Work Text:
Jon barely ever read anymore.
He still enjoyed curling up in an armchair with a nice book and a cup of steaming tea, of course. It was relaxing to let his mind wander as he parsed the words on the page, the room quiet if not for the light rustling of pages under his hands.
He rarely ever had the patience to, anymore, thoughts always wandering towards what else he could be doing in the moment, towards, more often than not, to his work, to the statements he could follow up on and discredit. To supernatural encounters he could verify and try to prevent it from happening again.
He rarely ever had the time to, anymore, waking up at the crack of dawn and going to work almost right after, only sparing the time to get ready; working right through all of his breaks, engrossed in recording one statement or other that he forgot about everything else; only leaving work once it started getting dark, only with enough time to have a dinner and go to bed, too distracted to focus on anything else.
He never claimed to have good self-care habits.
So it became a part of learning to give himself a much needed break, to relax for once, after everything, to let himself curl into Martin’s side on a couch, to let himself be held by another, with a book in his lap. Sometimes, Gerry would join them, lounging on them, spread out and content, and Jon would read aloud to the both of them.
The bright smile on Martin’s lips, and a muted look of contentment on Gerry’s face were distracting enough to forget about any anxieties he might’ve had.
They made it easier to not think about the outside world, to let himself enjoy the moment.
***
Gerry had loved to read as a child, devouring every book he could get his hands on — which did tend to be quite a bit in a bookshop, no matter how much of a front it was — to his mother’s simultaneous chagrin and delight. She had always fostered his interest, but rarely allowed him to actually read any of the books she had in her shop.
Most of them were dangerous anyway, not something that should be allowed in the hands of children. She did care for him, in her own way, of course, not too eager to lose him to something so preventable. The rest, she had deemed irrelevant, and so — useless.
Not that Gerry listened to her opinion for long, learning to sneak away from her at an early age, for all sorts of things. What was one more?
She did find a way to ruin his interest eventually.
Or perhaps it happened naturally, as she sent him out to get the dangerous kinds of books from her contacts. As she had dragged him into her obsession with those books, to the point that seeing a spine gave him shivers, to the point that the thought of picking one up had made him want to run.
Or perhaps it was Gertrude who did it, binding him to a Lightner for so long, helpless to do anything but follow it. Not that it mattered too much.
Electronic books were better, far less likely to bring up old memories.
Audiobooks tended to make him think of statements but it was more bearable.
Hearing Jon read did too, sometimes, when he remembered all too clearly that the man was the Archivist.
But the adoring expression on his face as he looked at Gerry had put his mind at ease.
Perhaps foolishly.
***
Martin rarely had time to read for pleasure as a child.
He had his school textbooks, of course, and some free time he could spend in a library if he so desired. But his mother tended to dislike seeing him read, talking about how much he reminded her of his father in times like this, and asking if he doesn’t want to do something more productive than getting lost in a fantasy.
So he did.
He spent most of the time not at school or not doing homework by helping around the house and trying to make her happy.
It never worked.
He didn’t think too much of it as a child.
Rarely did nowadays either.
It was as an adult that Martin had really developed an appreciation for written word, spending hours on fiction and poetry, reading and writing both.
It was a good distraction from his worries.
A solace of a kind.
He hadn’t allowed himself to give it up even as he got more busy with caring for his mother, burying himself in the books when it got too much, when he needed to stop thinking, even for a little bit.
It was too often that he needed a distraction.
Not so much anymore, when he has two wonderful and sweet boyfriends, but it was still nice, sometimes. Especially if he got to share that time with them.
It was less of a distraction, and more of a genuine rest, in that way, all of them curled up together on the sofa, enjoying each other’s company. And he could listen to Jon’s voice forever, something that he noted years ago, when he just started working at the Archives, deep, soft, and happy, even as he pretended to grumble about having to relax, or Martin’s choice in literature.