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Martin Blackwood was screwed from the moment he first laid eyes on Jonathan Sims.
Well, that wasn't exactly true. The attraction could have faded in time, if Martin had any sense at all. It was almost purely sexual attraction, at least at first, and he could've at least lived with that even if it hadn't faded.
But Martin was very gay, and very lonely, and had very bad taste in men. His prick of a boss, unfortunately, checked all his boxes: stern, academic, clearly in need of a good meal and a night's sleep, with sharp eyes behind his glasses and grey-streaked dark hair that waved a little in a way that seemed to indicate a desire to curl. His voice definitely didn't hurt, either - low and slightly rough and intense in a way that sent shivers down Martin's spine.
If that wasn't bad enough, Martin didn't even have high enough self-esteem for Jon's clear animosity towards him to turn him off - it had almost the opposite effect, in fact, and Martin was trying very hard not to think about what that said about his psyche.
So the attraction hadn't faded.
But that wasn't what made this situation so bad, no. It was the fact that Martin was developing actual, romantic feelings for his boss.
It had started slowly. There had been small endearing mannerisms that Jon had displayed as far back as their first meeting - looking back now, he could see that the first seeds of his crush were planted the moment Jon responded to his question about seeing a dog with “In general, or…?” And Martin had found Jon's smug condescension unfairly attractive, though that was at least partially sexual again. God, he was gay.
There was something incredibly endearing about the way he interacted with Tim and Sasha, and there were small moments here and there where his professional mask would slip, and Martin would, for a brief moment, catch a glimpse of a softer man underneath. That mask never slipped with Martin, of course, unless it was to reprimand him - in which case he instead caught a glimpse of a frustrated, angry man who very much did not like him - or when he was thrown off. It was rather disheartening, but unsurprising. Martin was used to people he wished would care about him not liking him. But he sometimes witnessed the mask slip all the same, when Jon wasn't paying attention or couldn't keep it up. So Martin had already had the very beginnings of a workplace crush by the time his birthday had rolled around.
Tim and Sasha had talked him into letting them take him out for ice cream when they heard it was his birthday, and they had bullied Jon into tagging along. Seeing the shorter man scowling as Tim had firmly plopped a garish paper party hat onto his head had already been bad enough for Martin's poor gay heart before they even got to the ice cream parlor. Once there, it had only gotten worse.
Martin had gotten mint chip, a perfectly lovely flavour that did not at all taste like toothpaste, Tim. Tim had gotten rocky road, Sasha strawberry swirl. And Jon? Jon had ordered honest-to-goodness rum and raisin, like some sort of grandfather, and grumbled something under his breath when Tim teased him about it.
That was already cute enough (despite Martin's underlying horror at Jon's choice of flavour. Rum and raisin, Jon, really?). But then Jon had mentioned something about emulsifiers, Martin had asked about it, and the next thing he knew, Jon was drawing a diagram on a napkin as he animatedly gave an in-depth explanation of everything there was to know about emulsifiers and as Martin grew more smitten by the second.
Jon had held up the finished napkin diagram, saying “See, this–” and then Tim had lost it, breaking out into a laughing fit. Sasha had buried her head in her hands with amused exasperation. Jon had glared at Tim, lips pressed into a thin line, still holding the diagram up. It had been absolutely adorable.
Martin had even found it charming when Jon had snipped out, “Yes, yes. Now, if you’re quite finished, Tim—” and quickly wrapped up his explanation. Martin had honestly been a little sad to see him stop, not because he had any particular interest in emulsifiers, but because seeing Jon clearly animated and in his element had been really nice. Lovely, actually. And if after that, his workplace crush was substantially worse, and maybe slightly more than just a workplace crush? Martin would take that secret with him to the grave.
But after Prentiss and her worms trapped him in his apartment, and Jon listened and believed him and offered Martin his own cot in Document Storage without question? It was definitely not just a workplace crush anymore (though his workplace also being his home definitely blurred the lines a bit).
And after Prentiss's siege, when Jon admitted to believing in the supernatural and being afraid, and then asked whether Martin was a ghost? Not only was it definitely more than just a workplace crush, it might be deeper than just a crush.
Martin might actually be in love with Jonathan Sims.
Oh, he was so screwed.
Jonathan Sims felt the beginnings of begrudging admiration stir in his chest as Martin explained why he had been carrying around a corkscrew. He knew he had underestimated the man, but he hasn't realized how much Martin was actually capable of. Deep inside him, unnoticed, the seeds of feelings that would one day blossom were planted.
Jon felt himself soften slightly as Martin tearfully apologized for leaving him behind. But he still needed his statement, and his wounds were making him grouchy as the pain medication began to wear off.
Jon wanted to trust Martin. He wanted to, and he didn't know why, and it made him even more paranoid and suspicious. He knew he couldn't trust Martin, no matter how nice the man was to him or how lovely his tea. Jon knew he was hiding something. No, he couldn't trust Martin. And he clearly couldn't fully trust his own head, either. He stopped drinking Martin's tea, and ignored the small, background twinge of regret in his chest every time he let a cup go cold.
Jon felt warm relief settle in his stomach as Martin admitted to lying on his CV. Martin wasn't trying to kill him. He told himself the relief was just because he knew he wasn't in danger from Martin, and not anything to do with Martin himself. He didn't let himself examine his growing admiration for the man any further.
Jon missed Martin. He missed his tea. He missed his smiles. He missed his freckles, and round glasses, and soft knit jumpers, and gingery-blond curls, and kindness, and gentle blue eyes. Jon hoped, achingly, that Martin didn't think he had killed Jurgen Leitner. But he knew that Martin probably did, and he couldn't blame him.
Jon didn't understand why Georgie sighed and rolled her eyes every time he mentioned Martin. He didn't do it an abnormal amount of times, did he? No, surely not.
Jon felt warmth pool in his stomach as Martin gently cleaned and bandaged his throat, then took Jon's burnt hand and unraveled the poorly-wrapped bandages there, cleaning out the wounds and rebandaging the hand with exceeding care, scolding Jon for not taking better care of himself in a long-suffering and affectionate tone.
Jon wondered at how Martin seemed to have become so sure of himself, so competent. He had never felt so cared for.
He tried to count Martin's freckles as Martin finished wrapping the bandages, and didn't examine the way his heart fluttered when Martin looked from his hand and their eyes met. “You’re all set, Jon, “ Martin said, standing up from where he had been sitting so as to better tend to Jon's wounds, cheeks slightly pink.
Jon thanked him, ignoring the warmth in his own cheeks. If there was a hint of stirring suspicion in the back of his mind, a little thought that said wait a minute, a tiny alarm bell trilling that these were perhaps not ordinary platonic feelings, he clamped down on it and promptly forgot about it. No time for that now. Even if he'd maybe quite like to be held in Martin's arms and cared for by those gentle hands. That was neither here nor there.
Jon was deep in his work, ignoring the cramping in his burnt hand, the aching of his throat, and his building headache. He had to look harder. He had to know - no, Know - so he could stop the Unknowing and save them all. Ironic, he knew, knowing next to nothing about a ritual called the Unknowing. But he had to keep looking. There had to be something, somewhere. Just… keep looking. He had to… keep looking. His eyelids drooped. He shook the exhaustion off.
As if on cue, there was a knock on the door. “Come in,” Jon called wearily. The door, opened, and Martin poked his head in. Jon’s spirits immediately lifted.
“Hi, Jon!” Martin said, smiling softly and holding up a mug. “I brought you tea.”
Jon smiled gratefully at him. “Thank you, Martin.” He took the mug in his left hand, cradling his non-dominant hand with his burnt right. He had quickly discovered that the burnt hand was very sensitive to heat, much to his dismay, and it made it a bit harder to hold a cup of tea. (Martin had noticed this, and had ordered Jon a tea cosy online. In another day or so, it would arrive, and he would surprise Jon with it. Jon would treasure it up until the day Hunters and the Not-Them forced him and Martin to flee the Archives and he didn’t think to grab it. Martin would get him another one at the safehouse, where it would eventually be forgotten once there was only not-tea and Jon didn’t think himself worthy of any sort of comfort). He set the mug down on the desk.
“Of course, Jon.” Martin smiled at him, and his eyes were soft and blue, and his cheeks were pink, and Jon wanted to kiss him.
Good Lord. Where did that thought come from? Jon blinked, feeling warmth rise to his face. Surely it was just the tiredness. Martin was always telling him to get more sleep.
Martin tilted his head at Jon, concern spreading over his features. “Are– are you alright, Jon? You look a bit… flushed. Have you got a fever?” He stepped over to Jon and laid the back of his hand on Jon’s forehead. His hand felt like a brand, seeping burning heat into Jon’s skin. Jon made a choked noise, trying to clear his throat. Martin was so close, and his skin was so warm, and his eyes were so blue, and he was covered in freckles, and Jon wanted to kiss him.
“I– I’m fine,” he managed to choke out. “Something just– came over me for a moment. Thank you, Martin.”
Martin looked slightly unconvinced, but removed his hand and stepped back. Jon was simultaneously relieved and disappointed by the loss of it. “Okay, Jon. Just, please tell me if you aren’t feeling well? You’ve been through a lot.”
“I will,” Jon promised, throat dry.
Martin gave him a small smile and left, closing the door to Jon’s office quietly behind him. Jon sat in stunned silence for a moment, then buried his head in his hands.
Okay. Right. So. He had feelings for Martin.
And they weren’t new.
Jon reflected on all the moments there had been with Martin, catching the threads of feelings in hindsight, and groaned to himself. God, he was an oblivious fool.
An oblivious fool who could not tell Martin about this. Not now. There wasn’t any time, no matter how much Jon might like to kiss him - even though even Jon could tell that there might be a chance of Martin reciprocating.
Maybe after the Unknowing. Yes, then. Jon could confess then. Jon nodded, pulling himself back together and pushing the feelings down into a secure little box for safekeeping. He would tell Martin then.
(After the Unknowing, when Jon finally woke up from his coma and Martin was gone, Jon would dearly regret that decision. But when he at last got through to Martin and rescued him from the Lonely, it made every hardship that had come before seem worth it all the same.)