Archive of Our Own

Martin reaches next to Jon to take the half scribbled draft of a letter to his mother trepidatiously. He’s probably not sending it after this mess. He probably wasn’t gonna send it in the first place, come to think. “Um. Is that… is that all, then?”

“Yes,” Jon says, one hand still on his forehead, the other bracing himself against the desk. He doesn’t look like he’s actually all there as he’s saying it. “Yes, Martin, that’s it, you can- you can go.”

Martin nods a nervous little nod. “O-Okay. Um. Let me know if you need anything.”

Jon waves him off absentmindedly. Martin pads slowly towards the door, glancing behind himself with tense shoulders like he’s waiting for Jon to call him back and yell at him some more. Which, in a way, he might be.

Well, that was stressful. Probably the second most stressful event he’s gone through in the past year. And almost certainly the second weirdest. He’d known Jon was going through it, so to speak, but during that entire confrontation he had just seemed so incredibly neurotic and tired and scared for his life that Martin wanted nothing more than to swaddle him in a blanket and shush him until he fell asleep.

And also maybe run away and never come back. 

As… for lack of a better term, pathetic, as Jon is, he can be very scary when he’s interrogating you with the force of a thousand suns about your faked CV. It’s not like Martin blames him. It’s entirely reasonable to think that whoever killed Gertrude- like, actively murdered her with three entire gunshots- would have similar motivations for wanting Jon dead. It’d almost be weirder if he didn’t spiral into a huge bout of psychotic paranoia.

…At least, that’s what he tells himself. He’s just a little miffed about being considered a prime suspect. Given everything he does for Jon, a little trust thrown his way would be nice.

On the bright side, however- and Martin is trying very hard to find one- that’s one less awful secret he has to worry about keeping. Though it’s not like losing his job would be the absolute worst thing in the world at this point anyway. It’d be pretty bad- he does still need the money- but there would definitely be some mental health benefits.

The call he was only semi-anticipating comes as he’s close to leaving the room. A hesitant “Martin” said from behind him. 

Martin’s head jerks up at once. He’s walked slowly enough that his hand only just now rests on the doorknob. “Yeah?”

Jon’s jaw works up and down minutely. He’s seated at his desk again. “I’m… um.”

Martin’s brow furrows with confusion.

“Um.” 

After a few seconds of silence, Martin takes pity on him and breaks it with an awkward chuckle that he all but resents. “Are you alright? I-I mean, I guess I shouldn’t be asking that right now, but, I could just… I could make us both some tea if you wanted? To calm things down?”

“Why?”

Martin startles. His hand slides off the doorknob. “Um. Why what?”

Adorably, his voice breaks. “If you’re not lying. Why… are you so kind to me, then?”

And with that last word Martin can do nothing but watch as all of his autonomy leaves his body through the vessel of his mouth. He stands upright, like a marionette with a string through his back, and his voice when it emerges is entirely toneless. 

“I’m kind to you because I have feelings for you and I want you to know you’re cared for. It’s the only thing left for me to want out of this place. If you remember the one conversation we had over lunch, last weekend, where you explained to me the themes of The Tempest because I had accidentally brought it up, and you looked the most content I had ever seen you- I want you to look at me like that all the time, and being kind is the only way I know how to make it happen. It was the happiest I had felt in months, too, just watching you go on about something I couldn’t care less about.”

Martin’s jaw slacks as he finishes.

Wow.

Okay.

“I,” he says, and then finishes the sentence there, because based on the heat rising to his cheeks he probably resembles more crab than human right now and any attempt to defend himself will just end in more of the most awful fucking humiliation he had ever felt in his entire life up until that point. 

Martin is not a religious man, but if ever there was a time to just pray with all of his heart for death, it would be now.

Please, he thinks. Let it be a heart attack. Let a truck crash through the front of the institute and collapse this ceiling.

Jon looks about one nanosecond away from fainting. He blinks a couple times, like Martin is little more than a mirage or drug hallucination, his mouth hanging wide open. “Ah?”

“Um. That’s not true. None of that is true.” 

It is a fool’s errand to say this. Martin literally doesn’t know if he has any other option.

Jon blinks again, a couple thousand times, in rapid succession. His jaw opens and closes. He’s been doing a lot of floundering today. “You…”

“I’m so sorry,” he’s trying a new frantic approach, “I’m so sorry, I don’t know where any of that came from, I just… said it. But- but I don’t know-“

Oh, Christ, a panic attack might actually be coming on. He might actually start hyperventilating over this to Jon’s face, but he can’t start doing that because that would absolutely make the situation ten times worse. He’s struck with a terrifying vision of Jon being forced to awkwardly walk him through a panic attack after having to contend with the completely and utterly off putting stalkerish nature of all the other garbage that was just forced down his throat. Nope! Not happening! Not today!

Another deep, gulping breath is shoved down his throat. “So sorry. Just. Ignore that. Please.”

With that last pathetic sentence to send him on his way, Martin winces and patiently awaits Jon’s dismissal. Oh god, he has to wait for Jon’s dismissal. He just said all of that to his boss. Forget Jon being the stalker creep, they should lock HIM up. Why did he say all of that? Why in the seven hells would he say all of that?

Finally, Jon has stopped blinking frantically, and is now just clenching and unclenching his fists instead.

A long period of silence stretches before them. Then, despondently, “…you couldn’t care less about my thesis on The Tempest?”

Martin barks out a singular high, hysterical laugh. What the fuck? That’s what Jon chooses to focus on? Sure! Whatever! He can play along! “Um, yeah, kind of! Never liked high theater much, always felt sort of pretentious!”

Jon’s brow furrows indignantly. “Pretentious. You are aware you write poetry.”

“How do you know that???”

What the fuck is happening right now? Actually, Martin’s leading theory is that Jon doesn’t want to acknowledge all of the other insane bullshit that was just spat between them, and has chosen to latch onto the one part of that monstrous paragraph that he can comment on without things becoming extremely contentious.

“Erm, well, that is-“ Jon looks away, embarrassed, and says the next part quietly. “The same reason I knew about the letter to your mother.”

“So just- snooping, then.”

“Um. M-More or less.” He’s started fidgeting like a shy teenager.

Martin should feel angry, but he’s not. He’s just defeated. And almost a little endeared. And somehow even more embarrassed than he already was. Christ, if there ever was a pathetic man. 

They appear to have reached a conversational dead end.

“Right. Well. I am going to go. If that’s alright with you.”

Jon stares uncomprehendingly at him.

“Please.”

That snaps him out of it. “Yesyoucango.”

Dutifully, Martin scurries out of there like there’s no tomorrow.

Well, he’s definitely not making tea now. He is preferably going to go somewhere where Jon is free to never see his face again.

…Except that’s not gonna happen, is it? And now Jon knows why. Because he told him. He told him all about his whopping debilitating ill advised mother hen freak gay crush on him, in detail. 

His cheeks are still absolutely burning. It’s possible that he’s entered a fugue state of shock and horror. What does one do in this situation? Well- probably lots of things, but the number one contender as of now is to just stay entirely out of Jon’s way and hope and pray to god that he isn’t hated and abhorred for his behavior.

Why did he say that? Why on God’s green earth would he ever think to say all of that, out loud? His heart is pounding in its chest with the sickening mortification that comes from being pried open against your will. Is he supposed to just, what, get back to work now? Get on with it?

He comes face to face with his desk. His open laptop stares up at him like an accusation. He had been called to Jon’s office at the tail end of filing a particularly awful report, which is now going to probably be the first sign he’s still alive that Jon receives from him post incident. 

A hysterical giggle almost arises from him at the thought of the whole ordeal from Jon’s perspective. His bumbling archival assistant, who is an annoyance to him at best, confesses to lying on his CV, explains in detail the depths of his incredibly crushy feelings on him for no reason, hightails it out of there, and then silently emails him his latest Neanderthalian paper on a joke of a statement that isn’t even formatted correctly. 

He is almost certainly going to want a restraining order after this. God, if his paranoia was bad before, Martin has definitely just made it ten times worse. The archival assistants are gonna have to pool their funds and buy him a straitjacket. 

Well. C’est la vie.

After a moment, Martin sighs at the desk. “Yeah, yeah, I know. I’m on it.”

—

A day passes.

Then two days.

Then it’s been a week. 

It’s been a week since the Incident (as Martin has lovingly dubbed it inside of his mind) and Jon hasn’t been acting… THAT different. He’s been somehow making even less eye contact than he was before, and he doesn’t snap at Martin- which is a welcome relief- but he has not brought it up directly or indirectly whatsoever.

This is probably fine.

Honestly, it’s better than Martin was hoping for, if he might redirect you to the aforementioned prediction of incredibly exacerbated paranoia. If anything, Jon seems less paranoid and more sane. More withdrawn and awkward than anything.

And it IS still awkward. Of course it’s still awkward. It’s actually incredibly unbearable how awkward it is. He still brings Jon tea and his reports and is completely perfunctory when doing so, but the air between them is wildly stifled. He didn’t even know it was possible for a silence to be so charged. With what, he has no idea. But awkward is better than many of the alternatives, so he just sucks it up and faces their mutual discomfort with a stiff upper lip. 

What he does stop doing unequivocally, however, is the mothering.

He wasn’t aware just to the extent that everything he said was true until, well. Until he said it. Now that it’s out in the open between them, there is no way that he can ask Jon if he wants to go get lunch together or tell him to get some sleep or ask him if he’s considered therapy with a straight face.

And it actually hurts, worse than he thought it might. It makes him grieve the burgeoning friendship he thought he was cultivating between them, because he knew Jon was beginning to warm up to him too. That was probably actually why he confronted him when he did- the closer they became, the worse his paranoia and dread grew at the prospect of Martin betraying him.

But he wouldn’t. And now Jon knows why. And things can’t go back to the way they were.

Martin spends most of his free time now engaged in the hobby of lamenting what could’ve been between him and Jon- which, in reality, would never have been anything more than a perfectly respectable acquaintanceship, but those little glimpses Martin would receive of him at his happiest seemed to promise so much more to his delusional hopes.

Everything is fine- awful, but fine- until one unassuming day Jon opens the door to his office and says, “Martin,” very loudly.

This wouldn’t have been anything to write home about pre Incident. As it stands, though, Jon and Martin haven’t had a single ACTUAL conversation or exchange of more than three or four words at a time in this entire week. This is a novelty. This is dangerous.

Martin stares at him, swallows.

“Come see me for something,” he mutters, almost absentmindedly, before making a 180 back to his desk.

Stiffly, Martin stands and begins walking. His hands are shaking for some god forsaken reason. Pull yourself together, Martin, he rues to himself. He’s not scary. A stiff breeze could knock him over. It’s probably nothing.

He approaches Jon at his desk with his hands wrung in front of him. Jon appears to be… sorting papers. Or something. It doesn’t actually look like he’s doing much. He’s just grabbing them and rearranging them at random, muttering lowly to himself as he does so.

“Um,” Martin says eloquently. Jon doesn’t look up. “You wanted to see me?”

Jon just nods, almost to himself. “Yes, um. Your recent report, the, the Lancaster one, um, I thought I might- I thought I might point out to you how I would prefer to have contact information formatted.”

“...Okay?”

Jon shoves a familiar report in front of him. In the past, he’d always made a big obnoxious point of marking all of Martin’s errors in thick red pen, but this one seems entirely unblemished save for a scrawled sticky note or two. He then begins gesticulating wildly as he explains to Martin in detail his shortcomings, pointing at the paper and back at the laptop and gesturing vaguely around himself but never making eye contact.

Martin is confused.

Jon… is being weirdly nice. Like, weirdly. Like even at the height of their casual relationship Jon would get terse and ever so slightly mean when it came to Martin’s work. Now, Jon is being strangely… agreeable? Here?

“Jon,” Martin interrupts him, feeling similarly strangely empowered by this sudden show of actual helpful kindness. This is the cue for Jon to finally stop and stare at him like a deer in headlights. “What are you doing?”

Jon blinks, confused. “I’m… explaining how I prefer reports to be formatted.”

“No, I know that, I mean- why? Exactly? Are you doing that?”

“Because… you don’t know?”

Martin’s hands and shoulders hike up in abject confusion. “Wh- I’ve clearly never known, and you haven’t done anything like this before!”

“That’s because I- I-” Jon looks around himself wildly, stopping and starting again. “I thought- I thought you were six years older than me and had a master’s degree, Martin!”

Martin blinks, stunned, as Jon begins fidgeting with his hands.

“I-I thought you had gone through years of training for this specific niche, I didn’t think it needed to be explained to you. I thought it was deliberate, or- or just laziness, or incompetence. I didn’t know you just… were learning on the job.” His voice goes soft and a bit wobbly at the end there. Over what, Martin can’t begin to guess.

It looks like Jon is waiting for him to respond, so he swallows thickly. “Right.”

This launches Jon into another one of his word spirals. A hand travels to his forehead as he continues on frantically. “I-I mean, you dropped out at seventeen! I don’t even know if you’re familiar with APA formatting, and you’ve only ever worked in our library before this! You would’ve had no way of knowing where to even begin when it came to creating a- professional academic report! Based on little to no instruction, at that.”

Good thing he chooses to stop there, because Martin wasn’t sure he’d be able to handle Jon throwing all of that back in his face for another second. He wants to be grateful that Jon has finally come to his senses or appreciative of his efforts or something, but this just makes him feel wholeheartedly pitied.

Well. It’s better than being abhorred.

He doesn’t get mad at Jon, though. If anything he’s feeling quite fond of him at the moment. He just mostly feels down on himself. 

A self deprecating chuckle escapes from him. “Well, uh, yeah. Honestly, I’m a bit shocked nobody figured it out sooner, what with the… quality of my work and all.”

Jon’s eyebrows draw distressed lines across his forehead. “Martin, I didn’t think-“

“It’s fine,” he cuts him off quickly. “Really, it’s fine. I-I don’t even blame you for how mad you got, if I thought my archival assistant had a master’s degree and received the nonsense I’d been turning in all this time, I’d be… incredulous. I-I get it.” Jon could’ve stood to be nicer when it came to slandering Martin’s overall character, of course, but that’s neither here nor there.

“Your work.” Jon pauses, mouth twitching a bit in the interim like he’s having a thorough debate with himself over his next words. His voice does eventually return with a kinder tone, though, despite being firm. “Your work, given the complete lack of experience or training you had when you transferred, is very impressive, Martin. You did very well with what you were given.”

Oh.

An insidious lump forms in his throat at the genuine praise. God. How badly did he want to hear those words for them to hit him like a freight train?

He wants to respond, but he doesn’t want it to be obvious just how thoroughly debauched he was by Jon’s admittance, so he just gapes like a fish for a second or two. “I-I- right, I- thank you. Thanks. Heh. Um. Sorry.”

Jon’s frowns in confusion. “Why are you apologizing?”

“No reason. Sorry. Um.” He looks askance, feeling like a complete stuttering fool. “Thank you for telling me about the contact formatting, I- is that all?”

It looks like something else is pressing up against Jon’s tongue, but he soon slumps with a topic officially dropped. Martin is sure he can guess what’s on both their minds right now. “No. No, that was all. Thank you, Martin.”

Martin nods.

But he doesn’t move.

This conversation has suddenly put him in mind of something- the crucial fact that he doesn’t think he can go on with this awkward faux professional relationship he and Jon have been playing pretend at lately. He wants- he doesn’t know, he wants something to change, all of a sudden, bearing witness to the short lived radiance of Sincere And Kind Jon Who Tries To Make Martin Feel Better. 

It strikes him abruptly enough that his mouth has opened before he’s thought it through. “Jon,” he says.

He looks up with his complete attention. Bearing the full weight of his gaze is… well, it’s certainly something. “Yes?”

“I’m sorry,” he says nonsensically. “For, um. All of that stuff I said the other day. I don’t know why I said it. I-I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable, I just…”

“Martin,” Jon says before pausing again. He looks down, unsure, and then looks up with an expression one could charitably describe as constipated. “You… uhm. It’s alright.”

Alright.

“…Okay,” Martin squeaks. He almost wants to drop it there and not force Jon to elaborate on where he stands with him hatred-wise over the whole ordeal, but he’s always been something of a masochist. “And, uh, what- what does that mean?”

Jon evidently wasn’t expecting that he would have to continue with his thoughts on the matter. “Um. Well. Just- just that- it’s okay.”

“It’s… okay.”

“Uh. Yes.” He blinks. Then he nods, once, resolutely. “Don’t- don’t worry about it.”

Now what in all of fresh hell could that mean? “Uhm. Okay. I-I won’t.” 

Martin steps back, feeling very lost, and then immediately turns and hightails it out of there. He shuts Jon’s door behind him like he just emerged from a dungeon crawler.

Okay. So. Presumably, Jon was referring to Martin’s feelings for him when he said ‘it’ was okay. His little cryptic way of letting Martin down gently.

The longer he ruminates on the interaction, the worse and better he feels about it. Yeah, that was unequivocally a pity-filled rejection. It’s not like he was expecting anything different- in fact, he was expecting something way worse- but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt. On the flip side…

He thinks of the sincerity in Jon’s tone at the assertion it was okay and he shouldn’t worry about it, and something in him sighs with relief. 

Clearly Jon doesn’t have a problem with any of it at the very least. He accepts this outcome. He does. He’ll… work on it. The feelings. They mutually acknowledge them, are fine with them, and will leave them there. Boom. Done. Air officially cleared. They’re both grown adults. Even if they probably never be able to completely shake off any leftover awkward energy in their interactions. Hopefully things go back to a facsimile of normalcy after this.

Martin ignores the ever so slight pang in his heart, and gets back to work.

—-

Things do not go back to normal after this.

If Jon was angry in his pre-Incident stage, then avoidant and rattled in his post-Incident stage, this stage in the following weeks- Martin doesn’t even know how to describe whatever this stage is. Spacey, maybe? Or… contemplative? Shell shocked?

Example: Jon used to not look up when Martin would knock on the door with his signature call of tea. It was something so consistent, actually, that Martin began looking forward to it in a grotesque yet reliable sort of way. Bring Jon his tea, be completely ignored by him with the exception of the occasional muttered “thank you” or “yes yes you can leave it here”, and leave without needing to deal with him in full. That does not happen anymore.

Now whenever Martin opens the door, Jon is already startling and staring at him with complete focus. There is no obvious expression on his face, but he maintains eye contact with him from the moment the door opens on his face to the moment he leaves the threshold of the room. He will even say a complete and genuine, “thank you very much, Martin”, every time now.

Is Martin thrilled and overjoyed by this? Yes, obviously, of course he is. It’s not like the crush has gone away overnight. For what their relationship dynamic was before, this might as well be the Jon equivalent of getting on his knees and professing his undying love. Is he also sort of terrified by this? Well duh. There was a reason Jon’s apathy was comforting to him. At least it was familiar. Having so much attention trained on him at every moment freaks him out.

Jon will also now- and Martin balks at the horror of it- compliment his work. Unprompted. When handing it back. Saying things like, “good job on this one, Martin,” or, “I-I agree with your assertion here, Martin,” still maintaining that… oh so intense eye contact. Granted, it’s almost certainly condescending and a result of some grotesque mixture of guilt and pity, but it’s much better than the alternative.

And he’ll smile more too. 

Not often, obviously, but. It’s happened maybe once a week. Which is an absolute novelty when it comes to Jon, because Martin is certain he didn’t see him smile for the first time until at least a few months into their acquaintanceship. Now whenever Martin brings him tea whenever he’s in a particularly good mood (or, alternatively, having a particularly rough time of it,) he will grace him with a small quirk of lip that may in some form indicate happiness or appreciation. There’s nothing bad to say about that. It’s like the first peek of sun over the horizon every time it happens, and Martin never tires of the satisfaction it brings him.

Wow. That’s… this crush may actually be chronic. Like, it’s getting serious. He better stop. It’s getting to the point where he will emerge from Jon’s office with a smitten smile on his face and have to hurriedly wipe it off before he can make eye contact with a sardonic Tim. Tim’s negative thoughts about his feelings for Jon have been… less lighthearted lately. Maybe justifiably so. But it’s actually starting to ruin his mood.

About another week into this new routine of theirs, Martin is hard at work on another unremarkable report that he’s 99% sure is fake. He doesn’t even know why they keep putting effort into these ones that record with no problems.

Miraculously, Jon’s support has actually motivated him to work even harder on his reports (crazy how that works, isn’t it, Jon?), which meant he got really into the one he began filing at midday and has been typing away all this time. He’s looking up ‘malfunctioning lawnmowers - paranormal’ in the institute search engine when the door to Jon’s office slams open with unusual vigor, startling everyone in the vicinity.

Tim and Sasha look back down at their desks immediately and with disinterest when they realize Jon’s eyes are trained on Martin. As per usual.

“Um.” Jon blinks a few times, as if he forgot what he came out here for. “Martin.”

Martin’s gaze shifts to the right and back. This never gets any less scary. “…yes?”

”See. See me in my office?” 

Immediately after the request, Jon’s face screws up like he just took a bite of a lemon and he scurries back into his hovel of a workspace. Well. That doesn’t bode very well, does it?

Full of more curiosity than genuine fear, maybe for the first time ever since he began being called to Jon’s office, Martin shuts the door behind him and walks up to the desk, which Jon has decided to stand behind awkwardly. Still having to contend with that newfound eye contact. He’s beginning to actually think it’s rather nice but that’s irrelevant.

His hands fold politely in front of him and he smiles, not disingenuously. “You wanted to see me?”

“This- well, this is stupid, but- I just-“ Jon breaks the gaze they had shared to look down at and pick at his chipped nails. His jaw works open and closed before he spits out, “I just noticed you, um. Didn’t bring your tea today. Is- is there a reason?”

…What? 

Run that by him again? 

Martin mentally combs through the evening behind them. Oh, Jon’s right. Tea tends to be distributed across the archives every day around the same hyper specific time just before lunch. He happened to completely forget because he was so into that report. That’s an unremarkable first. What IS remarkable, though, is that he is standing here in front of Jon, answering for it. 

A bemused smile emerges slowly onto his face. “Did you call me in here… to ask why I didn’t bring you tea?”

Jon springs into frazzled action immediately. “No! No, no, I just- what happened was, I noticed, but thought you might just be sort of late, but then… this has never happened before, so I thought I would just leave to… check on you, but then I realized too late that, um. I couldn’t just stand out there for no reason. So I sort of. Fabricated calling you in here. B-But I was genuinely curious. Given that I wasn’t sure if I completely remembered seeing you come in this morning. And something might have… happened.” Jon is becoming more and more flustered as this conversation goes on. His hands are moving about like unsettled little creatures, wringing themselves into a frenzy. “But- but it was just- it was stupid. My anxieties just got to me, what with... everything that’s been happening, but you, you understand, right?”

A grin is still sitting patiently on him. “Right, no, of course. I-I mean, obviously. It makes sense. With everything happening.”

“Right.”

“Right.”

They stare at each other. Martin has to make an active effort to not let his eyes drift to Jon’s lips. They’re chapped anyway. Would probably be like… kissing sandpaper, or something else gross and unappealing. Yeah. Eugh. Definitely not.

Has he ever been missed before? Has anyone ever just… checked on him? To make sure he was okay? He’s struggling to think of a single instance through his entire life. 

Jon clears his throat softly. “So, um. Why did you…”

“Oh! Right, right, I was just… I just forgot.” He gives a pathetic nervous laugh. “Sorry. Not a very good explanation. This report I’ve been filing has just been pretty difficult, so.”

Jon’s face crumbles in deep mortification. He nods frantically. “No, right, of course. That makes perfect sense, I’m- I apologize for wasting your time.”

“No, you’re right, now I have to make up for it. I’ll get right on that.”

“That’s not necessary, I just-“

“Jon.” Martin cuts him off, still with a besotted smile. “It’s fine. I like making tea for everyone. Thank you for reminding me.”

Jon looks at him as if- well. As if he’s seeing him for the first time. Like Martin is a new man with this revelation. He’s really not. He feels like this factoid is perfectly in line with who he’s been presenting himself as towards Jon this entire time, but whatever.

Quietly, he says, “right. Uh, thank you, Martin.”

Martin gives him a strangled “no problem!” and promptly leaves to go make that tea, humming and smiling and thinking all the while.

—-

This continues for a bit. Jon’s genuine companionship. 

Martin is sort of on cloud nine about it, but he’s under no illusion as to how much Jon actually enjoys his company. His leading theory is that Jon’s finally got it through his thick skull that Martin CARES about him, and since he is apparently the only person in the institute who this is unequivocally confirmed for, Jon is finally showing him a modicum of respect and kindness in turn.

And he knows, of course he knows Jon still isn’t… well. He still skulks around them, Tim and Elias especially, deep in the throes of acute paranoia and dread and workaholism. Martin genuinely cannot remember the last time he saw Jon leave work at five. He’s been discussing the possibility of staging an intervention for him with everyone else but they all seem much less interested than he is in making sure Jon is alright.

All of that just sort of… changes, though, when he’s talking to Martin. He’ll never stop being frazzled and awkward around him, surely, but at least being frazzled and awkward around someone you know has a crush on you is a NORMAL reaction at the very least.

It’s making Martin inordinately happy. Still embarrassed, yes, because the embarrassment of that world-rendingly horrifying first incident will never truly leave him, but they have reached an unspoken comfort with the fact that it happened. Now he looks forward to seeing Jon every day. It’s sort of the highlight of his… entire life, right now. Like, literally. He has nothing else to look forward to.

Besides poetry.

Which is why he’s staying behind today and frantically rifling through his desk after Tim and Sasha have already gone home.

He moved out of the archives a while ago, but just discovered last night that his complete poetry notebook- the little yellow one he successfully filled out a while ago- is missing from his flat. Meaning he probably left it somewhere around here. He cares vaguely out of sentimental reasons, sure, but he’s most concerned with the idea of someone else finding it and being subject to his awful writing and it irreparably changing their outlook on him forever. Jon is obviously the worst case scenario here, but Tim and Sasha would be approaching levels just as bad for very different reasons.

He went and checked the room he was staying in first, but it was nowhere to be found. So his desk is his best bet now.

After opening and closing each drawer for the fifth time out of some insane hope that it would manifest somewhere under the pens and papers if he just looked again, Martin sighs, defeated. So it’s not in here either.

Document storage is next on his list because he used to go in there sometimes and write in the old tiny closets when he couldn’t sleep. They felt safer from worms, anyway, given their size. You could see everything that was happening in all the nooks and crannies. 

He closes the door lightly behind him and steps inside. It shuts with a click that’s near deafening in the still, dust mote ridden air. Besides the buzz of fluorescent light above him.

Obviously he’s not going to go looking in every file, but he does sort of peek at and around the metallic shelves in some futile search attempt as he pads softly forward. This place had always creeped him out. The hallways are too long and obscured and the floorboards make way too much noise. And it was dark if you were in here at two in the morning like he usually was.

It’s still early enough, though, and he manages to get to his signature closet door notebookless and without incident. Funnily enough, he still has to brace himself before opening it. He always expected there to be a gaggle of worms behind every door he opened when he was living here.

It swings open silently, and-

Martin blinks.

“Jon?”

Jon is sitting there, on the floor of the closet, hunched over, writing feverishly in something with complete focus. 

When the door opens he yelps and turns his head toward Martin so abruptly that it looks like it might have hurt. Whatever he was writing in flies behind his back immediately.

“Martin! Martin, what are you- are you doing here?”

Martin’s not sure what kind of incredulous expression he’s making. “Um. I could ask you the same thing.”

Jon straightens on the floor in a manner as dignified as he possibly can. Which isn’t that dignified, because, well. He’s hunched over on the floor of a tiny closet right now. “I was just, erm. Looking around in here. Looking for… a statement.” 

Martin mercifully decides not to point out that there are only cleaning supplies from the 90s in here. 

“And… writing about it.” He tries to pointedly catch a glimpse of whatever’s behind Jon’s back but to no avail.

“Yes.”

They stare at each other in a stalemate.

“Well, uh,” Martin begins again. “I’m… looking for my poetry notebook, I think I left it here when I was living in the archives. It’s small and yellow and has a latch- you haven’t seen it around, have you?”

Jon’s eyes grow wider and wider as Martin goes on. “Uh, no, I, I haven’t. I’m sorry.”

Fuck it. “What were you writing?” 

“Oh, uh, it’s nothing. Just.. notes.”

“On?”

“What are you interrogating me for?” Jon’s backing up further against the wall now, eyes narrowing and legs twisting themselves into a thin wall of bone. His tone becomes rancid as he continues. “I don’t recall you ever giving me an easy time for- poking and prodding where I’m not meant to be, but apparently when you do it it’s-“

Martin, as this interaction goes on, recalls Jon referencing the fact that he knew about Martin’s poetry due to snooping related reasons. Dots begin connecting in his head. In an action that he’s sure will haunt him if he follows through with it but that he’s certain he wouldn’t be able to live with not taking, Martin reaches for whatever’s behind Jon’s back with speeds previously unbeknownst to him, crowding Jon further into the closet.

Jon doesn’t defend himself. His entire body just goes still as he sucks in a sharp breath.

There is, indeed, what feels like a latched notebook in his hands. Martin’s eyes narrow as he pulls it out slowly from behind his back.

His notebook is opened on a page where two poems reside. 

He can remember writing both of them. They’re two polar opposites. One is about the terror of Jane Prentiss having stalked him, which became a bit of an artistic inspiration for him during his time here. One is about- eugh.

Oh, god. One about Jon. And this one is even particularly, um. Risqué?

Okay, well, it’s not explicit, but there’s sort of an underlying sensual energy to the whole thing that any literate person with eyes would be able to pick up on and- Martin really doesn’t want to talk about this right now.

What he does want to talk about are the-

The-

“Have you been annotating my poems?” He damn near squeaks at the scrawls of familiar red pen marking the paper. 

“I-“ Jon appears to be rapidly looking for a way out of this situation, but has nothing else to say for himself. Martin squints harder at the page. God, this man’s handwriting is a mess.

Upon closer inspection, the annotations are- oh. 

Wait.

It’s more of his suspicion paranoia bullshit! He’s marking them off as being useless for the investigation and circling portions of them that point to Martin having any veritable cause for wanting him dead and-

And, uh. The aforementioned risqué Jon poem doesn’t have many annotations. Yeah, that makes sense.

Martin is torn between anger, sadness, shock, mortification, confusion- just about every negative emotion under the goddamn sun, actually. He has no idea how to even begin with unpacking this.

“How- what- why? What are you even-“

“It’s- it’s for the investigation!” Jon clarifies wildly with his hands out in front of him. He’s sweating bullets. Which is very impressive given how cold it is down here. “I’m just- if you were in my position you would-“

“The investigation??” At this, Martin actually somehow grows more angry. 

He thought Jon trusted him. Or at least that he was beginning to trust him. He thought he believed him and they were- and he knew about his feelings. He thought they might’ve been becoming… friend adjacent. Throw that all out the window, because apparently Jon is still so suspicious of him that he would steal his poetry and annotate it for the sake of collecting evidence that Martin literally wants him dead. That doesn’t even make any sense! Betrayal leaks into his tone as he continues. 

“I thought- I thought we were done with this! I thought you knew I- that I couldn’t- you really thought the best way to find out if I wanted you dead was to go snooping through my poetry? There are love poems in here about you, you idiot, you didn’t think to stop at the first one? Did you think I was, I don’t know, fabricating them? That I was lying when I said all that stuff? That seems like a pretty stupid serial killing strategy to not let your victims know your next move!”

Jon just blinks widely at him, mouth hanging open in shock. It would be funny in any other situation. His hands are bracing themselves on the ground behind him.

Makes sense. Martin isn’t sure he’s ever raised his voice at him before. He would keep going, but, well- he runs out of steam for being angry quickly, and utter embarrassment is beginning to take its place. He didn’t have to go and make things worse like that, did he?

“I mean-“ he looks off to the side, cheeks burning a bright red. “Sorry. I-I know you’re going through a lot right now, I shouldn’t… make it all about me. Um.” His mouth flattens. “Just ask next time you’re gonna borrow my poetry for investigative purposes.”

“I lied,” Jon says quickly. Like it’s being hurled out of him.

Martin looks back at him with nothing but sheer confusion. “What? About what?”

“Shit. About-“ he shifts on the floor, eye contact dropping about one second into his explanation. “Um. About it being for the investigation?”

Martin blinks. Holds up the notebook and points at it incredulously. “It’s. I can see the annotations, Jon. This one here says ‘may be a way to channel his anger directed at me, providing evidence that he wants me dead’.”

“Well- it may have started because of the investigation, but… um.” He curls into himself harder if that’s even possible. “Now I just… I like… reading your poetry.”

Martin almost drops the notebook in shock. “Uh.”

“I-I mean, I don’t like it! I’m still- writing notes. Because I-“

Jon finally looks back up at him. Something about the eye contact must flood a dam in his internal conflict with himself, because after a second, he just huffs and winces to brace for whatever he’s about to say.

“I liked to tell myself it was still because I was suspicious of you, but,” he garbles out swiftly. “I just wanted to keep reading your poems.”

A vast silence stretches between them. Martin can do nothing but stand there, gaping, as the enormity of this fact hits him. 

Could he be lying? Making up excuses to circumvent Martin’s anger in place of happiness? But no, he couldn’t be, because Martin is pretty damn sure Jonathan Sims would rather jump off a cliff than say anything with that amount of vulnerability to anyone for the sake of preserving a bit of anger. He’s clearly never had issues with pissing people off before. 

That and… his face. It’s all screwed up in embarrassment and shame and what seems like genuine panic. And never let it be said that Martin can’t read people. It may actually be the one thing he is totally and completely Good at. That and making tea.

To bypass any vulnerability on his part, Martin instead goes, “and you thought the best place to do this… was the closet in document storage.” He’s maybe being a bit of a hypocrite, given that the closet in document storage is where he thought the best place to WRITE that poetry was.

“I-I didn’t want you to come in and catch me doing it at my desk! It just seemed much less likely that you would come in here. Which, apparently, I was wrong about.”

“Sorry, so, let me- let me run this by you again. You’ve been-“ he takes another peek at his painfully mediocre poetry- “you’ve been sneaking off to document storage, sitting yourself down on this floor, reading my poetry for fun, and then convincing yourself you weren’t doing it for fun by… scribbling notes that incriminate me for murder all over it.”

Jon looks off to the side. “Uh. Yes?”

“And how long has this been going on for?”

His eyes shut. “…Unclear.”

“What do you mean, unclear?!”

“Well, uh, the poetry annotating for the sake of investigation has been going on for… a month or two now, but, recently, the, uh. The line has sort of blurred on. Why I’m doing it. Given… recent… um… evidence. Clearing your name.” Obviously, referring to the Incident.

“Can you please get off the floor? This is crazy. The way we’re doing this is crazy.”

“Right, no, yes-“ he scrambles up off the floor, dusting off his pants all the while. Martin’s eyes travel upwards to maintain contact with his flushed, avoidant face. “Well. It won’t happen again, I’d understand if you no longer- if you didn’t- if you weren’t… happy with me, and-“

“Jon. Jon.” His hand travels to his forehead in a show of exasperation. Very real exasperation, mind you, but. It’s sort of being completely dwarfed by how suddenly and completely overjoyed he is at the prospect of this absolutely ridiculous happenstance. 

He pushes back the hair on his head as a sort of nervous tick. A stupid smile has started to emerge on his face. So much for keeping his composure. “I’m not, um. Mad at you. If that’s what you think. Well, that mad.”

Jon looks up at him. 

A brief silence occurs. “You really should be. I mean, this is- it’s just starting to hit me how absolutely insane of a thing this is to do.”

“Well, yeah, but I don’t think I could get that genuinely upset with you over something so adorable.”

“What?”

“I said,” Martin says, still grinning through it, “I couldn’t get upset with you over something so adorable. Even though I… probably should. Because. This is really weird. And sort of. An invasion of my privacy. Uh.”

It is starting to hit him with force that he just called Jon adorable to his face. 

It’s starting to hit Jon, too, because the little plane between his eyebrows scrunches up. “I am not adorable.”

“Right.” Martin nods a little too hard, a little too fast, unable to completely wipe off the ghost of a smile. In any other circumstance he would be more mortified, but it feels like calling Jon cute is comparatively tame to whatever Jon’s been doing here. “Yeah. Sorry. Definitely not.”

“I mean- it’s fine if you want to- you know what?” He straightens out, all of a sudden, and backs away a single pace from Martin. “I am going to get back to work. This has all been… very distracting. From work.”

“Sure.”

“So… it won’t happen again. Um.” He raises his hand in a single and extremely awkward wave. “Bye.” He then turns and rushes down the hallway with stiff shoulders.

Hm.

Well.

Martin feels his cheek, which has been lifted in a smile for the entire second half of that interaction, and doesn’t feel too badly about it. You know, at least Jon’s the one being humiliated between them for a change.

…What could this mean? Seriously, what does this even mean? He likes reading Martin’s poetry?

Technically it could mean any number of things from ‘Jon enjoys making fun of Martin as a pastime’ to… he isn’t actually sure. That first possibility seems the most likely one in his head given the history of their relationship. But Martin also has the power of context clues on his side. And that behavior? It wasn’t the behavior of someone who still thinks of him as annoying and incompetent.

So, face blazing, Martin is forced to return to his desk with his poetry notebook and the very reluctant and careful assertion that Jon may be… fond of him. Or his writing. In some vague, unassuming manner. Possibly. 

—-

Martin is staying late again.

Something about caring about Jon must make him care about his work by proxy. He's never been one to get particularly invested in these things- he doesn’t have that same burning, insatiable hunger to know that Jon does. He’s not sure anyone on the planet has Jon’s destructive sense of curiosity, come to think of it. He’s really been dealing with all of the horrific mysteries at the institute in the same hands off manner where he just tries damage control and to not get involved more than the bare minimum required of him.

But seeing Jon work so meticulously and tirelessly at it- seeing him dedicate 90% of his free time to figuring everything out (and the other 10% to a healthy dose of sleeping and apparently Martin’s poetry)- it sort of makes him invested too. Not for the sake of the mystery, but for the sake of… helping Jon.

God. He’s staying after work for this man. 

It’s bad, yes, but. Is it really so bad that at least half his motivation can be attributed to not wanting the poor guy to be alone all night down here in the institute’s haunted, depressing bowels? He thinks that’s actually a pretty noble cause, thank you very much.

So, yeah. It’s 8pm and he just finished up on the report he’s been filing and he’s intending to make him and Jon one more round of tea before heading home for the night. He’s currently leaning against the counter of the break room as he waits for both mugs to steep, scrolling mindlessly through social media feed on his phone. A clock ticks loudly just behind him. It’s the only sound in the dim space.

The door to the break room swings open with a deafening creak, spilling light in from the adjacent archives. Martin looks up in time to catch Jon stepping in and shutting the door behind him. He startles a bit as he spots Martin’s silhouette.

“Martin,” he stutters, eyes wide.

Martin’s been smiling a lot more around him lately. “Hi, Jon. Just making us tea, I-I’m probably gonna head home after this.”

Jon peers at the watch on his wrist, almost comically so. He’s the only person Martin knows who wears a wristwatch in this day and age. Then again, Martin doesn’t know many people. “It’s eight.”

“Uh, yeah.”

“You didn’t go home with Tim and Sasha?”

Martin shrugs as Jon pads up to the counter to stand a respectable distance away from him. “Nope. Wanted to finish up this last report. I guess I’m becoming just as invested in all of this as you are.”

Jon doesn’t quite smile, but the corners of his eyes do tighten in something like amusement. “Somehow, I… highly doubt that.”

Was that teasing? Is Jonathan Sims capable of such a thing? Martin gives a nervous laugh. “Yeah, okay, well. I-I’m starting to see the appeal of investment, anyway.” It’s not like he’s gonna tell Jon he’s here for him. He still has something of a filter remaining.

“The appeal? Of the cortisol and the late nights and the… paranoia?”

Martin’s still been scrolling on his phone in some juvenile show of nonchalance, but turns it off and pockets it to give Jon his full attention with a soft smile on his face. “And the company.”

Jon’s eyes widen, stunned. 

Wow. Yeah, that was… woof.

“I mean,” he says. “Uh.” God. This is awful. Jon already knows about his feelings for him, he doesn’t have to go parading them around by flirting like a chainsmoker at a bar. He laughs nervously for the second time in one minute. Poor guy, forced to contend with his unwanted advances. “Sorry.”

“No, no, it’s- um.” His voice is filled to the brim with nerves as well, but Martin is cut off from viewing his face as his head lowers and he makes eye contact with his shoes. “I’m… enjoying the company too.”

“Oh! Well. That’s.” If Martin were a braver man he would say something with substance, but he unfortunately cannot tell if that was friendly, flirtatious, or just very very uncomfortable because of Jon’s completely unreadable aura. So much for knowing how to read people. If Jon liked him it would be obvious by now, wouldn’t it? Jon is the one who has to make a move for anything to happen. He already KNOWS Martin’s thoughts on the matter. Uh. Sort of.

At least, he should. Given that Martin feels like his feelings are hanging in the air between them with big, bold, neon letters every time they so much as share a room. 

Whatever. He just resolves to be kind and let Jon do whatever he wants with the knowledge. That’s what he’s been doing, isn’t it? He smiles again, but it’s genuine this time. “I’m glad.”

To save them any more of this pitiful interaction, Martin turns and begins setting up the teas with their respective amounts of milk and sugar. The striped one for him, and the little cat one that he’s started thinking of as Jon’s. 

Jon’s presence peering over his shoulder is… obvious, to say the least.

“You know,” Jon breaks the silence sans the noise of the milk colliding with his tea, “I don’t think I ever told you my tea preference. How did you…?”

“Oh yeah, I just noticed… how much you did and didn’t drink it. Depending on what I put in.” Heat rises quickly to Martin’s cheeks at this automatic admittance. God, if he says anything else stalkerish tonight Jon is actually going to want that restraining order. Good thing his expression is buried over the mugs. 

Unfortunately, he keeps going to fill the silence. Another instance in that masochistic streak of his. “Like, when I didn’t put in any milk, it’d always still be full to the brim whenever I came to collect it. Which I think is nuts, by the way. Milk does not belong in tea. They’re two entirely different families of liquid.”

“Right. Because it’s the better course of action to suffer through the bitter aftertaste.”

Martin’s smile leaks through in his tone. “Sort of, yeah. Don’t you get sick of the milk masking the whole flavor?” He turns around and hands Jon his mug, which he has to finagle out of his hand by grabbing the same handle that Martin is touching. Martin seriously hopes and prays to god that it’s too dark in here for Jon to see the color in his face.

He’s not so sure that it is, because he can see Jon’s amused smile clear as day. “I don’t when the flavor is subpar. You know you’ve never given me anything other than this black cream tea?”

“It is the only tea flavor we have.” Martin takes a sip of his own mug.

“And maybe if we had a less bitter flavor I’d take it without milk.”

“You sure are worked up about bitterness for someone who takes his coffee black.”

“That’s for-“ Jon looks away, embarrassed, eyes narrowing in thought. “My black coffee is for… utilitarian purposes.”

Martin giggles, hopelessly charmed. “Anyone ever told you you’re a mess?”

“I’m sure they would if I had more friends.”

“Well, take it from me, then.”

Jon smiles but doesn’t say anything. Meaning that may have been a successful assertion that they ARE friend adjacent. Not to get ahead of himself. Yeah, probably not.

They stand there together, taking small sips of their respective teas, shoulders a few inches apart. Not accounting for the height difference and all that.

“Martin?” Jon begins with a very slow, very careful voice. Martin mentally cycles through every horrible thing he could possibly say in this moment at formula one speeds. You’re a terrible conversational partner. You have a crush on me. Could you please never speak to me again?

He eventually manages a strangled, “yeah?”

“Did you…” Jon halts abruptly, shifting slightly on his feet. His shoulders hike up closer to his ears in abject discomfort.

Martin’s eyebrows furrow. “…Did I what?”

“I-It’s nothing. Just… stupid.” Jon takes another longer, awkward sip. Okay.

“…You can tell me. I mean, I of all people can’t judge you for saying something… Stupid.”

The air is thick with what they both know he’s making reference to. Slowly, Jon’s head turns to him, which he only catches out of the corner of his eye since he’s staring resolutely forward at the wood of the break room table.

“Did you mean what you said?” 

He says it quickly. Like he’s trying to get the sentence over with as soon as possible.

Martin’s entire body goes into defense mode- autopilot- whatever, something happens with his autonomic nervous system that completely wipes out his ability to think. These are pure survival instincts. “Did I mean what I said.”

Jon doesn’t confirm or deny the question. He just stands there.

Great. Of course he had to bring it up when they’ve both lost their filters from the dark and the sleep deprivation. Martin tries wildly sifting through possible damage control options for plausible deniability in the span of the next two seconds, but- oh, hell, it was a stupid question and it deserves a stupid, terse answer. “Of course I meant it. Why would I say any of that and not mean it? For a laugh?”

The space is silent.

“I mean, I don’t know WHY I said it, but… I meant it.” He grows quieter and less confident as the explanation goes on. 

Jon’s overall volume still rivals that of an inanimate object. Screw this, it’s starting to piss Martin off. Why did he even ask if he already knew the answer and wasn’t going to say anything of substance to the reconfirmation? For the sake of humiliation?

He’s careful to keep his tone mild despite the broiling negative emotions. “Is that all you wanted to know? If I ‘meant it’? You have nothing else to say?”

“No! No, no, I mean, I just- I just wanted confirmation. That’s all.”

Christ. “Great. Enjoy your confirmation.” This is clearly too fresh a wound on him to be prodded. Martin pushes himself off the counter, tea steaming in its mug, and is about to take the first step away when Jon grabs him by the wrist.

“Wait! Wait. Uh.”

Dutifully, he turns. This situation does not change the unfortunate fact that he’d do anything Jon asks of him.

He is stared at with wide and imploring eyes. “I-I’m sorry. I’m not good at this. In fact, I’m actually… rather bad at it. Um.” The hand in a death grip around his wrist grows clammier. Martin glances down at it once, sort of terrified.

“Jon, I know, it’s- it’s okay. We don’t have to talk about it. I understand.”

“That’s- urgh-“ Jon swivels lightly to place his mug down on the counter behind them and turns to face Martin once more, something desperate in his eyes. His now free hand joins the other on Martin’s arm. “That’s not what I meant. I don’t… I don’t want to… not talk about it.”

Martin almost laughs sardonically. This urge sort of comes through in his tone when he responds. Though it’s mostly hysterical. “You? Want to talk about feelings? All of a sudden?”

“Yes, yes, I know, I’m- I’m an enigma. I don’t know myself. I know myself least of everyone. You probably know me better than I do.” His gaze drifts to the tea in Martin’s hand. “But I do know I… want to talk about it. I can’t… I try to get work done, and… I just start thinking about you. And your… feelings. For me. And I tell myself I’m feeling just- discomfort, or conflict, or confusion, but…“

His and Martin’s eyes meet, finally, which may very well be the cause of the palm sweat. “I’ve realized that I’m… not. I… can’t stop thinking about how much I want to… ask you about it. And I’ve been reading your poetry. And I-I realized I began to miss getting lunch with you and having you ask me to go home earlier-“

Jon’s cuts himself off mid sentence. He lets go of his death grip on Martin’s wrist, suddenly, and backs away with his hands in the air like he’s been burned. “Right. I didn’t… I didn’t mean to, um. Grab you like that. And… say all of that.”

“Clearly,” Martin says, completely and utterly shell shocked. He thinks he’s been staring at Jon with his lips parted like a dope for the past minute. He tries to form another thought, but to no avail. 

Turns out his entire conscious brain has checked out of this conversation, which is bad, because it seems like one he needs his conscious brain for. His subconscious brain isn’t faring very well either. It appears to be devoting most of its energy to making sure he doesn’t drop his mug of boiling liquid on the floor. The absolute significance of this interaction- it doesn’t feel real. The walls should be coming apart and the ground should be rumbling beneath their feet.

Thankfully, Jon hijacks control of the encounter again. “You have to understand, Martin, I didn’t… I’m trying to remain focused on what’s going on around here- I mean, you’ve seen me. I’m still convinced Gertrude’s murderer is just, still out there, also plotting my murder, and-“ the bags under his eyes are suddenly more prominent with this topic in the limelight. “You can’t understand what that does to a person. Not being able to know for certain who around you wants to kill you.”

Martin’s eyebrows furrow in genuine sympathy. He can’t get a word in before Jon is continuing.

“But you… I asked you why you were so kind to me, and I don’t know why, but. I Knew your answer was the truth. There wasn’t a doubt in my mind. I… trusted you. Completely.”

These words sink in quickly and without mercy. 

Something in Martin heals itself. How long has he waited to hear that? It’s been a sort of pipe dream for what feels like eons, now.

“And it scares me,” he almost whispers, taking as large a step forward as he possibly can without touching Martin. “To trust someone so thoroughly. But since then I’ve never felt so safe down here as when you’re with me. It’s like I can finally breathe around you. Like… the paranoia is suddenly unfounded.”

“Because… you’ve finally gotten it through your head that I’m on your side?” And there’s the joy setting in.

Jon flinches at Martin speaking. Granted, it has been a very long time since that happened. This conversation has been a bit of a one man show.

“I’m-“ Jon looks off to the side, his mouth floundering with nerves. “Yes. I didn’t mean to… go on for so long. I haven’t- I haven’t wanted to say anything because it’s hardly ever the right time for it in this,” he chuckles sardonically, “in this environment. Um. But. I could hardly keep… ignoring you. This. What with you having… told me. To my face.”

“Jon,” Martin begins besottedly. He’s not sure where he’s going with this.

Jon looks up, paying Martin that same full attention he‘s so loyally given him these past few weeks. His eyes are bright in the dim light. “Yes?”

“I’m,” he says. “What do you mean you’re not good at this? That was… well, I wasn’t expecting a soliloquy.”

“Ah.” Jon’s hands find each other again, and begin their signature twisting and turning and wringing. A nervous chuckle escapes from him. “I-I mean, I just sort of… I say what I… I’m glad you found it, um, satisfactory.”

“More than satisfactory,” he says, unable to stop grinning like a fool. “You’re… you’re better with words than I am.”

“Oh, shut up,” he mutters with an unmistakable fondness.

Martin feels like the interaction should probably be going somewhere different from here. His hysterical grip on his mug tightens. “Um- to clarify- you… uh… what does that… mean, exactly?”

“Well-“ Jon stutters, one hand making a beeline to fiddle with the collar of his sweater vest. “Well. I suppose… I feel… similarly. To the way you do.”

“Similarly.”

“Yes.”

“To… how I feel.”

“…Yes.”

Some buried instinct in Martin causes him to roll his eyes with a wide smile on his face. “Okay, Jon, just- just answer me this. Do you want me to kiss you?”

Jon’s lack of eye contact ends at Mach speed. His mouth opens and closes. “Ah. Y-Yes.”

Gently and with a feeling like he’s above the clouds, Martin sets his mug down on the table behind him. To confirm, again, to make sure the mold down here isn’t causing him to hallucinate: “Yes?”

It appears Jon’s patience is running thin. “Yes, already, yes, how many times are you going to make me-“

Martin can’t do anything but rush forward, grab his face, and kiss him.

At some point his arms travel around Jon’s waist and pull him closer so that they’re pressed together chest-to-chest, which is something he’s thought about doing since the moment he laid eyes on him. Though in that initial fantasy he didn’t do it with quite as much… affection. It turns out daydreams really do not compare to the real thing. 

Jon’s calloused fingers find his cheeks and drift slowly, gently down them, as if to reflect the fragility of the moment. He smells homely- like smoke and paper. Their lips open and close on each other again, and- and then their glasses clink together as they pull apart.

Jon’s face removes itself from his, eyes wide and mouth shining. “Uh.”

“Uh yourself,” Martin says nonsensically.

“Was that… alright?”

“That,” he proclaims, “is the only thing I want to do for the rest of my life.”

“Ah. Well.” 

“Great job. Ten out of ten.” Somebody stop him before he says more awful embarrassing things. His conscious brain needs to come back from its paid vacation right now.

Luckily, instead of pulling away and running for the hills as he should, Jon sees fit to roll his eyes fondly and rest his forehead on Martin’s shoulder in a motion so boneless it seems like relief. His thin arms travel around his shoulders and interlock behind his back. “Thank you. I give you… a similar performance review.”

Martin tries not to make the shiver that results from these words being spoken lowly and directly into his general ear area too obvious. “Oh, yeah. You are. Still my boss, aren’t you?”

“Hm. I suppose I am, huh.” He pulls back slowly. Martin mourns his absence. “Do you think Elias would-“

“Nope, nope, do not want to think about Elias right now.”

Jon blinks at him, the corner of his mouth ticking in a smile. “You know what, I agree.”

“Would you also agree to. More kissing, maybe? If you wouldn’t, that’s totally fine, I just-“

“Yes- however-“ Jon’s hand- Christ, his fingers are so long and nimble- snakes between them to rest lightly on Martin’s chest- Christ in heaven. “As long as there’s an understanding that, um. Hm. That it won’t. Lead to anything.”

Uh. What? Like, a relationship? Is this the kissing equivalent of a one night stand? Martin did not think Jon was the type. Oh, Christ, is this going to be an actual one night stand? That is not happening. That is absolutely not happening. Jon seems even less the type. Martin’s not even sure he wants it to happen. He’d probably catch flames in sheer mortification before they got anywhere significant. What’s the word for friends with benefits except the benefits are just that you kiss sometimes and have feelings for each other? Is that what Jon wants?

He tries and definitely fails to conceal his fact that his heart is sinking very quickly at this update. “Uh. Like. A… relationship? I mean, I-I didn’t want to pressure you into anything, but I don’t really know if-“

“No, I meant-“ Jon pulls back in one jerky motion, glasses askew, and looks very embarrassed. “No, no, that’s- the relationship I’m fine with. The… I meant… lead to anything sexual.”

Oh. Fears assuaged!

“That’s-“ Martin almost laughs at the absurdity of this notion. Yeah, because he was going to try for something here and now, in the least appropriate setting known to man. “That’s an entirely different ballpark. I didn’t plan on it, no.”

“Right. Just… know I’m finicky about… such things.” He breaks eye contact with what looks to be a hint of shame. Or… fear? Hesitation?

Good thing such fears are completely unfounded. After tonight, Martin thinks he probably would not even be willing to speak to Jon without express permission. The last thing he wants to do right now is push for anything. Jon could keep him celibate for the rest of his life and he would not complain one bit. “Right. Got it. That’s- fine by me.”

“Good,” Jon says lowly and with a sincere happiness, before leaning in once more.

They kiss again. And again, and again. At some point Martin has to pause and take his glasses off before setting them down on the table behind him, because the clanking is really starting to piss him off. Jon has an amused smile on his face when Martin gets back to it.

The kisses never really become any deeper, but there’s a clear sense of affection present in every single one of them that makes him want to drop to his knees and start thanking God for whatever he’s done to deserve this.

Nearing the end of the session and in what may very well be a fugue state, Martin forgets himself and says a “thank you” out loud. Though it’s not directed to any God. Jon’s resulting laugh vibrates against his lips. He pulls back with an incredulous grin on his face.

“For what? Berating you for months and then one day stopping in favor of this?”

“Um. Well.” Somehow more heat rushes to Martin’s cheeks, which is impressive, because he was sure they were already at max. He feels thoroughly debauched right now. The good news is that Jon doesn’t appear to be faring any better. “Sort of?”

Jon’s expression softens considerably. “That’s… rather sad. I could thank you for a whole lot more than that.” He leans in for another small peck on the high cheekbone.

Wow. “Wow,” Martin mutters once their faces are apart again. “Um. Like what?”

Jon’s eyebrow rises like the answer is obvious or something. “Like being my only source of companionship? Never giving up on me? Defending me? Taking care of me? Against all logic and reason, might I add.”

“And I could thank you for being the only person to ever appreciate me doing all of that for them.”

He doesn’t realize how true this is until he says it out loud. Jon blinks at him with what looks to be a healthy mix of shock and pity. “Really?”

Martin shrugs with a quirked lip. “Really.” He would feel sadder about this fact under any other circumstance, but he’s not sure he’s actually capable of experiencing the emotion of sadness right now.

This enthusiasm seems to spread to Jon, whose face eventually splits in an appreciative smile. “Well then. I’m glad I could be the first.”