#*glances at jonmartin*

[magnusthepuppet]

god. gay people just really can’t run away together properly, can they?

[softichill]

Jonmartin kissie

[daemongal]

JonMartin Week Day 1 - Pets & Cats

So, I hadn't planned on writing anything specifically for @jonmartinweek but this little scenario came to mind so I decided to write it. No guarantee I'll be posting something every day, but we'll see what happens! May post to AO3 later but might just stay here instead.

SFW, somewhere else, fluff, 967 words

“It’s a shame you’ll never get to meet The Admiral.”

It was an errant thought, verbalised without much consideration as Jon sat with Martin on the park bench, watching a black and white cat walk by along the fence. They were sharing a cup of coffee, sitting close to retain warmth as the cool early Spring air blew through their hair. 

They had promised to make the most of every day, enjoying and savouring every small pleasure and moment they were able to spend together. This was bonus time for them, after all.

They had managed to settle fairly quickly, not questioning the workings of the Mother of Puppets as they woke up in the place that was to be their new home with their names already signed as tenants of a flat and identities to match. 

Jon supposed it was her way of thanking him—he had made a concerted effort not to think too deeply into it.

Martin made a face at his remark that slowly shifted between sadness and thought. Jon certainly didn’t miss the bombardment of knowing things, but sometimes as he would watch Martin’s face shift, he wished he could know what was going through his mind.

Communication had certainly improved between them both over the weeks but Jon could tell—without the help of any eldritch support, thank you very much—that Martin was still being cautious with his words, as if scared to knock the scab off a recent wound.

Jon watched as Martin took in a breath as if about to speak, then glanced to the side instead to exhale. Jon took a sip of their coffee and leaned back in the seat, taking in a deep breath of fresh air. He jerked slightly as Martin rested a—always surprisingly warm—hand on his thigh and squeezed gently, grabbing Jon’s attention.

“I’ve been thinking, you know.” Martin muttered, eyes still gazing into the distance. Jon bit his tongue, holding back some sarcastic remark that had earned him more than enough hard stares from Martin recently. He took another sip of coffee and gave Martin a chance to order his thoughts.

“I think the flat’s a little empty with just us. Don’t get me wrong,” Martin started waving his arms as he spoke, “I love that we get to live together. I-I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with that, I just think it could be… you know…”

“Better?” Jon finished. 

Martin looked down at him then, and Jon could only smile. His cheeks had gone a wonderful shade of crimson, his eyes were wide and a little bit panicked, as if this were some ludicrous suggestion or something. Unless…

“Wait, Martin you are talking about-”

“A cat, yes!” Martin smiled through his words, and Jon snorted out a laugh. The panicked look returned to Martin’s eyes for a moment, and it was Jon’s turn to wave his arms.

“It’s nothing, don’t worry. I was err, just making sure we were on the same page, about what addition you wanted for the flat.” He really didn’t want to have to spell it out, and based on the many expressions currently crossing Martin's face, he wouldn’t have to.

“Oh… oh! Oh Christ, I meant a pet. Definitely a pet. Not that I’d be entirely opposed to the other option-”

And now it was Jon’s turn to balk.

“-but not right now. I think we’d need to talk that through a bit more. I mean, I don;t even know what your thoughts on parenthood are and-”

“Martin.” Jon interjected, resting a hand on his arm and squeezing gently, “You’re rambling.” He gave Martin a moment to find his bearings again, handing him the coffee to hide in for a moment before responding.

“I think a cat would make a wonderful addition to the- to our home. I’ve always been of the opinion that a house isn’t really a home without a pet. I’ve no idea what the landlord would have to say about it though.” 

“Oh, they’re fine!” Martin perked up again near instantly. “I checked over our tenancy paperwork and it says pets are fine, there’s just an additional fee we have to pay each month, but I checked our budget and even with food, insurance and the vaccinations we’ll be fine! I even spoke to the landlord to double check and he said the same!” 

Jon struggled to not compare the excitement in Martin’s voice, the pre-planning and organisation as if he was just waiting for this moment, to a moment in the past that had a much less positive context. 

He smiled up at him instead, taking a hold of Martin’s free hand in both of his and bringing it to his lips, kissing the knuckles gently.

“You’re amazing, you know.” Jon spoke against Martin’s skin, feeling his body tense at the words. 

Jon was to hold back on the misplaced sarcasm and Martin was to accept the compliments Jon gave him without complaint; that was their deal. They were both doing their best.

“We could go to a few of the local shelters this weekend, if you’d like? I’d much prefer to adopt a stray, if it’s all the same to you.” Jon said, shifting the subject back so as not to make Martin crawl in his skin too much.

“Yeah, sounds brilliant. Was going to suggest that anyway, I think the same.” 

They finished the rest of their coffee in peace, excitedly chattering about their favourite breeds and colours, the many titles that could be used for names depending on the length of their fur and how big a piece of furniture they would reasonably be able to fit in their living room.

Waking up somewhere else had once been terrifying, but now, neither of them would change it for the world.

-----

Thanks for reading, and hope you enjoyed!

[buddivorce]

i fear that everyone's jonklock character designs all have at least one identical jonmartin character design counterpart somewhere in the world. is this due to them being ninety percent the same characters? probably. but this does need to be discussed. if both are on my dash i need to be able to tell at first glance which pod i need to be in the mindset for to appreciate it properly.

[ao3feed-jonmartin]

Tales from the Archive: Of pranks crushes and tired lunatics

read it on AO3 at https://ift.tt/twa4O1j by Vinyara It took Jon all of his self-control not to collapse on a stack of statements from those… people, who mostly just wanted to waste his precious time. A quick glance through them told him who he had to deal with now: Anna Pond (a cursed chair), Mary Higgins (fire ghosts, apparently) and Luke Webber (he couldn’t even read that… faflry???, family???, faeries???), all probably as accurate as the fact that Elias was a good boss. The archival assistants prank Jon. It does not go well. Words: 3229, Chapters: 1/?, Language: English Fandoms: The Magnus Archives (Podcast) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Categories: M/M Characters: Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Martin Blackwood, Sasha James, Tim Stoker (The Magnus Archives) Relationships: Martin Blackwood & Sasha James & Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist & Tim Stoker, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist Additional Tags: Humour, Pranks, Arachnophobia, Book: A Guest for Mr. Spider (The Magnus Archives), Mental Health Issues, Apologies, Panic Attacks, Self-Worth Issues, Fluff and Angst, Elias being a bad boss, we all hate leitner in this house, there isn’t that much jonmartin up to now but i do kinda want to continue this so we’ll see, Texting, group chats read it on AO3 at https://ift.tt/twa4O1j

[brettanomycroft]

The final part(s) of my first kiss 5+1 written for Jonmartin Week 2024! Here's a preview:

If he were Orpheus, Jon reasons with only the faintest edge of hysteria, then Martin would have been turned into salt enough times by now to fill the whole of the Lonely’s endless ocean. He doesn’t need to look anywhere other than Martin, not with the Eye calling them back, so he won't. 

Jon had expected Martin might fade away into the Lonely at least once, but had been positive he would return. He’d been less confident after Martin’s second disappearance. So when Martin reemerges from the fog and Sees Jon, when the edges of his shape firm up as if a smearing of grease had been wiped from a lens and his eyes had begin to lose their seaglass haze and take on the golden flecks Jon remembers, Jon cannot but grab onto him and hold tight. 

People talk about letting opportunities “slip through their fingers,” but Martin had literally turned into mist and slipped through Jon’s fingers, and he’s not inclined to let that happen again. With each glance over his shoulder he squeezes Martin's hand to reassure the both of them that they are here and real. Though Martin is silent, his grip around Jon’s fingers tightens incrementally. Jon’s hand aches. The pain is grounding, exquisite.

They do not emerge from the Lonely in the same place they entered.

Read the rest here :)

[grahamfolgersdeliciousnotebooks]

There were a lot of instances, really, that could be considered their "first kiss." A look at some moments that might, depending on your perspective, count as Jon and Martin's first kiss. For the Jonmartin week day 1 prompt "First Kiss" - Updates one chapter a day, every day of Jonmartin Week.

For day 8 of @jonmartinweek, here's chapter 8 of my "first kiss" fic! Enjoy some post-Lonely content, and Jon and Martin's first kiss (or their ninth, depending on how you count it)!

They ended up in Martin’s apartment, after everything.

They didn’t have a lot of other options. Jon had been functionally homeless ever since the coma, and he wasn’t eager to return to the archives. So Jon let himself be led by the Eye to Martin’s doorstep, and Martin let himself be led by Jon.

Martin didn’t say anything, and Jon didn’t press. He just held firmly onto Martin’s hand to reassure himself that he hadn’t disappeared again.

He dropped his hand when they finally arrived, and the pair stood in the foyer, awkward and uncertain. Martin looked numb and entirely lost, and Jon knew he would need to take charge of the situation, but he was at a loss for what to do. The only suggestion he could think to make was a weak,

“Tea?”

Martin nodded, and Jon shuffled into the kitchen to make it. He couldn’t keep from glancing behind him as he worked, to where Martin still stood in the entryway, staring blankly into space. He didn’t move until the kettle began to whistle. Then he startled, and snapped all at once out of whatever trance he’d been lost in.

“Oh, here,” he murmured, coming into the kitchen and raising his hands to help, “Let me…”

“I’ve got it,” Jon said softly. He poured the hot water into two mugs and stirred in the sugar while Martin watched him with an open, aching look of want. There was something oddly wounded in his expression, too. He stared at Jon’s hands, bobbing the teabags in the water, like he wanted to touch them but knew, somehow, that they would burn him.

“Here,” Jon said when he had discarded the tea bags and added the milk. Martin accepted it with a mumbled, 

“Thanks.” Their fingers brushed as he handed over the mug, and Jon flinched against the cold of Martin’s hand.

“You’re freezing.”

“Sorry,” Martin mumbled, and Jon hated it – hated the blankness in his voice, hated the instinctual way he took on blame, as though everything about him was something that required an apology, the same way he had in the Lonely.

“No, it’s– You should really change, though. Your clothes are soaked.”

“You should, too,” Martin said, because Jon’s own clothes were still damp through from all that damned fog.

“I– I don’t have any spare clothes.”

“I could lend you some,” Martin said. He set down his mug. “Come on. This is too hot to drink right now, anyway.”

He led Jon to his bedroom and picked out some clothes for him – a pair of grey joggers and an old tee shirt with the words Magnus Institute Library Team Building Retreat 2013 printed on the front.

“I’ll just be a second,” Jon said before excusing himself to the bathroom to change.

The clothes were several sizes too big. It took quite a bit of cinching the drawstring waist before the joggers would stay up, and the shirt hung awkwardly off his thin frame, exposing his clavicle and most of his shoulder. It was not the most flattering outfit he had ever worn, but it was warm and dry, and smelled pleasantly of laundry soap.

When he stepped out into the hallway, Martin was already there, changed into a dry pair of jeans and a thick sweater. He glanced at Jon in his ill-fitting borrowed clothes, and for the first time in a very long time, Jon caught him smiling.

“I know, I know,” he muttered. “I look ridiculous.”

“No, you– you look nice.”

Jon opened his mouth. It seemed important to say something to that, though he was at a loss for quite what. Before he could make up his mind, his phone began to buzz in his pocket.

“Basira,” he told Martin when he checked the screen. “I should take this.”

He wandered into the living room while he spoke to her. She updated him on the state of Daisy, the Hunters, and the police, and Jon let her know that they’d gone back to Martin’s apartment.

“How is he?” 

“He’s… alive,” Jon said, because it was too early to say if he was fine, or safe, or unharmed. But once he’d said it, the truth of his words finally sank in. A disbelieving laugh escaped him as he repeated, suddenly giddy, “He’s alive, Basira!”

They both agreed that he and Martin should leave London as quickly as possible, and she told him that Daisy had a safehouse where they could lay low for a time.

“What’s Martin’s address? I’ll swing by and give you the key.”

“I can text it to you in a second…”

“No. No text conversations, no paper trails,” Basira said. It was hard to make out exactly what she said next, given their shaky phone connection, but it sounded a whole lot like she muttered, “...can’t believe we never caught you.”

When Jon hung up, Martin was hovering in the doorway between the corridor and the living room, and he was crying.

“Martin!”

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I-I’m sorry I worried you. I’m sorry for all of it.” His voice was soft and shattered, and Jon remembered his own voice, too excited to consider volume. He’s alive, Basira! Martin would have to have heard it. 

“Martin,” Jon said again, more warmly this time. He closed the distance between them and pulled Martin close until their foreheads were resting against each other. “You don’t need to apologize.” Martin was solid beneath his touch, but the memory of how evanescent he’d been, just an hour before, loomed in his mind. “Just stay with me,” he whispered, and Martin flashed him a weak smile.

“Always.”

Their faces were so close Jon could feel the warmth of Martin’s breath sigh across his cheeks.

Jon paused a moment, savoring the closeness, the solid, certain weight of Martin against him. Then he tilted his head up to close the last remaining space between them and pressed his lips to Martin’s.

Martin responded immediately, reaching up to clutch at Jon’s back, pulling him closer, kissing him back with a desperation Jon was only too willing to match. When Jon licked into his mouth, he let out a high, keening, hungry noise that made Jon shiver. He wanted quite badly to make Martin make that noise again.

Nipping gently at Martin’s bottom lip did the trick, he learned to his delight. Letting the hand that wasn’t gripping Martin’s hair drift down to his waist and slip under his shirt provoked a higher, more surprised noise that Jon liked almost as much. He would have gladly spent the whole night cataloguing the sounds, but he felt something wet roll across his cheek, and he realized with a jolt that Martin was crying.

He pulled away instantly and began to apologize. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” he stammered. “Is– is this too soon?”

Martin shook his head. “No,” he whispered, “it’s a year too late.”

Jon’s heart sank. He should have known, he should have realized he’d missed his chance. Martin caught his expression, and his eyes widened.

“Oh, no, I didn’t mean–” He scrubbed at his wet cheeks and let out a quiet laugh. “How am I still mucking this up?” he whispered to himself. Jon just watched him, wide-eyed. “I meant,” he said finally, leaning down to press one more chaste kiss to Jon’s lips, “that we have a lot of lost time to make up for.”

And Jon wasn’t going to argue with that.

[bifrostarchivist]

i have truly been left a broken shell of a man. i can’t see fanart of jonmartin hugging anymore without flinching because i just automatically expect to see a knife in martin’s hand or in jon’s chest

[simpsforsims]

time travel fic where s1 jon sees s5 martin and immediately falls for him. meanwhile s1 martin is losing it in the background because what’s this??? s5 jon accepting love and care and admitting he needs other people?

it’s just s1 jmart being two halves of a whole idiot while s5 jmart tries to play matchmaker but messing it up

[failworse]

i think it’s deeply unfair that sasha didn’t get to become a ghost, cause she would have made an excellent tech-based spirit. making an entity attack alerts app for her friends. airdropping callout posts for not-sasha to everyone’s phones. sending elias a computer virus with a display message “i placed a malware on a forum for ayn rand simps and guess what? i control you now, eyeball freak”. poltergeist extraordinaire

[red-archivist]

JonMartin Week 2023: Day 1 - Scars

🔔🔔🔔

it's @jonmartinweek week!

have a few things lined up for this year that I’m excited to share- the first is for the prompt ‘scars’ and is pure uncut angst, not my usual style but sometimes you get an idea so mean you gotta get it out of your system

enjoy!

also on ao3

~~

Jon only noticed the scar in the hotel room.

They had awoken Somewhere Else, battered, bloody and bruised, and decided to not fight until they had had a hot shower and a good night’s sleep.

(Martin had suggested it, anger boiling under his words.

Jon had agreed, his own recriminations tripping on his tongue.)

It was a pleasant surprise to find that Premier Inns existed throughout the multiverse, and that the few pounds they had were still considered legal tender.

They had slumped into the room and Martin made a beeline for the bathroom.

Jon dumped his bag and coat on the ground and immediately began stripping out of his dirty clothes. Layers of dirt and debris flaked off of him as he shed his shirt. Dried blood made the material stiff and uncooperative.

He couldn’t even begin to imagine what the poor woman at the front desk thought of the pair of them. They must have been a sight to behold.

It was an odd feeling, not knowing what she thought- not knowing much of anything. He would have to reacquaint himself with finding things out the old-fashioned way. The idea of it was both relieving and daunting. There was an empty ache in his mind that he was trying very hard not to acknowledge.

He shook his head and whipped his shirt off.

There was a large mirror mounted above a slim writing desk at the foot of the bed but Jon avoided his reflection. It was a habit he had built up ever since he had come out of his coma. He had no interest in seeing himself.

He bent down to shuck off his socks but as he stood back up, something in the mirrored figure caught his eye and he couldn’t help but glance at it.

He looked as bedraggled as he felt, covered head to toe in dirt and bruises, a filthy, mad-eyed ghoul staining the beige carpet.

He was used to all that. What had drawn his attention was fresh, clean, and stood out in stark contrast to the worn skin surrounding it.

There was a new scar on his chest.

Just to the left of his sternum and about four inches long. It had the shiny, pale look of a recently healed injury. Something already treated and moving along the road to permanence.

Jon stepped closer to his reflection and carefully ran a finger down it. There was no pain, only a dull sensation of touch. It was a familiar feeling.

He knew where it had come from, of course. He was just surprised it had healed so quickly.

(He imagined stitches made of spider’s silk.)

The scar wasn’t straight, but crooked and clumsy.

(Martin’s hands had shook.)

Another constant reminder of the mistakes he had made.

(As if he could ever forget how it felt.)

He slowly mapped the shape of it with his fingertips and lost himself in memories of its creation.

He may have stood there for hours, but the sound of a flushing toilet snapped him back to the present. Martin made his way quickly out of the bathroom.

He had changed into something relatively cleaner, and his hair was damp from showering. A miniature hotel toothbrush dangled from his hand. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder.

“Bathroom’s free-”

Martin froze in the doorway. His eyes landed on the scar immediately.

There was a moment of loaded silence. Martin’s gaze burned against his skin. The tension felt heavy on his shoulders.

“Another one for the collection, I suppose,” Jon chuckled weakly.

It was a shitty joke.

He didn’t know why he said it. His timing was dreadful and he knew Martin didn’t always share his sense of humour.

He expected it to go down like a lead balloon.

What he didn’t expect was for Martin to turn grey and run back into the bathroom. Jon heard violent vomiting and immediately sprinted after him.

Martin was hunched over the toilet, spewing his guts out. Jon fell to his knees beside him, babbling nonsense, but when he tried to rub his back, Martin shoved him off.

“Don’t touch me!” He choked.

Jon flinched.

“Martin...”

“D-Don’t- Don’t!” His face was wet with tears and spit, “S-Stay away from me...”

He held an arm out to keep Jon at a distance.

“Stay away...” He moaned weakly.

Jon fought for words, but they slipped from his grasp. Martin was shaking from head-to-toe, pale as death.

Jon fell back on his heels, useless. He watched Martin cough and hack up water. Even when he was done, he just lay his forehead against the rim of the bowl and wheezed. His eyes were bloodshot and haunted. Jon risked laying a hand on his arm and Martin let out a low keen of pain.

Lost, Jon retreated, backing out of the bathroom altogether.

He stood in the centre of the room, staring at nothing. He absently ran a finger up and down the scar.

Ought to have know better.

Numbly, he thought that it made sense. Of course, Martin wouldn’t want to see the evidence of what he had done. Of what Jon had made him do. Of course, he was disgusted at the sight; a permanent reminder of how they had betrayed each other.

It was completely understandable, reasonable even. There was no need for Jon to feel devasted or rejected. He shoved his impending heartbreak down under a blanket of that numb logic and hunted for a clean shirt to cover himself up.

When Martin eventually re-emerged, Jon didn’t look at him as he swept past into the bathroom. The air was acrid with the smell of vomit and artificial flowers. Martin must have used a spray to try and mask the stench.

Jon brushed his teeth mechanically and washed himself in the sink. He couldn’t have taken more than five minutes but by the time he got out, Martin was already in bed. The lights had been turned off and he lay facing away, the duvet curled around him.

Jon weighed his options.

When the receptionist had asked if they wanted a single or a double, his brain defaulted to the first option. Now he wasn’t sure if Martin would tolerate sharing the bed with him.

He could call down for a cot, or squeeze himself into the stiff armchair in the corner. Both options would prompt questions, a discussion, and, all too likely, an argument.

They had promised to save their domestics for the morning.

With a shuddering sigh, Jon crept onto the empty side of the bed. He did his best to keep his distance as he lay down.

Jon shut his eyes tightly.

(In the morning, he will beat his fist against his chest as he screams and sobs. The texture of the scar will send a jolt down his arm each time.)

He turned onto his side, facing out into the dark room.

(In a week, Martin will confess to being afraid to touch him. He is terrified of hurting him again.)

The cold gap at his back felt a thousand miles wide.

(In some far-flung future, he will force Martin’s hand against the scar. He will make him feel the heart that still beats beneath it.)

Jon resigned himself to a bad night’s sleep.

[ao3feed-jonmartin]

Tales from the Archive: Of pranks crushes and tired lunatics

read it on AO3 at https://ift.tt/XmvZVRk by Vinyara It took Jon all of his self-control not to collapse on a stack of statements from those… people, who mostly just wanted to waste his precious time. A quick glance through them told him who he had to deal with now: Anna Pond (a cursed chair), Mary Higgins (fire ghosts, apparently) and Luke Webber (he couldn’t even read that… faflry???, family???, faeries???), all probably as accurate as the fact that Elias was a good boss. The archival assistants prank Jon. It does not go well. Words: 3229, Chapters: 1/?, Language: English Fandoms: The Magnus Archives (Podcast) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Categories: M/M Characters: Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Martin Blackwood, Sasha James, Tim Stoker (The Magnus Archives) Relationships: Martin Blackwood & Sasha James & Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist & Tim Stoker, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist Additional Tags: Humour, Pranks, Arachnophobia, Book: A Guest for Mr. Spider (The Magnus Archives), Mental Health Issues, Apologies, Panic Attacks, Self-Worth Issues, Fluff and Angst, Elias being a bad boss, we all hate leitner in this house, there isn’t that much jonmartin up to now but i do kinda want to continue this so we’ll see, Texting, group chats read it on AO3 at https://ift.tt/XmvZVRk

[nebulous-frog]

Schrodinger’s Roommate

Relationships: JonMartin

Summary: Jon brings home a new roommate.

Word Count: 748

Written for @jonmartinweek Day 3: Roommates

Link to AO3   Fics Masterlist

“You have to be on your best behavior, now, Madame,” Jon whispered seriously. “I’ll do what I can, but you’re the one that has to properly sell it. Martin is rather indifferent to cats, somehow, so he’ll take a bit of convincing but it should be manageable.”

A soft mrrp sounded from Jon’s bulging jacket.

“Hmm, exactly, yes. Keep up the good work and this will all go quite well.”

Careful not to disturb the illustrious Madame in his arms, Jon fumbled for his keys and unlocked the door to his and Martin’s flat.

“Darling? Are you here?” he called as he walked in. He shut the door behind him quickly and kicked off his shoes.

“In the kitchen!” Martin called back. “You’re just in time, actually, food’s nearly done.”

“Perfect, thank you!” Jon replied. He rubbed Madame’s head in apology for the yelling, then hurried towards the bathroom. “I’ll be right there.”

Once in the bathroom, Jon opened his jacket and gently removed Madame, setting her on the ground.

“Alright, you stay right here while I talk to him. He’ll be a bit fussy at first, but I’m sure we can win him over.” Jon brushed his knuckles over the gray and white kitten’s ears. “Try not to get in any trouble in the meantime.”

He left the bathroom and swiftly shut the door before Madame could dart out.

“What are you doing?” Martin asked, one eyebrow raised skeptically.

Jon’s eyes widened. “Uh- I’m- well, I’m- here?”

Martin blinked once, slowly like his brain needed extra processing time to complete the one involuntary action.

“Uh-huh,” Martin eventually replied. “And you closed the bathroom door because…?”

“You don’t want to go in there.” Hurrying to explain, Jon was grasping at straws. “Bad… bad gas.”

Martin rolled his eyes. “Jon. You’re a terrible liar. What’s going on?”

Jon slumped and stared at the ground. “Promise you’ll hear me out?” he mumbled.

“Um. So that was a concerning question, but yes? Don’t I always?”

Jon shrugged and allowed himself a quick glance up at Martin. Martin’s expression was bewildered, but also amused. Jon took this to be a good sign.

“Alright. I’ve- uh. I’ve found us a roommate?” Great start, Jonathan, exactly what you two reclusive introverts want, he thought to himself, mentally slapping his own forehead.

Martin blinked slowly again. “... and why would we need that?”

“She needs a good home? And we can provide that.” Jon twisted his ace ring anxiously. He’d really wanted more time to prepare for this conversation.

Just then, a loud meowwwww rang out from the bathroom. Martin’s eyes widened.

“Jon. Is there a cat in our flat right now?”

Jon hesitated, now fiddling with his ace ring so much he accidentally dropped it. As he bent to pick it up, he replied, “I’m rather a fan of Schrodinger’s theory, in this instance, where, well, we can’t exactly be sure there is, we can’t see one ourselves, but there very well could be, which means there both is and is not at the same time. It’s very interesting, actually-”

“Oh, for god’s sake,” Martin muttered exasperatedly. He reached behind Jon and opened the door to the bathroom, then immediately gasped.

“What, what is it, is she okay?” Jon asked instinctively, whipping around to see.

“Jon, she’s beautiful!” Martin gushed. Crouching down, he extended his hand for her to sniff. When she approached, Martin grinned and affected a babyish voice. “Hello! And who might you be, precious little one?”

Jon scoffed. “Come on, Martin, she’s not a child. She’s dignified.”

Martin glanced back up at Jon unimpressed. “How badly do you want to keep her?”

A gasp. “You wouldn’t send her back to the streets just because I stood up for her?”

Martin laughed. “You’re the one that’s dubbed me ‘pettiest of bastards’, love, you tell me what I’d do.”

Jon’s eyes widened. “Right, of course, talk to her as you like.” After a moment of Martin cooing at the kitten, Jon piped up again. “I was thinking we could call her Madame.”

“Just Madame?” Martin asked. “I mean, it’s alright, but she’s more than just a title. What if her full name was Madame Margaret?”

“A wonderful name,” Jon agreed quickly, nodding his head. Anything to let her stay, Jon thought.

“Then welcome to your new home, Madame Margaret,” Martin said, scooping her up in one arm. She chirped at him and he smiled again. “I hope you’re ready to contribute to the rent.”

[bluejayblueskies]

For the Touches Ask Game, if you can, a little Jonmartin with Touching/9?

Thank you so much, I love your writing!!! 😭💕

touches prompt list

9 - holding hands across the table

i did a season two lunch dinner date fic! cw for mentions of paranoia/stalking and murder (in typical s2 fashion)

.

They’ve been having lunch together for two months when Martin asks, with enough stuttering that it takes Jon a moment to process his words, if Jon would like to get dinner with him.

Jon hesitates only briefly before agreeing. Between finding out about Martin’s CV and the newly delivered CCTV footage, he’s almost entirely convinced that Martin did not, in fact, murder Gertrude Robinson and that his various attempts to make sure Jon eats and sleeps and drinks tea are simply a result of Martin being… well. Being nice, he supposes. If overbearingly so.

Why Martin feels the need to coddle Jon, he doesn’t quite know. But if he’s being honest with himself, he’s… not complaining. His frequent skipping of meals often isn’t an intentional thing, born instead of his tendency to get so wrapped up in his work that hours fly by without him noticing, and while sometimes he’s irritated when his flow is interrupted by Martin’s cheery greeting, more often than not it’s… a relief. To step out of the Archives, away from the feeling of eyes on the back of his neck, and pretend like he isn’t working alongside a murderer.

Maybe a murderer. He… he doesn’t know. According to the CCTV footage, Tim and Sasha and Martin and Elias all have alibis. But he still can’t shake the feeling that he gets, sitting in his office or walking down the corridors or reading through statements, that something isn’t right.

That there’s something in the Archives that’s not supposed to be there.

So, it’s… nice to get outside. And as much as Tim may joke about it—or… used to joke about it, at least—Jon does, in fact, try to eat three square meals a day if he can remember to do so. Try being the operative word. He’s been… caught up in work lately, and often he glances at the clock to see that it’s well past ten and he’s accidentally skipped dinner entirely. He hadn’t thought Martin had noticed, given that the man doesn’t live in the Archives anymore and typically leaves promptly at five along with Tim and Sasha, but evidently, he was wrong.

As Jon sits across the table from Martin at the small café they’ve chosen for lunch, he has the fleeting thought that Martin’s been sneaking back and watching him work and that’s how he knows that Jon has been missing dinner. He lets himself feel it, takes a deep breath, and pushes it away with considerable effort. No, that’s not… he trusts Martin. He does. Or he… he wants to. He’s trying.

“Jon?”

“Hm?” Jon blinks up at Martin, who’s clearly waiting for a response. “Sorry, I-I didn’t catch that.”

Martin’s cheeks are dusted a rosy red. He fiddles nervously with the black ring on his finger—a bit thicker in width than Jon’s, the metal smooth and bright where it reflects the sunlight. “Is—is this Friday okay? At—at seven? I-I can, um, meet you at the Institute. U-Unless you’d like to meet there! That’s, er. That’s fine with me too.”

“The Institute is fine,” Jon says, picking at his sandwich with a frown. The bread is damp and squishes under his fingers. “Perhaps we can go somewhere a bit less… soggy.”

“R-Right, yeah. I, um. I was actually thinking… you know that new bistro o-over in Clapham? M-Maybe not, it’s, er. It’s new. But I-I heard it has good South Asian food, which, um. I know you like.”

Martin’s face is fully crimson by this point. Maybe we should sit inside next time, Jon thinks. Or at least in the shade. The sun is rather intense. Martin picks up his mug of tea and takes a long sip, staring resolutely down at the table once he’s done. Jon waits, but it appears that Martin is done rambling, so he says, “Yes, that sounds fine.” Then, because it’s polite (and not untrue): “I am… looking forward to it.”

“O-Oh? Oh!” Martin looks at him, a wide smile spreading across his face. “Y-Yeah, um. M-Me too.”

We should definitely sit inside next time, Jon thinks as the back of his neck grows warm, the tips of his ears surely darkening. Good lord.

He doesn’t think the heat is responsible for the way Martin’s smile makes something in his stomach flutter. He decides to blame that on the atrocious sandwich because… well. It’s as convenient an excuse as any.

Because Martin is just looking out for Jon’s wellbeing. This is no different than him bringing mugs of tea when Jon is recording statements or accompanying him to A&E to get stitches after Michael or inviting him to lunch in the first place. This is not, he tells his ridiculous, over-zealous, butterfly-filled stomach, a date.

Because it’s not. Martin is simply a coworker—an employee—and a friend. Who he trusts. Maybe. Probably. And thinks about sometimes when he’s unoccupied. His hands, mostly, which look very soft and very capable. His smiles as well, each one like a gift meant just for Jon. The way he carries the heavier boxes that Jon can’t quite manage and can reach the top shelves to retrieve statements without even having to clamber up onto the bottom ones.

All completely normal thoughts to be having about a friend

So, when Jon wears the soft maroon button-down on Friday that he’s been told brings out his eyes and takes care to arrange his hair into something other than the haphazard braid he’s been managing lately and digs a bottle of peach nail varnish out of the bottom of his drawer the night before to coat his fingernails with, it’s just because he feels like it. Not because this is a date. Because it’s not a date. It’s just dinner. With Martin.

Who shows up to the Institute at quarter to seven wearing a nicer jumper than usual—cable-knit and mustard yellow, looking incredibly soft to the touch—and with small black studs decorating the lobes of his ears. He smiles widely when he sees Jon, also standing outside earlier than agreed upon, and Jon almost turns around to see if someone’s behind him. But there isn’t. That smile, unfettered and full of joy—it’s… it’s for him.

Surely, Martin is just… happy to see him leaving the office while it’s still light out for once. He’s certainly chided Jon enough times for his habit of falling asleep at his desk. (Which he’s been trying to do less lately, if only because it would be easy for someone to sneak up on him while he’s unconscious and slip a knife into his back or poison his tea or shoot him three times in the chest or—)

“R-Ready to head out?” Martin says, abruptly halting Jon’s train of thought. He tries not to look like he’d just been theorizing about his own inevitable demise as he mumbles his assent and follows Martin away from the Institute and into the still-bustling streets of London.

And if he presses close to Martin’s side while they walk, well. It’s just because every brush of unfamiliar contact against him feels overwhelming, enough so to make him flinch away. And if he takes Martin’s hand for a small period of time, well. It’s just because the crowd has thickened and he doesn’t want them to get separated. And if he feels particularly warm in his jacket when Martin laughs awkwardly at his own joke and rubs at the back of his neck, well. That’s just from exertion. It is quite a far walk to the restaurant.

The bistro is lovely. Jon typically doesn’t go for places like this—tucked between two nondescript buildings with a glass front that reveals soft, intimate lighting within and flowers planted in boxes outside—but once they’re inside and seated at their table, it’s… oddly charming. Jon shrugs out of his jacket, and even though it’s the same shirt he’s been wearing all day, Martin compliments him on it with a flush. The change from frigid winter air to the warmth of the bistro brings heat to Jon’s face as well, and he rolls up the cuffs of his sleeves to just below his elbows. Martin makes a choking sound, but when Jon looks up with a frown, he has his glass of water pressed to his lips.

“Sorry,” Martin says once he’s placed the glass back on the table. “Just, um. Uh. Tickle in my throat. A-Allergies, you know.”

Martin’s face pinches in what looks like a repressed wince, and Jon tries to be reassuring. After all, Martin is taking time out of his schedule to be here with Jon, and Jon doesn’t want to seem ungrateful. His grandmother taught him proper manners, and besides, he is… rather glad to be here.

His commiseration about his own experiences with seasonal allergies turns into a mini-lecture on the species of pollen-producing plants in their area. He only realizes he’s doing it when the waiter comes by with a cheery smile and asks if they’re ready to order.

Jon’s mouth snaps shut mid-sentence. He has not even opened his menu.

“I. Um.” Jon is about to ask for more time—which he strongly dislikes doing, as he’s had the waiting staff forget more than once about his table and he’s had to go through the mortifying ordeal of hailing them down like a-a bloody taxi—when Martin tilts his own menu toward Jon and points to an item in the middle of the page.

“They have chicken karahi and naan. I, er. I heard it’s good if you’re… interested.”

Jon blinks at the menu in surprise. “That… sounds great, actually. Er, medium spice, please.”

Martin orders his own squash curry, and the waiter takes their menus when he departs, leaving the spot in front of Jon oddly empty. Jon taps his fingers on the newly barren tabletop a few times, trying and failing to remember where he’d left off in his lecture. Ultimately, he gives up, deciding that Martin isn’t going to be interested in hearing about all of that and he’s already said enough on the subject.

Then, Martin says, “So, you were saying—about the pollen?” and something in Jon’s chest squeezes, an emotion he doesn’t know the name of. Relief, maybe, as Martin’s words manage to spark his memory and he picks up his train of thought again easily enough. Yes, that’s… that’s probably it.

The first few times they’d gone to lunch, Jon had made an effort to stop himself from rambling, as he was prone to do any time someone gave him the opportunity. He’d engrossed himself in his sandwiches and rice bowls and mediocre Chinese takeaway in order to keep from launching into an explanation of the origins of said folding takeaway containers or the documentary he’d watched recently about the Zhou dynasty. And the first few lunches had been… awkward. It wasn’t because Jon thought Martin was a murderer—he doesn’t think he’d have agreed to go for lunch if he truly believed that Martin might harm him. It was just… how things like this went when Jon was involved. He knows he struggles with casual conversation, and he’s never understood the purpose or execution of ‘small talk.’ He would be perfectly content to eat and exist in silence, except all too often he feels expected to provide some sort of conversation or entertainment, upon which point the silence becomes horribly oppressive and stress-inducing.

But he also knows that talking too much can be just as bad as not talking enough. His grandmother had always told him so. So he suffered through the awkward silences for the first few days, and Martin had let him, clearly assuming that if Jon wasn’t speaking, he shouldn’t either.

Then, around their fourth or fifth lunch together, Martin had begun to ask him questions. They were casual, genuine, and so clearly targeted at Jon’s interests that Jon was convinced that Martin was somehow following him home or searching through his computer history or—or something. On their eighth lunch together, Martin asked Jon about the newest exhibit at the museum—it had been about sharks, if Jon remembers correctly—and Jon couldn’t help asking how Martin knew that he’d gone to see it. He hadn’t explicitly asked if Martin had been following him, but he’s sure the sentiment was clear in his eyes.

The tips of Martin’s cheeks had grown red, and he’d said that Jon had mentioned a few days prior that he was planning on going. All traces of fear and paranoia had left Jon’s mind then, replaced by surprise and, beneath it, something warm and bubbly. Martin had remembered.

Their conversations had gotten a lot easier after that.

Despite how Martin seems to enjoy Jon’s long-winded tangents, he… does still make an effort not to hold a completely one-sided conversation. So, a few minutes into the continuation of his pollen discussion, he finds a natural stopping point and says, “So, er. You… like being outside?”

Not the most… articulated question Jon has ever asked. But Martin doesn’t seem to mind. His fingers curl around the bottom of his water glass, his palms smudging the condensation. “Yeah, w-when I can find the time, I suppose. I-I try to go for walks around my neighborhood if I can, if it’s not too dark by the time I get home, and there’s this park in—”

Martin cuts off with a small cough. He lifts his glass and takes a long sip, while Jon sits and drums his fingers against the table and tries not to bounce his leg too noticeably. “Sorry,” Martin says as soon as the glass leaves his lips, giving Jon an apologetic smile that somehow seems… artificial. Like it’s been plastered atop another, heavier expression. “S-Something in my throat again.” He hesitates, then continues, “There’s a park in Devon that I-I like, whenever I’m in that area.”

Devon’s quite a trip away, Jon thinks but doesn’t say. Why do you go to Devon? he doesn’t say. Is that where you go on Saturdays? he doesn’t say, because—well. It’s rather embarrassing, among other things, to admit to the fact that you’ve gone through your employee’s desk calendar because you thought he might have shot an old woman three times in the chest and had plans to do the same to you. Particularly when you are having dinner with said employee.

Ugh. Probably best not to think about the fact that he is technically Martin’s boss when he’s sitting three feet away from him at a candlelit table on what, to an outside observer, might look startlingly similar to a date.

But it’s not a date. Because Martin didn’t say it was a date, and he’s just trying to care for Jon, in that… over-the-top way that he does. Jon tries to muster up some irritation at the reminder that he’s likely being coddled, just for habit’s sake, but comes up empty.

He hasn’t been truly irritated with Martin in quite some time. He… doesn’t really know when that changed. When Martin became a source of comfort, rather than of annoyance.

“Jon?” Martin says. Right. Martin is still sitting across from him.

“Right,” Jon says, trying to sound like he hasn’t been drifting off in a hundred different directions. “That sounds… nice.”

Martin’s lips curl up into a small smile. “Yeah. I-It is. It, um. It makes the trip worth it, to be able to sit on one of the benches and just… write poetry.”

Jon has read some of Martin’s poetry, though Martin doesn’t know that. Jon doesn’t like poetry. Jon liked Martin’s poetry. These are, apparently, two truths that can and do coexist.

Jon does not mean to say, “Could I hear one?” But it appears that he is weary enough and relaxed enough and distracted enough that his verbal filter has small, critical holes in it. Damn.

Martin sputters. “U-Um, well, I-I suppose… I could, I-I do have a few, er. M-Memorized, if you—you really…” He trails off uncertainly. “You’re. Um. You’re sure?”

Well. Nothing to do but lean into it, Jon supposes. “I wouldn’t have asked if I weren’t sure, Martin,” he says, a bit snippier than he intends. The tips of his ears are hot, and he is deeply thankful that the dimness of the bistro hides the way they’re surely darkening.

“R-Right.” Martin clears his throat, looks down at the table. “I-I suppose I’ll just… do a short one?”

He proceeds to recite, in quiet, surprisingly stutterless lines, one of the poems that Jon already knows from the notebooks he’d left behind in the Archives. It’s… his favorite, if he were forced to pick one. But there is something different—something more—about hearing Martin speak the words aloud rather than simply reading them on a page. Martin pauses in places Jon hadn’t thought to pause, lingers on words he hadn’t thought to linger on, and adds a softness to the ends of lines and phrases that Jon finds himself enraptured by.

Logically, he knows that it’s not good poetry. He’d begrudgingly taken a poetry class during uni, had hated every minute of it, and had donated all of his books to charity shops the moment he wasn’t in need of them anymore. He’s read Dickens and Poe and Whitman—all the works that are considered great representations of their art form.

Martin’s poetry is nothing like theirs. His lines don’t follow the same rhythms; his words are clumsier, his images less profound. But still, even though Jon knows that it is technically not good poetry, he… he likes it.

He tries not to analyze that feeling too closely.

“So, um. Yeah,” Martin says after he finishes, rubbing his thumb over his ring. “I-It’s not really… great work, heh, you know, s-sorry.”

Jon is not the comforting sort. He’s been told that he’s too sharp at the edges, skin too full of spines and thorns. So he surprises himself, and probably his grandmother from beyond the grave, when he reaches across the table and takes Martin’s hand in his. It’s soft and big, the pads of Martin’s fingers lightly calloused from a past history of manual labor, and Jon thinks just for a moment how small his own hands look in Martin’s. He surprises himself even more when he says, honestly, “I enjoyed it, Martin.”

Martin blinks at him, eyes wide and owlish. His hand is rigid in Jon’s, like he’s afraid that if he moves, he’ll frighten Jon away like a skittish cat. “O-Oh.” It’s hard to tell in the dim light, but Jon thinks Martin might be blushing. “Well. T-Thanks.”

Jon nods once stiffly. He does not retract his hand. At first, it’s because he doesn’t think to do so, too wrapped up in the feeling of his skin against Martin’s. Then, it’s because it’s been long enough that doing so would be more awkward than keeping his hand there. He asks Martin about the inspiration behind the poem, for want of another conversation topic, and Martin talks about the trip he took to the countryside once and how it stuck with him, and Jon’s hand remains atop Martin’s. Martin takes a drink from his glass, and Jon takes a drink from his, but both of them use their free hands, as if in unspoken agreement that this is just how things are now. Jon’s hand is resting atop Martin’s and it will be until he has just cause to move it and that is just the way of the universe. Nothing to be done about it.

Their food comes, and looking extremely regretful about the fact, Martin extracts his hand from underneath Jon’s and reaches for his fork. They don’t mention the loss, and it’s quiet for a period of time while Jon eats his chicken karahi and Martin eats his squash curry and Jon tries not to openly moan at how good the food is.

Something must show on his face, because Martin smiles warmly at him and says, “Well? Was that Yelp reviewer correct when they said that the chicken karahi is ‘literally the best food they’ve ever eaten in their entire life’?”

Jon swallows a bite of admittedly very good chicken. “Well. I don’t know that I would quite go to that extreme, but it is rather enjoyable.” Reminds me of the way my grandmother used to make it, he doesn’t say. That feels like a date conversation, and this isn’t a date.

(It feels very much like a date.)

(It isn’t a date.)

“Good,” Martin says. Then, he smiles, wide and unabashed and like a ray of sunlight, and Jon quickly buries himself in his food again so he doesn’t say something foolish like I really like it when you smile at me like that or Is this a date? or I would very much like this to be a date.

They finish eating, and the waiter takes away their plates with the promise of bringing the check soon. Jon’s hands rest on the table, index finger fiddling with the edge of the cloth placemat in front of him. He’s in the middle of trying to convince himself that yes, it would be ridiculous to take Martin’s hand again, you should definitely not do that on this very much not-a-date, when Martin reaches out and takes Jon’s hand in his. Properly takes it, pressing their palms together and slotting his fingers easily between Jon’s and knocking their rings together as he squeezes gently.

“Um,” Jon says eloquently. He should very much not ask if this is a date. “What are you doing?”

Nope, that’s worse. That’s definitely worse.

“Oh!” Martin lets go of Jon’s hand immediately, and Jon does not try to chase Martin’s hand as it retracts, thank you very much. He’s more dignified than that. “S-Sorry, I thought… I, um. Never mind. I-I shouldn’t have… sorry. Again.”

“It’s fine,” Jon finds himself saying. Then, in an effort to do damage control: “I… didn’t mind.”

“You… didn’t?” Martin seems confused, which is understandable. If Georgie were here, she’d tell him that he’s giving, quote, ‘mixed signals.’ He’d never quite understood what counts as ‘mixed signals,’ and he doesn’t know that he ever will.

“I did not,” Jon confirms. “I just… I suppose I…”

He should not ask if this is a date. He really, really shouldn’t.

“Is this a-a date?”

It appears he’s found another one of the holes in his verbal filter. Lovely.

Martin’s eyes grow impossibly wider. He makes a series of sputtering sounds as Jon waits and tries not to bounce a hole through the floor with the heel of his foot. “You—you didn’t…” Martin seems to have a miniature internal debate with himself, his face cycling through a dozen different expressions over the next few seconds. Finally, he sighs and says, eyes fixated on the table between them, “I had… intended it to be. Though I suppose if—if you didn’t know it was a date, that. Um. Kind of defeats the purpose.”

“Does it?” Jon’s mouth says without his permission.

“I-I mean… you can’t really have a one-sided date,” Martin says with an awkward laugh. The waiter is nowhere to be seen, which Jon is grateful for and disheartened by in equal measure. This situation would certainly be easier with a convenient escape.

“I… suppose.” Jon worries at the edge of the placemat, pulling on a loose thread. “Though, it’s… if this were a date—or, I suppose, if I-I’d known it was meant to be a date—I… wouldn’t have acted much differently.” He pulls harder at the thread, feeling a bit bad for the way the fabric bunches around it. “I… would not have been… that is to say, I would have liked it if… rather, to say that I didn’t think about it would be, er… well, incorrect.”

Martin stares at him, clearly unable to make sense of Jon’s admittedly disjointed, half-finished sentences. Jon sighs and says, under his breath, “I am not opposed to considering tonight a date.”

Martin’s cheeks are red enough now that Jon can see the flush, even in the dim light. “U-Um. What?”

“I am not opposed,” Jon repeats, louder, “to considering tonight a date.” Lord, that’s mortifying to say out loud. How do people do this? To emphasize his point, he sticks his hand out, palm-up on the table. It’s stiff and awkward and he probably looks like a cat with its hackles raised. He focuses on the cable knit of Martin’s jumper so he doesn’t have to see whatever amused or mocking or disappointed expression is on Martin’s face as he realizes just how bad Jon is at all of this.

Martin is quiet for a moment. Then, just as Jon is about to pull his hand away and flee for the exit, he feels a touch against his palm. Martin’s hand settles tentatively atop his—not weaving their fingers together, not even properly holding it, just… pressing together, palm to palm. Jon can feel Martin’s heartbeat faintly against the tips of his fingers where they press against the inside of Martin’s wrist. “Okay,” Martin says softly, like Jon has just given him a precious gift. “Then it’s a date.”

It’s a date. Jon’s skin has absolutely no reason to prickle at those words, nor does his stomach have any reason to squeeze and sprout butterflies. He nods, a bit brusquely, and opens his mouth to say something—god knows what—when the waiter appears next to their table, somehow having both comically bad and impossibly good timing.

Martin pays, despite Jon’s insistence that he can cover his own share, and then they’re back out in the cool night air, making their way toward the tube station. The first few minutes are quiet. There’s a tension between them that feels more anticipatory than awkward. Their hands brush once, twice. Then, on the third time, Martin hooks his fingers around Jon’s and clasps his hand in his, and Jon lets out a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding.

They hold hands all the way to the tube station, up until they have to part ways to take separate lines. Jon runs through all the things that he thinks he’s supposed to say in a situation like this—I had fun tonight or We should do this again sometime or… something—but ends up saying instead, “How long have you…?”

He trails off, squeezing Martin’s hand a few times thoughtlessly, like a warm, bony stress ball. Martin seems to infer the rest of his question, however, because he squeezes Jon’s hand in return and says, “It’s… new for me too, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Jon nods and squeezes Martin’s hand again. He thinks that’s going to become quite a habit if they keep this up. “Right.”

Martin hesitates, before letting his grip on Jon’s hand loosen slightly. “We… we don’t have to do this again if you don’t want to. I-I know things are complicated right now, and I…” He worries his bottom lip between his teeth. “I want to do this again, for… for what it’s worth. But I get it. If you don’t, that is. For—for any reason.”

“I do,” Jon says, surprising himself with his conviction. “I-I don’t… you’re right. Things are… complicated.” That’s certainly a word for it. “But I… I trust you, Martin. O-Or… I want to trust you.” He takes a deep breath. “I am making the decision to trust you.” It’s hard and it’s terrifying and there’s an animal instinct deep within Jon that’s telling him not to expose his vulnerable side, but… somehow, despite all of that, Martin makes him feel… well. Not safe, but as close to safe as he can get right now. Which is an accomplishment in its own right.

Martin exhales slowly and gives Jon a small, hesitant smile. “Thank you. I-I know that’s difficult, and I…” Martin squeezes Jon’s hand, just once. “I-I’m happy.”

And Jon finds that he means it when he says softly, “I’m happy too.”

Martin gets on his train, and Jon gets on his. And despite the ever-present itching beneath his skin and the persistent belief that something isn’t right and the knowledge that he is likely a hunted man, from the moment he lets go of Martin’s hand to the moment he closes his eyes and curls onto his side in bed, that happiness remains.

[voiceless-terror]

My TMA Fluff Fics

 For @themagnuswriters latest challenge, I decided to go through my eighty-some fics on ao3 and find only the purest-grade, quality fluff I could find. No angst here! A grab bag of pairings but mostly jonmartin. 

Day in the Sun | Rating: G | Words: 1.1k | Pairing: Archive Polycule

“Speaking of your men,” Melanie sat up and whipped off her sunglasses, squinting intensely at the shoreline. “What exactly are they trying to do? Drown him?”

The Archives Gang has a Beach Holiday. That's it, that's the fic.

Hurry, I’m Behind You! | Rating: T | Words: 2.6k | Pairing: Gen

Jon and Melanie help with Daisy's hunger in an unconventional way.

Alternatively titled 'The Gang Plays Hide and Seek!'

Truth or Dare | Rating: T | Words: 1.6k | Pairing: Jon/Martin

Jon chooses truth. Martin chooses dare. These choices have their consequences.

The team goes to a bar after work and discoveries are made by all.

My Dearest | Rating: G | Words: 1.1k | Pairing: Jon/Martin

“Pass me the towel, dear?”

“Ah y-yes, of course.”

Martin has a million pet names for Jon. Jon attempts to reciprocate.

What a Lovely Way to Burn | Rating: G | Words: 1.6k | Pairing: Jon/Tim

Jon's next words were muffled against Tim’s chest. “You always do that. You always warm me up.”

“Why Jon,” Tim's voice took on an unbearable, teasing tone as his smile grew. “Are you saying I’m so hot I made you sick?”

Jon comes in to work sick and Tim takes care of his boyfriend.

The Weight of Love | Rating: G | Words: 1.6k | Pairing: Jon/Martin

Jon is a restless sleeper. Martin attempts to adjust.

The Best Things Come in Threes | Rating: T | Words: 2.3k | Pairing: Jon/Gerry/Martin

In which Martin and Gerry help Jon acquire a cat, among other things.

Trial and Error | Rating: G | Words: 1.3k | Pairing: Jon/Martin/Tim

And if Martin sleeps like the dead, Jon does the opposite. It’s not that he’s woken up at all, no, but he’s constantly rolling around, climbing on top of them at strange and uncomfortable angles. Tim wouldn’t mind the clinging so much if he didn’t change position every fifteen minutes with a jab of his pointy elbows.

In which Martin and Jon sleepover and Tim struggles.

Of Deadlines and Drama | Rating: T | Words: 2.5 k | Pairing: Jon/Tim

Jon's expenses are overdue. Tim hatches a plan to help him out.

Afterwards | Rating: G | Words: 1.2k | Pairing: Jon/Martin

If Martin had realized how difficult this was going to be, he would’ve left Jon at home. They’d already left ‘at the wrong time, Martin, everyone goes on a Saturday, it’ll be so crowded’ and parked in a ‘terrible spot, Martin, right by the carts, we’ll be lucky if we don’t get a dent in the car.’

Martin and Jon go grocery shopping.

Full of Surprises | Rating: G | Words: 907 | Pairing: Jon/Martin

“Oh, look at this little man-” It’s not quite baby-talk, too serious and too Jonathan Sims to ever be described that way, but it’s a strange enough tone and it sort of does something to Martin in the vein of indigestion and heart palpitations. Here’s his stuffy boss, crouching in a dirty alleyway, petting a dirty cat, and whispering sweet nothings as if it were his own.

In which Jon pets a cat and Martin gets a crush.

A Little Kiss | Rating: G | Words: 1.8k | Pairing: Jon/Martin

Tim watches the two of them; Martin keeps looking up at Jon throughout it all like he’s the only one in the room and god, his crush is so evident and yet Jon is oblivious, smiling at him like he’s not on the receiving end of some of the most loaded glances of all time.

A game of truth or dare reveals some truths.

And Many Happy Returns | Rating: G | Words: 5.7k | Pairing: Gen, Pre Jon/Martin

It’s not every day you turn eight. It’s a nice number, very even and divisible. Much better than boring old seven. When Jon turns eight, he’s going to get fifteen extra minutes added to his curfew, and he’ll be able to walk to the corner store all by himself. He’s already walked there several times, but it’ll be nice to have permission. That’s the real treat.

In which it's Martin's birthday, and Jon plans a little celebration.

a continuation of Inseparable, where Jon and Martin meet as children.

[misterghostfrog]

[IMAGE ID; a digital drawing of Martin Blackwood carrying Jonathan Sims from The Magnus Archives. Martin is a fat freckled white man with curly ginger hair that is shaved close at the sides. He has a pair of round framed glasses in a bright red, under the glasses he is wearing eyeliner, and a navy eyeshadow. He has black lipstick, two black snakebite piercings under his lip, and a small black nostril piercing. His ear has a large black piercing that cuffs a chain to a small black piercing higher up his ear, and one final black piercing in the middle. He has a black choker, and then a looser chain necklace with an eye ornament on it. He has a studded lather jacket on that is covered in multiple patches and pins, mostly hidden by Jon: of the visible pins there is a trans flag patch on his chest, and on his shoulder is a large dark colored patch that has A-C-A-B on it in white. Under the Jacket is a black shirt that he has partly tucked into his pants, the shirt has a large anarchy symbol drawn on it in red. Under that he is wearing jeans that are significantly ripped as far as we can see. On his right hand he has several black rings, and his nails are painted black. Jon is a skinny Jordanian man with brown eyes and shoulder-length grey-streaked dark brown hair pulled back into a messy ponytail at the base of his neck. He has a beard beginning to grow that appears to be the product of forgetting to shave. He is covered in a series of small round scars that vary in exact size. He is wearing a pair of rectangle-framed glasses, a plain t-shirt, a pair of jeans that are ripped at the knee, and converse. Martin is carrying Jon bridal style in his arms, and is looking away, he is blushing, though his expression is concerned and appears to be speaking. Jon has his arms wrapped around Martins neck, his cheeks are darkened and he is staring at hte ground with an expression somewhere between fear and the face one makes when they’re having to retrace every step they’ve taken to get here. END ID]

Punk Martin but make it Jonmartin.

Also I wrote a lil thing to go along with this under the cut, its only barely edited because it was mostly for fun so be warned its a big ol mess! But its s2 jonmartin nonsense with Martin being very cool and attractive and Jon being seven layers deep in denial (Also I may have written Jon as a touch autistic because its projection hours tonight i’m too sleepy to mask and that goes for writing too babey)

(Mentions of worms, past injuries, and Jon dealing with some internalised ableism and general foolishness)

Jon forgot his cane.

It’s a relatively regular occurrence, for a multitude of reasons. For one thing it’s something of a recent addition to the list of things he needs to keep track of when he leaves the house. Another lovely parting gift from Prentiss, a worm in his left leg that went just quick enough to start burrowing into the bone before it was removed. 

For another, he really has other things to worry about. And if it doesn’t hurt, it shouldn’t matter. Most days he can get by just fine without it- it hurts of course. But not so much he can’t support himself, and really, does he need it otherwise?

Martin and Tim don’t seem to agree, though Sasha has kept respectfully to herself on the whole business. Martin, of course, he trusts. Albeit only recently. But that doesn’t make him right, his priorities are warped. Naturally. He doesn’t see the bigger picture.

(or at least that’s what Jon tells himself)

Which is what leads to this moment, sitting on a bench outside the shop, single grocery bag by his feet. He’d only run out to get a few things, but somewhere between the his flat the the shop his barely visible limp had become more pronounced as his hip began to throb, then he was halfway through the frozens when he realized he wasn’t going to be able to finish the trip. After that he’d barely made it through checkout to the nearest seat before all but collapsing into it.

And now he’s sitting, stuck. An insurmountable walk from home, without his stupid cane. Which, he notes, he wouldn’t need if he’d brought in the first place. Funny how that works.

“Jon?” A familiar voice jolts him out of his thoughts. Jon jolts upright. Martin. 

He knows Martin lives in the area, a side effect of his... investigations. Though he was unaware he used the same shop. He looks up, a greeting or perhaps a question on his lips that dies as soon as he actually lays eyes on Martin.

Martin is wearing a leather jacket. Not just a leather jacket of course, but that’s the first thing Jon can process. He’s wearing a studded leather jacket covered in various patches that advertise various opinions and identities that Jon doesn’t have time to think about. His  jeans are about as much rip as they are Jean, and he’s got piercings- and eyeliner. he’s dressed like he should be riding a motorcycle, not the beat-up red bike he’s got beside him.

“Are you alright?” Martin says, and Jon realizes he’s been staring.

“Are you going to a costume party?” Jon blurts instead of answering. A costume party would make sense, of course. Martin doesn’t dress like this, he dresses like- like-

It occurs to him dimly that he’s never encountered Martin outside of work, at least never in a scenario that would allow him to change out of his work clothes. And some part of him has always assumed that sweaters and khakis were simply how he dressed. It suited him, really. Or Jon had assumed, but then again he assumed anything familiar is suiting.

“Wh- A- no?” Martin answers, looking vaguely offended. Jon flushes.

“I- sorry, I just- I’ve... I didn’t think you seemed the type to dress... like that...?” Jon fumbles, pathetically trying to salvage the conversation. Judging by Martins expression, he’s failing.

Martin opens his mouth to say something, and Jon realizes there’s likely no coming back from this particular mortification. He snatches the bag by his feet and moves to stand. Some excuse already tumbling out when the reason for his sit-down, which had dulled to a shockingly forgettable throb, decides to remind him of his place in the world.

He lets out a cry of pain, and crumples. Only stopped from hitting the ground by a pair of arms that wrap around his chest and under his shoulder. 

“Oh my god, Jon. Are you alright- what- is it your leg? Where’s your cane-” Martin babbles, Gently replacing Jon on his bench as Jon breathes through gritted teeth.

“It’s fine- i’m fine Martin I-” he sighs, studiously avoiding Martins gaze. “My cane is at home.” He tries not to sound chastised as he says the last part- he shouldn’t have to after all. He’s still Martins boss. He shouldn’t be looking away like he’s been caught at something.

“Jon” Martin sounds exasperated, and Jon crosses his arms. Once again, nothing like someone being scolded. He’s not being scolded. He’s an adult. “How long have you been sitting here like this?”

“I...” Jon begins before trailing off, he’s not actually sure. The period between sitting on the bench and the pain dulling enough for him to think through the fog is something is a blur. He is pretty sure someone asked if he was alright at some point. His lack of answer seems to be enough for Martin though.

“Just give me a moment.” He says, stepping away from Jon over to his bike- which has fallen over onto the ground -pulling it upright and over to Jon on the bench. He pushes down the rusted kickstand with a hearty kick- and Jon briefly notes he’s wearing steel-toed boots -and sets the bike gently upright.

“Okay, so! If you sit on the bike I can push it, and you can get home and rest that leg without jostling it too much by trying to walk without your cane.” He says pointedly. Jon makes a face,

“This... this really isn’t necessary Martin- I’m perfectly capable-” He grumbles, waving a hand dismissively. But a glance at Martins expression shuts him up quick. 

“Do you think you can stand?” He asks. Jon pauses, the memory of the white-hot flash of pain still fresh in his mind. He grimaces, shaking his head. Martin hums thoughtfully. “Alright, would you be alright if I picked you up? Just for a moment to get you on the bike” He asks carefully.

Jon hesitates, looking between Martin and the bike. And weighs his options. After several seconds he nods. Martin smiles, and Jon feels something in his chest flutter. Anxiety at his decision most likely. Or perhaps nerves in relation to sitting on a bike, he’s never ridden one- of course Martin will be doing all the work but surely there’s some sort of balance required isn’t there? Really he shouldn’t be riding a bike like this-

Those thoughts are all swept away at the feeling of large warm hands gently scooping him off the bench. He instinctively throws his arms around Martins neck for support as he’s lifted into the air. 

He can feel Martins chest warm against his side as Martin holds him close, one hand on his shoulder and the other supporting his legs. He’s being cradled by his subordinate, carefully as so not to jostle his leg. And all he can think about is how warm Martin is. He’s large and soft despite all the sharper accessories and he smells a bit like leather and tea on top of whatever soap he uses. Probably something that Jon wouldn’t be able to name with a gun to his head. And Jon can see the freckles on Martins cheeks and neck close enough to count if he wanted to even as he looks away, saying something Jon can’t quite parse because he’s too busy reeling from the realization he’d be happy to sit in Martins arms like this for the rest of his life.

His face goes hot and he forces himself to look down at the ground. The pain is clearly messing with his head, or perhaps the sleep deprivation. Or perhaps he’s still riding the high from that moment of realization that Martin isn’t trying to kill him, that he can trust him. 

Either way he’s not thinking straight, which is why he’s dissapointed instead of relieved when Martin gently places him on the bike with the exact amount of care he took in picking him up. Which shouldn’t make him feel so oddly jittery but it does.

The ride is quiet, aside from awkward instructions from Jon on where to turn as Martin guides them carefully along the sidewalk. They miss a turn once because Jons too preoccupied with the feeling of Martins arm bumping against his shoulder as he guides the bike.

And then they’re at Jons flat, and Jon once again feels that misplaced disappointment. He wonders if perhaps Martin will carry him up to his flat, and his face burns again as the silliness of the thought hits him.

Martin does very, very briefly lift him to help him off the bike when he stumbles. But his leg has recovered enough that he can make it up to his flat without assistance, or so he tells Martin. Who looks unconvinced.

“Let me at least walk with you, yea? That way I know for sure you got home safe.” He insists, and Jon forced himself to be displeased with the situation.

It ends up being a good thing Martin came along though, a partway up the steps the railing is no longer enough to support Jon, and he ends up half-carried the rest of the way. Martins arm under his shoulder, his own loops around Martins back, gripping the jacket for support. He can feel his head drifting at the contact- Martin is just so damned warm and safe and Martin it’s impossible not to get distacted.

He forces himself to think about something else, anything else. The jacket- he can feel the leather under his fingertips and it’s as good distraction as any.

It’s a nice jacket, really. Clearly well-worn. And it does suit Martin, in an odd sort-of way.

Jon winces internally, remembering the conversation from earlier. He hadn’t meant to come off so... well. It doesn’t matter. Except that it does, even though it doesn’t, but it does.

Once they reach Jons door, he pushes off of Martin to lean on the wall while he fumbles for his keys. Martin lingers as he does so, twiddling his thumbs awkwardly in the silence.

Jon finds his keys and sighs in relief as the door swings open.

He nearly wanders inside and shuts the door before remembering basic human etiquette. He pauses in the doorway, turning to Martin. Who smiles awkwardly.

“Thank you.” He says stiffly, still leaning heavily on the doorframe. “That was... very kind. Of you.” Martin shakes his head.

“It’s nothing, really. Couldn’t exactly just leave you there, could I?” 

Jon shifts awkwardly, wincing at the brief weight on his leg. He’s right of course, morally at least. If not logically.

“I... I suppose not.” He says, hesitating before adding “I’m sorry.”

“Look, Jon. I already said it’s fine-”

“No-” Jon grimaces “not for that. I- I meant... for what I said. About your clothes. They don’t... I just- I didn’t expect it, and I may have come off as... rude.” He mutters

“Oh.” Martin says flatly, Jons sure he’d forgotten about that until just now, and he wishes he could have kept it that way.

“they do suit you, though.” He says, after an awkward pause. “Your clothes, I mean. It looks- you look nice.” he finishes as genuinely as he can- he does mean it. Of course, he just doesn’t know how to make it sound like he does.

“Oh” Martin says again, brightening slightly, his cheeks going blotchy red in a blush. “I- er- thank you...? I suppose?”

“Yes. Well. Your welcome, I suppose.” There’s another awkward pause, Martin isn’t quite smiling at Jon, but there’s something soft in his expression Jon can’t quite parse. “ Have a good day, Martin.” He says finally, after a long pause. Martins cheeks redden again.

“Oh- yeah, er. You too Jon- and take care of yourself. Alright?”

Jon nods, and Martin smiles. And Jon thinks he’d like to see Martin smile a bit more.

He waves as Martin heads down the stairs, he can hear Martin humming as he goes.