Chapter Text
Martin has developed a terrible habit.
This certainly wasn't what Peter had in mind when he showed him how to vanish, how to access that familiar feeling of being insignificant, being ignored and overlooked, how to harness that lonely feeling of not being seen until he could slip away on its cold current and truly become as invisible as he'd often felt, all but imperceptible to others around him.
Peter said it would help him strengthen his connection to the Lonely, and to avoid any contact with everyone else in the Institute, making it easy to keep them from trying to threaten his precariously cultivated isolation.
Not that anyone cares to talk to him, anyway. The only person who still seems to try and catch him now and then is Jon, the one person Martin has nothing to say to, wouldn't know what to say to, while filled to the brim with secrets and confessions and angry grievances longing to spill forth.
Deliberately avoiding him has been both the hardest and most natural thing Martin has had to do since Jon woke up from the coma, walking back into the Archives as if nothing had happened, taking his familiar place in his office as if it had never been left empty and deserted at all.
And maybe, for Jon, it hasn't.
Jon wasn't here, he didn't see the vacated chair, the half-finished boxes of unread Statements left behind, didn't feel the air cold and too still as Martin stood in that dead space where Jon's presence had been so tangibly absent it almost choked him.
Jon didn't notice the months going by, didn't see the papers collecting dust, didn't feel the touch of Martin's hand around his as he sat by his bedside, hour after hour after hour, with tear tracks drying on his cheeks and terror gripping his heart.
Jon wasn't there to see any of it, and it's not his fault that he wouldn't know how things have changed, how Martin needed to stop visiting for fear his spine might split from carrying this hope, how Martin had mourned for him when he'd finally accepted that Jon would never wake up, how he'd readily thrown himself into his new position as Peter's assistant, both for the distraction his busy work was offering and the hollow numbness the Lonely promised his flayed heart and aching bones.
Through it all, Martin has been going to Jon's office.
The first time, he'd gone just to have a moment to breathe in a place he associated with something good, and it had made it worse in the end, being in this office that should have Jon's voice filling it with life and finding only darkened lights and droning silence. But he'd come back anyway. It didn't feel good, didn't feel right, but it helped him grieve, helped him accept that Jon wasn't coming back.
Only, Jon did come back.
Jon came back, and now Martin has to duck around corners, running, hiding from him.
And yet, Martin still goes to his office.
It is a terrible habit, truly. If Peter knew where Martin slips off to when he vanishes for some time- well, Martin isn't sure what exactly he'd do, but he'd certainly be more than displeased with Martin's inability to quit seeking out Jon's presence, even when he knows he can't talk to him. He doesn't need Peter to tell him that it's endangering the success of his precious isolation, but he just can't seem to stop.
Sometimes he hides away in Jon's office when Jon's gone, just to have a second to pause, a moment's break from Peter and the Lonely and the Extinction and everything that's constantly looming over him with a threatening grin. It's ironic that he's using the Lonely's vanishing power to escape from it, to flee from his isolation into an empty, lonely room that still provides a level of comfort, he's very much aware, but it's the only place where Martin still feels like he can breathe properly.
Sometimes he sneaks in when Jon is working. He just stands in the corner, watching as Jon broods over stacks of paper, listening to him abseltmindedly muttering to himself, or even recording Statements sometimes. They're horrible, gruesome things, yes, and he hates to see what they take out of Jon, how he's shaken and exhausted from the words pouring out of his mouth, but it's Jon, and even listening to Jon's voice recount other people's terrors makes Martin feel a little closer to him.
He never speaks, never reaches out or makes his presence known, no matter how desperately he wants to, but for a moment, it's enough to simply get to be in Jon's company despite his own distance to the rest of the world.
He should feel guilty about it.
He should feel guilty about many things. About essentially boycotting Peter's plan by jeopardising his own isolation process, a plan he agreed to, a plan he still intends to follow through with, in the end. Mostly about secretly taking advantage of Jon like this. Martin doesn't need to look too closely at what he's doing to see that it's weird at best, downright creepy and positively violating at worst-
But he doesn't feel guilty. Truth be told, Martin has a rather hard time feeling much of anything these days, courtesy of his new Lonely master. It's all dulled now, all but the pain of longing that remains as clear-cutting and constantly present as ever. Figures. It makes sense that once all else was swept away in the fog, the one thing remaining unaltered would be Martin's seemingly impervious, desperate longing for Jon.
There's a reason he used to perfect romanticising a life of yearning in his poems.
This is why he finds himself in Jon's office once again, desperate for a moment's respite after Peter had made him read another Statement alluding to the Extinction. He can still feel the terror of the Statement giver sizzling in his own veins, their fear of a world being snuffed out as easily as a flickering candle.
Martin presses himself into the furthest corner of Jon's office, comforted by the dark silence, the familiar surroundings. He rests his forehead against the cool wall, closing his eyes for a moment as he breathes in the smell of old paper and dust, soaking in the atmosphere of Jon that always lingers even without the man present.
Martin isn't sure how long he stands there before he feels himself relaxing, his mind finally letting go of a stranger's dread stuck in his bones. He doesn't even know if the Extinction is real yet, but it sure feels real when he's forced to experience a Statement's fear first-hand. Reading them has become more intense since his own emotional life has numbed in the Lonely's fog, making room for someone else's horror.
Martin hates it, but if Peter is right about a new Power emerging- Even if he's not, Martin has to stay true to their deal, protecting everyone else has to be the priority. He's not important. His insignificance is his strength here. Hardly anyone would truly care whether he lives or dies, and maybe that's a good thing, for once.
Martin feels himself slipping a little deeper into the Lonely's embrace, wholly and completely invisible in his quiet corner. It's easy to imagine himself being pulled under even further when he's like this, wondering if anyone would even notice if he were to vanish for good, fade away until there was nothing left.
It'd be quiet there. Even the longing would stop then, once everything that was Martin had ceased to exist. It's an unnerving thought, made even more so because - just for a second - Martin catches himself almost wishing for it to happen.
He flinches violently as the door swings open, and Jon walks in with an air of exhausted tension that seems to surround him at all times these days.
His reading glasses are folded up, tucked into the neckline of his button-down shirt peaking out beneath the dark green sweater vest. There are circles under his eyes, of course there are, and a cup of tea in his hand.
Martin silently presses himself further into the corner, a wave of sadness and guilt washing over him at the sight of that tea - tea Jon had to make himself, because Martin isn't there to do that for him anymore.
He watches as Jon closes the door, flicks the lights on and stalks stiffly over to his desk, setting the tea down before he collapses into his chair with a quiet noise of disgruntlement.
Martin hears him release a long breath, papers rustling as Jon shuffles around the stacks of files that have piled up on his desk. He's muttering quietly to himself, he does that a lot, and Martin carefully extracts himself from the bookshelf's shadow he doesn't need in order to hide, carefully minding his step as he makes his way around to the front of the desk.
He knows by now what steps are safe, what floorboards might creak under his weight, the office space mapped out in his head to ensure he can move around quietly, undetected. Yes, it's creepy, he's aware, but that ship has sailed a long time ago, so why bother minding it now.
He slowly settles down in the chair across from Jon - the chair Martin has come to think of as his chair, the chair he'd occupied back when he'd drop in on Jon constantly, with a cup of tea in his hand or a question on his lips, tea Jon had never ordered and questions Jon would only frown at in irritation. But Martin did it anyway, because it was Jon, and Martin took every chance he got to talk to Jon, back before Jon died and before Jon didn't have a heartbeat for six months and before Jon woke up again with his hair grown out and his voice all cracked and softened whenever he catches Martin before he can run.
He watches as Jon flicks through a file, lips tight and brow furrowed. His reading glasses have been discarded on the desk, a strand of grey-streaked hair falling into Jon's forehead, and he brushes it away with an irritated swipe of his hand.
Jon reaches for the tea, takes a sip, then scrunches up his nose in distaste and shoves the cup back onto its saucer. There's a moment where Jon's face hardens, his jaw tensing, but then it crumples with a drawn-out sigh, something sad and forlorn overtaking Jon's features that has Martin's chest clench painfully. Jon leans forward, elbows resting on his desk as he buries his face in his palms.
"Why aren't you here?" he hears Jon whisper into his hands, then a muffled, frustrated huff. "Goddammit."
Jon rubs his hands over his face, then lets them sink with a sigh as he slumps back in his chair. He picks up the file he'd opened up earlier, putting on his glasses and clearing his throat. The tape recorder clicks on by itself, quietly whirring in the background. Martin waits for Jon to start reading, waits for the usual words of Jon reciting the Statement giver and date, the all-too-familiar Statement recorded by Jonathan Sims, the Archivist- but they never come.
Jon stares at the page, eyes seeming to go right through the words. Then he blinks, pressing his lips together. The file falls shut, papers and glasses flung carelessly onto the desk, tape recorder running in vain with nothing but silence to record.
"Stupid", Jon mutters, and Martin doesn't know what's happening, or why Jon's eyes flick to his tea cup with such a pained, bitter expression. He mumbles something again, and Martin thinks he hears the words won't talk, then an assortment of low curses along the lines of idiotic and reckless, and he has no idea what Jon is on about, but he's evidently distressed, and Martin wishes he could do something to ease whatever is clearly weighing on Jon so much.
But he can't. All he can do is keep quiet and watch as Jon sits behind his desk, a hand driving agitatedly through his hair, fingertips rubbing at his temples.
There's a tired, frustrated resolve to it when Jon sighs, pushing himself out of his chair and walking over to the door.
Martin expects him to leave, but instead, there's the telltale clicking sound of a lock snapping shut.
Shit. Martin may be invisible, but he doesn't have the power to walk through walls- or locked doors, for that matter. He knows he should have left right away when Jon came in, but it's too late now.
This never happened before. Jon never locks his door, and for a split second Martin considers that perhaps he wants to take a nap- but that's ridiculous, Jon is the most sleep-deprived person he knows, Martin is always pestering him to take better care of himself, to take breaks, go home and sleep- Well. At least he used to, when they were still talking.
He'd found Jon asleep at his desk after midnight more than once, but that had never been on purpose, there is no way Jon would decide to get some sleep, unprompted, on office time-
Jon stands by the door for another moment, leaning against the wood for support. Then he pushes himself away, returns to his desk, and slumps into his chair. The worn leather creaks under Jon's shifting weight as he leans forward, pointedly pressing the off button on the tape recorder.
"Don't need an audience for this", Jon mutters under his breath, voice dry, and what on earth is happening-?
Leaning back in his chair, Jon releases a long breath, closing his eyes. There's a furrow of concentration between his brows, a strange kind of stubborn resolution to it as he settles, still but for the slow rise and fall of his chest.
Martin is mesmerised by his expression slowly melting into something softer and more relaxed, Jon's hands trailing down his body and then-
There's a quiet sigh on Jon's lips, the hint of a muffled moan.
Oh. Martin's mind screeches to a halt. Oh-
No, he- No no no. He can't be. Surely, Jon can't be-
There's another sound, a low groan halfway stuck in Jon's throat.
His hands have settled beneath the desk where Martin can't see them, but there's the unmistakable shifting of his hand moving rhythmically in his lap and- oh, God. Oh God, oh God, Jon is touching himself, he's touching himself through his trousers, he's-
Jon's lips part on a gentle breath, his features completely relaxed now, breathtakingly unguarded and open to Martin's gaze. Martin has never seen Jon like this, something peaceful and serene in this vulnerable moment of secret pleasure - and Martin shouldn't be here.
Shit, shit- Martin should not be here for this, he can't be here, this is-
He stays rooted to the spot, can't move, can't look away.
Jon's breath has picked up a little, and there's the sound of a zipper being opened, fabric shifting, and then- Jon groans, and Martin can't see it, but he knows Jon must have wrapped a hand around his cock now, properly stroking himself at the slow, indulgent place Jon's arm has set.
"Yes." It falls from Jon's lips in a low, breathy whisper, setting Martin's entire body on fire. His shock at catching Jon in such an intimately private moment washes away, leaving him hanging on the edge of his seat, eyes desperately glued to Jon's face. Jon hums, his head tipping back a little against the back of his chair. "Just like that", his voice comes quietly, his throat moving with it, lips parted softly around panting breaths, releasing a string of muffled noises into the air that feels thick and hot around them all of a sudden.
Martin can't help himself. He has to see, needs to see with such a burning desperation that it feels like he might die if he doesn't, burning right through the swirls of numbing fog in his veins.
He lifts himself carefully from his chair, breath held, positively hypnotised by the sight of Jon scrunching his eyes shut and biting the corner of his lip. Just a little further, he needs to lean over the desk just a little more, a little closer-
He has to physically swallow the moan threatening to claw its way out of his throat at the sight of Jon's cock, long and lean like the rest of him, wet with precome where Jon's thumb rubs over his head before stroking down his length. Martin's knuckles go white around the edge of the desk, breath stuck in his throat.
He's stunning, completely lost to his pleasure, and Martin wants to engrave this picture in his mind, he wants to fill pages and pages with poetic lines about the flush of Jon's cheeks and the curve of his neck and the way the weight of his cock would feel in Martin's hand, he wants, he wants-
"Lovely", Jon sighs just then, voice languid and airy with gentle pleasure. "Just... M-" His breath hitches, and he moans low in his throat. "Martin..."
Martin startles so violently that he knocks against the tape recorder, nudging it a little to the left, where it clacks against the now-cold cup of tea. He sucks in a sharp breath of panic, instantly slapping a hand over his mouth to stifle the unbidden, revealing noise, but it's all too late, he knows Jon has heard, Jon's going to catch him, and he needs to leave, he needs to get out of here and away right now, he can't let Jon know he's been here- watching- the entire time- oh God-
He scrambles back, following his instinct to flee even though he knows there's absolutely nowhere to flee to, but in his clumsy haste his foot catches on his chair, sending both him and the chair crashing to the ground with a loud thumping noise.
"Shit", Martin hisses, his cheeks growing hot instantly as he feels himself slipping out from under the veil of the Lonely that had kept him hidden, shaking with equal amounts of panic and embarrassment. "Shit, shit, shit-"
There's a long second of deafening silence.
Then-
"M-Martin?"
Martin freezes.
Fuck.