Chapter Text
Dating The Archivist was weird.
Of course Jon had been weird since day one, which had only made him more appealing. Jon had been a short, skinny, intellectually intimidating bundle of tweed and acerbity. He’d been as gorgeous as he was aloof, Martin’s unattainable crush…
Until Prentiss, the Not!Them, the scars and the terror and the truth. Until Jon’s growing inhumanity had softened him, gentled him, made him more approachable. Martin would never have managed to ask Old Jon out for coffee, even in the rambling, stammering way he finally did it.
Old Jon would never have said “Ok, yeah. That, it sounds nice.”
It had been fantastic. Awkward, yes, but fantastic. Jon had touched him once, just a little squeeze of the hand when they parted at the tube station. It had obviously taken him some effort, and it’d left Martin nearly giddy.
No, forget the ‘nearly’—he’d giggled like a schoolboy all the way home. The old woman with the carpet bag had scooted as far away as the train’s benches would allow, muttering something about “drunken hooligans” and how “there should be a law.”
The next date was just as good, and the next and the next. They talked about non-cursed books, pets they wish they could have, classic films and poetry and Jon’s historical button collection. Anything but work.
The Avatar thing was always lurking at the back of it all, of course. Jon seemed very careful when he asked questions, holding back his power to spare his partner’s secrets. Sometimes Jon would mention things that he had no way to know, like where Martin had left his keys or that the train would be delayed, then he’d frown and shake his head. It was both disconcerting and oddly cute.
The touches were few, but Martin treasured every one. He longed to kiss Jon, to wrap his arms around his boyfriend and hold him tight, but he didn’t want to make Jon uncomfortable. The fact that this was happening at all seemed like a miracle, and he wasn’t going to ruin it by pushing. If he spent the rest of his life holding Jon’s hand, he would die happy.
He fantasized about Jon privately, though. Those lovely lips, that eloquent tongue, those clever fingers carding through his hair. Martin would lie in bed, imagining the bare, scarred skin he’d only ever seen through torn clothes, moving and sliding against his own. He would touch himself and imagine that deep, smooth voice gone rough with desire, whispering sweet nothings in his ear.
Of course he knew it couldn’t happen. Jon had told him early on that he didn’t do sex, which was fine, it really was. Martin was used to taking care of his own needs, and he’d been fantasizing about his boss for the last two years. He’d felt guilty about it since the start, but there was no way to prevent that except to stop masturbating entirely. No matter who or what he tried to think about, his mind always returned to Jonathan Sims.
That night was particularly vivid, and particularly good. Martin had his eyes closed, three fingers inside himself and the other hand wrapped around his cock. In his mind he was riding the man he loved, hearing that liquid voice in his ear telling him how good he was, how lovely and tight.
“Jon,” he moaned. “Oh Jon, Jon!”
He bit his lip, hand flying over his own cock, until he tumbled past the threshold into bliss.
Then a feeling washed over him, a sudden certainty that he was being watched. He hurriedly grabbed the duvet to cover himself, looking wildly around. There was nobody there, but that meant less than nothing—he worked in the Institute of Creepy Voyeurism, and was constantly being watched. The only unusual thing was that he’d noticed…did that mean it was deliberate? That they wanted him to know?
“Not funny, Elias,” Martin groused, then hid under his blankets for the rest of the night.
“Morning, Jon!” Martin said cheerily, carrying in a steaming cup of tea. It was part of his routine as the unofficial office gofer, and over the years Jon’s responses had gone from silent nods to brusque “thank-you's” to small but genuine smiles.
This time was different. The Archivist practically jumped out of his skin, fumbling a box of files so they spilled all over the floor.
“Bloody hell, Martin!” Jon cried, dropping to his knees and grabbing for the scattered documents.
“Sorry, sorry!” Martin babbled, putting the mug down on a table and moving to help Jon.
He probably shouldn’t have, as two pairs of frantic hands made things more of a mess than anything. It was only a matter of moments before both of them reached for the same statement, and their fingers brushed together.
Jon flinched away, a sharp, involuntary movement like he’d touched a hot stove. He’d never done that before, especially since they started dating. When they’d been co-workers, Jon had seemed fine with the accidental touches when passing mugs and folders back and forth. He’d let Martin bandage him, leaned on him when wounded, and afforded Martin the same help when needed.
But this time Jon flinched away, just like Martin’s mother had in those early days. Martin’s gut twisted, his panic rising, and he thought ‘this is it. He hates me, and he’s going to leave.’
Jon gathered up his stack of papers and pulled it to his chest. He rocked back on his knees, head tilted down just enough that he didn’t have to meet Martin’s eyes.
“I…” Martin swallowed, unsure of what else to say. “I’m sorry.”
“No, no it’s…” Jon shook his head, still not looking at Martin. “It’s my fault. And I shouldn’t have snapped at you.”
Another thing Old Jon wouldn’t have said. Before the horror had humbled him, and sharpened Martin in its turn.
“I’m used to it,” Martin chuckled.
“Well,” Jon said, clearing his throat. “I, um…”
“Is…is there something wrong?”
“No!” Jon cried. He met Martin’s eyes for a moment, a split second, then jerked his head away again. Was he…blushing? “I mean, yes, there…I…”
Martin tried to give him time, and just shuffled some papers around until they resembled a stack. He was pretty sure some were upside-down, but he wasn’t really paying attention to them. He was more focused on the the pink flush on Jon’s tan cheeks, the way he shifted on his knees.
“You…?” Martin finally said.
“I…not here.” Jon said at last. “The tunnels.”
So it was spooky stuff, or at least something he didn’t want Elias to know. Something private. Nodding slowly, Martin helped Jon put the files back in their box, then followed him downstairs.
Jon sighed a little as they entered their semi-safe space, and finally looked at Martin—quick darting glances up at the taller man’s face.
“So…”
“You…” Jon licked his lips. “You said my name. Last night.”
Martin blinked, unsure what Jon meant…then it clicked. It was Martin’s turn to flinch, to blush, to squawk like a startled seagull.
“You, y-you heard me?” Martin gasped in abject horror.
“I didn’t mean to!” Jon snapped. “I just—it just showed me, popped into my head without warning!”
“Oh god…” Martin groaned. “You saw me, too?”
“Yes,” Jon said. “I…I Saw you.”
Martin buried his face in his hands. No wonder Jon couldn’t look at him! Jon didn’t do sex, and he’d just been forced to watch a hard-core solo scene. A scene of Martin jerking off, naked, with his fingers in his ass while he moaned Jon’s name.
“I’m so, so sorry!” Martin’s voice was muffled by his hands. “I didn’t know—I shouldn’t have—”
“No! It’s not you, it’s me—” Jon said, then sighed. “Actually it’s Beholding, poking its ethereal eye-nose into everything.”
Martin peeked through his fingers. Jon was glaring at the ceiling, looking very put out, and Martin couldn’t repress a hysterical giggle. Jon frowned at him, one brow raised.
“That’s quite the mental image,” Martin said.
Jon chuckled wryly. He actually met Martin’s eyes, met them and held them.
“Listen, Martin,” he said slowly, choosing his words. “I’m not dense, and I don’t expect you to be a monk just because we’re together. You have a sex drive, and you have every right to take care of it.“
Martin slowly lowered his hands, and nodded. It hadn’t really come up in their boundary conversation—just Martin’s strict monogamy policy and Jon’s “no sex, ever, and I won’t change my mind” requirement. They’d both readily agreed, but left plenty of things out of sight and mind.
Except that few things were out of Jon’s Sight these days. At least he was being understanding.
“Thanks,” Martin said. “I still shouldn’t have been thinking about you, though—”
“And who else would it be?” Jon asked, peevish instead of compelling.
“Nobody,” Martin said, smiling. “Cross my heart and hope to, well, keep my mouth shut next time.”
Jon chuckled. He reached out, took Martin’s hand and squeezed it. Just once. He didn’t flinch, but he did blush when Martin squeezed back.
“Right,” Jon said, clearing his throat. “Now that’s sorted, let’s get back to work. Time and tide and eldritch horrors wait for no man.”