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It has been a few weeks since Martin had to move into the archives, and really, it isn’t so bad. Save for the mortal terror at the sight of anything small and white and too worm-like , and the subtle feeling of being watched constantly, and being unable to go outside, and the whole clutching a corkscrew and fire extinguisher while he sleeps situation. It isn’t terrible! After all, notably, Jon has been considerably kinder to him. Honestly, it was a bit of a shock when Martin had given Jon his tea, and he received a “thank you, Martin,” in response. A genuine thank you! From Jon!
It isn’t helping him maintain professional thoughts about Jon. Christ, when did he get this bad?
But that is beside the point. (Was there a point?)
Martin’s gotten into a habit of checking the archives for unwanted visitors before going to bed. Usually he waits until everyone else leaves, but it’s 10pm, and Jon’s office light is still on, and Martin wants to go to bed. So Jon will just have to deal with Martin poking around his office, checking cracks and vents and all that.
Armed with a fire extinguisher and a torch, Martin approaches Jon’s office. He goes to knock, but the door is already open. It is nearly dead silent in that room, save for the sound of Jon breathing. Martin pokes his head in and— he’s asleep.
Jon’s head is on his desk, turned slightly to the side, his glasses skewed on his face. One arm drapes awkwardly over his neck and the other is being used as a pillow.
Martin can’t help whatever it is his heart does at the sight of him. An image of a sleeping cat comes to mind the longer he stares at Jon.
Christ, he’s staring at Jon sleeping. What the hell.
Martin forces himself to look away, his cheeks are definitely warmer than before.
There is a small snore from Jon, and Martin’s heart can’t handle much more. He sets the fire extinguisher and torch down and steps into Jon’s office fully. He gently shoos a spider away from the tape recorder sitting on Jon’s desk.
“Jon?” Martin asks softly. No response. He places a hand on Jon’s back, almost about to try and shake him awake.
Jon makes an adorably sleepy sound and all but melts at the touch.
Some faint thought about uncomfortable sleeping positions and back pain is all Martin needs in order to decide what to do.
Tim had brought in an air mattress for him not long ago, and while Martin prefers the couch because it doesn’t deflate overnight from his weight, it means there’s now two viable places to sleep in the archives. Two places better than an office chair and a hard, wooden desk.
Martin, with the precision of a surgeon, gently removes Jon from his chair. His heart pounds with anxiety as he keeps his eyes on Jon, waiting for him to wake up at the worst time.
He doesn’t. Martin is able to lift him like nothing, and his head lolls against Martin’s shoulder.
He doesn’t look so intimidating now. He looks… small. Soft. Unburdened.
With a deep breath to center himself, Martin carries Jon to the back room of the archives. He shoves the heavy door open with his shoulder— not the one Jon’s on, obviously— and he lays Jon down on the bare mattress.
Jon’s eyes flutter as Martin reaches to remove the glasses from his face, and well, if that doesn’t strike terror into his heart.
Jon just blinks sleepily at him and fumbles for Martin’s sleeve before letting his eyes close again.
Martin, on his end, sits there blinking, trying to process what the hell that meant. Obviously it can’t be that he wants Martin to stay— the day that happens is the day Hell freezes over— maybe it’s just that he’s cold, after being held against Martin’s warmth. Maybe he’d want a blanket, or his jumper— no, Martin. Do not give your boss your jumper. Get a grip.
A moment of hesitation is all Jon needs, apparently, to feel the need to reiterate what he wants. He tugs on Martin’s sleeve.
Right. So this is happening, then. Alright, Martin can handle this.
Martin carefully sits down next to Jon, cringing as the mattress dips under his weight and forces Jon to roll towards him. Right. This is fine. Not making his heart do anything strange. Nope. Martin is just fine.
Martin yawns as he keeps an eye on Jon. The already dim lighting of the archives and the warmth of another body next to him are very much conductive for falling asleep. Even if his heart wants to memorize how Jon looks in this moment— nose tucked against the wool of Martin’s jumper, hair splayed out behind him, his contented expression— he knows he can’t fight his heavy eyelids.
He actually removes Jon’s glasses this time, and so what if he takes a moment to tuck a strand of hair behind Jon’s ear? It doesn’t hurt anyone for him to savor a little touch like that. And Jon is the one using him like a stuffed animal in the first place, so he is completely justified in taking a little enjoyment in this. So there.
His own glasses are next, and he sets them both down on the coffee table near Jon’s head.
He lays his head down and, for a silly, foolish night, can pretend that there is something more to this as his eyes close, the sight of Jon’s peacefully sleeping face burned into his memory.
“—been like that the whole time?”
Hm?
“Yeah. Had to turn off his alarm, his phone was in his office, by the way.”
“I mean, good for them, man. Wonder if Marto said anything.”
“I hope so.”
The whispered voices barely pull Martin out of the peaceful sleep he was having. Not enough for him to want to move, though. Not that he could, with the nice weight in his arms. The weight that shifts closer to him with a small sound.
“Shit he might be waking—“
“Too loud, Tim!”
A scuffle sounds from the door as Martin forces his eyes to open. He’s met with a horribly familiar head of more-pepper-than-salt hair, with an accompanying pit in his stomach.
His first, out of pocket, thought is that he should brush the hair out of his face, maybe give his forehead a soft kiss.
He, obviously, doesn’t do that.
Even if he wants to.
Fuck. He has it bad, bad.
Even worse than the existence of his horrid crush, (what is he, twelve??) said crush is waking up.
His big hazel eyes flutter open and he looks confused for a moment before he looks up and meets Martin’s eyes.
“Oh. Good morning, Martin.” Jon says, like they haven’t been straight up cuddling all night.
“A-ah, morning, Jon,” Martin responds like the gay, bumbling idiot he is.
Jon just… maneuvers out of Martin’s arms like this is so normal, “Apologies for that. I didn’t mean to lose track of myself like that.” He says, adjusting his clothes as he sits up, “I expect that this will not affect your work.”
This means nothing, Martin.
Jon stands up, straightening his clothes out some more with a frown. “This was… less than ideal. But it’s… a good thing you’re staying here, Martin.”
He leaves after putting his glasses on, leaving Martin a blushing, gaping, confused— befuddled mess.
Tim and Sasha poke their heads in with matching looks. Martin has quite a story to tell.
Jon curses as he gets lost in this god-forsaken statement once again. He can’t focus, and he entirely blames Martin. With his soft jumper and warmth and stupidly cute face. He is so done for.
He needs a drink, lord knows he isn’t going to sleep as well as last night ever again.