Chapter Text
There were many things Martin missed about living in his own flat.
A proper bed was one of them, of course. His own kitchen was another. But more than anything, Martin missed not having to share a space with somebody who, apparently, despised him.
Martin knew this thought was horribly melodramatic; obviously Jon didn’t despise him, he was just generally a moody person. It was nothing personal, he tried to tell himself. No fault of Martin’s. But still, he couldn’t help but notice how much more lenient Jon was with Tim and Sasha. Elias had thought Martin could do the job, but apparently, Jon did not.
Maybe it was the whole dog-in-the-archives thing, he didn’t really know. He knew he was clumsy, sometimes airheaded, but (call him conceited), he’d thought he had a generally likeable personality. No matter what he did, Jon just seemed to not be a fan of Martin. Which made it even more infuriating that Martin, for whatever reason, found himself going out of his way to bring Jon a sandwich and a coffee when he realized that at 8:30 in the evening, on a Friday no less, Jon was still in his office with no sign of packing up and leaving anytime soon.
As he fixed the meal, he found himself entertaining an admittedly foolish fantasy that Jon’s coldness was simply a professional persona. That now, technically after work hours, he would magically turn into a supportive kind person and praise Martin for the literal blood sweat and tears he’d put into his work.
Yeah. As if.
After precariously carrying the plate and cup down the horribly chilly stairwell to Jon’s basement office, he knocked on the door.
“Come in.”
Jon’s terse reply sounded more like a demand than an invitation, like he wanted whoever it was to get their meaningless visit over so he could get back to work.
This did not bode well, but Martin was already here, so…
“Hello!” Martin said, opening the door with mock casualness and cheer. “I, um, noticed you hadn’t eaten so I took the liberty of making you a sandwich.”
As he said this, he cringed internally. He was holding a sandwich, obviously. He didn’t need to make a declaratory statement.
Jon looked up from his mountain of dusty papers and ancient tapes, truly looking like he hadn’t left the office for at least a month. He had bags under his eyes, and his glasses were askew. His long hair was falling out of its neat, professional updo.
“Right.” He said, not even glancing at the food. Martin didn’t think it was possible to fit a biting insult into a one syllable word, but Jon had miraculously managed it. Just lovely. Martin felt his face flush with embarrassment. Why did he even bother? He probably wasn’t even going to touch the meal.
“Well, I’ll leave you to it.” Martin muttered, and shuffled awkwardly from the room.
He kicked himself on the way back to the stairwell, but suddenly, on a hunch, he turned and looked back over his shoulder. Silhouetted against the glow of the incandescent office lamp, Jon had set down his notes and began to eat. Martin smiled, just a little, in spite of himself. He’d consider that a win, he thought. At least the poor guy was eating something.