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“Jon?” Martin rapped on the doorframe of the head archivist’s office with his knuckles.
“Mm?” Jon looked up from his laptop - and, as he did so, pressed one fist briefly against his mouth in what Martin recognized by now as an effort to stifle a burp. For his part, Martin stifled a smile. He’d ordered lunch for Jon before he left; apparently, it had gotten here. And given there had been no leftovers in the break room refrigerator when he checked, he must have finished it all…despite his frequent complaining about the size of the portions that Martin got him. “Ah. Martin.” He closed his laptop. “How did the follow-up with Ms. Whitmer go?”
“Was - just about to start typing up my report, actually. Nothing very interesting, no more incidents, but, you know. Completion’s sake and all that.” Martin stepped into the office, crowded with boxes of files and tapes. “Did you know she still bakes? I-I don’t think I could, after all that, but she didn’t want to let it stop her, and, well - ” He set a container on the edge of Jon’s desk, in one of the only free spaces. “She wouldn’t let me leave without these.”
Jon looked at the container, its layers of homemade biscuits separated by parchment paper, and then looked up at Martin, arching an eyebrow. “Then they’re yours, aren’t they?”
“Oh, no, I-I don’t like biscuits - ” And the eyebrow arched further, because they both knew that that was a lie. “A-and. You’ve been so hungry lately…”
“That’s rather a cause-and-effect sort of thing, isn’t it?” Jon asked, in a wry, knowing tone.
“Okay. Sorry. I’ll - ” Martin reached for the container, and Jon’s hand - all thin, spidery fingers and clever knuckles - came down on top of the lid, spread wide.
“I didn’t say I didn’t - ” And another swallowed belch. “Want them.”
Martin managed not to chuckle, but he couldn’t help a small smile. “All right, then. I’ll get you a cup of tea.” He left the office, as Jon mumbled something behind him about working on them the rest of the week and not needing any more snacks until next. Martin closed the door behind him.
“Did you give him those biscuits?” Sasha asked as he passed her desk, and at Martin’s embarrassed nod, she laughed. “You’re terrible, overfeeding him like that - at this rate he won’t fit in his chair anymore by Christmas!”
“Oh, I-I don’t think it’s as bad as all that…he was far, far too thin to begin with. I mean. Don’t you think?”
This was a variation on a conversation that the assistants had often. When Tim was here, he had a part to play, talking about how everyone gained weight in a relationship, then mentioning that it was a wonder Jon hadn’t blown up before, having such a sedentary job while the rest of them ran themselves ragged all over England. But he was out on a follow-up, so Sasha skipped straight to the conclusion.
“Well, I guess it’s good that he’s finally got somebody to take care of him, at least.” She turned back to her digitizing. “Lord knows he wouldn’t have let anybody else make sure he’s eating more than one meal every thirty-six hours…”
Martin blushed, and escaped into the break room to fetch Jon that cup of tea he’d promised (heavy and milky with cream and sugar, of course) before his face could deepen to its full, fluorescent-pink hue. Sometimes he did hate being a redhead.
After delivering the tea - and finding Jon already munching away at a biscuit, laptop set far away so that he wouldn’t get crumbs in the keyboard - Martin left him alone for the rest of the afternoon. He did not check on him again until Sasha and Tim had both wrapped up for the evening and departed, along with most of the other Institute staff. Jon liked to be the first one in and the last out. For many reasons, these days.
Martin opened the door to Jon’s office, late-afternoon sun shining in through the little slot windows that delivered light to the basement. The first thing he saw was the container, empty except for crumbs and parchment paper - three dozen biscuits gone in a few hours, what a pig! Not that he’d ever say that to Jon - and then his boss and boyfriend, reclining behind his desk, panting softly to himself with a strained look on his face.
“Need help getting up?” Martin offered.
“I can manage.” With a grunt, Jon planted his hands on his desk, wincing as he leaned forward in order to do so.
The thing was that, if you saw Jon from the chest up (as one tended to, when he was sitting behind a desk), he didn’t seem to have gained any weight at all these past months. His face remained hawkish and angular, sweep of clavicle visible when he undid the top few buttons of his shirt and loosened his tie, arms still long and thin and fine-boned except for the knobby elbows. But as he levered himself upwards, puffing and groaning with the effort, the fruits of Martin’s labor came into view: a large, plush gut, round and well-fed, hanging free with Jon’s slacks unbuttoned, and a plump, comfortable ass. Both together had necessitated the purchase of a new wardrobe that, at the rate they were growing, would soon be rendered obsolete.
Martin did his best not to stare, glancing embarrassedly away and up at Jon’s face…but his eyes kept wandering back down, as if drawn magnetically.
“Shall we pick up dinner on the way home?” he offered.
“I’m not hungry,” Jon stated, then belched softly, as if to prove that fact. “But I doubt that makes a difference to you.”
But Martin saw the shine of greed in his eyes, even as he looked away to try and hide it.
Jon had taken to gluttony in a way that Martin honestly hadn’t expected him to, as if he’d just been waiting for an excuse to finally indulge, nursing a well of terrible, hollow hunger. When Martin had first begun offering him snacks and meals, he had taken them with apparent irritation…but he had taken them. When he began to gain weight (as of course he did, gorging himself all day while sitting behind a desk), it did not seem to bother him, seemed even beneath his notice…but Martin had seen him with both hands on the swell of his belly as he recorded a statement, as if taking comfort in the luxury of his size and softness. And when they had moved in together, he had accepted Martin’s care grudgingly…at least in spirit. But he hadn’t put up any fight about certain things he probably should have.
Like Martin rubbing his swollen, straining belly after dinner and his first dessert with one hand, and feeding him a slice of rich, moist cake with the other as they reclined on the couch. By this point in the evening, Jon had shed his trousers, jacket, and vest, and completely unbuttoned his shirt, too overfed to tolerate much clothing.
“You’re getting so big,” Martin marveled softly, happily. Jon hiccuped.
“And whose fault is that?”
Yours. But Martin didn’t say it. “Really, you’re putting on weight even…even faster than I would have expected you to. I-I mean, you’re eating a lot…” Punctuating that statement, he put another forkful of cake in Jon’s waiting mouth. “But not that much. It was - what, almost three stone last month?”
“Well.” Jon smoothed a hand down his own bloated flank. “I am…stuffed to the gills more or less…constantly…”
He certainly was. Waddling round and ready to pop out of his office every night, even when Martin hadn’t fed him that much that day, and didn’t think he’d eaten that much on his own, either. It seemed to happen most often on the days he recorded, which was strange.
His thoughts might have gone deeper, but Jon derailed them with a sigh.
“Another…slice of cake, I think….”