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Martin tries hard to keep the grin off his face as he bounces down the stairs towards the Archives. This kind of cheeriness feels utterly inappropriate - not just because it’s a Monday morning, but especially after all the revelations of the last few months. He really shouldn’t be happy to be here in his miserable workplace that he can’t quit. And yet, he can’t help the excitement coursing through his veins.
He barges from the corridor into the office space. “Good morning,” he announces, his voice a pitch higher than usual. Basira looks up from the papers scattered across her desk, giving him an irritated look. Martin pays her no mind. Instead he quickly crosses the space towards Jon’s office and-
Abruptly, Martin comes to a stop. Jon’s office door has a little window set into it. Behind it, the room is dark. It’s not an unfamiliar sight, not after the last few months, but today of all days it was supposed to be different.
“Um. W-where’s Jon?” he asks, his voice faint.
“Not here,” Basira says. When Martin turns to her, she hasn’t even looked up from the papers. A burst of irritation rises in Martin’s throat, but he quickly swallows it down.
“Did- did he call, or…?”
At that, Basira finally looks up. “You know that he hasn’t been here in weeks.”
“Yeah, but-” Martin cuts himself off with a wince. Somehow, saying “but he said ‘see you on Monday’ in that soft voice of his when we last spoke on the phone two days ago” feels too much like baring his soul. He quickly shakes his head. “You know what, forget it.”
With that, he flees to the break room. He switches on the kettle, trying and failing not to fidget. With a grimace, he pulls out his phone and checks the screen. No calls, no messages. Not unusual for him, really, right until he and Jon started talking daily on the phone while Jon was in America. The only break in that pattern happened because Jon had been kidnapped, again.
Before Martin knows what he’s doing, he’s calling Jon’s number. It goes straight to voicemail. Martin’s heart sinks. With shaking hands he looks up Jon’s flight information. Maybe the flight was delayed. Or had to do an emergency stop in… well, Martin isn’t sure where a plane would do an emergency stop while crossing the Atlantic. Iceland, maybe?
But there it is, in small mocking letters on his screen: Jon’s plane landed right on time in Heathrow yesterday evening.
Just like that, Martin’s head swims with panic. He barely registers the roar of the boiling kettle in the background. Without any more hesitation, he rushes out of the breakroom and back towards the stairs.
Basira still doesn’t look at him.
Ten minutes later Martin is on the tube, panting for air. His ribs are still stinging after he ran all the way to the station, but it barely matters as long as he’s speeding towards Jon’s flat.
He’s only been there once, not too long ago, to help Jon home after he came back from the Circus. He’d been so scared, back then. Martin’s breath catches in his throat at the thought that the same thing might have happened again. Tears well in his eyes, but he quickly blinks them away.
The twenty minute trip to Jon’s place feels like an eternity. But finally Martin is there, standing in front of a wooden door in a nice but unassuming block of flats. With his heart in his throat, Martin knocks.
Nothing happens. There's only silence on the other side of the door. He knocks again, but gets the same response. And then he’s pounding on the door, shouting Jon’s name in his growing desperation.
Finally, the door swings open.
Jon glares at him. Or he tries to, at any rate. The effect is lost in the grimace of pain that is contorting his features.
Jon looks terrible. His face is ashen, the bags beneath his eyes even more pronounced than usual. His hair is a mess sticking up in all directions.
He’s still the most beautiful thing Martin has ever seen.
“Oh,” Martin breathes out. The wave of relief that Jon is here and not kidnapped by some kind of monster once again nearly knocks him off his feet.
Jon squints at him, and finally his face softens a little. “Martin?” he asks quietly, his voice hoarse from sleep.
“Hi, Jon.”
“What are you doing here?”
“I- I came into work this morning and you weren’t there and I just- I panicked, a little.” Martin winces, suddenly feeling very foolish. “Sorry. Are you alright?”
Jon groans, rubbing the space between his eyes with his thumb. “Migraine,” he hisses through clenched teeth, squeezing his eyes shut. The bright fluorescent lights of the hallway must be awful for the pain, Martin realises with a pang of guilt.
“God, I’m so sorry Jon. I woke you up, didn’t I? I just- I couldn’t reach your phone and I thought something had happened but I just- I’ll leave and let you get some rest.”
Jon quickly looks up at that. He darts forward, catching Martin’s hand in his. “No, it’s… it’s alright.” His voice softens to barely a whisper. “It’s very good to see you, Martin.”
Martin’s throat suddenly feels tight with emotion. He still isn’t used to Jon sounding so utterly affectionate. He never knows what to do with it. “It’s good to see you too,” he whispers, giving Jon’s hand a squeeze. “I missed you.”
Jon’s lips curl into a smile, despite the pain still shining in his eyes. He gently tugs Martin closer.
Martin could never resist his pull. He steps close, reaching out to cup Jon’s face. Gently, he brushes a thumb over his cheek. Jon leans into his touch, eyes fluttering closed, and Martin thinks that maybe this is it. This is the moment they have been orbiting for weeks now, the one where their feelings will finally be spelled out and-
All of a sudden, Jon wrenches his eyes open. The last bit of colour drains from his face. Before Martin can say anything Jon turns on his heels and darts toward the bathroom. He slams the door behind him, but Martin can still hear the unmistakable sound of retching a few moments later.
Martin winces, and silently curses himself for being so utterly foolish. As if this is the right time for his stupid emotions.
For just a moment he hesitates, and then he enters Jon’s flat and closes the door behind him. There’s only silence coming from the other side of the bathroom door now. Gently, Martin knocks on the wood. “Is everything okay?”
“Give me a moment,” Jon calls out, his voice hoarse. Martin lets out a long breath and moves toward the living room to wait.
Five minutes later Jon emerges, looking utterly miserable. “I’m sorry,” he croaks, hovering in the doorway. He sways on his feet.
Martin jumps up from the sofa and rushes to his side. “Don’t apologise. I’m sorry.” He hesitates for just a second, unsure if his touch would be welcome, but Jon looks like he’s two seconds from keeling over. Martin wraps an arm around his waist to steady him, relieved when Jon immediately burrows closer into his side, and gently steers him to where he suspects the bedroom to be. “Let’s get you back to bed, okay?”
Jon nods quietly, and lets Martin steer him down the hallway without any resistance.
In the bedroom heavy curtains are drawn across the windows, letting just a slither of light into the room. It’s enough for Martin to make out the unmade bed, numerous bookshelves, and the bucket conveniently placed next to the bedside table. Martin winces in sympathy.
Jon groans as he collapses back onto the bed. He immediately buries his face in the pillow. Martin hesitates for a moment before sitting on the edge of the bed. “D-do you need anything?”
Jon shakes his head. “Just sleep,” he mumbles.
“Are you sure? Do you need more medicine or anything?”
“I-I haven’t taken any.”
“Jon.”
Jon opens one eye in an attempt to glare at him. “I ran out a while ago, and with everything going on getting a renewal for my prescription wasn’t high on my priority list,” he snipes. “I got it renewed earlier this month, I just haven’t had time to pick it up at the pharmacy before leaving for America.”
“Oh. I- I’m sorry Jon.” Martin lets out a long breath. Of course Jon wouldn’t go to the doctor while he’s on the run from the police, or chased by other monsters. “It’s awful that you have to deal with all this on top of everything else.”
“It’s fine, Martin,” Jon says, in a voice that sounds very much not fine. “I really just need to sleep. It usually helps settle my stomach, at the very least. Enough to get some ibuprofen down.”
“Okay. You do that, then.”
Jon nods and closes his eyes, burrowing deeper under the blanket. Before Martin can get up and leave, he opens one eye again. “Will you be here when I wake up?” he asks, soft and quiet and hopeful, and Martin’s heart nearly leaps out of his chest, overflowing with affection.
“D-do you want me to?” he asks, equally quietly, as if a raised voice might burst the bubble around them.
“Yes. I would like that very much.”
“Okay,” Martin says, but he isn’t sure if Jon is still registering his answer. His eyes slip closed, his breathing growing slow and steady. The cease of pain between his brows smoothens, just a little. Martin watches him for a long moment, entranced by how soft Jon looks in sleep, despite the bags beneath his eyes and the scars littering his skin.
He finally pulls himself away and tiptoes out of Jon’s room. He leaves the door ajar and makes his way to the kitchen, suddenly restless. There’s got to be more he can do to help than just making sure he’s there when Jon wakes up.
First he finds Jon’s phone, the battery long dead, and plugs it in to charge. Next he finds Jon’s still unpacked suitcase, and starts a load of laundry. Then he checks the fridge and cupboards for something Jon could eat when he feels better, and quickly comes to the conclusion that Jon apparently also didn’t have time to pick up groceries before his flight.
Martin hesitates, biting his lip, but finally grabs Jon’s keys from the bowl in the hallway and quietly slips out of the flat. He’ll just have to be quick.
When Martin makes it back to Jon’s flat, he’s greeted by nothing but silence. He drops his grocery bags on the kitchen table, and sneaks towards Jon’s bedroom.
It doesn’t look like Jon has moved at all in the forty minutes or so it took Martin to scour the shops. Martin can’t help but let out a breath of relief. Jon needs all the rest he can get, and after he’d asked him to be there later, Martin really didn’t want him to wake up to an empty flat.
Satisfied with that, he goes to put away the groceries, takes a long time to poke through Jon’s bookshelves in the living room, and finally settles on the couch with a copy of Emma that looks barely read. He passes about an hour like this until Jon’s thin voice is coming from the bedroom.
“Martin?” he asks, sounding confused and disoriented, and Martin jumps up so quickly he nearly gets dizzy.
“Yeah. I’m here,” he says breathlessly as he barges into the bedroom.
Jon is sitting up in bed, his hair an even worse mess than before. There’s a little bit more colour in his cheeks, at the very least. He visibly relaxes, shoulders slumping in relief, when he spots Martin in the doorway.
“Oh,” he says quietly. “I- for a moment I thought I dreamed that you were here.”
“Nope,” Martin says, his throat tight at how vulnerable Jon sounds. “I’m here.” He quickly crosses the room to sit on the edge of the bed. “How are you feeling?”
Jon rubs his eyes, considering for a while. “Better,” he finally says, albeit with a grimace. “Except for the pain. I’m not as nauseous, at least.”
“Okay. That’s good. Do you want to try some food?”
“I- I’m afraid I don’t have anything in.”
“I just went shopping.”
“Really?”
“Yep. And picked up your prescription, if you want to take it now. Although the package says it might be hard on the stomach, so I really think you should try to eat something first.”
“How- how did you even…” Jon trails off, gobsmacked. Martin flushes, heat rising in his cheeks.
“I- um, I found the paper slip from your doctor in the kitchen and took it to the pharmacy. Told them a lie that you’re my boyfriend and just forgot to call ahead that I would pick it up. Sorry. I don’t- maybe I should have asked first-”
Jon huffs out a laugh, interrupting Martin’s stream of apologies. He slumps forward, resting his head on Martin’s shoulder. “You’re a saint. I’ll take some in a moment, but I’m afraid you’re right about the food first.”
“O-okay,” Martin manages to stammer, dizzy with the sudden closeness. He just barely resists the urge to press a kiss into Jon’s unruly hair. “What would you like? I’ve got some saltines. Or oatmeal. Or toast, maybe?”
Jon hums, considering. “Toast sounds good. With a bit of butter.”
“Sure. Be right back.” Martin carefully extricates himself. Jon blinks his eyes open at the sudden movement, looking thoroughly affronted at being jostled for just a second before he slumps back into the pillows with a pitiful groan.
In the kitchen, Martin quickly prepares tea and toast for both of them before carefully carrying it all back into the bedroom.
Jon’s eyes are closed as he enters, but he rouses again when Martin sets the tray on the nightstand and, in a moment of unprecedented boldness, climbs into bed with Jon. He sits with his back against the headboard, heart pounding. But once again, Jon doesn't seem to mind the closeness. He sits up as well, so close that their shoulders are touching. He rubs his eyes and lets out a huff.
“I'm- not entirely sure if I can keep anything down,” he admits, voice faint.
“That’s okay. Do you still want to try?”
Jon grimaces. “I probably should.”
“Just go slow. And I made ginger tea that hopefully helps a little.”
Jon nods as he takes the steaming mug from Martin. He brings it to his lips and takes a careful sip. For a moment he hesitates, wrinkling his nose, before his features smooth out and he takes a larger gulp.
“Good?”
“I’m not very partial to the taste,” Jon admits, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “But otherwise it’s fine.”
“Well, it’s supposed to make you feel better. Doesn’t all medicine taste bad?”
“Probably.” Jon takes another sip and rests the mug on the nightstand. Martin hands him a plate of buttered toast, already cut into small pieces. Although he takes it without protest Jon hesitates, staring down at it for so long that Martin begins to fidget and quickly checks that the bucket is still placed next to the bed, just in case.
“You don’t have to eat it if you don’t feel like it,” he rushes to say.
Jon shakes his head. “It’s- it’s not that,” he admits quietly. “I just… I don’t remember the last time someone took care of me like this.”
“Oh.” Jon’s voice sounds so small, so fragile. For a moment Martin feels like he can’t breathe, like the swell of emotion rising in his chest doesn’t leave enough space for the air in his lungs. “I- I’m sorry, Jon,” he finally says, a waver in his voice.
Jon lets out a shuddering breath, leaning closer into Martin’s side. “It’s just… well. Growing up my grandmother’s bedside manner left much to be desired, and it’s- it’s been so long since I had someone like Georgie.”
Martin wraps an arm around Jon’s shoulders, holding him close. He finally gives in to the temptation and drops a kiss to the crown of his head. “I’m glad I can do this for you now. You deserve this.”
“Thank you, Martin.”
“Of course. Now, you should really try to eat some of it.”
Jon lets out a hoarse laugh. “Yes, yes. I will.” He sits up a little, but doesn’t move out of Martin’s embrace. Martin gulps, and leaves his arm right where it is draped across Jon’s shoulders. Gingerly, Jon picks up a piece of toast and pops it into his mouth. He chews slowly, and to Martin’s immense relief he immediately reaches for the next one after swallowing.
They eat in comfortable silence for a moment. Jon makes it through half the mug of tea and an entire slice of toast before he starts flagging. When Martin offers him more toast, he quickly shakes his head. “No. I- I think that’s enough for now,” he says with a grimace.
“Okay.” Martin takes the plate from him, and watches with growing concern how Jon sinks back into the pillows, looking exhausted. “Do you want to take some of your medicine now?”
Jon just nods, and Martin quickly fetches him a glass of water and the bottle of pills from the kitchen. Jon immediately pops two pills into his mouth and flushes them down with a gulp of water.
“These usually take me out for a couple more hours,” he mumbles as he lies back down. His face is once again a grimace of pain, and Martin’s heart squeezes in his chest.
“Okay. Just get some rest, Jon.”
Martin starts to stand, but with surprising dexterity Jon reaches out and catches his wrist. He looks up at Martin, eyes wide and pleading. “Will you stay?”
“Of course. I told you I would, didn’t I?”
“No, I mean- will you stay? Here?” Jon tugs at his wrist, making his meaning clear even though every coherent thought scatters from Martin’s brain. He feels breathless, all of a sudden.
“Y-yeah,” he finally manages to get out. “If- if you want me to.”
When Jon tugs at his hand one more time, Martin immediately yields. As if he could ever resist when Jon is looking at him like that. He climbs into bed with him, lying down before taking Jon into his arms. Jon lets out a content sigh and burrows closer, until they’re pressed close from head to toe. He tucks his head beneath Martin’s chin, and after a little more wriggling to get comfortable, goes utterly still.
While Jon is out like a light, it takes Martin a long moment to calm his racing heart. This is all he had wanted for such a long time, and yet he can’t bring himself to fully enjoy it. He shouldn’t enjoy this; not when Jon is doing this just because he’s sick and needs some comfort.
Martin lets out a long sigh. Despite the guilt churning in his stomach, this is simply nice. It’s nice to hold Jon while he sleeps, to feel his warmth in his arms and the tickle of his breath against his neck. To offer that comfort he seeks.
At last, Martin closes his eyes and slowly relaxes. He might as well enjoy this while it lasts.
Martin isn’t sure what wakes him. A noise maybe, a movement, or the sudden lack of a warm body in his arms. He only knows that he wakes to an empty bed, confused and disoriented. It takes him a moment to remember where he is, and when he does, the spike of concern he feels over Jon’s sudden absence immediately dissipates his remaining grogginess. He sits up with a gasp, reaching out to the space next to him where Jon ought to be.
The sheets are still warm, so at the very least Jon can’t have been gone for long. Martin fumbles for his phone on the nightstand to check the time, but before he can get it into his hands the door clicks open and Jon quietly slips back into the room. He stills when he sees Martin awake, hovering in the doorway, and Martin freezes in return.
He can’t help but stare, taking in every little detail. Jon still looks exhausted, but otherwise much better. There’s some colour in his cheeks. His eyes are soft, without any trace of the previous pain and tension. He even tamed his unruly hair into a messy bun. Martin’s only concern is that Jon looks terribly unsure for a long moment, but even that dissipates as Jon’s lips split into a gentle smile. Whatever it is that he sees on Martin’s face, it spurs him back into motion, and moments later Jon climbs back into bed with him.
“Is- is this okay?” Jon asks, quiet and hopeful and-
Oh.
Maybe all of this wasn’t just because Jon was sick.
“Y-yeah,” Martin chokes, heart dancing in his chest as Jon once again curls close to him. He pulls him back into his arms, delighting at the content sound Jon makes. “How are you feeling?”
“Much better,” Jon murmurs. “Thanks to you.”
“Oh. I’m- I’m really glad, Jon.” Martin lets out a breath of relief, and boldly strokes a hand up and down Jon’s back. “How long were we asleep?”
“A couple of hours, I think? I’m not entirely sure when we fell asleep. I was pretty out of it.”
“Right.” Martin stills for a second, uncertainty creeping back into his thoughts. “You- you’re not still…?”
Jon pulls back a little, frowning at Martin. “What are you- oh.” His expression softens, and he lets out something between a huff and a laugh. “No, Martin. I’m perfectly lucid this time. I- I want this, I promise.”
“Oh.” Martin’s breath catches in his throat. “Okay.”
Jon smiles, and looks at him with such a fondness that Martin isn’t sure if his poor heart can take it. With bated breath he watches as Jon reaches out to cup his cheek and runs his thumb across his cheek.
“Can I kiss you?” Jon asks softly.
Martin doesn’t have the breath for a reply, or words for how much he wants this. He simply nods, hoping that Jon understands his dumbfounded silence as the enthusiastic consent that it is. If Jon’s grin is anything to go by, he knows exactly how thoroughly he just short-circuited Martin’s brain.
“Breathe, Martin” Jon whispers, voice dancing in amusement, and then his lips are on Martin’s and there’s simply no room for the nervous energy in his chest.
There’s only Jon, the softness of his lips, the gentleness of his touch, and the bright euphoria of being thoroughly kissed.
When Jon pulls away, Martin notices something else in the sweetness of that kiss. Something that tastes a lot like peppermint. He narrows his eyes at Jon, suddenly painfully aware that his mouth tastes terrible after the prolonged nap. “Did you brush your teeth?” Martin blurts out before he can think better of it.
Jon laughs. “I did throw up earlier.”
“Oh, you planned this, then?”
Jon grins, his thumb once again caressing Martin’s cheek. “I had an inkling that you might be amenable if I asked.”
“I am,” Martin bursts out. “Very, very amenable. Sorry that was- that was rude of me, wasn’t it? I should have led with that. It was very nice kissing you, Jon.”
“Good.” Jon’s face softens. “I was hoping you might want to do it again.”
“Y-yeah. Of course.” Martin smiles, unable to keep the sheer joy coursing through him off his face, and leans closer one more time.
Jon’s lips meet him in the middle, and just like that they’re kissing again. Jon lets out a breathy noise of pleasure against Martin’s lips that makes his heart race, and Martin pulls him closer, suddenly unable to stand the remaining distance between them.
By the time they break apart they’re both breathless, but still reluctant to let each other go. Jon stays close, arms wrapped around Martin’s neck while Martin’s hands rest on his waist, and rests his forehead against Martin’s. For a long moment they simply relish the closeness, but finally Jon pipes up again.
“I- I didn’t plan to do this,” he admits quietly, with a hint of a waver in his voice. “Not with the Unknowing coming up soon. But then you were here today and you made it so much better and I just-” He lets out a shuddering breath, eyes firmly pressed close. “I just want to be selfish, I suppose. I want you to make everything else better as well.”
Martin gulps hard, tightening his grip on Jon. “There’s nothing selfish about wanting some comfort,” he says.
“It’s- it’s more than that though, Martin.” Reluctantly Jon pulls away, enough to see Martin’s face. “I need you to know that. If- if all this would suddenly disappear tomorrow, I would still want this. I would still want you.”
“I know,” Martin says quietly, and somehow, despite his earlier insecurity, he does. Jon used to be so reversed, keeping his emotions close to his chest, but by now he’s wearing his heart on his sleeve. There’s no mistaking the affection shining bright in his eyes. “I feel the same.”
Jon lets out a long breath. “So what… um, w-what do we do now?” he asks, suddenly unsure.
Martin gulps, his throat tight. There’s a crease of concern between Jon’s brows, and Martin cannot stand it. He leans down one more time, kissing Jon slowly and thoroughly until he goes lax against him. “We do what we have to do,” Martin says quietly when they pull apart. Jon blinks up at him, looking a little dazed. “We deal with the Unknowing and Elias and- and whatever comes next. Together.”
Jon hesitates for a long moment, but finally he nods. “Y-yes,” he manages to get out, smiling a little. I- I’d like that.”
He curls back into Martin’s embrace, tucking his head beneath Martin’s chin, and Martin gladly holds him close.
And he hopes, desperately, that facing it all together will be enough.