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Staying with Martin has its perks.
Comfortable blankets and tea that is actually brewed and not poorly microwaved are luxuries that Jon simply doesn't afford himself on a regular basis. He isn't used to the homely feeling offered here, nor Martin's surprisingly pleasant company.
He hadn't intended to stay the night with his assistant, of course. It just sort of happened. His knee had given out again after a few too many unsuccessful attempts of stubbornly descending the archival staircase without the aid of his cane. Martin absolutely insisted that they rest at his flat, so here Jon is now. Half-asleep on the most comfortable couch he's felt in months.
Which isn't saying much, since it's a couch. But it's better than whatever that itchy monstrosity that Elias keeps in the break room is.
In any other situation, he'd leave and drag himself home if he had to—or, more likely, he'd drag himself back to the institute. But Martin was keeping a careful and persistent watch on him. And it wasn't like he could walk very well, anyway.
Martin watching Jon was really nothing new. Sure, Jon was a bit of a prick at times—most times, really. But something about him was just alluring to Martin. He wasn't in love with The Archivist or anything, definitely not. He was just a bit... pretty.
That isn't the point! The point is, Martin is used to looking at Jon. And he certainly isn’t going to take his eyes off him now, not as Jon makes a groggy, half-assembled escape plan.
"You know," Martin pipes up, a bit warily as usual, "you aren't exactly doing a great job in proving that I can trust you to deal with your own injury."
"I'm fine," Jon snaps. "...Hardly an injury. I don't even need the bloody cane. It slows me down."
Martin can't help but scoff softly. Slows him down? The cane had been a great improvement in Jon's mobility these past few weeks. Martin had seen it. Jon is always stubborn, but this? This is just blatant denial. A rejection of what Jon perceives to be a symbol of his weakness.
The small cuckoo clock hanging above Martin's living-room bookshelf chirps as the clock strikes 10pm. A bit too late to have a proper discussion about his boss' self-depricating behavior in regards to his cane.
"You should get some rest," Martin speaks up softly after a few moments of the clock chime echoing down the hall. He rises from his seat on the burnt auburn couch and turns down his stereo, which has been softly playing a muffled rendition of classical jazz.
Jon scoffs harshly, glaring up at Martin from his spot on the couch. He ignores the painful protest in his knee as he shifts, denying his obvious need for sleep. "I'm perfectly fine, Martin. I assure you, I can handle being awake past Ten PM. I won't fall apart."
Jon hates feeling weak, hates being told what to do, and hates Martin. He does... still hate Martin, right?
He shakes his head. No. No time to consider that. No time for much of anything. It's ridiculous at best, and it'd be a disaster at worse. He doesn't do feelings, certainly not for his assistants. Especially not bumbling incompetents who can barely unlock a filing cabinet without losing stock of half their inventory.
"I am fine. My knee is hurt, but that doesn't mean I need to be directed to bed like a child," Jon mutters irritably under his breath, as he often does.
A brief look of hurt crosses Martin's face at the rejection, but he covers it up with a polite and practiced smile. "Alright, well..." he pauses, glancing around his flat for anything that may make Jon feel even the slightest bit better, "I could... brew some tea? Earl gray, if you'd like?"
Jon considers rejecting this offer, but his caffeine addiction wins out almost immediately. He nods sharply, once, before clasping his scarred hands in his lap and glaring down at them as though they'd somehow betrayed him.
It's a good sign, Martin thinks, that Jon didn't completely reject his offer. Martin runs his hand through his hair, which is currently a mess of curls from the anxiously repeated motion. "I will... get on that, then," is all he says, before turning the corner into his kitchen and filling up the kettle.
Two feelings begin to stir uncomfortably in Jon's stomach. Guilt is the first. He recognizes it easily, as it comes to him a bit too frequently for his liking. The other is harder to identify. It almost feels like fondness. Affection, maybe? It's been so long since he's felt affection, he couldn't tell. When was the last time he felt this way, he wonders? He vaguely recalls his Junior year in Oxford, the brief time spent with Georgie... and the subsequent falling out. What a mistake.
He swallows, pushing back a graying curl a bit too harshly against his scalp, pulling the hair a bit as his calloused fingers pass through it. It isn't long before he's pulled out of his own spiralling thoughts by Martin softly announcing that tea is ready, as cheerful as ever.
"Here!" Martin grins softly, handing Jon a mug with cartoon snails painted on the rim. "It has snails," he comments, before rambling for a moment about the pottery and painting class he apparently took last February—Jon quickly cuts him off.
"Why would I care that it has snails?" Jon grumbles, irritated.
Martin pauses for several moments, before breaking out into too-loud nervous laughter, at a pitch higher than his usual voice. "I-I suppose you wouldn't," he stutters out, blushing a deep shade of pink.
Jon looks away. "For God's sake, Martin. I am trying to drink tea, not hear about your useless crafting." Jon's gaze rests on the soft pink tinge that is so often present on Martin's cheeks. This is new. He would normally be more annoyed by Martin's incessant rambling, but his annoyance feels misplaced tonight. Forced.
Jon sighs, before softening his glare slightly and bringing the cup up to his lips. The tea is honestly delicious, it is good tea, but he'll be damned if he compliments Martin Blackwood. He drinks the tea, a bit too quickly to effectively convince Martin that he 'doesn't like it'.
He hopes the warmth growing in his chest can be attributed to the drink, and not any misplaced sense of affection. He is far too busy for such frivolous emotions, and he can't risk getting caught up with such a useless assistant. Even if he is kind, with knack for making a flavorful Earl gray.
Martin lets out a tiny smile that he can't hold back as he sees Jon eagerly drink the tea. In a moment of rare boldness, he sits on the same couch as Jon. Next to him.
Jon looks up and over at Martin in surprise and... maybe confusion. Though, he doesn't seem as angry as Martin expected him to be. They silently sit as Jon drinks.
Martin's heart races like a rabbit as he realizes what he's done. Oh, god, he's sitting next to Jonathan Sims. His boss, and the object of his hopelessly misplaced affection.
Jon's expression remains unreadable as ever, but his mind is a mess. He isn't used to spending this much time around Martin—at least, not without an argument ensuing. He can smell hints of the herbal soap that Martin always uses, along with... cologne? The cologne is definitely new. The fact that Martin happened to put on cologne the night that Jon is staying over is... well, not lost on him. Especially now that he can feel Martin's body heat. He's so close. It's almost comfortable. At least, as comfortable as Jon can ever get.
There's a faint hue on both their faces that certainly isn't due to the heat of the tea. Ten thirty-two, now. Jon yawns softly, the vulnerable sound catching both of them off guard for a moment. Martin cautiously rests his hand on Jon's shoulder, in a way that he hopes comes across as casual.
"Are you alright?" Martin asks in a warm, gentle tone. Genuine concern is there, beneath the man's general nervousness. Jon falters, nearly losing his grip on the mug in surprise. He looks up at Martin, directly into his eyes for what may be the first time ever. He'd never noticed Martin's heterochromia, one eye a pale blue and the other a gray-green. His eyes... they're oddly pretty.
No.
Jon whips his head forward at attention as soon as he catches that unwelcome thought, face heating up. He is thankful that blush doesn't show up easily on his dark complexion.
"Fine, Martin, thank you." Jon's tone is sharp and short, making up for the growing affection he begrudgingly feels. His eyes flicker up to Martin's again, a bright, lively glimmer in his own. He feels alive, for once. This is all Martin's fault, stupid Martin. He absently reaches to adjust his tie, a nervous habit, before his hand grabs uselessly at thin air near his neck. He is wearing a t-shirt borrowed from Martin, not his usual office clothes. The fact that this is Martin's shirt only flusters him more.
Jon clears his throat and suddenly stands up, grabbing his cane from the side of the couch. The wood slams loudly into the floor of the flat as he straightens it immediately. He dismisses himself with an almost impressive speed. "You know, I think I will take you up on that bed offer, after all," he says quickly, with a forced dismissiveness that he doesn't really feel.
Martin is taken off-guard by the sudden sharpness, but he can't really say he's surprised. "O-okay, sure. Um, the weighted blanket is in the closet, if you want it. Extra pillows, too, they're on the top shelf." He smiles, looking over Jon's frail frame.
He hopes the man sleeps well, at least.
Jon nods sharply, quickly heading into Martins guest room. He really would like that weighted blanket; it'd probably help a lot with the pain in his leg. And the extra pillows would be great as well. He only had one at his flat, and it's flat and lumpy at the same time. It doesn't even have a pillowcase. He wants to indulge in comfort, just this once. Just one problem. The pillows and blanket are on the top shelf of the linen closet. The top shelf which he, admittedly, cannot reach at his height. He groans. Of course the blasted shelf is too high.
Of course it would be more suited to Martin's stature, this is Martin's house—
Goddammit.
Martin, meanwhile, is silently pacing around the kitchen, cleaning up the empty mugs and discarded kettle. He can hardly believe it—hell, he can hardly breathe. Jonathan 'perpetually having the worst day of his life' Sims is now in his flat, wearing his shirt, in his guest room, about to sleep in one of his beds.
It's too much for the lovesick assistant. He hears Jon's aggravated muttering from the guest room, followed by a loud groan. Curiosity gets the best of Martin, and he pokes his head into the room. The sight he's met with is almost comical, Jon glaring daggers up at the top shelf.
Martin stifles an adoring laugh as he sees Jon attempt to will the weighted blanket down from the top shelf with the sheer force of his glare. This, predictably enough, does not work. Jon swallows his pride, reluctant to admit he needs Martin's help as he turns towards the much taller man.
"...must you keep everything on the top shelf?" He grumbles, his arms crossing tightly in frustration and covered-up embarassment.
There was something very endearing about the usually stoic Archivist being too small to reach the top shelf. "How about I get them for you, then?" Martin suggests kindly, gently brushing his fingers over Jon's shoulder from behind. Jon flushes a deep red, mumbling a half-hearted agreement. Martin reaches up, easily grabbing the weighted blanket and fluffy pillows in one swift motion. Jon catches himself admiring Martins arms and height for just a moment longer than he would've liked to, and sighs to himself again. Martin Blackwood is an annoyingly distracting specimen.
"Thank you," Jon says quietly, his voice losing some of its usual bite. He looks up at Martin through dark eyelashes. He finds Martin absolutely infuriating, and yet...
Jon's face heats up again, but not out of annoyance this time. That ridiculous warmth is back in his chest, and there's no tea to blame, now. There is only Martin, looking down at him so considerately, with a polite smile as he holds up all the blankets and pillows like they're weightless. Jon gives up quite quickly with his attempt to express whatever it is that he's feeling, instead lying on the guest bed.
"Just toss the blankets and pillows on me, I'll get it sorted," Jon mutters, gesturing vaguely, eyes half-closed. He doesn't really expect Martin, who is so kind and gentle, to actually toss the items on him. But he does think that he'll maybe leave them folded next to him, or on the corner of the bed. What he absolutely doesn't anticipate is the sudden weight of the bed sinking down—of Martin joining him in the bed.
Jon's eyes shoot open. "What are you doing?" He asks, flipping around quickly to face Martin. Martin doesn't respond right away, gently brushing some of Jon's unruly curls out of his blushing, panicked face. He settles next to Jon in the bed, pulling the weighted blanket over both of them. Jon has no clue what to do, his heart thumping like a jackhammer in his chest as he looks up at the man lying next to him.
Martin hesitantly brushes another curl back, his touch tender and lingering far longer than necessary. Jon shivers slightly, unused to being touched with any form of gentleness or care.
Jon, being Jon, manages to only get out one word. "Why?" He asks softly, having little to no idea of what's going on.
Martin lets out an unsure huff of air, and a quietly disbelieving laugh aimed at his own bold actions. "I don't know. I haven't the faintest idea. I just..." They both settle into a brief silence, blushing so hard that it's a miracle they each don't combust. "...I think I just want to touch you, Jon," he admits quietly.
"Well, that's..." Jon hesitates, trying in his tired state to not sound as flustered as he is. He settles on a dry, flat tone. "Unconventional."
Martin cringes a bit as he hears Jon's dry response, but it's what he should've expected. He's being let off easy, honestly. What on God's Green Earth was he thinking? He untangles his hand from Jon's curls—but Jon surprises them both by gripping his wrist, keeping Martin's palm gently pressed to his forehead. Jon doesn't pull away, hesitantly looking up at Martin with uncharacteristically wide eyes, feeling smaller than he has in years.
'Good Lord, he's adorable,' Martin thinks.
His mind is a wreck, but his heart is begging him to push the limits, and indulge in this unexpected moment of intimacy with the usually stoic Head Archivist. So he does. His hand is warm, his short nails gently scratching the base of Jon's scalp as he plays with his hair. Jon allows a sleepy, content hum to escape him as his eyes flutter shut again. Martin takes off his round glasses, folding the thin frames and resting them on the bedside drawer, before quickly turning all his attention back to Jon. He wants to hold him, and he's not sure he's ever wanted anything so badly in his life.
Jon hesitantly nuzzles closer to Martin. He's tired and in pain, and for once, he truly wants the comfort. His face presses against the soft wool of Martins knitted sweater, to which Martin instinctively wraps his large arms around Jon in an act of comfort. Jon sighs contentedly, quietly slipping his injured knee between Martin's legs, the pressure providing great relief for the pain in his nerves. Jon groans softly, immediately comforted by the simple act of cuddling with another person. He hasn't done this since Georgie.
And Martin? Martin hasn't done this ever. He was a deeply lonely and isolated child, and never really grew into physical affection as he got older. He had never had a partner, never had close friends, and he certainly doesn't remember ever receiving any affection from his mother. Martin is quite certain that this is the first genuine hug he has ever had... and he has no idea how to cope with that fact. He holds Jon tighter, taking a ragged gasp as he processes the feeling of holding someone, and being held in return.
It is so much different from cuddling with a pillow, Martin thinks. A sad, lonely thought, but one of the most honest things to ever cross his mind. As touch-starved as he is, he had never expected to be in this situation, regardless of how many nights he'd secretly fantasized about it.
They lie down in a warm embrace, each facing eachother. Jon's head is tucked neatly into the fold of Martin's collar. Their forms are cocooned in a bundle of weighted blankets and shared silence. It is so comfortable for two people who have hardly experienced such a thing in all their lives.
"Martin?" Jon whispers softly, voice muffled quietly against the sweater and comforter. Martin hums gently in response, his fingers still carding through the other's long curls.
A moment of silence passes from Jon, who is seemingly hesistating on what to actually say.
"I... don't hate you as much as I've let on."
Martin laughs softly. Yes, that much is obvious, since they're laying in bed so intimately, sharing clothes and warmth. But he nods gently in response. "That's okay," he says quietly, "I forgive you."
I forgive you. Those three words echo in Jon's mind. They shouldn't make him nearly as emotional as they do. He's not sure he's ever been forgiven. He's not sure he's deserves the pardon in the first place.
"You shouldn't," he protests weakly, "I've been nothing but awful to you. I don't deserve to be forgiven."
Despite this, he cuddles closer, holding purchase on the elastic band of Martin's sweatshirt. Martin's free hand trails down Jon's back, his fingers resting partially under the shirt and gently scratching at the soft skin.
"I don't care if you deserve it. I'm choosing to forgive you," Martin says.
Jon sighs. Insistent, isn't he? Forgiveness seems to be an excellent painkiller and sleep aid—or maybe that's an effect of Martin himself. Either way, the pain in Jon's knee feels more dull than ever as he falls asleep, his mind blissfully blank, aware only of the warmth of a man he thinks he might love.