Work Text:
Jon asks, the first time he kisses him.
It’s a question that makes Martin’s heart flutter, makes his stomach do weird things, even moreso than the fact that they’ve been dating– more or less– the past handful of weeks. (That still gets him, too, sometimes.) But Jon asks so quietly, almost nervous, in the way that his voice gets so soft when he’s contemplative or unsure… vulnerable. That voice is Jon being vulnerable, and Martin doesn’t know exactly if it’s that that makes his heart do flip flops in his chest or if it’s the actual question Jon has asked.
But Martin agrees, of course, because he’s been wanting that for a long, long, long time. He probably agrees too enthusiastically, because he sees Jon’s half smile and feels the flush start on his cheeks for it. But Jon kisses him, anyway, with a hesitance that Martin feels he matches. It’s almost funny; Jon’s hands are resolutely at his sides and Martin doesn’t quite know what to do with his, either, and the whole thing is awkward and tentative– and that’s what funny, because he knows Jon had dated in the past, and he’s, well, never had too much luck but he’s done this much himself, too– but it’s good. It is so unbelievably good.
Jon almost looks shy when they break. It punches Martin in the stomach, steals away his breath with a gusty sigh, and then he laughs. Jon smiles proper at that, a rare enough thing, something reserved for his favorite things. A smile reserved for Martin.
“Well? Was it good?” Jon asks, like he doesn’t know. But from the look on his face, maybe he genuinely doesn’t.
Martin doesn’t have an articulate answer. He wants to kiss him again. He does.
They kiss. A lot. Martin loves it.
He still feels a bit like he’s dreaming, sometimes. Most of the time. But he thinks both his and Jon’s hesitance melts away into something like practiced ease, and they become something like new pros rather quickly.
There are clear rules, of course; Jon absolutely won’t have any of it while they’re at work, which Martin expected. He’s fine with that. It wasn’t like the others hadn’t known they were together– Martin hadn’t been able to stop himself falling into a habit of staring fondly, more fondly than he was used to allowing himself at the Institute, when looking at Jon, and that had apparently given them away so many weeks ago– but he’s fine with Jon’s no PDA rule. He doesn’t really want anyone else infringing on those moments, anyway.
After work, though… sometimes he and Jon are the last two at the Institute, anyway. Martin doesn’t really have a reason to stay late, and probably shouldn’t to begin with, but he doesn’t want Jon to be there by himself. (Sometimes, he knows Jon wouldn’t go home if there wasn’t someone else there to stop him from staying overnight.) Sometimes, when it’s just the two of them and it technically isn’t work anymore, Jon breaks his no PDA rule.
They usually end up upstairs. Jon gets jumpy if they make out in the archives, and there’s a perfectly comfortable couch in the break room. He doesn’t know if anybody else has made out on this couch– his mind has flickered to Tim before, before he had promptly shut that thought down– but he and Jon don’t talk about that. They don’t break much to talk at all, except when they’re out of breath and Martin still manages to babble something to fill the silence while they catch it.
There are unspoken rules, too. Martin guesses.
He’s– well, he’s a little turned on, alright? And feeling confident enough in the stage in their relationship where kissing is second nature and now he wants to touch. Not that they haven’t before, sure. They’ve cuddled. He’s held Jon’s hand before, a bit. And he absolutely loves combing his fingers through Jon’s hair, because he thinks he’d do anything to keep up that kind of casual, domestic physical contact. But he wants more. Because that’s not a wild concept, right? Jon’s skin beneath his hands. Or tracing the line of his abs, searching out every one of the scars Jon had taken without complaint, and relishing in the feeling of muscle beneath his fingers and the strain of it beneath his skin.
Jon is kissing him so very intently, and Martin is just a little bit desperate.
He barely gets Jon’s shirt untucked before Jon grabs his wrist. It’s so sudden that it surprises him; he pulls back with a little start and blinks rapidly, so very torn out of the moment.
“… sorry.” Jon releases his wrist, looking a little more than a little awkward.
Martin wrenches rational thought back, and shakes his head. He smiles, so he can chase away the uncertainty on Jon’s face. “No, it’s fine! My fault, I should have asked… sorry.”
It seems to thaw him, at least. Jon rolls his eyes, probably miffed that Martin’s apologizing now, but doesn’t offer any explanation. He just reaches up to curve his hand along the back of Martin’s neck again, pulling him back in the few inches between them to continue kissing.
Martin really likes it when Jon kisses him first.
He kisses him back without hesitation, and doesn’t push it any further.
Jon’s beautiful, really. He doesn’t say it out loud; he thinks he’d get reproached for it, and he really doesn’t want to ruin the moment. It had been weeks since the impromptu shutdown in the break room, easily forgotten, but now he– him, Martin Blackwood!– had actually gotten Jon completely out of his shirt?? Clumsy and a little bit frightened, mind, as he’d unbuttoned Jon’s shirt and then just… sort of… helped him shrug out of it. Watched as Jon had tossed it over to Martin’s old worn armchair and tried not to stare.
But he is beautiful. He’s not all… smutty literature Greek god gorgeous, which is. Good. Martin likes the old stories of the Greek gods, but he doesn’t think he’d be able to sleep with one. He’s a little thin, these days, but he’s still well-defined; he doesn’t think he could apply lazy to Jon in any sense of the word, but late nights and the things that went bump in the night meant for a lot of bad eating habits, and, well, Martin’s not one to talk. The scars from their run-in with Prentiss, well healed over but numerous nonetheless, and those are beautiful, too. Martin wants to kiss every single one of them, but thinks maybe that’s a bit… much, right now.
It feels a bit much, anyway. Or it feels lopsided, at least, this exchange. Jon looking back at him, sans shirt, and Martin’s just… still in his jumper and button down from work. “You can, uh, take off my shirt, too. If you want.” He places a hand on Jon’s chest, and tries to blunt it into a joke. It’s awful, but he really hopes Jon doesn’t want to. Now. Yet. But then, what does it matter? He’s got no chance of snapping his fingers and changing any of what’s hidden away beneath his clothes. He’s not super self conscious about his body, but there’s just… things. The freckles that cover his body seem childish. And he’s still got a bit of weight, more than he’d like but then there’s the takeaway conundrum again, he’d put on weight after living in the archives for four months and, well, still hanging onto that. And stretch marks, from the weight he’d lost in his early twenties…
“Thank you, Martin,” Jon replies, and it’s so dry that it’s almost… reassuring.
Martin laughs. He’s still a little high-pitched and nervous, but that’s okay. Jon’s gaze is guarded, a bit, but then his eyes widen a little when Martin dares to shifts his hand to pass the pad of his thumb over an exposed nipple. “Don’t be sarcastic,” he chides lightly, like he actually minds, like he isn’t hyperfocused on the short, sharp intake of breath Jon’s just given.
Jon seems to be thinking through something– maybe the sensation, Martin thinks, he’s always been partial to paying attention to his nipples when he has it off, but then he doesn’t think Jon probably does that much anyway, but they haven’t really talked about it. Then the storm clouds clear from his face, and Jon continues, very flatly, “don’t be a tease.”
Martin almost snorts, hastily turns his head to fake cough to cover it up. “I don’t think you know what being a tease is, Jon.”
“Not really,” Jon admits, and he’s being honest. But his fingers are now clutching at the hem of Martin’s jumper, and Martin doesn’t have much time to think before it’s pulled up and over his head. “It sounded like a good thing to say, though.”
“A good thing,” Martin repeats vaguely. “A bit…”
“Teach me?” Jon asks. That, too, is full of honesty. Jon just wants to know. He’s bad at teasing, or dirty talk, or… anything like that, but he’s always had a surplus of curiosity. So the question is a literal one, but Martin still can’t help the tiny, breathless noise he makes at the sound of Jon asking it, anyway. It’s hot, even like this.
His mouth is dry when he finds it in himself to respond. “You’re doing a pretty good job of learning on your own right now, actually.”
“Oh.”
“Oh,” Martin repeats, and definitely has to kiss him again after all of that.
Jon gets through all of the buttons on Martin’s shirt, and Martin hooks his fingers in Jon’s belt loops to pull him in closer, or– or maybe to do something, something else… when Jon’s head snaps up. For a second, Martin’s about to panic, but then Jon mutters something about ‘performance-based technologies across cognitive and affective domains’ and he’s gone from nearby Martin’s lap.
It takes Martin a long, long minute of watching Jon redress almost feverishly to realize he’s talking about one of their cases from work today. He sags into the sofa, too mentally befuddled to complain about Jon being a workaholic.
“Sorry, Martin, I’ll– I might call later– thought of something about that recording–” He almost trips putting on his shoes.
Martin watches the whole thing in a haze, right up until the moment Jon is gone in a flurry of activity, leaving Martin still almost half naked and definitely half sprawled and more than a little half hard on his own couch.
His head is still spinning after he cleans up his own mess, binning the tissues and letting himself be boneless on the couch for awhile. It isn’t until he’s about to drop off that he notices Jon left his phone behind in his haste, and Martin rolls his eyes in annoyance and fond exasperation both.
“Stay the night, Martin.”
He very nearly falls off the step outside of Jon’s flat as the man extends that particular offer. As it is, his foot does slip from the edge of it. Jon’s hand snaps out to steady him just as Martin makes a grab for anything; they end up hanging onto each other’s hands instead, which is fine, except Martin thinks his palms are starting to sweat.
(He wants to have sex with Jon. He really, really wants to have sex with Jon. But, well– he’s not a virgin, but this is all still new enough. And it’s Jon, so that makes it new and even more important by default.)
“I…” Jon seems to realize he’s said something. Seems to realize what he’s said. He pulls his hand away. “That wasn’t a proposition.”
Oh. Oh. Of course it wasn’t. Because Jon would just say I want to have sex, Martin. That was how Jon would proposition him. (He isn’t complaining, mind.)
“Not unless you want it to be,” Jon adds, but the way he says it… he just sounds tired. The same bone-deep exhaustion that Martin has seen on him before, given voice. He hates when Jon sounds like that. But it has been a long day.
He doesn't think he wants it to be a proposition, just then.
“I can take the couch, even,” Jon continues, unlocking his flat.
Martin blanches. “No, I’m not– not kicking you out of your own bed, I’ll sleep on the couch–”
“You’re taller than me, and my sofa is not, if you’ve forgotten.”
“I can handle it–”
“Or you could share with me.”
Martin does not panic at that suggestion, although he does blink at the back of Jon’s head as he follows him inside. Because, no matter where he’s sleeping, it seems like he’s definitely staying. “Sleep… with you,” he clarifies, carefully, because he does know how that sounds but there’s no other way to say it.
“If you’d like.” Jon still sounds stiff. His movements are, too, as he hangs up his coat and steps out of his shoes.
It’s Martin’s turn to clarify. “Not a proposition.”
At that, Jon does smile. It’s small, and a little weary, but undeniably a smile. “No. Thank you, Martin. Seems I just… need the company,” he says quietly, and, oh, there’s no way Martin’s going back to his own place tonight. Briefly, he does wonder what case Jon had been working on today to get him to this point, but then he puts it aside. It doesn’t matter, anyway.
“You know I’m always here if you need me.” Especially on Jon’s off days.
The off feeling doesn’t really leave. Martin hesitates before he crawls into bed next to him, even as Jon makes room for him and yawns as he rolls over. He looks like he’s falling asleep already. That’s probably a thing, though. Jon works himself so hard he probably falls asleep as soon as his head hits the pillow when he finally does make it to bed.
He stays tense, being certain to keep distance between them just in case, long after it seems like Jon drops off.
Somewhere, in the back of his mind, the part that has woken Jon up multiple times after he'd fallen asleep at his desk at work, the part that knows what a sleeping Jon looks like, Martin feels like Jon is faking.
But that can't be true. Jon wouldn't be able to stay still so long if he weren't asleep. Martin lets it go, and eventually drops off as well.
He wakes up to an empty bed. It makes him panic, for a minute, because the shower isn't on and Jon's nowhere to be seen, but he calms down– mostly– when he finds him asleep on the couch instead.
A tape recorder sits haphazard on the coffee table, and there's papers strewn about, too. By all rights, it looks like Jon hadn't been able to sleep so he'd gone to work on recordings from the archives, which… Martin understands. He's not usually permitted bringing cases home, not being Head Archivist or anything, but he'll dive into the deep web late at night if he can't sleep (which, in turn, absolutely does not help.)
Why, then, is there a bad taste coating Martin's tongue?
… because Jon was very good at avoiding things, and very determined about it if he wanted to be.
Martin presses his lips into a thin line. Then goes to move the recorder away from the edge of the table so it doesn’t fall. And then, because it’s still too early to go to work, turns and goes back to Jon's bed. Maybe, by the time his alarm goes off, Jon will be awake and well into his own morning routine, and they won’t have to talk about whatever this was.
They were beating around the bush. Or maybe just Martin was. He had to be a bigger person. He had to be the bigger person, because Jon… didn't really seem like he was going to address whatever was wrong.
Martin hopes there isn’t anything wrong, but he can’t shake the feeling and it only keeps getting worse and worse. So he’s going to be the bigger person. End of story.
“Jon.”
“Hm?”
He doesn’t look up, and Martin stands, hesitating, in the doorway of Jon’s office until he finally grabs the fleeing remains of his resolve, and steps in enough to close the door behind him. “We need to talk.”
That gets Jon’s attention. Probably, he just thought Martin was bringing him tea or something, like he usually does. But no. This is… this is more important. “About?”
“I… hm.” He’s thought about this. Planned this conversation out in his head for the past week, but suddenly it’s gone, and Jon is looking at him expectantly. “Um.” He wrings his hands behind his back. Then shifts his weight as Jon’s expression grows annoyed the longer he stands there, useless.
“Martin.”
“… us?” It comes out small and pathetic, but at least he’s said it. He’s said it, and Jon makes a face like he’s licked a lemon. It all comes spilling out at once, then. “There’s– it’s just, there’s been some stuff, alright? And I thought… maybe you would bring it up, if there was something,” which Martin really hopes there isn’t, “but you didn’t. You haven’t, so I am.”
Jon abandons his notes. His pen hitting the notepad feels like the rising action to a climax Martin desperately doesn’t want to experience. “What stuff?” Jon asks, and his eyes narrow slightly.
Martin doesn’t want to say it. He doesn’t want to think about any of this, let alone say it to Jon. He doesn’t want to give him an ultimatum, however gentle or beneficial it may be. He doesn’t want to break up with Jon. He doesn’t want Jon to break up with him. That’s terrifying. It’s selfish, but it’s terrifying. He would give anything for Jon, he thinks, and knows that’s not healthy, either. But he can’t help it now. He knows Jon’s kindness, and his smile, and the way he kisses and the feel of his skin and the warmth of his body next to him in bed, however awkward that particular episode had been…
But then it’s because of all that that he has to say it. So he does.
“I don’t want you to stay with me if– if you feel you have to, or something,” he starts, and the lines in Jon’s face deepen with the words.
“Martin. What are you talking about?”
“Things feel off? Sometimes? Like sometimes I feel like you’re coming up with excuses to run away.”
“Run away from what?”
“Me,” Martin says, barely more than a whisper. A little louder, then, “us.”
“When have I ever–”
“The time you left to go look at cases. And then when we slept together.”
“That was…” Jon trails off, and then picks back up. Almost no pause, but there had been one. And pauses weren’t indicative of a confident Jon. Martin’s heart sinks, and then starts to hammer. “That was a case, Martin, you followed up the next day. And what about the night you stayed over? Was there some problem I’m not aware o–”
“You left, Jon,” Martin interrupted. “You… I woke up, and you were gone, and when I went looking for you, you were asleep on the couch. Like you wanted to get away from me, which doesn’t make sense, because you invited me to stay and I offered to take the couch to begin with!”
“That wasn’t… that wasn’t what it looked like.” Jon frowns. The rebuttal is flimsy, and he knows it.
“I need to know what it was, then,” Martin retorts. “That’s what I’m trying to figure out, Jon, why I’m asking–”
“And you thought now was the best time to bring this up? Really? Here? At work.”
“You’d just avoid it if you could, so, yeah.” And he kinda hates that, really hates it, actually, cornering Jon at work but it’s true; if he did this at home, Jon would probably just leave, and if he did it at Jon’s, he’d probably just… find another excuse. Jon is not good at talking, and he’s even worse at lying. So, Martin hates it, but yeah. He’s trapped him at work where he can’t run away.
Probably, the fact that Jon’s reacting this way speaks volumes.
“This is ridiculous.”
“It’s not. And you’re doing it again, you’re just– just deflecting– ”
“Martin.”
“No, don’t ‘Martin’ me– are you happy, Jon? That’s what I need to know. Regardless of what I’m feeling, regardless of what you know I feel–”
“Don’t be stupid.”
“I’m not being stupid!”
“Well, you must be, if we’re having this convers–”
“Are you happy, Jon?!”
He hadn’t meant to yell. He hadn’t. But the words hang heavy in the air, piercing in the otherwise silence of Jon’s office. And maybe Martin imagines that it sounds quieter outside Jon’s office, because there’s no way he’d actually be able to know with the door closed. He’s happy Jon’s office has blinds over the glass so at least nobody really is staring. At least, they can’t see him and Jon, and he can’t see them, either. He just looks at Jon. Stares, heart still pounding, feeling too dangerously close to teetering on the edge of tears.
Jon’s sitting stock-still, probably shocked by Martin yelling, too. Or maybe… it’s whatever he’s thinking about. Whatever answer he’s going to give, jaw set, eyes blazing. Martin’s just aired their relationship for whoever was passing by to hear, after all. But, well…
“… yes,” Jon says, venom on his tongue as he bites off the word. That, too, feels wrong, and Martin’s about to open his mouth to respond– somehow– when Jon continues. “… yes, Martin,” he says, and Martin closes his mouth. Oh. There, Jon’s voice is different. Softer. Emotional, as much as Jon manages to express to another human being. “I… am happy.” The way he says it puts Martin in mind that he expects something to jump out and steal that happiness away, and… and maybe that’s not far from the truth. Jon looks profoundly… tentative. Scared, maybe. Scared, definitely. “Happier than I’ve been in…” Jon laughs, and gives a halfhearted shrug. “I can’t even remember.”
“S–” Martin’s lost his words. An emotional Jon is a lot. He’s seen him through a lot, but this is still… jarring. That, more than anything else, kind of… reassures him, too. “So, why…”
“Because I’m not good at this, Martin.” Jon’s tone falls somewhere near back to his usual. He picks up his pen again. “I have been… pushing people away for so long, and there’s things I still don’t understand. I’m trying to figure it out, but with the looming threat of God knows what coming at us every other day…” He breathes out, slow and deep. “I’m trying, because you do make me happy.”
Martin’s head is swimming. Actually, he’s pretty sure there’s tears in his eyes, too, that he tries to blink away. Whatever he’d expected, it wasn’t… this. And this is good. His heart rate hasn’t settled, not by a long shot, but it feels fit to burst for a different reason now.
He must be looking soppy, because Jon glances up at him and then does a double take, and his face morphs into the dry expression that they all know so well.
“Miraculously,” Jon adds, expressionless, but that’s a joke in the way that Jon usually jokes, and Martin splutters a laugh that definitely causes a couple tears to fall before he turns away.
“It’s the tea,” Martin says, while he tries to unobtrusively wipe his eyes. “I’ve seduced you with the tea.”
Jon huffs a laugh. “Yes.” He clears his throat, and presses on, likely eager to leave the past few minutes behind. Martin lets him. “Any chance of a cup of that?”
“Oh, yeah, sure.” He puffs out his own breath. A glance at the closed door, and then he makes a tiny noise. “Mm… maybe in a few minutes? I’m… I don’t really want to go out there, yet,” he admits, and plops himself into the chair he’s passed so many hours by listening to Jon do his recordings.
To his credit, Jon is trying (and mostly managing) to hide his amusement. “No one told you to yell.”
“I didn’t mean to yell, I just… I’m passionate, okay?” Martin slumps. He doesn’t care now, really. The resolution to their little argument was all he’d needed, and it had been better than he could have asked for. “And anyway, I had to get it through your thick skull.”
“Me, stubborn.” Jon busies himself with pulling the recorder over, and flipping through a file. “I’ve never heard that one before.”
“Yeah, who would have guessed?” Martin replies, but it’s with a fond smile and a shared glance.
For the first time in weeks, Martin feels the old, same security he’s felt with Jon since the beginning.
“… hmm.”
“Ow, Christ, Jon, get off me…”
It’s a halfhearted complaint. Martin’s still fuzzy. Somehow dinner had turned into cuddling had turned into making out had turned into touching had turned into Jon leaning close to his ear and whisper-asking if he wanted to have sex. He’d asked with his hand on Martin’s dick, albeit if it had been over his trousers, but Jon’s face had been flush and his voice had been low and– and– well. Martin had nearly come in his pants, actually. Much to Jon’s amusement, as he’d felt his cock twitch and had grinned in a way that had managed to be positively sinful and scary both.
Martin had really, really been wanting to have sex with him.
He’d repeated the question back to Jon (“d… d’ you wanna have sex?”) and received a response that was verging on possibly the dryest he’d heard Jon in these settings (“I’m not really in the habit of mincing dirty talk for the sake of the thing, now am I?”) Martin hadn’t known what was worse, feeling like he was going to combust from amusement and arousal and anticipation, or the fact that Jon still thought point-blank asking if he wanted to have sex was dirty talk.
… may as well have been, from Jon, though. Martin liked it. A lot.
He came embarrassingly fast after Jon had… had him, and cue Jon’s subsequent orgasm (Martin can’t put words to that feeling yet, either) and now, even more embarrassingly, Jon sprawled atop him with his dick still nestled inside him. He can, well, he definitely understands the boneless feeling and would completely be down for cuddling, but Jon’s. Heavy. And sweaty. They’re both a bit sweaty, because it’s hot, anyway, and Martin at least is a bit sticky, and there’s a damp spot from where he’d all but been humping the duvet to chase his own orgasm.
God. The whole thing is so surreal and good and beautiful that he starts to laugh. Jon makes a tiny, overstimulated noise, because Martin’s probably squeezing his dick because he’s laughing, but he can’t help it. He squirms, and tries again. “Get off,” he orders. He’s still giggling, and thinks he hears Jon almost laugh from behind him.
“I did,” Jon murmurs, matter of fact, and Martin’s laughter turns to a soft exhale when he pulls out and presumably goes to bin the condom.
Martin stifles his laugh into a pillow. “Not what I meant, but… I’m glad.” He forces himself to roll over, cringing a little. “Urgh, can you–”
Jon kneels on the bed, still stark naked and beautiful, and offers him a couple of tissues before he can even finish asking. Fastidious. Martin laughs even more, and takes them to clean himself up the best he can.
He finally allows himself to sag back into the mattress once he has cleaned up and pulled the blanket over him, lax and still kind of feeling like he’s dreaming? He needs to sleep. Masturbation always puts him out, but this is on a whole other level. He hasn’t had sex in a long time, okay? “Come back to bed, Jon,” he says, whines a little, because he doesn’t know where he’s gone or what he’s doing.
Jon acquiesces, slipping under the covers next to him. “Was that good?” he asks, after a moment, and Martin nearly inhales the corner of his pillowcase as he snorts in disbelief.
He’s not going to give Jon shit for it, though. He’s too blissed out, and Jon’s just seeking his answers, like always. His approval. “Yes,” he says instead, and curls his fingers around Jon’s wrist. “How about you…?”
Jon’s quiet for a moment. A long moment, one Martin doesn’t really recognize for what it is. And then, softly, “oddly so.”
Martin thinks that’s an insult to him. Oddly? He wants to open his mouth to tease Jon back, but he’s drifting off already. He settles for pinching his arm, instead, and must quickly drop off afterwards.
He wakes up alone again. This time, something like ice plunges into his veins when he finds Jon’s already left for work, leaving a no-nonsense note (see you at work – Jon) next to the tea canisters. It’s still early. Jon didn’t have to leave. And it seems like he always finds a reason to escape after… after… Martin doesn’t even know. All the insecurities come back, but they’re different this time.
Martin decides to make use of Jon’s shower. He lingers so long in his thoughts that he’s late to work. Jon predictably says nothing, and Martin spends the next three days trying to figure out how to say what he’s thinking.
Eventually, it comes out as a blurted, “you didn’t like the sex, did you?” and Jon stares, almost imperceptibly stilling in response.
“What?”
“You…” Martin takes a deep breath. Tries to make himself relax, despite Jon going tense by his side. He’s onto something. “You said… okay, your exact words were “oddly so,” when I asked if you enjoyed yourself the other night.”
“Why is it that you remember that, but still forget details for actual, important work?”
“Because it seemed weird, Jon. I’ve spent enough time around you to know when you’re being weird.”
“Yes, it was such an odd turn of phrase that you fell asleep.”
“Alright, I didn’t notice at the time, but it clicked after I woke up and you were gone. Again.” He’s slumping, but he can’t exactly make himself sit up straight. So he puts his hands in his lap and continues. “So, yeah, there’s something. Please, Jon, we’ve been over this before; if you’re not interested, I’d rather just… know, instead of you suffering through this.”
“We’ve been… dating–” Jon hates that word, had said before it felt too juvenile– “for months, Martin, I’m not suffering. Trust me.”
“I’m trying to,” Martin mutters, and then raises his voice. “Is it the, uhhh… intimacy? I never really… noticed you being self-conscious, but if it is–”
“No.” Jon is thinking. A lot. And then it all just seems to… go away. “I don’t regret having intercourse–” Martin makes a face. He hates that word– “Sex,” Jon continues, a little exasperated, “with you. I said it was surprisingly enjoyable because it was. I don’t usually see the appeal. As in, ever,” he adds, “so therein lay the difficulty.”
He didn’t… wait. Martin scrambles to catch up. Jon doesn’t… like… sex. Okay. Okay, that’s a thing. Except. He’d had sex. With him. And found it oddly enjoyable. But if Jon didn’t see the appeal, himself, then had all of that been… for Martin’s sake? Christ. Christ, he feels sick.
“Jon–” It comes out strangled. He tries again. “Did you just have sex with me just because you thought I wanted to…?
“No, I wanted to as well.”
“But you just said–”
“I… was curious,” Jon interrupts, “how it would be with you. But I shouldn’t have led you on. I’m sorry, Martin.” Then he’s just as immediately on his feet, making a beeline for his coat. Martin can only stare. He’s still trying to catch up and Jon is just pushing forward– “This needn’t affect our working relationship, of course.” Jon’s still talking, but… what? “The hazards of sleeping with your boss,” he says, with only slightly mocking humor, “but nevertheless, I still do trust you, and it… would be a shame to lose your familiarity at the archives as well.” What? “I’d like to remain friends, if at all possible–”
WHAT?! Was– Was Jon– Martin pushes himself upright, hand braced against the sofa. Was Jon… breaking up with him? Wait. Wait.
“– but I understand if that’s too… painful.” Jon’s already heading for the door.
“Wait– Jon!” The imminent departure finally urges Martin off the sofa. He all but throws himself after Jon, catching his hand even as Jon gets into the entryway. “J–Jon, wait, what are you doing??”
Jon does not look around. “Going home.”
“Why?? I thought– no, you said you were happy. Before the sex. You were happy, you told me you were happy.” Jon cannot be breaking up with him. Jon cannot be breaking up with him, now. He stands by what he said, he doesn’t want Jon to be miserable, but minus that little hiccup all those weeks back, he hadn’t really… thought Jon was– and now this– right after he’d brought up the sex thing–
“I am… I have been.”
“Then, why–”
“Because it’s not fair to you.”
“What?” His voice cracks. He is very dangerously close to losing it. He’s going to yell or cry or beg, or something even more stupid.
“Relationships, so I’ve been told,” Jon says, and sounds a mixture of both annoyed and distraught, in his own way, “are give and take. And I’m… less inclined to give, so there’s no point–”
Now Martin truly nearly implodes. It’s starting to come together. It’s easy, actually. Jon’s trying to break up with him because he isn’t keen on sex. “No point?!” It’s almost a shriek. He tries to smooth his tone when he continues. “Jon, you idiot.” He doesn’t succeed.
Jon looks surprised when he glances over his shoulder. Guarded, but… surprised. “What?”
He tries again. “D’you think I only wanted to have sex with you?” There. That comes out a little better. “That that was my whole reason for these past few months?”
“Sex is the ultimate goal in a relationship.”
“You…” If anything, the more Jon talks, the more confidence it gives Martin. Because Jon’s arguments are ridiculous. “You… have you been reading trash romance novels?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Then why do you think sex is our ‘ultimate goal?’” He hooks his fingers into quotation marks.
“I…”
“I like you, Jon.” He pulls Jon back a step, pulling him around to finally face him. Jon allows it, although he still looks profoundly unhappy. “I’ve liked you for, like… since before you even became Head Archivist, right?”
That’s a little embarrassing to say, but, well, it’s true. He’d been looking up to him even before he’d become his boss. The crush had… been a product of a lot of staring from afar. A long time coming. Something he’d never thought would happen. But it had. Martin isn’t about to let Jon walk out the door because he thinks he has to have sex with him. “So yeah. The sex was…” He doesn’t have words. It’s been three days, and he still doesn’t. He breathes out sharply instead. “The sex was good, Jon, really good, alright? I’m not gonna lie, but that’s not important. I like you. I’ve liked you for a long time. I liked you without having sex because… it’s just you, I like you, all the little stuff that I’ve grown fond of all these years, that’s what I like, you, not your dick, you clod.”
… wait. Had he just.
Jon ogles him, for a moment, while Martin panics over the fact he’s just said that– just completely run his mouth without thinking– and then Jon laughs. Just once. An exhale of breath in amusement, the same kind of noise of that Jon only ever makes, but it shatters the uncertainty of the moment and Martin hears himself start to babble in stricken mortification before he can stop himself.
“That’s not what I meant. You know that’s not what I meant. Your–” He can’t even bring himself to say ‘cock’ now, not with Jon looking at him like that. “Y–You, it’s fine. Of course it’s fine, it’s good, and you, uh, well, definitely know what to do with it, ha–” God. “I–I just mean… sex isn’t necessary, Jon. You having or not having sex with me isn’t going to change how I feel, alright? And I don’t want you to feel like you have to, or that you have to feel bad for not wanting to. Okay?”
Jon seems to have collected himself more than Martin has. “You realize that I know how unfair that is.” It’s the same argument.
Life’s not fair, he doesn’t say. “Why is it unfair? I got on without sex when I wasn’t dating you.”
“But now you are.”
“I am. And I’m happy, like I said before. No buggering necessary!”
“No buggering…” Jon’s echo trails off, and he sighs. “You really feel that way. You aren’t lying.”
“Cross my heart.” He mimes drawing an ‘x’ over his heart. “I love you, Jon. Nothing’s going to change that, especially not not having sex. Either way, I still have two hands and–”
“I love you, too,” Jon interrupts, and again, Martin feels his world tilt on its axis.
He hadn’t meant to say that, either. I love you. Obviously, of course– of course he did, and had, and probably always would, but he hadn’t meant to say it… like… that? The first ‘I love you’ was meant to be a production. Monumental. And he’d just… said it. Just like that! Without even thinking about it!
“–as much as I understand the concept,” Jon is saying, “although we both know I’m not very good with this subject–”
He’d just said it, but then, Jon had, too.
Martin takes a step forward, and then jerks to a stop. “Wait– kissing? Are you okay with kissing?”
Jon stops mid-sentence, and then his expression morphs back to gently fond exasperation. “Yes, Martin. I like the kissing–”
Martin doesn’t let him finish. He takes his face between his hands and kisses him, because he’s said I love you and Jon’s said I love you (“as much as I understand the concept,” because that was so very Jon) and it feels like, maybe, hopefully, things have finally slotted into place. Yeah, he’d thought that before, too, but this feels… different. Open. Honest.
Jon relaxes into the kiss, and Martin wants to wrap his arms around him and never let go. Silly, that. Their lives are so unpredictable, and nothing about them is safe. ‘Forever’ isn’t really a concept any of them can think about, but… well, for tonight. He wants to hold onto him for the rest of the night, and tomorrow, and the next night, and however many they can have together. Selfish. But Jon loves him. He’s allowed to be selfish, right?
“You’re staying, right?” He pulls away enough to look at him, draping his arms around his neck. “Because Murdoch Mysteries’s about to come on, and I can make some tea, and we can just– do the usual?” Cuddle on the couch and be domestic, with bonus Alibi Channel and rooibos tea. “As usual.”
“… sounds good.” A peck against Martin’s lips, tentative but most definitely sincere, and then Jon steps back. “But I’ll make the tea.”
“You don’t have to–”
“I want to.”
“… okay.” Martin watches Jon stride into his kitchen and busy himself with the kettle. And then Martin beams, takes a moment to collect himself and smooth down his shirt, and eagerly goes to grab the remote.