shit, it was morning.
He must have sat stunned like that for quite some time, because Martin eventually broke the silence and said, “How about some breakfast?" His tone was saccharine and melodic, like someone trying to coax out a feral cat from behind a dumpster. But, Martin’s eyes betrayed him. Jon could see those deep creases of worry form around the man’s wide gaze as he assessed the archivist.
He was about to tell Martin off, as per usual, but then remembered the other night. Guilt made any venom he had die in the back of his throat. Instead, all he could do was croak out a flat, “Yeah, sure,” which seemed to unnerve Martin more than any hostility.
He did not protest when the much taller man led him upstairs and into the modest break room. Jon was in a daze that didn’t seem to disperse until Martin was calling his name again, with half a sandwich in his hand.
“Jon, are you’re quite alright? I think you’d feel better if you ate something."
“What? Oh, uh, yes. I’m fine, it was just a long night.”
Martin still held out the sandwich, and Jon took it. For a moment he tried to remember the last time he ate, but was coming up short. His thoughts were too foggy to string together a coherent timeline, and all the days seemed to melt together anyway.
Martin watched him intensely as he ate, as if the guy was terrified Jon would die of starvation if his eyes ever left him. It wasn't until Jon was nibbling on the crusts that Martin seemed to feel comfortable taking a bite of his half of the sandwich.
“I'm sorry,” Jon choked out, after he devoured the last of his sandwich crust.
“What?”
“I shouldn't have spoken to you like that yesterday. I-” he suddenly found forming words increasingly difficult. “I, uh, got a bit carried away. I haven't been-” he hesitated again, having to pry his eyes away from Martin's captivating gaze, “I haven't been well. I've been struggling.”
The break room was empty, besides the two of them. That was the only reason Jon was even capable of speaking those words aloud. Martin was the only one he could truly trust. Still, he felt an uneasiness and sense of fear settle heavy in his stomach.
Martin watched him in silence for longer than what felt comfortable. Eventually, he put down his sandwich, reached out his hands, and gently slid them over Jon’s. He did this wordlessly, but with such conviction, Jon almost felt the need to pinch himself.
Jon could feel warmth engulf him. He wanted to believe it was someone cranking up the thermostat, but the warmth bled from his chest, and flowed up into his pallid cheeks, surely staining them with a splash of crimson. He could do nothing but stare at their intertwined fingers splayed across the table. He suddenly understood how certain people became lost in fractals.
The latticework of their fingers was the most captivating thing he had ever seen, and he never wanted to let go. It was as if in that moment, Martin’s grasp was the only thing anchoring Jon to reality; and without him, Jon would surely float away.
“Jon, I'm here, you can always talk to me.”
He hated how that simple statement was enough to drive him mad. At first, he had thought Martin only lived rent free in his head due to the whole “murderer” thing. But now- no, perhaps he'd always known.
Jon felt a stray thought beg him to pull their connected hands to his face, to brush his lips across Martin's fingers. No, no, it was all wrong. He was just stressed, and very, very tired.
Yes, that was it. Jon was simply just tired, and that was why he wanted to climb over the booth, to curl into Martin's arms and drift off to sleep. That had to be it, nothing else made sense.
His colleague’s voice once again pulled the increasingly panicked archivist from his thoughts. “Jon!” Martin’s tone was just a level below shouting, and he could tell from the look on the man’s face that he had likely been trying to get Jon’s attention for a while.
“Oh, uh, sorry, Martin.”
"That's-no. No, you keep doing t-this, this,”he gestured wildly at Jon, “whatever this is. You’ve been off for a while now, after the whole Prentiss thing, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen you like this.” Martin sighed and sat back in his chair, his sandwich, and Jon’s hands, left forgotten on the table. “I’m worried about you, Jon. We all are.”
“Martin,” Jon started, but he realized right after the words left his lips and he had nothing he could say. He settled for another, “I’m sorry,” before he rose to leave and head back to his desk. Martin called after him, but Jon just kept walking.
He made a note to lock his office door when he got back.