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Martin sits at his desk, his eyes blurring as he reads the same sentence for the fifth time in a row. At least, he thinks it’s the same sentence—he doesn't seem to have taken in any of the last page. He sighs and takes his glasses off, rubbing at his eyes. “Why on earth do we have to work on Christmas,” he mutters to himself.
Having had no prior plans, he originally had no qualms about working the holiday, but as he thought of the festivities passing by as he sat at his desk, what cheer he had was gradually worn down. He had gotten a chuckle out of the first person who came to give a statement about “being visited by three ghosts of Christmas”, much to Jon’s chagrin. By the fourth time, however, the novelty had long worn off.
“At least have the decency to be original,” Jon grumbled, and Martin couldn’t help but agree.
He pillows his head on his arms, the document he had been attempting to read pushed to the side. “But it’s still better than being home alone,” he thinks, and sighs again. And at least Jon is here, even though, as usual, he’s been cooped up in his office all day. He also declined Martin’s invitation for lunch, even seeming skittish when he came to ask, and that alone put another damper on Martin’s mood. He hadn't even had a chance to give Jon his present of an illustrated collection of Chaucer's works, having remembered Jon previously mentioning The Canterbury Tales.
Martin even came dressed festively in a gaudy Christmas jumper—which was likely against dress code, but no one had told him to take it off yet, though he drew a raised brow from Jon and a barely concealed scoff from Elias—but now he just felt silly wearing it. Tim and Sasha loved it, at least, but they were full of more Christmas cheer than he could manage, and for some reason, that just made him even more depressed.
Just as he considers making up an illness to leave early, resigning himself to a night spent moping with only a box of cheap chocolates for company, a voice rings out from down the hall.
“Martin! Could I see you in here, please?”
Martin’s head snaps up as he hears Jon’s voice. He nearly knocks over the papers he wasn’t reading as he shoots up from his chair. He could berate himself for reacting like a dog being promised a treat later—right now, being able to see Jon is enough to cut through his gloom.
“Coming!” he calls out as he hurries down the hallway. Stopping in front of Jon’s door, he runs a hand through his unruly curls and takes a deep breath, hoping Jon has reconsidered his offer for lunch. He puts on a smile, then opens the door and pokes his head through.
“You need something, Jon?”
For once, his desk isn’t stacked high with folders and blank tapes. He peers up from a page he’s holding and pushes his glasses up his nose. “Close the door, please,” he says, and Martin obliges. Martin sighs inwardly; that tone is hardly promising.
As he shuffles inside, he crosses his arms over his chest, as though that could hide the fact there's a llama wearing a scarf and Christmas hat on the front of his jumper. He should have just taken the damn thing off, he thinks. But if Jon notices, he doesn't say anything, though his gaze darts from the file in front of him to Martin every few seconds, who shifts uneasily on his feet. He spies bits of gold paper peppered over the desk, and a precariously balanced pair of scissors near the edge.
“Was there—some kind of problem?” Martin asks, brow furrowed.
“Oh, I—er—no, that’s not—” Jon stammers, then clears his throat and shakes his head. “No, nothing like that.” Martin relaxes a fraction at that, but the confusion is still plain on his face.
“I can’t say I’m used to this, but. Well,” Jon mutters, then leans down under his desk and rummages around. He brings up three immaculately wrapped presents and sets them in front of him on the desk. “You—all of you have been working hard lately, and—well—so I figured—” He gestures to the presents. “Happy Christmas, Martin.”
Martin’s eyes widen, and he glances from the presents to Jon. Jon is watching him expectantly, his hands fidgeting on the desk. “I—for me?” Martin asks bemusedly.
“Yes, of course,” he says, sounding impatient. “Also for Tim and Sasha.” He picks up one of the presents and holds it out to Martin. It's thin and rectangular, and Martin can see his name written in crisp, neat handwriting. He takes it from Jon, staring at it blankly as it lays in his hands.
“You can open it now, if you’d like,” Jon says, and it sounds like more than a mere suggestion. Martin nods, and slowly undoes the wrapping, careful not to tear the paper. He feels Jon’s gaze on him, and it takes all he has to not let it slip from his fingers.
He finally unfolds the wrapping paper to reveal a leather bound journal, and he runs his fingers over the cover. It looks—expensive, he thinks, and feels hesitant to even open it. “Jon—I—”
“It won't replace the tape Tim recorded over,” Jon interrupts, “but I hope you can still find a use for it.” As Martin looks up at Jon, he catches the hint of redness on the tips of his ears, matching the own flush he can now feel spread across his cheeks.
Martin opens it gingerly and leafs through the blank pages, and he can't help the smile that spreads across his lips as warmth blooms in his chest. “Thank you, Jon,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. “It's beautiful.”
The tension eases out of Jon's shoulders, and he nods once, lips turned up in what seems to be a smile of his own. “I—yes. Excellent.” He clears his throat and picks up the other two presents, handing them over to Martin. “If you could take these to Sasha and Tim; I have a few things I still need to finish up.”
Martin carries them in one hand, his journal tucked under his other arm. Still in half a daze, he turns to leave before being interrupted by Jon.
“If—if you didn't have plans tonight,” Jon says, the reddening of his ears more pronounced now, “and if you didn't mind waiting—I'd—I'd like to take you up on dinner.”
Martin's mouth hangs open, and he barely catches the presents as they slip from his arms. He nods slowly. “I'd like that, yes,” he says, smiling softly. “And I still need to give you your present, too.”
Jon blinks, then huffs out a small laugh. “Good. That's—that's good.”
Martin walks backwards out of Jon's office, giving him a small wave before he leaves, which Jon returns. His heart beats a fast rhythm against his chest and he practically throws Tim and Sasha's presents onto their desks, barely noticing their perplexed expressions. Sitting back at his desk, he returns to work with a renewed vigor, eagerly counting down the hours until Jon comes to fetch him.
–
As it turns out, there are fewer places open than they expected on Christmas evening, and the ones that were had waits upwards of a few hours. They end up getting cheap fast food burgers, eating on creaky plastic seats and a table scratched with misspelled curses, but in contrast the atmosphere between them is surprisingly comfortable—Martin would go so far to even call it cozy. And Jon's eyes light up as he unwraps his gift, which Martin counts as a win.
Martin feels a pang of loss that cuts through the haze of happiness as they reach his place.
“Thank you—again,” Martin says, the journal cradled carefully against his chest. “I, er, admittedly wasn't looking forward to having dinner alone tonight.”
“Well, I'm—glad to have been of assistance, then,” Jon says, that barely-there smile on his lips. “I have to say—” He stops, his eyes trained upwards, then clears his throat, and the flush of red has returned to his ears. Martin follows his gaze, and has to bite back a yelp—the mistletoe that Tim put up “as a joke” still in place above the doorway. (“Good luck on ever getting Jon over here in time, eh?” he said with a jab to Martin's side, and Martin could only pout in response. He couldn't admit to himself that he kept it up in the small chance of this very situation happening.)
Jon stares at a point just beyond Martin's head, covering his mouth with his hand, and Martin begins to stammer out an explanation as he tries (and fails) to jump up and pull it down. “Martin,” Jon whispers, and Martin freezes, his arms still mid-flail as he looks back at him. His shoulders are shaking with poorly-contained laughter, and there's a warmth in his eyes as he meet's Martin's gaze.
“I can't well ignore tradition, can I?” Martin barely takes in the words before he sees Jon lean down, cupping a cheek in his hand, and feels his lips press onto his forehead.
“Goodnight, Martin,” he says, then turns on his heel to leave, but not before Martin catches the deep red staining his cheeks.
Martin gapes after Jon until he loses sight of him, then stumbles inside, careful to set down his journal before flopping into bed, the feeling of Jon's lips on his forehead playing on a loop in his mind.
This Christmas turned out to be quite alright, after all, Martin thinks, and falls asleep with a smile on his lips.