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Jon first noticed Martin’s hands when he caught sight of him holding a precariously balanced teacup.
It wasn’t such a strange sight, truth be told. Martin often made tea for the Archive staff—with less frequency than he used to, but still with a gentle, familiar regularity that Jon always reminded himself not to take advantage of. Over the years working together, Martin had become quite good at making tea for others, remembering their specific preferences and always choosing the mug they liked best. Jon’s was a plain white thing, with a sturdier-than-usual handle and a matching saucer that had been lost in the kitchenette’s cupboards at some miscellaneous point in time.
There was nothing out of the ordinary about the first moment he took notice of Martin’s hands, nor in the moments leading up to that moment. He'd thought about it a lot, replaying that moment over in his mind like a tape he could rewind at will. Really, Jon thought it was quite peculiar. For a moment he wondered if his thoughts had latched onto something he needed to Know, but the static buzz that accompanied those particular thoughts was absent, so it couldn’t have been that.
It wasn’t like Martin’s hands were unusual. Perhaps that was why he stared so hard as Martin carried in his teacup, the sturdy, white one he favoured, one hand preoccupied with keeping it steady while the other balanced an unruly pile of faded manila folders against his hip. Such normal looking hands. Temptingly normal.
“Tea, Jon?” Martin set the cup down with not a drop spilt as he finally took control of his folders. When Jon didn’t reply straight away, Martin tacked on another inquisitive, “Jon?”
It was enough to draw Jon’s attention away from his muddling thoughts. He lifted his chin off his knuckles, where he’d been resting his head for the better part of the last two hours while he recorded statements. “Oh? Hmm.” A regular scene unfolded before him as his eyes sharpened, mind switching from the task at hand to the task present before him. Martin, with the cup of afternoon tea he always brought Jon, correctly assuming Jon would like it. He was dressed warmly today, in blue trousers and a cream sweater with ribbed cuffs. The colour suited him, Jon thought. Gave his hair a bit of a redder tone than usual.
“I didn’t interrupt anything, did I?” Martin worried.
“No, I finished a little bit ago.” Jon gestured to the tape recorder perched on the corner of his desk, currently switched off. Some statements he could puzzle out immediately, making connections between facts and recalling relevant names or events with as much ease as breathing. Others took effort, required dives into the recesses of his memory, and often into the musty reaches of the Archive where helpful information could be buried behind decades of disorganized files and at least three inches of cloying dust. Some threads of thought dragged him from his chair, from his office, into the mountains of files the Archive Assistants usually navigated, stacked high in their office. Others wound around his legs, his arms, and kept him glued to his desk, scouring the deepest edges of his memory. Today's statements had been the latter.
“Right.” Martin tilted his head to the side, just a few degrees, a befuddled look briefly passing over his face. He crossed his arms over his chest, trapping the files against his sweater, and fidgeted in the way he often did. Jon’s eyes were drawn down to those hands once more, where they curved over the edges of the pile of folders, now held far steadier with both at attention.
They were certainly interesting hands, even in their normalness. The rational part of his mind named them proportional, strong-looking, his knuckles standing out at the barely-there strain of holding the folders in place. The fanciful fringes of his mind, however, named them other things—slightly boyish, fingernails slightly unkept but pleasingly rounded, the skin on one slightly pinked from the radiating heat of the teacup, though that pinkish mark was fading now.
Normal, yes, but… attractive.
The thought surprised him. He fought to keep his face even.
“Are you alright, Jon?”
He blinked several times, and then glanced up over the rim of his glasses, which he’d needed to put on during the last statement when his eyes had begun to ache with weariness. One wouldn't think that looking into the depths of one's memory would cause eye strain, and yet. “Yes, Martin,” he sighed, sitting more upright. Something in his back crunched at the motion. “Just busy.”
It was a pointed dismissal, although not entirely true. Perhaps if those hands were no longer in eyesight, he could get back to work. Back to thinking about something other than their strange, inherent attractiveness.
“Right,” Martin said again. “I’ll let you get to it, then.”
“Thank you for the tea,” Jon remembered to say, before Martin was completely out of the door.
He received a small smile for his efforts.
The thoughts pressed to the surface of his mind again when he needed Martin to follow up a lead for him. He’d spent the day buried in statements, an increasingly normal occurrence, his strength never waning, as if they nourished him. They probably did, come to think of it, but that wasn’t the point. He’d buried his nose in his work and only when he needed more than one pair of hands working on it did he surface, looking for the nearest willing Assistant.
Namely, Martin. Of course it was Martin. Even if he saw someone else, his eyes skimmed over them, looking for that familiar, round face amongst the Archive shelves and desks.
He found Martin at a computer, hunched over a file, papers sprawled across the space beside the keyboard. There was an empty teacup next to him, and a wrapper leftover from lunch full of crumbs. Jon only noticed these things in the barest of ways, because his eyes instead fixated on Martin’s hands, poised over the keyboard.
Jon was surprised to see that Martin was fairly competent at typing. He wasn’t sure why this surprised him, and felt a faint stirring of guilt that he swiftly smothered. Martin was good at his job, had vastly improved over years. His research skills were useful, and his computer skills were probably better than Jon’s, considering how reluctant Jon was to use computers in the first place.
Martin’s often intense desire to assist with Jon’s work in any way he could helped, Jon thought.
For what it was worth, Martin typed at a consistent speed. Both hands sat poised over the keys, one thumb hovering over the space bar at most times. His eyes glanced from the computer screen to the keyboard every few seconds, but he seemed to know the placement of the letter keys well, because he hardly made any mistakes.
There was an… elegance to his fingers, Jon supposed. An intriguing way they moved. Competent, yes, but efficient and smooth, too. Jon found himself keenly watching the shape of them as they bent and straightened over the keys, tapping away with a rhythm that probably could’ve lulled Jon to sleep if he payed enough attention.
“Jon?”
The fingers stopped their hypnotizing movements, and Jon jerked his eyes up, meeting Martin’s confused gaze.
“Are you alright?”
“Yes, yes.” He forced the words out with a shake of his head, casting the image of those lovely hands from his mind to instead launch into an explanation of what he needed. “You know that statement about the sudden manholes in Kensington, where they just open up out of nowhere? The one about–”
“The ones related to The Buried?”
“Yes, those! They’re from November, two years ago.”
“And we assumed the Buried was, well, burying people in, in sudden small spaces, right? Just opening up?”
“Exactly!” The tantalizing buzz of a trail picking up hummed through Jon’s skull, like a rush of synapses firing, like a burst of flurried wings when a flock of birds were startled, and all thoughts of hands disappeared from his mind entirely. “Can you look into…”
One evening, when Jon was walking into the Institute, he caught sight of Martin crouched down beside the entrance stairs. Jon had just been chasing down a disappointing lead, and his mood was about as friendly as a rabid dog’s, leaving him tense and restless for… more. Hungry, even.
(More what? Hungry for what? Information, of course. Knowledge, certainly. Connections between dots. Compliant and fluent statement givers. Certifiable answers. Facts. Indisputable knowledge. But it was more than that. A deep, slathering craving for more. A kind of persistent starvation. More… more.)
He was desperate to plunge himself into the depths of the Archive, to scoop up the first statement that called to him and read until the hunger inside him was sated. Usually, nothing would stop him from doing so. Other urges fell away when something more monstrous in him demanded attention.
At the sight of Martin, however, he paused. It was rare for any of them to leave the Archive nowadays, let alone the entire Institute. He spied a grocery store bag slumped beside Martin’s feet, and Knew without peering inside of it that it contained a carton of fresh milk, a variety of tea boxes, Jon’s favourite biscuits, and a loaf of bread that would be demolished by the others before the evening was out. The fridge had seemed a bit sparse that morning, he remembered.
Before he could think on it, his feet carried him closer, quietly. Martin had one arm outstretched, and when Jon got the right angle, he saw a stray cat curled into a crevice of the building, watching the world beyond with suspicious, thin eyes. The Institute didn’t get an enormous amount of foot traffic, so he supposed it was as good a place as any for a stray cat to hunker down in the dying beams of an unusually warm sunset.
Compelled by Martin’s pitched cooing, the bedraggled creature crept forwards, nose outstretched to touch Martin’s offered knuckles. It seemed to sense Martin’s good intentions, and began to rub its cheek against his fingers, whiskers twitching. Martin let out a huff of laughter so soft Jon only saw it in the slight shake of his shoulders as he rubbed his fingers over the cat’s head and cheeks. He crooked his index finger, scrubbed under the cat’s tilted chin, and then seemed to find a good spot behind its perked ears, if the way it gleefully closed its eyes were any indication.
Jon stood there, feeling oddly… thoughtless. He watched, eyes pinned on the gentle ministrations of Martin’s fingers. His gaze travelled up Martin’s arm, taking him all in—one hand for the cat, the other rested on his knee for balance, his head turned away from the sun so the light didn’t blind him, putting a pretty shadow over his face that seemed to make his warm eyes glow. He was wearing that cream sweater again today, though he’d pushed the sleeves up, the ribbed cuffs stretched wide around his forearms just beneath the crook of his elbow.
Before Martin could notice him, Jon slipped into the Institute, feeling a new kind of turmoil budding inside him. It was a familiar, tart feeling, and it was with a ludicrous scoff at himself that he recognised it as jealousy. Him, jealous? Of a cat, of all things? It was ridiculous.
But in the solitude of his own mind, he couldn’t deny it. He furiously turned the thought over and over, probing it for weakness as he descended into the Institute, making a beeline for the Archive, where he could brood, not sulk, in private. He was jealous of that stray because it had Martin’s hands all over it, petting it, making it feel good.
Unbidden, he imagined what it would feel like, to have Martin’s hands in his hair or clutching his hips or entwined with his own, palms pressed to palms. Warm, of course it would feel warm. Heavy, all-encompassing warmth. The same warmth that glowed in his eyes when Martin was happy would bleed through his skin. And weren’t Martin’s hands larger than his own? He glanced down at one hand, fingers spread, considering the size. Martin was taller and broader than him, bigger in every sense of the word, so it stood to reason his hands would be too. How much would they dwarf his? How tightly could they hold onto his fingers, trace over his scars, pull him in closer?
A shiver trembled its way through him.
Stupid, stupid thoughts, and yet…
He sighed.
And yet.
Jon was a little ashamed to admit it, but he watched Martin a lot more after that. It wasn’t as though he hadn’t before, but this level of scrutiny was new, even to him. He’d never thought of himself as a particularly creative person, but the images his mind conjured up of those hands… It left him feeling a little delirious, sometimes. Heady. He’d never been the type of person who pursued sexual gratification and doubted that such an essential part of him had changed, but that wasn’t to say he didn’t enjoy certain bodily pleasures every now and then.
It was a complicated, fluid thing, in any case.
He watched Martin making food in the kitchenette, once. A few days after the stray cat incident. He’d gone to make himself a cup of tea and caught Martin hunched over a chopping board. Cucumber slices and strips of cut lettuce sat to one side. There was an open sandwich with ham sitting on a plate to the other side, evidently waiting for the accompanying salads.
The knife in Martin’s right hand cut cleanly through the ripe, glossy tomato steadied by his left. It was a simple, mindless task, Jon knew that, but there were those hands again, and he was instantly transfixed. Martin handled the small vegetable knife appropriately, keeping the tips of his fingers tucked away from the sharp edge of the blade. His grip on the knife was steady, knuckles slightly protruding. He hadn’t seemed to notice Jon yet, but Jon really was quite desperate for tea, so he cleared his throat and entered.
“Tea?” he asked.
Martin jolted a little, his grip on the knife going slack. “Jon! What? Oh, tea would be great, yes, thank you.”
“Sorry to startle you,” Jon said, as he flicked the kettle on, and riffled around the cupboards for two clean mugs. Plain white with a sturdy handle for him, sunny yellow with a smiling, cartoon cow’s face for Martin.
“No, you didn’t, it’s, it’s fine.” Martin gave him a nervous smile and returned to slicing the tomato. “Are you hungry? I can make one for you, if you like?”
Jon shook his head.
Silence settled. It was always a little uncomfortable with Martin, Jon thought. There were things he wanted to say, and they all got lodged somewhere between his brain and his mouth. Martin always stumbled through something or other to fill it. Somehow, against the odds, Jon liked it. This weird, uncomfortable little silence they’d always shared. He was far less prickly and cold than he’d been when they first met, and Martin less of a pushover. It somehow made him want to smile.
The kettle rumbled on. He methodically slipped teabags into each mug, then sugar—two for him, only one for Martin—and fetched the milk from the fridge.
“S-so, how’s the statement reading going?” Martin asked, casting a quick glance at him out of the corner of his eyes.
“Oh, you know,” Jon said, after a pause, because he really was bad at this whole conversation thing. Especially when he was incredibly distracted, as he was.
Silence, again. The kettle clicked off.
“Sure you’re not hungry?” Martin pressed.
“I’m sure. Thank you though, Martin,” he added. He was getting better at remembering to add that.
Another quick smile. Jon had a desperate urge to make that smile longer, and scrounged around for something, anything, to say.
“And the filing?” was what sprouted ever so intelligently from his mouth. “Going well?”
“Oh, you know,” Martin repeated, a hint of teasing in his voice.
Jon let out an amused breath through his nose. He poured boiling water in both cups but paused before adding milk. Martin had made him tea hundreds of times, but he’d only returned the gesture a mere handful, and never quite knew if he got it exactly to Martin’s preference. It seemed like such a small thing to know, and yet he didn’t.
A small part of him realised he could Know, if he thought about it. Know in the way things just… came to him. Made a space in his mind. Parted the curtain of his thoughts to contribute a fact he need not work for. He didn’t want that, though. This was something he wanted to know for himself, just for himself.
“Milk?” he forced himself to ask.
Martin startled a little again. “Oh, no. No thank you, I mean.”
Jon only hummed. He filed away the information for later. One sugar, no milk, leave the teabag in for a little while. In comparison, his own tea was a monstrosity—sugary, probably a splash too much of milk, usually with the teabag in until it turned bitter mostly because he usually forgot to take it out if he was making it himself. It was nice to know, though. To know the little habits of life that made up Martin. Little, unique titbits.
When the tea was done, he slid Martin’s mug over to him, and picked up his own. His eyes lingered on Martin’s hands for an indulgent moment. Martin had finished with the tomato and was layering thin slices of it over the ham. It seemed like he had a particular order to it. So methodical, Jon thought.
“Thank you, Jon,” Martin said again, though this time he nodded towards the tea.
Jon made some sort of noise that passed for acknowledgement and made himself leave the kitchenette. Daisy raised an eyebrow as he hurried past, and he studiously ignored the pointed eye-roll she gave him. He didn’t need to skim her thoughts to know exactly what she was thinking.
Another time, after a rather nasty encounter with old, loose shelving in the deep recesses of the Archive, he found Martin in the men’s room, trying in vain to scrub the chunks of black dust from his jumper. Jon hadn’t been there when the shelves decided they simply couldn’t take the weight of their files any longer, but he had heard the shouts of Martin and Melanie when it had all come tumbling down. There was so much dust that it was still pluming in the air when he rushed down there, heart hammering, mind full of silvery worms and fleshy, almost-humans.
He’d been somewhat relieved to know it was just unhappy shelving, to be frank. Martin and Melanie, however, were less so.
Melanie hadn’t been wearing a cardigan or jumper when the shelf had collapsed, so her shirt had taken the brunt of the dusk. Grey fuzz had coated her like a second skin, and even though dust couldn’t be stabbed or even feel pain, there was no doubt in his mind that she’d find a way.
Martin was a little more fortunate, in a sense. He'd wrenched his jumper off over his head, coughing as the dust settled around them. For a brief moment, the movement had caused his shirt to ride up, and Jon’s eyes had fixated on the strip of skin left exposed. A pale, freckled wedge of hip burned itself into his memory. It looked so soft, that part of him. The hem of his trousers dug in a little, causing a small roll, and Jon wanted nothing more than to put his hands there, to know what it felt like to hold Martin in such an intimate way.
Of course, Melanie’s colourful cussing served as an apt reminder that this was neither the time nor the place for such thoughts.
“Are you two hurt?” he'd asked as he surveyed the scene.
“No, no, we’re fine, I think,” Martin answered, when it became clear that Melanie was set on dust-related homicide. “Erm, sorry about, about the shelf? I guess? It kind of just came down the second we moved a box…”
“No need to worry,” Jon said. “How about you two go… clean up, and I’ll deal with this. I could use a break anyway.”
“Fucking shelves,” Melanie had hissed, storming past him, her hands already shaking the dust out of her hair. She was gone before Jon had finished his sentence.
Martin took longer to go, eyes darting between the collapsed shelf and Jon. “I should help clean, at least, right? I can help.”
“It’s fine, Martin,” Jon reassured. “You’re covered in dust.”
Martin’s nose wiggled with a suppressed sneeze. “I suppose you’re right… Just shout, if you need me– I mean, need help, alright?”
“Of course.” Though he wouldn’t. In the end, Basira came down and helped him, having seen Melanie storm through the Archive in a whirl of dust and colourful words that would put any sailor to shame. They managed to heave the ancient shelf back into place and secure it with screws that weren’t rusted through that Basira found in a nearby storage room. The files were a scattered mess on the floor, but it wasn’t like there had been any order to them in the first place, so they just stuffed them back into boxes and prayed the shelf would hold at least until it became someone else's problem to deal with.
Martin’s present efforts to get the dust out of his jumper appeared to be rather futile. The bathroom sinks were too small for the task, and the dust was thickly embedded in the fabric of the jumper, as dense as dryer lint that hadn't been cleared out for ages. “Damnit,” Martin sighed.
Jon watched his hands, of course. Water coursed over Martin’s skin where his sleeves had been crudely pushed up over his elbows, following the minute dips and bumps of his skin. It curled over his wrists and ran between his knuckles, dripping onto the floor below. His fingers were scrunched around fistfuls of his sopping jumper, wringing out dirty grey water. With every twist of the fabric the muscles in his exposed forearms tensed and then released. It wasn’t like Martin was a particularly muscled man, but he was big, and that lent its own kind of strength.
And Jon was transfixed.
His mouth had gone dry, and he couldn’t entirely blame the dust he’d breathed in. This fixation of his had evidently gone too far.
“You’re alright?” he managed to choke out.
Martin glanced up into the mirror above the sink, meeting Jon’s eyes in it. “Oh, yeah, I’m alright.” He paused for a moment, then frowned, a gentle downward curve of his lips. “Are you alright, Jon? You’re looking a little, well, a little harried, of sorts.”
Jon glanced at his reflection. Martin wasn’t wrong, of course. His eyes were wide, his skin a weird mix of flushed where the redness showed on the unscarred parts of his face. He fought to wrangle his expression back into the cold, hard lines he recognised.
“I’m fine,” he said. It was mostly convincing. Probably. “Well, I’ll leave you to it. Be careful with those old shelves in future.”
Martin gave him a wry smile, looking a little flustered. “I will, thank you.”
With a spiralling sense of déjà vu, he caught Daisy’s eyes as he scurried back to the safety of his office. The savage roll of her eyes was palpable.
“Pathetic, Jon!” she called after him.
“Shut up, Daisy,” he called back.
He didn’t mean to overhear the conversation. He really, truly didn’t. But he didn’t back off once he realised what he was listening to, either, so he was kind of a prick for that. He still listened, though.
“D-Daisy, can I ask your advice on something?”
“What is it, Martin?”
Martin paused for a moment. “Well, it’s about Jon.”
There was a longsuffering sigh. “What’s he done this time?”
“I don’t know, exactly.” Another pause. “Actually, I think– well, I think I did something, maybe? Possibly? I don’t know. He’s just been… weird lately. Around me.”
“Weird how?” There was a suspicious edge to Daisy’s voice. “Knowing things, weird?”
“No!” Martin was always quick to jump to Jon’s defence, even when Jon most certainly did not deserve it. “No, nothing like that. You know he wouldn’t.”
“With you,” Daisy corrected. “He wouldn’t with you. Or he tries really hard not to.”
Jon winced. She wasn’t wrong.
Martin also seemed to wince. “Yes, well. He– he’s been watching me a lot, lately. Like, I sometimes catch him watching when he thinks I haven’t noticed, and it’s really… intense. Like he’s waiting for me to slip up, or, or something. Make a mistake.” A pause. “I don’t know.”
Daisy let out another ragged sigh.
“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to bother you,” Martin rushed to say. “You just seem close to him. Closer than Basira or Melanie.”
“Jon’s just an idiot,” Daisy said. “And a coward, to boot.”
“I’m sorry?”
“A coward,” Daisy repeated, more forcefully. “Most definitely. He just won’t say what he wants. That’s all.”
“So, I’m not… imagining it, then?” Martin hedged.
“No.”
“And he doesn’t think I’ve done something wrong?”
“No.”
“Oh.” Yet another pause. “Oh. Okay. Uh, thanks for listening to me, I guess? Sorry.”
“It’s fine. Don’t apologise so much.”
“Really, thank you.”
“I said it’s fine, Martin.”
“Right.”
Jon had not been as subtle as he’d thought. He didn’t want to worry Martin, or worse, scare him. This level of interpersonal intensity was foreign to him, and dreadfully addictive. Martin’s hands were delightful things, as most of Martin was, and he’d just never noticed quite how pretty they were to look at. He didn’t know what had prompted this abrupt obsession, but he couldn’t shake it.
Mercifully, it seemed he wouldn’t have to face this problem head on.
One night, after a long, drawn-out day of work, Jon was restlessly pacing the Archive. This was not an unusual occurrence. He’d finishing recording the statements that demanded his attention that day but he couldn’t get his mind to settle. His thoughts raced around his head in dizzying circles. Not even the tea Martin had sleepily dropped off for him more than an hour ago had calmed him.
The others had gone home, and he’d assumed Martin had too, but when he did a loop of the research rooms, he saw Martin slumped across his desk, bathed in the rigid white glow of his computer screen. He had his head rested on his folded arms, one hand exposed and loosely curled by his nose. He’d fallen asleep there, too reluctant to leave Jon alone at night.
Jon knew at once then that he was helplessly in love with the man.
He inched into the Archive Assistant’s office, making a careful path around Basira’s desk to reach Martin’s. When he pressed his fingertips into Martin’s palm, tracing a path down his curled fingers, he felt an unsteady breath escape him. Such soft hands for someone who had faced so much brutality. Jon felt a little doting as he curled his fingers around Martin’s, fascinated by the stark difference in the colours of their skin—his dark and pock-marked from various scars, Martin’s pale and smooth, blissfully scar-free.
It would hurt to sleep there, Jon knew. He'd done it himself on many unfortunate occasions. Martin would get a crick in his neck, or an ache in his back, that would make working tomorrow dreadful. He only allowed himself a few more moments of contact before he took his hand away, and instead gently shook Martin awake.
Martin’s eyes fluttered open as he let out a sleepy, disorientated mumble. “Jon?”
“You can’t sleep here,” Jon said, though there was no strictness in his voice. “Go sleep in the cot for tonight.”
“But you sleep there,” Martin argued, voice slurred, as he blinked up at Jon owlishly.
“I still have some work to do,” Jon lied. “Come on, now.”
Martin stood, swaying on unsteady feet. A yawn stretched his jaw. Jon tentatively put a hand on the small of his back, delighting in the way it felt to guide Martin from the office that way. If Martin noticed the touch, he didn’t seem to care. In fact, he slouched against Jon’s shoulder, undeterred by the difference in their heights. He let out a sleepy rumble as his cheek touched the side of Jon’s head.
What surprised Jon the most was how warm Martin was. He'd known Martin exuded warmth in more ways that one, but actually being close enough to feel it, to have it brush against him, was an entirely different experience. It radiated from him, soft and sweet. His hand on Martin’s back pressed a little harder as he selfishly enjoyed their closeness. A small part of him fervently hoped Martin would fall asleep at the Institute more often, just so Jon could care for him this way. But that was silly, of course it was. Martin didn’t deserve to overwork himself to the point of falling asleep at his desk.
It was remarkably easy to settle Martin in the cot. Since he’d moved out all that time ago, Jon had been the one using the cot the most. He wondered if it smelled like him. He hoped it did, just a little.
Martin sighed as he sunk down against the mattress, head cushioned by the thin pillow Jon preferred. He looked like he was already asleep again, but when Jon began to move away, he reached out and snagged Jon’s hand. It sent a thrill through him.
“Martin?”
“You’ll rest, won’t you?” Martin pleaded. “Take a break, at least. Please, Jon.”
How could he resist? “Alright,” he conceded. “But only if you go to sleep.”
Martin smiled, sleepy and warm and dazed. He squeezed Jon’s fingers, thumb sweeping over the back of Jon’s hand. “Okay,” he whispered.
“Okay,” Jon whispered back.
Martin was out like a light after that. Jon lowered his hand back onto the cot, carefully placing it so that Martin would be comfortable. He drew the thin sheet up over him, tucked in the sides. Considered taking off Martin’s shoes, but thought better of it, and made himself leave the room.
He was in far over his head, he knew that much. Unknown territory spread out before him. No clue what to do. It was scary, he realised. He couldn’t map the sheer breadth of things he felt as he clutched his hand to his chest, the one Martin had so gently squeezed. It was so scary.
And yet.
He let out a deep, quiet breath. A smile touched his face, a real one. The first real one in what felt like years.
And yet.
Still, jealousy was a persistent master, and Jon found it making its opinion known the next time Melanie decided it was a good idea to get trashed in the office. Jon couldn’t begrudge her, he supposed. Basira and Daisy joined in, of course, in their own measures—Basira lightly, Daisy with far more gusto than Jon thought someone of her frame could manage. It was a slow evening anyway, and in an effort to improve his tenuous relationships with his co-workers, he joined them.
Mostly by sitting to the side and watching, studiously ignoring the itch to get back to statements, but it was the thought that counted. And, well. It was an attempt on his behalf, anyway. The girls didn’t seem to notice. Martin did, though, and really that was what mattered to Jon.
From what he could see, Jon didn’t think Martin was much of a drinker. Although the alcohol Melanie had procured seemed to be more like the kind of thing that would strip paint right off a wall, so. There was that. But Martin had sipped a little at the glass pressed into his hand by an indulgent Basira, who thought that at least holding a glass would discourage Melanie from both her and Martin needing to drink too much.
(Jon, for a moment, took to scolding himself for Knowing that. He still hadn’t quite managed to work out how to stop skimming people’s thoughts. He wished it hadn’t become such a habit.)
There was a very faint rosiness to Martin’s cheeks that gave him quite the appealing glow. He held the glass in one hand, fingers curled securely around its ridged edge. Only a scant, almost-inch of glass over the top and bottom of his fingers showed. Jon tried to imagine it like that, tried to measure Martin’s hands against his own. What was the difference in size when he held a glass the same way, compared to Martin?
Silly thoughts, of course. Arbitrary measurements.
Consuming ones, though.
Melanie’s intoxication eventually led to dancing, if it could be called that. She grabbed Daisy’s hand and spun her into Basira, who still had that indulgent look on her usually no-nonsense face. But then Melanie went for Martin, slotting her tiny hand in his, yanking him into her gravity. He stammered and stuttered and almost lost his drink over the carpet, but he didn’t seem upset as Melanie rocked his arm side to side, getting him to dance as best as she could.
Sound seemed to fade as Jon stared at the place their hands connected. Melanie was holding on tight, likely to keep herself upright, and Martin was loosely returning the grip. His fingers curled over hers, dwarfing them, gentle but solid.
Jon was so, so jealous.
He wanted to hold Martin’s hands. He wanted that gentle, solid grip over his fingers. Hell, he even wanted to dance with Martin, if it meant being close, being near enough to feel the warmth he knew Martin radiated. The urge was furious and ugly inside of him, to get between them, to have Martin all to himself. Like a piece of knowledge he could keep tucked up inside his head, only for him to enjoy, to luxuriate in.
It was stupid. Obviously it was. Martin wasn’t a possession, something that could be owned or enjoyed by a single person, and Jon hated thinking of him so. But that desire to be close was so overwhelming he thought he might choke on it.
“Don’t look so sour,” Basira said, sidling up to him with a look hidden in her eyes he didn’t like. “You know she’s gay. And also drunk.”
Jon knew that. Of course he did. But it wasn’t about Melanie trying to… make a move on Martin, or anything. No. He knew she wouldn’t, least of all because she wasn’t interested in men. His jealousy was worse than that. He was jealous just because she could have that, could have that closeness he so desperately craved. She could just take his hand and enjoy his warmth and there was nothing complicated in it at all.
As if Basira could hear his roiling thoughts, she let out a sigh, and dug her elbow into his side. “Stop being an idiot,” she said.
“I’m not,” he denied with a mutter.
She barely contained a roll of her eyes that was so much like Daisy’s that Jon once again felt a cruel stab of jealousy.
“Right,” she said, with a tone of finality he really didn’t like. “Let’s go.”
“What?” Jon barely had time to set down his own glass—just water, because he was boring—before Basira jabbed him so hard in the ribs he stumbled forwards. “Ow! Basira, what are you–?”
And then he was caught up in Melanie’s gravity too, hustled into their little group between Daisy and a desk before Melanie caught sight of him.
“Come out of your creepy shadows have you, Jon?” she declared triumphantly, snatching up his hand to yank him towards her. “Are you even at least a little bit drunk yet?”
“What? No,” he said, affronted.
“So dull!” she groused. “Here, Martin, you deal with him.” And with that, she all but shoved him towards a wide-eyed Martin, who caught him by the shoulder before he could fall face first into the floor.
The searing heat was what Jon felt first, aside from embarrassment and contempt for drunk-Melanie’s obtuseness. Martin’s hand, the one not holding his glass, was curled over the edge of Jon's shoulder, fingertips ever so slightly digging into the meat of his back. He’d fallen far enough forwards than his chest was resting against Martin’s, and it was with a great deal of embarrassment that he straightened, though not so far that Martin’s hand would fall away.
“Sorry, Martin,” he said, his voice as he could manage. “I probably should’ve stayed in my office.”
“No, of course not,” Martin answered, with something close to a laugh. He hadn’t seemed to notice his hand on Jon’s shoulder. “Everyone’s glad to see you out of that room. And I mean, it’s nice, isn’t it? To get out for a bit. Socialise. You know?”
Jon considered it, and the nodded. He wasn’t actually a big fan of socialising, but he knew agreeing would ease some of Martin’s worries about him. It wasn’t so bad, really.
Absentmindedly, Martin took a sip from his glass, but then winced and set it down on the table behind him. “God, that stuff’s awful.”
“Smells like paint thinner, to be honest,” Jon said.
Martin laughed. “Yes, you’re right. Don’t know why I even had a few sips.”
“Oh, well, custom and all that.” Jon waved a vague hand at their co-workers. It wasn’t like they really left the Institute to get drinks at a pub anymore, so this was as close as they could manage. It felt almost normal.
Martin gave him a small, laughy smile, and squeezed his shoulder. Jon’s eyes darted down to his hand, drawn by that tingling grip, by the need to know what Martin’s hands looked like on him.
Martin, however, quickly drew his hand away. “Sorry, Jon. Didn’t realise I was–”
Jon blinked, and repressed a sigh as Martin trailed off awkwardly. “It’s quite alright.” He thought for a moment, and then added, as boldly as he could manage, “Thank you for catching me, by the way. Melanie has quite the arm.”
Another smile surfaced on Martin’s face. “Don’t I know it.”
And then silence settled. It was still tense and awkward, but Jon didn’t hate it. He found himself leaning into Martin, just a little. Martin’s shoulder brushed against his, and Jon realised he couldn’t have been the only one leaning in. When he glanced at Martin, he saw that Martin was looking pointedly away, and that the tips of his ears had gone red. From this close, he spied dozens of faint freckles all over Martin’s cheeks, some even leading down under the collar of his shirt, into unknown places.
He stayed pressed there until Melanie got so drunk she only wanted to sleep, and Basira had to deal with an overtly clingy Daisy who mumbled something about Basira’s sheer prettiness. Jon doubted anything could have drawn him away from that warmth, from the gentle pressure of Martin’s arm against his back, where Martin had his hand pressed on the table behind Jon for balance.
He needed more.
It all came to a head, eventually. It was predictable, even, and Jon was just too stubborn to admit it. He liked Martin far more than he had any right to, was tormented by images of freckles and lovely hands and the sound of that little smile-laugh Martin was prone to showing.
Jon worked back one night, as was becoming the case more often than not. He was hard-pressed to concentrate, plagued by a throbbing behind his temples he hadn’t been able to shake for the last twelve hours. Not even the tea Martin had brought him helped, even though it usually did. He’d expected his co-workers to have all gone home, but when he dragged himself from his office in search of something to ease his discomfort, he found a familiar figure in the kitchenette.
“Martin?”
The man in question startled, and spun around to face him. “Jon! I was just making you tea.”
“You’re still here?” Jon squinted at his watch, and was rather annoyed to find it close to midnight. He hardly had any work to show for it.
“Well, I saw your office light on, and I thought– well I thought you might like the company? I think?” Martin fidgeted, his cheeks flushing. “You seemed a little… off today. Distracted.”
Jon leaned against the doorframe, letting out a sort of hum he hoped sufficed as an answer. He couldn’t help but rub at his temples. “Just a headache.”
Worry creased the space between Martin’s brows. “You look like you’re going to collapse at any second.”
Jon only hummed again. Were the lights in the kitchenette brighter than in his office?
“Jon.” A hand carefully touched his elbow, guiding his hand away from his head. “Perhaps its best if you had a little lie down.”
Again, the thrill of being touched by Martin shuddered through him, and he found himself powerless to resist.
“Come on.” Martin inched him away from the doorframe, keeping one hand on his elbow as he guided Jon towards the storage room where they kept the cot. The same one Jon used frequently when he worked too late to return home, and where Martin had lived for several months during the entire Jane Prentiss fiasco. Where he’d made Martin sleep not too long ago.
The darkness of the storage room was welcome. An inch of tension left him as Jon settled on the edge of the cot with a deep sigh. Away from his work, he could hardly remember why he was trying so hard to make progress. His head hurt too much to get anything of worth done.
“I’ll just go get you that tea, okay?” Martin said, his hand withdrawing from Jon’s arm. “Try and lie down.”
Jon couldn’t bring himself to. He blinked around in the darkness when Martin was gone, and found himself sharply missing the company. There was no way Martin had enough work to keep him back this late tonight, which meant he’d only stayed because Jon had, and he’d been worried. Jon didn’t need to think hard to know that one. He just knew, all on his own.
God, he was being pathetic.
Martin returned, carrying with him a steaming cup of tea in a plain white mug. He pressed it into Jon’s weary hands, fingers overlapping Jon’s to keep it steady as he took a long, grateful sip. He hardly felt the burn.
“How’s the head?” Martin asked.
“On the verge of imploding.”
“You’ve been working too hard,” Martin chastised, in that nervous, stuttering way of his. “Pushing yourself too much.”
“Perhaps,” Jon conceded. The mug was set aside. He let out a pained grumble and returned to rubbing his temples, hoping to relieve the pressure behind his eyes.
“You’re doing that wrong,” Martin said.
“Pardon?”
“Here.” Martin batted Jon’s fingers away, and then pressed his own fingertips to Jon’s temples, rubbing them in gentle but firm circles. It took a moment, but a twitch of relief went through him, and Jon let out a low, grateful noise.
“What are you doing?” he murmured.
“Helping.” Martin’s fingers trailed backwards a little, tracing a line from his temple to his hairline and back. The warmth of his palms was so close that something fierce ached in Jon.
“Feels good,” he whispered, before he could think better of it.
“O-oh,” was the responding noise that Martin made. His fingers pressed a little more insistently, rubbing small patterns into Jon’s skin. Jon leaned into the touch, pressing forwards until his forehead rested against Martin’s stomach. The gentle heat that radiated from him was hypnotizing, and Jon felt himself getting lost in it.
“Feels good,” he whispered again.
Martin twisted his hands a little, so that the bottoms of his palms very lightly touched the sides of Jon’s face. Warmth bloomed in Jon’s periphery. His lips parted in another gentle, relieved sigh. Palms cupped his cheeks, and he lifted his chin into the careful touch, his eyes slipping closed.
It was strange, how trusting he felt. Or perhaps it wasn’t since he did trust Martin, maybe more than he trusted anyone else. The feeling of those hands on his skin was mind-addling, and he couldn’t help but tilt his head into it, chasing that pleasant, perfect warmth. Martin’s thumbs smoothed imaginary lines under his eyes. The tips of his other fingers sunk into his hair, pushing stray strands away from his cheeks. He could feel Martin’s gaze on his upturned face, intense and focused, but he didn’t dare open his eyes. He might have been afraid of what he’d see, of exactly what kind of intensity was in Martin’s stare, but he was too drowsy to really think about it.
“You should rest,” Martin said.
Jon hummed again. One of Martin’s palms pressed firmer against his cheek, holding him still as the other raked back through his hair. He couldn’t draw himself away. Didn’t want to. God, he really didn’t want to.
“You look sleepy,” Martin whispered.
“I am.” Jon lifted his hands to wrap his fingers around Martin’s wrists, keeping him close. He had no doubt that Martin could’ve pulled away if he wanted to, if he were uncomfortable, but Martin stayed, kept pressing his hands to Jon’s face. He felt Martin’s thumbs trace over his scars and imperfections, the pockmarks from Prentiss, even the dark circles that always sunk beneath his eyes. He could’ve moaned, it felt so good. It felt sinful.
Somewhere between one increasingly incoherent thought and the next, Jon found himself leaning heavily against Martin, uncaring that he was sitting while Martin still stood. Martin’s hands had found a warm place on the back of his neck.
“Your hands,” Jon managed to mumble through his cottony mouth, “they feel good.”
Martin paused, and for a moment Jon wondered if he’d crossed a line he hadn’t known was there, but then Martin let out a quiet, “Oh,” and his gentle ministrations started up again. “Do they?”
There was a vaguely hidden anxiety in his voice, one that Jon was quick to ease. “More than I can explain, I fear.”
Martin let out a small, disbelieving laugh. “You, not having the words to explain something? That’s hard to believe.”
A smile ticked at the corner of Jon’s mouth. “Alas, still true.”
There was a slight tremble in those hands on the back of his neck. “Jon,” Martin whispered, strained, like he wanted to say more but didn’t. Instead he remained perfectly still, even as Jon turned his face into one of those inviting palms, until his lips pressed ever so carefully against warm skin. A delicate sense of tension washed through him, over him, over them—but Martin didn’t pull away, so Jon pushed closer, feeling a familiar, desperate need for more swell up inside of him.
“Martin,” he whispered, because it was the only word that felt right, that felt like it could possibly encompass everything he wanted to say, but couldn’t.
He wasn’t sure who moved first. He was only sure that the next moment was permanently burned into his memory, each detail sharp and poignant—Martin hovering over him, Jon clutching a fistful of his sweater to drag him down, their lips clumsily slotting together. Air evaporated in Jon’s lungs, so fierce was the flame that burned inside of him. He tugged harder at the fabric in his grip without thinking, half sinking back against the cot with Martin against him. The cot groaned in protest, but Jon hardly noticed as Martin followed, resting one knee on the edge of the thin mattress between Jon’s legs for balance. It wasn’t the most comfortable position, and his back was going to ache if he kept it up, but Jon couldn’t bring himself to care in the slightest.
The heat of Martin’s mouth against his was relentless. Jon had kissed people before, had been kissed—not many, mind, but enough to know what he liked and what he didn’t—but this was unlike anything else. Maybe it was because of the depth of his feelings for Martin, or because of the types of trauma that had irrevocably tied them and everyone at the Institute together, or maybe it was just because it was Martin, but it was like he couldn’t breathe.
Martin was the first to pull back. “Jon, I–” he gasped between panted breaths, fingers clenching and unclenching where they’d fallen to Jon’s shoulders. “I– sorry, I…”
“Martin,” Jon said, with a hint of impatience, “if you don’t hurry up and kiss me senseless, I’m going to be very cross”
The words barely had time to leave his lips before Martin let out a delightful, punched-out whine and descended on him again. Jon felt a vicious spark of smugness go through him at the messy force behind Martin’s kiss, knowing that he’d caused it. He returned it full force, of course, but that didn’t stop his lips from curling into a smug grin that Martin no doubt felt against his own.
Jon parted his lips, and Martin took the invitation without any prompting. He felt Martin’s tongue press against his own and had to repress the shiver than ran down his spine. His fingers clawed uselessly at Martin’s sweater before drifting upwards, finding the warm skin of his neck to lightly scratch at. He felt more than saw Martin’s reaction, felt the little tremble that went through Martin’s entire body.
The rush of pleasure he felt at being the cause of Martin’s undoing was intoxicating.
“Jon,” Martin murmured, and then more insistently, “Jon.”
He paused. Waited.
“I thought you– didn’t,” Martin said, trailing off as his teeth nervously sunk into his bottom lip. He didn’t need to say more—Jon knew exactly what he meant. If he hadn’t, the pure depth of care lingering in Martin’s eyes would’ve told him everything he needed to know.
To know that someone cared for him so deeply was an equally intoxicating pleasure.
“I don’t,” Jon said, then added, “usually.” His sexuality was a complicated thing, but one he knew intimately well. There were certain limits he wouldn’t push himself over for anyone, even someone he cared about as deeply as he did Martin, but intimacy wasn’t a straightforward thing. Sometimes he felt like more, felt like the physical release he knew he could get with another person, but sometimes he needed nothing at all, or needed the space that came with keeping his clothes on and his hands to himself.
“Are you– are you okay, then? With me, I mean?”
Jon hummed an affirmative. “I feel like it, this time.”
Understanding seemed to settle over Martin’s face, and he stopped chewing at his lip, instead breaking into a small, impossibly soft smile. “Okay.”
Jon kissed him, this time. Used the hands he had on Martin’s neck to pull the man closer, aching for his touch. Martin kissed him sweetly, pressed that soft smile into Jon’s mouth until his own curved into the same shape. He felt Martin’s hands settle on his waist, so large they felt like they entirely covered the expanse of his hips. It wasn’t as though Jon was an exceptionally small man, but he felt small next to Martin, and he rather liked it.
There was a tentative tug at the hem of his shirt, still tucked into his pants. Jon arched his spine, giving Martin’s wandering hands better access. A cold rush of air swooped over the small of his back as his shirt was pulled up, but Martin’s warm hands soon replaced it, pressing him in. Jon sighed, feeling that shiver go down his spine again. He twisted one hand into Martin’s hair, tugging, and was rewarded with a breathy whimper.
Oh, Martin did make the most delightful noises. Jon raked his nails over Martin’s scalp, tracing a line down to the back of his neck just under the collar of his sweater, and hummed when Martin whimpered a quiet, “Jon!” against his lips. He could devour that noise over and over and still hunger for more.
The press of their bodies together told Jon exactly how much Martin liked it. He shifted his hips and felt Martin stiffen for a moment, another shiver wracking its way through him. Martin’s hands rucked up his shirt further, the top buttons straining at the awkward angle, but Jon hardly cared as Martin’s hands explored the expanse of his back and stomach.
Somewhere between one hazy thought and the next, Jon found himself laid back properly on the cot, Martin over him. Jon slipped his hands into Martin’s sweater, fingers at the hem, and gave Martin a searching look.
Martin’s face flushed. “I’m not the– I’m not…”
Jon could hear the self-deprecating words that Martin didn’t say and felt a rush of desperate affection flood him. “You’re perfect,” he said.
Martin’s face turned even redder, and he gave Jon a shaky, trusting nod. Jon pulled the sweater up, and while Martin wrestled it over his head, he worked the buttons on his shirt open, until his chest was exposed. As he’d thought, Martin seemed distracted enough by the show of skin that he didn’t shy away from Jon’s hungry gaze, which did its own exploring.
There were freckles on Martin’s hips. Just light ones, only visible because he was this close. He had the sudden urge to put his mouth on them, and was delighted to see more on Martin’s shoulders, which was much easier for him to reach. He started by pressing kisses to Martin’s neck, smirking at the blush that had travelled over his pale skin. He found freckles on Martin’s collarbones and sucked a harsh mark over them. A reddened bruise swelled over the skin almost immediately after he was done.
“Jon,” Martin whimpered. He caught Jon’s gaze, his pupils blown so wide that the colour of his irises was almost entirely swallowed.
How could he resist such a sweet plea for more? Jon pressed a quick kiss to Martin’s begging lips and returned to his handiwork beneath Martin’s chin. All that freckled skin taunted him, asking for him to add his own marks to the mess of constellations scrawled there. He found a soft spot somewhere in the dip between Martin’s shoulder and the hollow of his throat and sunk his teeth in. Martin’s resulting moan was better than Jon could’ve ever imagined it would be.
Large hands kneaded at his waist. Martin’s grip hadn’t been idle while Jon worked at his throat. Fingers danced over a sensitive spot at his hips and bumped over the ridges of his spine. Jon squirmed when both palms pressed flat against his back, searing heat deep into his skin. It was when Martin squeezed at his waist, just on the edge of too hard, that the first moan was yanked unexpectedly out of him.
He liked knowing that Martin was physically stronger than him, and it seemed like Martin had realised that, too. He shuffled onto his knees and pulled Jon’s legs apart over his lap, hands sinking into the gap between Jon’s back and the cot’s mattress. Jon hadn’t bothered to take his shirt all the way off, still had the edges of it hanging off his frame, his arms still hooked through the sleeves, but he felt completely exposed beneath Martin’s fervent eyes. There was so much need in that gaze that he didn’t even spare a single thought of anxiety over his scars, or the way his ribs sometimes showed through his skin because he didn’t eat enough, or any of his other numerous imperfections.
“You’re beautiful,” Martin whispered, the words verging on worshipful.
Jon gave him a small smile. He had a feeling Martin wouldn’t agree with him if he said what he was thinking—that the true beauty between the two of them certainly wasn’t him. He doubted that anyone could say that, if they saw Martin like this—bruises along his collarbones, red-cheeked and flushed, entirely bare from the waist up. Even his hair had taken on an attractive dishevelment from where Jon’s hands had gone through it.
He was a vision. Jon never wanted to stop looking, to stop seeing.
Without thinking, he put his palms to Martin’s face, letting himself drink in his fill. It felt selfish, in a way, to think such perfection could belong solely to him. But Jon had always been a selfish person, and he doubted that would stop now.
Martin nuzzled into one of his palms, gentler now, his hands feather-light against Jon’s bony ribs. He pressed a tiny kiss to Jon’s palm, hiding a smile there.
“Jon?” Martin whispered.
He blinked several times, and hummed.
“Are you alright?”
“A little lightheaded, actually,” he said after a pause, with a small laugh.
“God, your headache,” Martin fretted. “How’s your head?”
“Oddly enough, my headache is gone,” Jon said. He was lightheaded for an altogether different reason, one he much preferred to a persistent migraine. Distracted, he smoothed the pads of his thumbs under Martin’s eyes, admiring the very faint smattering of freckles dotted over his skin. Here too, they taunted him, as captivating as the rest.
“What are you looking at?” Martin asked. “You look far away.”
“You,” Jon said. It was where he’d been looking for a long time now. “Just you.”
Martin flushed again, but he didn’t shy away. He didn’t protest as Jon sat up, only shifted back to make room for him on the small cot. Their legs ended up a jumbled mess, Jon’s still thrown over Martin’s lap. Martin’s hands looped low around his waist, keeping him close. He could feel the tangle of Martin’s fingers against his bare skin, and it was with a sudden jolt that Jon realised he could do what he’d been fixated on for so long now.
He reached back, and took Martin’s hands in his own.
How such a simple gesture could cause him to feel so warm and comforted inside astounded him. He had Martin’s hands cupped in his own, his thumbs pressed into Martin’s palms as he held them close to him.
What surprised him, perhaps more than it should have, was just how different their hands were. His own were smaller, his fingers slender, his skin so dark and brown against the white, pinkness of Martin’s. Circular scars marked one hand, and that expansive, gripping burn marked the other. His knuckles protruded in a gangly way. Martin’s hands, by contrast, were soft and almost plump, his palms wider, his fingers bigger. There was a tiny nick of a scar on his palm, so faded it was entirely white.
Curious, he turned Martin’s hands over, observing them from every angle. He slid his right hand into Martin’s, pushing their fingers together, his filling the gaps until they seamlessly overlapped. He covered Martin’s hand with his free one and was pleasantly startled when Martin did the same with his, until their hands were as tangled up as the rest of them. He could feel the heat of Martin’s palm against his, and the warmth of their hands entwined, and it tied his stomach in fluttering knots that he couldn’t loosen.
Carefully, he brought their hands to his mouth and brushed a kiss against Martin’s knuckles. So many of Martin’s affections for him felt worshipful, but Jon felt nothing but reverence for the man who sat so patiently before him, willing to accept whatever Jon could offer him.
“You’re a delight, Martin,” Jon said. “Do you know that?”
“Hardly,” Martin said, flustered. “You seem– you seem interested in my hands?”
Jon wasn’t worried about Martin’s inability to see himself as Jon did. He’d convince Martin of his own perfection, eventually. But the other part Jon couldn’t ignore, and felt his own flush rise in his cheeks. “I am,” he admitted, pressing another kiss to Martin’s knuckles. “I like them.”
“You do?”
“Quite a lot.”
Martin’s fingers flexed against his. “Why?”
Jon considered the question carefully, pulling it apart to see what Martin really wanted to know. “Because they’re soft, and capable,” he said. “Because you care for people with them. Because you’re gentle to people with them, even when you don’t have to be.” He kissed those knuckles again, letting his lips linger. “Because they’re yours, Martin.”
“Jon,” Martin whispered.
It was almost hard to believe that the hands he’d been so obsessed with were safely cradled between his own. Jon sighed, deeply pleased, and allowed himself to enjoy it. He could still taste Martin on his lips, in his mouth, could feel the heaviness on his tongue that always came with kissing someone so passionately.
“For what it’s worth, I like yours too,” Martin said. His thumb rubbed over Jon’s burn scar.
“Marks and all?”
“Yes, marks and all,” Martin said with a little laugh. “You’ll always be beautiful to me, Jon.”
Jon closed his eyes against the gentle compliments, as if that could stop the overwhelming tenderness that came over him at Martin’s words. In the quiet, hazy hours that followed, they did much the same as before, sinking into their newfound comfort. Soon enough, sleep beckoned, and they settled into slumber on the shared cot, uncaring that there was hardly enough space for the two of them.
In the privacy of his thoughts, Jon was never gladder to have had a migraine.
Things changed, after that evening. For a short while they were flustered around one another—unable to look for too long, despite lingering glances, and unable to touch for too long, despite wanting to. It was maddening, in a way. Jon wanted so much, but didn’t want to take, never wanted to take. It took him some time to realise that Martin would give him as much as he could handle, in the same way he wanted to give up as much of himself as he could.
But Jon didn’t regret anything. He felt small, private thrills every time he brushed against Martin at the Archive, every time their fingers lingered when Martin handed him a cup of steaming tea, every time he found a little smiley face on a post-it note from a stack of files Martin had recently sorted through. Something unnameable had shifted between them, and Jon delighted in it.
He also became remarkably good at ignoring the knowing stares and teasing smiles of his co-workers. Martin was less talented at doing so, often breaking out into a blush or rapidly stuttering through a change of conversation. He was prone to rising to Melanie’s teasing taunts or Basira’s knowing glances in a way Jon wasn’t, which Jon found utterly charming, in the strangest way possible. He supposed he liked knowing how much he effected Martin.
It was nice, he decided, to know he could seek out the affection he’d so keenly wanted. If he found himself struck by the urge to pass by Martin’s desk and receive a kiss to his cheek, he could. Or if he wanted to hold Martin’s hand while they ate lunch together in the kitchenette, he could. He was riveted by the amount of small touches they now shared—a hand on his shoulder as Martin gave him paperwork, or a light touch to his waist as they passed each other in the corridor, or the gentleness in Martin’s smile when their eyes met.
Take then, for instance. Jon was flicking through a pile of folders held in his arms as he stalked down the corridors of the Archive, deep in thought. He heard the voices of the Archive Assistants and paused, knowing that help would probably solve his current problem quicker than if he were to continue working on it by himself.
Martin was seated at his desk, with Basira beside him. She was leaning over the table to stare at the glowing computer screen, frowning in thought.
Jon stood beside Martin, reluctant to interrupt whatever they were currently looking at. Martin’s arm looped around his waist without a word, palm splayed across Jon’s stomach. Basira quirked a brow but didn’t comment anything about it.
“I think I’ve got it for now,” she said, straightening up. “Thanks, Martin.”
“Oh, no, it’s fine, happy to help,” Martin said, surprised at her quick exit. “Any time.” It seemed to take Martin a moment to realise Jon was there, but when he did, he aimed a smile up at him. “Is there something I can help with?”
“Hm, yes,” Jon said, laying down the files. “Everything alright with Basira?”
“Oh right, yes, just helping find some of the old statements about that case in Enfield.”
Jon faintly recalled the case, but didn’t let his thoughts stray there. Instead he covered the hand on his stomach with his own, entwining their fingers. He liked that Martin hadn’t thought twice about putting his arm around Jon. And he liked that he could twine their fingers together like it was the most natural thing in the world to do.
It was easy. Unlike so many things in his world, in their world, this was easy.
Loving Martin was easy.