Work Text:
“Oh, um. Here’s the report you asked for Jon. . .”
“Oh?” Jon looked up from his laptop, to address Martin, “right, good work.”
And no, if anyone asked, no, Martin’s heart didn’t thump when Jon said ‘good work,’ whoever told you that is a liar. That's an absolutely ridiculous notion, he thought, shaking himself internally, which also didn’t happen.
“Oh, um. Also, here’s a cuppa.”
He didn’t stammer as much as he usually did when he interacted with Jon, even after the comment, so that was a win in his mind.
He carefully set the steaming mug down, making sure that it didn’t touch any of the statements—he’d learned his lesson last week about accidently messing with anything Jon was working on.
Although it was easier this time than last, as he was giving him tea at the beginning of a day rather than the absurdly late hour that Martin had found him working at last week: the end of the day often left Jon’s desk much less organized. Right now though, he could only see a few things: most of the papers still in a stack—though it was no longer in perfect layers—Jon’s favorite black gel pen, an extra one tucked by his ear, and the tape recorder he’d set down on the edge. Martin had noticed—over the course of the day, it would slowly gain more and more scattered items, as Jon got deeper into the statements. It was like Martin could see his thought process laid out based on the things scattered around his desk. A messy desk had no right to be that fascinatingly endearing to him, but it was anyway. Jon’s voice pulled him back to reality again.
“Oh, right,” he took the mug in his hands, cupping them around the warmth. Martin took his queue to leave like usual when the voice behind him stopped him again.
“Thank you, Martin.”
He turned back to see that Jon hadn’t immediately gone back to his work like normal, no he was still looking at Martin as he stood ready to leave. He was still holding the mug, cradling it between his palms.
He didn’t usually say thank you. Martin had learned to be content with just seeing him enjoy the tea, knowing he privately liked it, even if he didn’t say it.
But he did. Martin knew he was in far too deep when he felt how much that made his heart race.
Then he realized he probably ought to respond.
“Oh, yeah. Of course,” he fiddled with his hands, “Y-you’re welcome,” he finished awkwardly.
They looked at each other for a moment that probably wasn’t actually as long as it felt to Martin, before Jon broke eye contact, setting down his mug to grab the statement he had been working on. “Right,” Jon stared at his desk, before he continued, “thank you for the report, too.”
“It is kind of my job,” Martin tried with a light huff of laughter.
“Right, well. Still—” he cut off again, before apparently deciding on another sentence, looking back up at Martin, “Well I’m about to start recording another statement, so. . .” he trailed off.
“Right, of-f course,” Martin finally responded, fumbling over his words, “I-I’ll uh, leave you to it then.” He darted out the door before Jon could get another word in.
That was awkward. Right? Jon stared another moment at where Martin had just been a second ago, before finally glancing back to his work, though it didn’t stop him from thinking about it.
He’d never been very good at telling when something was awkward or not, but that one certainly felt like it. Maybe. That’s probably why his heart was beating faster.
The strangest thing though, was why it felt so weird. Martin gave him a report, and tea, like he usually does, and Jon had thanked him for it. That’s the part his brain kept getting caught on. That’s the part of the routine that changed. He’d actually been meaning to do it the last two times Martin had brought him tea, but he‘d forgotten. Or felt too nervous to, for some reason Jon couldn’t discern.
He knew that’s what he ought to do when Martin brought him tea. Unlike the reports, it definitely wasn’t in his job description to bring his boss tea, at the same time every day, just how he liked it. It also hadn’t been a part of it to figure out how to make it best, which Jon supposed he must have done somehow, though he didn’t know how. He’d just noticed that after the first few times, it had started getting closer and closer to being actually tolerable.
Jon had never considered himself to be a tea person, but now he drank every mug Martin made him. He hesitantly took a small sip, but it was still too hot to drink properly, so instead he cradled it beneath his hands, savoring the warmth.
He hadn’t thanked him the first time Martin brought him tea. But he did now, and he didn’t know why it felt so wrong.
Well, maybe not wrong. It felt like the right thing to do. But the actual words came out of his mouth so stilted. He breathed in the steam and closed his eyes, replaying the interaction in his mind.
He’d never been very good with words. They never seemed to come out as he’d intended, some accidental inflection he hadn’t meant pushing people away, so Jon had long since stopped trying too hard. He was aware it made him come off as standoffish, but he wasn’t really good with people either, so that had been more than alright with him. Well, somewhat.
He appreciated Tim and Sasha—even if Tim was still extremely good at being annoying sometimes. But he could never seem to get too close: and not for their lack of trying. They’d invite him out every month or so, and he would sometimes go out with them when he wasn’t too busy with work.
Which had been less and less often recently, but that was besides the point. He also certainly couldn’t do it now that he was their boss, and so he always told them he was finishing up projects even when in reality he would be going home to his empty flat in just a few minutes.
The point was, Jon has always felt a weird distance with everyone, and Martin was no exception.
Jon was very aware he’d probably been far too harsh on him when he’d started working as the Head Archivist. Okay, he almost definitely was. Sure, Martin’s reports at the beginning had been very sloppy. But he was also a very quick learner, and he’d improved in leaps in bounds since then.
It wasn't as if Jon himself had felt any more competent at the start. He hadn’t even known what an Archivist was supposed to do other than Elias’ vague hints and strange insistence he record the statements. He’d been out of his depth, and the pressure from Elias just made him a harsher boss on Martin in turn.
He knew all this. He had traced through this whole thought process many times.
If he was anyone slightly better at dealing with people, he would go and apologize for it, properly. It’s what he should do.
But even imagining saying that to him sends nervous tingles up Jon’s spine—he knows this because he’s actually written down a few drafts of it in a vain attempt to settle his nerves about the whole situation. Three, in fact. And then he promptly stuffed them in his side drawer and tried his best to ignore them.
He thinks if he actually did it, it would feel like baring his soul to Martin.
He might well collapse on the spot, he thinks with a sigh, taking another small sip of his still-too-hot tea. Right. The tea. He stared at it, as though it’s the source of all his problems.
Which he supposes, it kind of was.
Then he shook his head and set the steaming mug aside again to try and put it out of his mind while it cooled down, grabbing the statement he’d been meaning to record before his thoughts got off track.
He stared at it for a moment, but after the third reread of the first paragraph—which was riddled with spelling errors, and almost definitely written by someone under the influence—it became clear he wasn’t going to be able to focus on it right now.
He set it down again with another hefty sigh, letting his finger trail around the edge of the mug, lost in thought.
Once he had closed the door behind him, Martin walked stiffly to his desk. He wasn’t going to get much work done though. Instead, he sat down, and put his face in his hands with a groan.
“Ridiculous,” he muttered to himself, “I’m ridiculous. How in the world am I supposed to work with him when a little ‘thank you’ just about ruins me. . .”
He let his finger run around the rim of the mug he’d gotten for himself, staring at his tea wistfully. He’s an idiot . . . who never knew how to use his words and say ‘thank you’ properly. . .
He stared at the mug like it was the root of all his problems. And I’m the bigger idiot who fell for him. . .
“Martin?”
A voice pulled him out of his thoughts again, and thankfully, it wasn’t Jon, he didn’t think he could survive if it was. Based on the look in Tim’s eye though, he guessed this wasn’t much better.
It looked far too excited for it to be anything good.
“Yeah, Tim?” he managed to respond, without too much of his previous embarrassment showing through, he thought. He was probably wrong about that one though.
“Oh nothing, you just looked . . . a little distracted,” Tim continued in a conspiratorial whisper, “and it actually didn’t look like the normal worries about being on the run from a worm lady. . .”
Martin didn’t respond to this, and Tim took the opportunity to prompt him, “So . . .”
“So, nothing. I’m doing fine, great right now even. Well as great as you can be hiding from a mass of worms,” Martin tried with a huff of laughter, in a likely vain attempt to stop Tim’s scheming. He was proved right a second later.
“Well, I’ve been thinking a bit about our. . . interesting conversation last week. . .”
Right. Of course. The one where Tim had caught him recording one of the many poems he’d made to try to deal with his feelings, rather unsuccessfully, actually. Somehow, writing it all down made it more real. Tim had teased him about his crush, figured out in about two seconds it was on someone else in the office, and tried to give some strange Tim brand ‘advice.’
“Uh huh,” Martin responded again, turning back to his work to try and focus on anything other than this conversation, not even bothering to throw him off anymore. He knew there was no point. He should’ve known Tim would never leave him alone after that.
“Well, Sash’ and I have been talking a bit—”
“Conspiring against me, more like,” Martin muttered quietly.
“—and I have just a feeling you’ve got a bit of a scandalous crush . . . on our lovely and so very personable boss!” Tim announced with a chipper tone.
Martin knew his face was bright red, but Tim just continued, “and honestly, I’m not sure I get it, but that definitely won’t stop me from trying to help you out a bit.”
“No, no, no, Tim,” Martin interrupted quickly, “please, I want literally anything other than your help.”
“I feel like I ought to be offended by that,” he said, raising an eyebrow at him, before smirking, “but I assume that means I’m right. . . too bad Sash’ wouldn't take me up on this one, she knew better. . .”
“Look, fine, fine, you’re right,” Martin finally admitted with a huff, “but that doesn’t matter anyways. I’m not going to do anything about it anyway, and I would prefer if you didn’t either.”
“Why not though?” Tim responded with a grin.
“Because he’s my boss, first of all,” Martin responded, beginning the list of reasons he’d come up with after the first couple weeks of hopeless pining, “and that would be very ‘unprofessional,’ and you know that would bother Jon.”
“Oh, whatever,” Tim brushed off easily, “clearly didn’t stop you from crushing on him anyway.”
“Yeah, cuz’ I’m not going to do anything about it, obviously,” he added with an extra glare at Tim, though he had a feeling it didn’t hold a lot of weight. He never was really good at that.
“Why not? I mean you are still older than him.”
Right. The lie on his CV. He couldn’t help the nervous prickle that goes up his spine. He had hoped after almost 10 years it’d go away eventually. Still, a moment later it’s replaced by curiosity. . .
“Wait, how old is Jon?” He asked, before regretting it immediately, the feeling compounded by the way Tim’s face lit up at the question.
“He’s not even 30 yet,” Tim told him, and maybe it's the look of disbelief on Martin’s face that immediately gave him away, “yeah, I know he’s got the gray hairs, which,” he added with a sly look, “I don’t personally like but I definitely see the appeal for you—”
“Tim!” he shouted, his face flushing before realizing that Jon might hear the commotion,
“—but that’s just because he’s a workaholic,” he finished. Tim looks at him, and Martin could tell he was enjoying this conversation far more than Martin was, “And honestly, good on you for stealing Jon’s sleeping space, means he can’t stay the night at the archives anymore.”
“. . . Thanks?”
“And since you are good for him, I’ve decided to help you in your quest!”
“It’s not a quest, and I do not want your help,” he retorted. He glanced around, “And can we please not talk about this here? His office is right around the corner.”
“He’s so oblivious he probably wouldn’t even notice what we were talking about, just that we were being too loud for him to record,” he said with a shrug.
“Please, Tim,” Martin beseeched, putting his far too red face in his hands again, “I’m actually begging you.”
“Oh, you don’t need to worry so much, Martin,” he said with a nonchalant tone. Still, at Martin’s face, he attempted some reassurance, “Though if it makes you feel better, I saw him pull out a statement to record on his computer so he probably won’t be out for at least another ten, fifteen minutes. You know how hyperfocused he gets. . . and the chances he’s remembered to eat lunch yet are slim.”
“Right,” Martin admitted with a sigh, finally removing his hands from his face looking at Tim again.
“There he is again!” he crowed with a grin. “So now we figure out how to get you two together.”
“Tim, it’s not happening.”
“And again I ask, why not? You are probably too good for him, but who am I to deny you the man who’s caught your fancy?” he responded, wiggling his eyebrows.
“Well, if I disregard the fact he’s my boss—which is a big if—I don’t even know if he’s gay.”
“Well good for you that I’m on your side then, because I can tell you that he is!”
“He is?” Martin asked, probably way too fast, and Tim noticed.
“He is! Well, kind of. . .”
“Kind of? What do you mean, ‘kind of?’”
“Well, he’s bi.”
“Huh,” Martin murmured to himself, tucking it away, another new piece of Jon to know. Then he looked back at Tim, and he knew his ears were red, so he hurriedly responded, “what an interesting piece of information that I will be doing nothing with.” He could see Tim suppressing giggles, so he stares at him with all the force he can muster, “We will be doing nothing about that, right, Tim?”
“Right,” Tim chuckled with a glint in his eyes, and Martin felt his heart sink at the barely disguised lie.
He sighed again. He’d already resigned himself to pining away hopelessly until the end of time, and Tim’s excessive optimism was not helping.
“And thirdly, he barely tolerates me at this point, Tim,” Martin pointed out with a sigh that was not wistful, no matter what Tim said, “I’m telling you, I’ve been here for a while, I’m telling you I don’t have a chance.”
“No, no, that’s just the way Jon is,” Tim tried to reassure, quite ineffectually, “he’s just not good with new people, actually he’s not good with people in general. And I don’t think you’re quite right either, Martin.”
“About what? Because I don’t have a chance . . .”
“Well I disagree with that one too, but actually I meant the barely tolerating bit,” Tim responded with a slightly more serious tone, looking at Martin with a softer smile than his normal grin.
“Suuuuree,” Martin drew out the sound, staring pointedly at Tim.
“Look, maybe it was that way at first, but it definitely isn’t now,” Tim countered, “I mean, he’s offered you his sleeping spot after the whole worm situation—even though he’s still pretending to remain skeptical about the whole situation. He doesn’t do that for people he barely tolerates.”
“No, he would, because even if he doesn’t like me, he’s not a terrible person,” Martin retorts, “he offered me the spot so I didn’t get eaten alive, I don’t think that’s evidence of anything other than him not letting me die.”
“It’s not just that though,” he says with a shake of his head, “he actually asks how you’re doing, and Jon doesn’t just do that.”
“What, you think he likes me?” Martin said with an incredulous huff, “Because he asked me how I was doing after getting run out of my home?”
“No, I don’t think he necessarily likes you yet, just that he’s warming up to you.” When Martin only responded with a shake of his head, he continued, “Look, like I said, Jon isn’t very good with people.”
“Yeah, and that’s supposed to encourage my chances?”
Then Tim was finally silent for a moment. His face looked a little too serious for Martin’s liking, and the pause went on for a little too long until he spoke again.
“Look, Martin, why do you like him?” He asked, and that question did nothing to clear up his confusion.
“Huh?” He responded eloquently.
Tim sighed, “Look, if you think the man hates you, why do you like him anyways?”
Martin stares at him for a long moment, thinking. He supposed that especially early on, Jon’s brusque attitude and snippy comments really hadn’t done anything to help Martin not notice his objectively pretty features—his brown eyes, that almost glowed in just the right light, and his sharp jawline, and his—he cut the thought off. Tried to, at least.
It’s a little more than that though, now. Martin knew it’s more than just that.
Something . . . shifted. Something that had just let him see a little bit past the barbed comments. Something in Jon’s face when he awkwardly—though with an attempt at that on-brand professionalism—offered him a space in the archives. When he believed him.
Tim was still watching him, waiting for a response. Martin could choose not to answer him. And he knew that if he really wanted to, he could get Tim to back off a little bit. Oh, he’d continue to pester and tease him, Martin is sure, but he would know to never go too far.
But. . . maybe it’s strange. He did want to tell someone. It was hard to miss something he never had, but . . .
Martin wanted to have people he could tell things to.
All his feelings have been coiled up in his chest for so long—not just about Jon, though that has been taking up more and more space recently: and Tim is still looking at him, waiting patiently for him to get his words in order.
Martin wanted to tell him.
It still took a moment to organize his thoughts and words perfectly. None of them feel quite right said out loud, they’ve been tangled up in his heart for too long. But Martin tried.
“Well, I guess. . . at first, at least, I did think he was. . . attractive.” Tim didn’t react to that word the way he thought he would, still with that softer expression, and that encouraged him to keep going, “I mean at least at first. . . and now, I—”
He’s not sure how to continue. He knows all the things he wants to say, but now he can’t get them out. Tim watches him for a moment, before prompting gently, “and now?”
“I. . . I realized he . . . he pretends to be professional, and blunt, and standoffish, but. . . that’s not all he is. He does care. . . even if he’s not good at showing it all the time.” He looked up to see Tim nodding slightly, but not interrupting. He started to smile, thinking about that ridiculous man.
“He’s not very good at using his words,” he admitted with a huff of laughter. “Well sometimes he’s very good at using them to push people away.” Martin knew about that last bit. Jon had been unnecessarily rude, and sarcastic, and . . . yet. Somehow Martin could tell it was all just a front: because the person who Jon pushed the hardest? That was himself.
“If anything he cares too much, no matter how much he tries to hide it.” He tried to continue, his tone softer, “and I—”
I think I love him. He can’t get himself to say that bit out loud.
But he does love him.
He loves the slight huff of laughter he makes whenever one of Tim’s jokes finally hits right. It’s such a small thing, barely a half-chuckle, but Martin thinks it might be one of the most beautiful sounds in the world.
He loves it when he starts to go on a tirade about something he’s so obviously passionate about. Those little rants about Getrude’s terrible organizational skills have no right to be that adorable.
He loves that almost-smile he gives whenever Martin’s brings him his tea. His eyes crinkled ever so slightly at the corners as he lifts the mug and breathes in the steam, and Martin thinks he wants to see that smile every day of his life.
Tim is still looking at him and he realizes that he’s gone silent for a long moment. He feels his cheeks heating up at the realization he was so deep in his thoughts about Jonathon Sims, and it isn’t helped by Tim’s laughs.
“Penny for your thoughts?” he asked with a grin.
“No, I uh. I think I’ll be keeping those last ones to himself, actually,” he said with a bright smile.
“Well, I think this conversation has been very enlightening.”
“Has it now?” Martin responded, finally taking a sip of his tea.
“Yep!” Tim responded cheerfully, “You are down bad, my friend.”
“I think I already knew that bit,” Martin muttered, “but thank you oh so much for reminding me.”
“Look. . . Martin,” Tim began, “you’re obviously free to do as you please, to pine away forever and ever—”
“That’s the plan!”
“—but I feel it is my duty as a friend to tell you that the situation isn’t as hopeless as it might look to you, and I think—”
“What are you two talking about?” Came the irritated question, and Martin was certain his face was as red as a tomato, though, honestly it was hard to find a point in this conversation where he wasn’t blushing. He’s very lucky Tim is better at keeping a straight face—and on his side for once—as the very object of the conversation appears in the hallway.
“Oh nothing much,” Tim responded easily, “Just got tired, and came to distract dear old Martin a little bit.”
“Well, I actually was looking for you, I need that follow-up done for the Adams case very soon.”
“Of course, boss, it’s already done, I’ll go get it from my desk in just a second,” Tim said, adding in a dramatic salute for flair.
“Right, good.” Jon paused, then looked at Martin, “And don’t let him distract you too much, you both are still on company time.”
“R-right, of course!” Martin managed.
Jon then walked off, presumably back to his office, and Tim turned around to whisper at him, “Look, I’m not one to judge most of the time, but I mean. That’s the one?”
“Oh, believe me, I’m very aware,” Martin huffed, his face still far too hot. He sighed, before shooing him off, “Now get back to work, and stop distracting me, Mr. Stoker!”
“Oh of course,” he stood up from where he was leaning on Martin’s desk, though he threw him one quip back, “and let me know when you need my help with a certain someone~!”
“Which will be never!” Martin shouted after him, before finally turning to get started on his mug, and the new case, a small weight lifted off his chest.