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Martin was, well… panicked isn’t quite the right word. But- well- Jon hadn’t shown up to work that morning. It had been three hours, and he hadn’t answered any of their calls. Finally, it had come down to which of the three of them would go out to Jon’s flat and check on them, and Martin was looking to be the most likely candidate.
“C’mon, you’re their personal assistant.”
“I haven’t forgotten.”
“Besides, you can get around the easiest. Don’t have to deal with public transit.”
“I- well- all right then.” Martin stood, doing his best to stop wringing his hands. He took his jacket from the old-fashioned coat rack and made to leave. “You’ll- you’ll call me if he shows?”
“Of course,” Sasha reassured him. “We’ll be fine.”
And with that, he left. Rosie nodded knowingly as he passed but he paid her no mind. He was a man on a mission. The next few minutes passed in a haze, until he was driving through London, bike rumbling familiar beneath him. It promised to be a long ride out to Jon’s building, even though it was the middle of the day.
Alone with his thoughts, it wasn’t long before Martin began to worry. What had held Jon up that morning? Had they simply slept in? Unlikely, especially from the tight-laced archivist. Were they ill? If so, why hadn’t they called in? Answered their phone? No, he had to be unable to contact anyone, or else surely he’d’ve been in touch.
Maybe the worms had come back. Maybe they’d trapped him in his flat like they’d done to Martin, maybe they’d gotten in and taken him over-
No. Prentiss was dead, Martin reminded himself. The worms were dead. But there were so many more things that could have it out for Jon…
What about that Michael character? Or- or the fellow on the plane, Simon… Fairfield? Or the long-limbed being that’d taken over Graham with the table…
By the time he reached the address from Tim’s emergency contacts, Martin had worked himself into quite a state. Fearing the worst, he parked outside the building and made the short climb up the outside stairs to the second floor and a sprint-walk down the interior hallway. Bile rose in his throat as he rummaged in his pockets for his keys.
Then came the task of remembering which was which… there was his building and his flat, Tim’s house-he had roommates- Sasha’s flat, the institute, the archives- there it was. After a bracing breath, he unlocked the door to number 349c and let himself in. It didn’t even occur to him to knock.
The space… wasn’t what he’d expected, but it was certainly Jon’s. It was clean, of course, but far less tidy than their space at the Institute. Technically, he supposed, the furniture all matched, but that’s where the organization ended. Empty mugs, assorted blankets, and a few odd trinkets and souvenirs dotted the front room along with a beautiful collection of books. So many books, in so many varieties… Martin wondered how Jon had managed to gather them all. Shaking his head as he looked around, his worries were abated as he noticed the tenant of the flat sprawled on the sofa under a veritable tsunami of said books and files. And most importantly, he was breathing. Rather heavily, in fact.
“Jon!” Martin called out, racing to his side without thinking. “Jon, wake up.”
He made some incoherent sound in response as he shifted about.
“It’s me, it’s Martin. Are you all right?”
“Whuzzgoinon?”
“You didn’t answer your phone.”
Their lips smacked as they squinted up at him. Then in a soft voice he’d never have associated with them- “…Martin?”
Martin stared for a moment too long before remembering he ought to reply. “Yes, yes, it’s me. Are you okay?”
“I’m- yes, I’m fine.” He cocked his head. “What are you doing here?”
“Well, you- I mean-“ Martin fidgeted, blushing. What was he doing here? Jon was alive and safe, no need for him to be invading their space. “I- that is to say, we got worried.”
Jon harrumphed. “Well, as you can see, I’m perfectly fine. Th- ack! ” He dissolved into a coughing fit. Martin reached for him instinctively, barely stopping himself before he grabbed ahold of his arms. He waited until the coughing subsided. “What was that then?”
“Nothing, just a bit of a cold.” He swatted at Martin’s outstretched hands.
“That wasn’t nothing. We keep telling you you’re overworking yourself.” Martin had raised his voice without thinking.
“And I keep telling you I’m fine !” They matched his volume.
“You need rest, Jon!”
“I need to work! I’ve wasted enough time already-“
“It isn’t wasted, you deserve the time to recover-“
“No. I’m going in, and that’s final.” He stood abruptly and swayed on his feet, and Martin threw out an arm which they used to steady themself.
“ Jon. ” He sounded irritated even to himself, with an underlying current of… well… fondness?
“What.” They straightened, coming up at all of shoulder-height.
“I-“ He shook his head. He wasn’t getting anywhere with this. “Let me help.”
Jon sighed and stared at Martin for another long moment. “Oh, fine. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to change.” He set off down the hall, presumably to the bedroom.
“I’ll just put some tea on, then!” He put as much venom into the words as he could muster. If Martin knew anything, he knew that tea could fix just about anything. He turned a corner and there was the kitchen, cramped and surprisingly neat if one disregarded the dirty dish infestation. He rifled through the cupboards until he found a basket of tea tins. “You haven’t got earl grey. How come you haven’t got earl grey?” he called.
“Because earl grey is for pretentious arses with too much time on their hands,” was the response.
“I’m hurt,” he joked.
“Good.” With a chuckle, Martin set about finding the biggest mug in the flat- not an unimpressive one, it turned out- and digging out a far underused kettle. He put water on and waited for a time. He figured it’d be longer than he thought- it always was- and decided he ought to check on Jon.
There were three doors in the little hallway- one led to a bathroom, the other to a cabinet full of blankets and towels, and the last presumably to Jon’s room. He knocked gently on the door to no response. He knocked again, louder, and still was met with silence. “Jon?” he said, aware of the note of panic in his voice. “Jon, are you okay?”
Without thinking, he opened the door- and stopped short. Jon was there, and he was fine . He’d fallen asleep half-dressed in the beanbag chair that sat under the window. Curled up in a beam of sunlight, he looked not unlike a cat, even more so now that he blinked sleepily up at Martin. “Oh…” He trailed off. “Come here, you.”
He all but hauled them out of the beanbag and amongst their sleepy protests, bundled them into a sweatshirt from the laundry basket in one corner. He very carefully did not let his eyes linger on their collarbone, their soft, pockmarked skin- anyhow, quickly enough Jon was dressed and Martin was shunting them toward the kitchen.
Before they reached it, Jon stopped short and stared out at the mess of files in the living room. It truly was a disaster- statement cards, file folders, binders, and cassette tape after cassette tape carpeted the space in swaths, spilling out of cardboard boxes and canvas bags. Martin was sure there was at least one tape recorder in there somewhere. The crown jewel of the scene was the stack of overflowing notebooks on the side table, clearly notes Jon had taken during his research. Several large hairpins and thick hair ties sat atop the pile.
“I have to pack for work,” Jon said weakly.
“ I’ll pack for work,” Martin told him. “I am your assistant, after all. You let me know which ones you want.” As he busied himself picking out a tote bag and emptying it so it could be repacked, Jon plopped down on the couch and picked up a hair tie. They looked bound and determined to tame their hair into something resembling the neat, high bun he normally wore.
“I only really need that one,” Jon said, jerking their head toward the coffee table.
“There’s about a hundred statements in the direction you just pointed.”
“Yeah, yeah- the... the one with the-” They gestured wildly with one hand, the other carefully holding the half-formed bun. ”The, er, the coffin and the- the delivery company. That one.”
“I have no idea what that means.” Nevertheless, Martin stood and began to rifle through the stacks of tapes. “What’s the year?”
“Hell if I know,” Jon said, garbled now through the frankly monstrous pins in his mouth. “It was misfiled, I remember that-“
“-which based on the rest of these, makes it pre-2005... ah, Gillespie, ‘99, regarding ‘his time in the possession of an apparently empty wooden casket’?”
“Yes, that’s it, thank you.” He sounded surprised, but not unpleasantly so.
“‘Course. What else?”
“Timothy Hodge, 2014, regar-“ A piercing whistle cut them off. “What the fuck ?”
“Sorry- teakettle- I’ll get it-“ Martin nearly dropped his armful of statements as he scrambled to get to the kitchen.
Once the boiling teakettle had been retrieved and poured over the disappointing teabag, Jon remarked, “I forgot I had a kettle,” as if he wasn’t insinuating an insult tea itself. Martin pressed delicately at the teabag with a spoon. That meant Jon microwaved his tea, Christ- but he chose to forgo calling Jon out as they came in and slumped at the counter, still working at taming his hair. When he made a particularly dissatisfied grunt, Martin looked up. Their hands were tangled in a hair tie, and a loose ringlet dangled precariously into their eyes. Their tongue poked out of their mouth in concentration.
“You good there?” Martin asked, and immediately regretted it. They did this every morning, of course they were good.
“‘Ve been better,” they muttered. “Need one more pin.”
Martin sighed, but grinned. “I’ll get one.” He ducked out of the kitchen and, after a spot of real-life hidden pictures, nabbed a pin from the side table.
He returned to the kitchen and held the pin out to Jon, who gave him a Look. “Right. Sorry.” He chuckled, suddenly nervous. “I’ll just-“ he reached toward Jon’s hair with halting trepidation.
Jon smiled ruefully. “It’s alright. I’m used to doing this when it’s freshly washed, is all.” Something told Martin he was lying, at least somewhat... but now wasn’t the time to examine that.
“Right. Yeah.” Carefully, he gathered up the loose lock of hair and wrapped it around the bun, careful not to tangle Jon’s fingers further. He pinned the end tightly and stepped back. “There we are.”
“Yes, that’s a great help. Thanks.” Jon smiled at Martin, genuinely now, and their locked eyes stayed that way until-
“Tea! It’s- it’s bound to get cold before we know- do you take sugar?” Martin stammered, moving quickly to rummage in the cupboards for anything resembling a sugar bowl.
“Yes, two spoons,” Jon replied, bemused. “I can do that myself, you know.”
“I told you to let me help.” And just like that, it was back to normal. He finished his hair and set about collecting the rest of the statements he’d need while Martin sweetened the tea. It seemed like only moments later they were ready to head out. Well, almost.
“Forgetting something?” Martin asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Eh?” They turned back.
“Bundle up, Jon. You’re sick and we’ll be driving in the wind.”
With the grumbling complaint that seemed to be constant that morning, Jon reached into the hall cupboard and came up with an oversized white cardigan that Martin could only describe as “frumpy”. Thus outfitted, they made to leave again.
As Martin climbed onto the bike, he turned to see Jon stopped short. He laughed. “What’s the matter?”
“I- is that- is it safe ?” He sounded slightly panicked.
“Of course. Hasn’t failed me yet,” he joked. “C’mon, you’ll be fine.” Jon hesitated, and Martin softened. “Trust me. Unless you want to take the bus?”
He chuckled and shook his head before steeling himself and clambering onto the seat behind Martin. He wrapped his hands awkwardly around his waist, and they just met enough in front to clutch the mug of tea tightly. And with that, they were off.
At one point, just at the edge of London proper, the arms about his waist relaxed. Moments later, a warm weight settled all along his back with a contented sigh. A quick glance back at a traffic stop confirmed that Jon was asleep. Martin knew there was a horribly dopey smile on his face under his helmet. He was simply… glad they felt safe with him, that was all. He forced himself to remember that all the way until he was pulling up beside the Institute.
“Right-o, here we are,” Martin said. He was met with silence. “Jon. Jo-oon. We’re here.”
“Mm?”
“Up you get, then.”
“No.”
“Unless you want me to carry you in on my back?”
“Hmm... what? No, I-“ Jon sat bolt upright, flustered. “That- that won’t be necessary.”
Martin chuckled. He’s cute when he’s sleepy . The thought slapped him across the face with all the force of a speeding train, and then it wouldn’t leave . He considered the little feelings of the whole morning- the euphoria of seeing Jon safe, the easy rhythm of bickering they’d fallen into, his nervousness at Martin’s bike and how he’d finally relaxed, Jon was his boss, goddammit- and, well, Martin was going to have to revisit this later. As it turned out, he all but carried Jon into the Institute anyway, guiding them gently down to the archives as they sipped tea like it was keeping them alive.
When they came to the archivist’s domain proper, Martin sent Jon into their office with a gentle push and a quiet, “Let me know if you need anything.” He watched the office door close and lock before turning to Tim and Sasha, who watched in silence.
Tim burst out laughing. He was saying something , but for the life of him Martin couldn’t make it out. His bewildered expressions seemed to serve only to make Tim laugh harder. Sasha looked like she was trying very hard not to join him. After too long a moment, she said, “Poor man looks like they haven’t slept in a week. Why’d you bring him in?”
“It wasn’t my decision!” Martin said defensively. “I tried to get him to stay home- but he wouldn’t have it.”
“I can tell,” Tim managed, out of breath. “God, he’s dressed like my grandmother.”
“Hey, you know how they are about their image. Lay off,” Sasha teased. “Oooh, I’m the Archivist, I’m mysterious and professional and prettier than you.”
“Oh, shut it. But I will tell you one thing.” Martin leaned in close.
Tim shook his head. “What?”
“He microwaves his tea . Didn’t even remember he had a kettle.”
This set off more giggles, after which the whole debacle was seemingly forgotten. But much later, when Jon emerged from his office in a turtleneck and tartan skirt, his eyeliner somehow even sharper than usual, Tim couldn’t help a quiet snort of laughter. Sasha smacked him with her notebook.
As Martin handed Jon the box of files he’d come out for, he allowed himself a moment to stare, to linger where their hands brushed, before clearing his throat and turning to go. He savored these moments for reasons he didn’t quite yet understand- not that he’d ever admit it out loud, of course.