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Jon always thought that his favorite time of the day was when the clouds eventually curtained over into night, depressive and moody and perfect for a man like him. Recently, though, Jon found himself somewhat enjoying his time in the mornings— not just because of the bone-chilling cold or the silence in the air, but because of a certain someone that kept slipping himself into Jon’s life like a larval parasite or something equally as hard to shake off.
“Have you had breakfast yet?” Martin’s voice was meeker than Jon found comfortable; like any misstep would send the archivist running in the opposite direction. “I made you toast. Don’t know what you like, though.”
Jon grumbled under his breath, hunched over in his seat, scribbling something down on paper that frayed with his every movement.
Again, Martin’s soft voice. “Honey?”
…
After a beat, Jon’s gaze finally lifted to the man in front of him, eyes blown wide, more alert than he’d been since Jane Prentiss broke down their goddamn walls.
“What’d you just call me?”
“…Huh?”
The pink that came to Martin’s face was somewhat cute, and Jon found himself shaking off the feeling of wanting to place a palm across his cheek just to feel his warmth. Maybe it was the domesticity of practically living with the boy, or maybe the way they were constantly around each other, but Jon had almost grown fond of their time together— not that he’d ever admit it.
Breaking Jon’s stupor, Martin coughed a little before finally choking out his words.
“I-It’s.. Uh, I asked if you wanted honey. On your toast?”
Oh.
”Ah, right. Of course. My apologies, Martin.”
How… embarrassing.
“Just… get out of here. Go dig up an ancient relic, or whatever you researchers do.” He continued, fighting the mortification threatening to tear at his skin.
Martin gave him one last knowing glance before stepping black through the door, muttering something on his way out that Jon only just managed to catch.
‘Bye, honey.’
And Jon’s face burst into flames.