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Thud.
If he weren't so perceptive, Jon would've mistaken the noise for the pounding in his skull. Unfortunately, he did not find himself so lucky.
He was prepared to scold whoever made such a ruckus. It wasn't as if he enjoyed doing that, at least, he didn't like the yelling bit of it. If you knew Jon before he got his position as Head Archivist, you’d be surprised at the role he took on towards his assistants. Tim and Sasha certainly were. He wasn't a shouter, nor was he a complainer. There simply wasn't much else he could do that would demand the respect he wanted. ‘Deserved’ would be a little too far, but Jon had to be respected on some level, he had to be a good boss.
All of this was why he geared up to the noise with his fists clenched, brow furrowed, and back straight.
He wasn't sure who made the sound, but in anticipation, he settled on Martin. It was later in the day, surely the others would be off at lunch. Martin typically ate alone at his desk, if at all. It hurt a little to see, but he wasn't about to look into that emotion.
It turned out that Jon was correct in his assumption.
Martin wasn't in the kitchenette, nor did he see him in the break room, so storage was next. He didn't know where he was immediately, because Martin was not at his typical height. Jon scanned the room for him, and found the man on the floor, next to a tipped stepladder, rubbing his head.
A major ghosting grip seized all that made up Jon’s heart.
Martin looked up, but struggled to make words. It looked like he was trying to say his name, but all that came out was: “H…nnn?”
Quickly, Jon kneeled by the man. He wasn't really deciding to do anything, that was just the position he ended up in.
Martin’s eyelids fluttered.
He almost asked what happened, but it became clear instantly. “You fell.”
“Mm.” The man on the floor across from him tried to nod, but winced. “S’rry.”
“Are you hurt?” Of course he’s… ugh. Jon wished more than ever that Tim or Sasha was there. “Can you sit up?”
“Nnm, no. Can't.” Tears welled up in his eyes.
Jon couldn't handle this. He didn't know what to do when anyone was upset, let alone… well!
He almost thought about excusing himself and phoning Georgie for help. Nothing could ever be that easy for him, could it?
Martin leaned his head back. Instinctively, Jon reached out to catch it. Bad idea. Now he was holding him upright? This was bad. Before he could get too wrapped up in his feelings, he noticed that his hand was wet. Jon shakily pulled his hand away, hoping to see a clear shimmer, which would indicate grease or sweat.
Instead, his hand was covered in blotches of red.
Martin winced.
He mumbled something Jon had to lean in to hear. “S’bright.”
At his word, Jon stood up and flicked the light switch. Not before gently resting Martin’s head against the wall, though. He was a little shocked at himself.
After a 999 call that Martin was practically unconscious for, Jon returned to his side.
“Can you—” Jon winced, unsure of what he was meant to be doing. He wanted to check up on him, at the very least. “—Tell me what you were doing in here?”
“Boxes. Sasha asked me… whoa,” his eyes zoned out past Jon’s head. He shook him quickly to keep him going. “Boxes.”
Right. So he was reaching for a box on one of the higher shelves, for Sasha, for a currently imperceptible reason. Why would she ask him right before her lunch break? Jon felt something in the pit of his gut at the thought of her offhandedly asking him if such a thing. Then he felt silly, because how could she have known he didn't know how to use a stepladder? And of course, then came the guilt. Neither of them knew this would happen, but when Sasha came back, she'd surely be upset.
“Stay with me,” Martin mumbled. Jon nearly yelled when he noticed his face beginning to turn.
Martin opened one eye quicker than the other. It felt like too much, the way both of his pupils were trained on him. He seemed to realize something, because his eyes widened with clear glassiness that he promptly tried to blink away. “S,sorry!” Then, somehow more apologetically than the last: “I'm sorry.”
It felt like he personally had unleashed thousands of bees onto Jon’s torso, and they had all somehow managed to sting him in the heart, one after the other.
How was Martin capable of doing this?
“You're, it's alright,” Jon mumbled, now trying to avert his gaze. No matter where he looked, he knew bleary-eyed Martin was still staring through him. At him. Into his soul.
He imagined a tiny angel in the corner of the room snickering at him with its hand over its mouth, dancing around like a fool. Jon practically glared at the concept of it. Then, it would raise its bow and arrow, wherever it had been hiding that, and shoot Jon right through his temples. The arrow was pink and red with some sort of magic in it, which was the only reason Jon was feeling the way he was right now. He suddenly felt almost as dizzy as Martin probably was.
…oh, fucking hell.
Jon wanted to whip his entire body around, slam the door to his office, and stomp his feet like a frustrated toddler tornado. He wanted to cover his face and groan, because how could this be happening now? While his assistant, mind you, his subordinate, was bleeding from his head on the floor.
“Busy…” Martin spoke incoherently. “Go.”
“Go? Martin, I'm not going to —”
“Useless ass, tha’s me,” he whispered, like he didn't want anyone else to hear him. As if Jon’s face wasn't just a few apples away from his face. That comment struck something within Jon's gut too, but it wasn't anything flowery.
He swallowed dry air. There were so many ways he could fix this. Simply a sorry would do, but that wouldn't be right. It wouldn't sound real coming from him.
Jon huffed out a breath. “Let's get you to the door.” He tugged him upright by the back of his shoulders. Martin closed his eyes tightly, clearly in pain, before it lolled to the side. Jon quickly reached out to catch him by the cheek, now only holding his body up with one arm. How did he keep ending up in these positions? His face was warm, as expected, and so was Jon’s palm. He felt the rush of a million tiny needles in his cheeks, and the feeling didn’t even dissipate after he yanked his shaking hand away. Jonathan Sims, you better get yourself together.
He had to get his assistant to the door. At least upright enough to potentially continue moving him. He tried using a gentle tone, but that wasn’t necessarily in his range. Instead, he mostly came off as awkward, almost like he didn’t actually care. “Martin? You’re, er… going to have to help me out here.”
“Mm okay, I c’n stand up. So-orry,” he waved his hand. And, well, Jon had to give him points for trying. Martin pressed his palms to the floor and hoisted himself upward, but clearly had no means to actually stay standing. Jon had to help with that, so he reached out to steady him, but he knew that he couldn’t hold him up all alone. Tim didn’t call him ‘Jonry Stickman’ for nothing. (He still didn’t know where the name came from, but at least it wasn’t so common anymore. He would never admit it, but he almost preferred it over bossman.)
For this reason, he fell forward, and half-pushed Martin into the wall. His eyes were unfocused, and he just went along with Jon’s movements. He grinned, which clearly was not a good thing, and he yawned. And then he winced. He teared up.
“Jon?”
“...Yes?”
“Are you mad at me?” His eyes widened when he said it, before flinching back to normal at the pain. He must've been in so much pain. Jon almost grasped for his chest, and he couldn't act like he didn't know why he felt like doing it.
He sucked in a breath. “No. Lean on me.”
And he did. With some difficult maneuvers, they created a system. Martin’s right hand would pull him along the wall, and his left hand rested around Jon’s trembling shoulders. They walked together, somewhat out of sync but still getting the job done.
“Am I too heavy?” Martin sniffled. “Oh, m’so gross.”
Jon refrained from answering. Martin really wasn't gross. He really, really wasn't.
Martin was really just saying anything that came to his mind by that point, but at least they were almost to the door. “It hur’s. Don’fire nme.” How was his condition worsening after the fall?
“Martin,” he tried to make as much eye contact as he could with the sides of their faces so close. He shivered. “You're not in trouble.”
“Ow, ow, ow, ow, ow—!”
“The ambulance is just outside,” he tried to comfort him. That wasn't true, he hadn't heard anything, but he just needed something to keep them level. They made their way outside, and Martin squeezed his eyes shut at the light. With no wall for him to lean on, Jon had to do more of the work, which he managed with a wider stance.
“Let's get to the bench,” Jon encouraged him. It didn't come out right. Nothing came out right when he said it. He was his boss, the head of their department, and he showed it with every scolding and insult. Nothing Jon could say to Martin would come out comforting.
“You’re doing great,” he said, and he meant it. For one prolonged second, Martin looked up at him with his full attention. His eyes were wide, like he wasn’t drowsy at all. Just the simple words of praise from Jon kept him afloat. He tilted his head and his mouth turned wobbly. He opened his mouth and closed it a few times, before asking the only question on his mind, the only clarification that mattered to Martin.
“Really?”
Jon was at a loss for air for a moment. The way he was being looked at was making his chest do things that he didn’t wish for. After about three flips of his stomach and fifty rapid heartbeats, he nodded firmly, like he didn’t want Martin to miss it.
“Really. We’re almost there.”
Martin took a staggering step on his own, and tried not to drag his feet. Jon was still stuck with most of the work, but the division of their labor had gone from 80/20 to 60/40, which was progress. His grip on Martin’s jumper tightened. They made it to the bench.
“Hhkhm,” Jon cleared his throat awkwardly. “You did, ah, um.” Spit it out! “You did goo…good. I’m proud of you.”
Those last four words did more for Martin than anything else could. Yet again, he snapped up, but this time, more disbelievingly. Instead of asking if he meant it, however, this time he just broke out into a delirious grin. It took over his entire face, with no muscle staying still for this breach of happiness. He leaned his injured head on Jon’s shoulder. He tucked his knees in. Jon wrapped an arm around his shoulder while staring off at some point in the distance. Neither of them were fully present, but for different reasons.
“You won’t leave, will you?” Martin closed his eyes.
Jon nudged him enough to reopen them. He shook his head so strongly Martin could feel the movement without having to look. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”
Martin sighed happily, and whispered: “Thank you.”
The sirens in the distance caused Jon to automatically squeeze Martin’s hand, which he squeezed back in response.
He’d be okay.