#and Martin is just like I- UM- I NEED TO GO MAKE TEA

[dykedarling]

I combined my two hyperfixations >:-) I’ll sketch more of this au if people like it lol

[cupioromantic-simp]

Martin x spiral avatar

“Well it’s like… it’s called Michael but that’s not what that is it’s who he might have used to been but it’s also a real name that is called and when it’s called they’ve’d answer

You know? Like

it’s not it’s name because it is it’s ‘what do they call you’ because it used to be what they’ve’d whold have bean if it was he and he is Michael … does that make sense?”

Martin stands at the counter pouring tea the cup has been long since filled boiling water spills over as he stairs in to nothing not noticing the heater scorching his hand

“Good lord Martin!” you stand and rush over taking the cup and kettle out of his hands “are you okay?!”

The skin on his hand is already starting to blister and bleed

“P-pardon? What- ow oh my god! What’s happened?!”

“That’s not the problem these look like serious burns martin, I’ll drive you to the hospital”

“I- yeah that- that’s a good idea…”

“We should tell Jon before we leave, he’ll freak if we leave without telling him,” you Gide him out of the staff room “you can take a seat and wait for me if you need?”

“I’ll- yeah”

…

Knock knock

“Heyyyyy Jon” you close the door behind you “me and Martin might need the day or so off”

He sighs loudly and you can hear the faint whirring of a tape recorder

“I told you you can’t just take days of to go on dates with martin this is the second time this week and I-“

“No it’s not that, I need to drive Martin to the hospital”

“Why what’s happened? Is it those damed worms again! I said to be careful!” He sighs and mumbles something about how incompetent everyone is

“No, um it’s not that he um- burnt himself making tea spilled hot water on his hand, I was explaining Michael to him and guess he-“

“What?” Jon turns and looks at you

“I need to take him to the emergency room it’s pritty bad and-“

“No no I herd that I don’t care. You were explaining Michael? H-how”

“Well it’s really simple actually if you remember what he looks like it’s not it but it’s them because he is it but it’s not he and vice versa he’s full of nothing and so he’s empty because it’s everything which means they’re are something and they’ve are Michael Because that’s what he’s always been so that’s what it’s not choosing to be, it’s like vanilla flavouring a drop is vanilla and a bottle is vanilla the difference is the concentration even though it’s technically the same concentration the difference is just the amount it’s exactly the same but also extremely different, you understand right?”

He looks just like Martin did a few minutes ago completely frozen in place look around with his eyes trying to calculate something in his head

“I can’t deal with explaining things to you I need to get Martin to the hospital” you walk across the room to the door “huh? I didn’t know where ales to paint our office doors? You made a good choice on the colour though Jon, the yellow really brightens up the room”

Jon perks up “Wait do-!”

You close the door in front of you and turn forward to move to his left you run walk move wander continue stumbling for days which takes seconds to get confudelling to be interested

“This isn’t sensefull” you go in the top of the stairs and turn to you forward and walk out of a painting and are met with a person With curling eyes and panicked hair “oh hello what might you be?”

She turns forward and cocks her head at you “are you the.. thing.. that.. lives? Here”

“Hmm? Do I live or am I just an existence, I think I’m a person I still have existing so I’d say no… so yes I do-not live but I might do it here” your voice comes out crisp and warm like burnt tinfoil you have spoken in a long time so it’s rattling to hear a video and listen to the clear crystallized frames of your voice producing those pictures of words

“Is this it? What door do I take to get out” she shoves a map into you

“Shit! My map! God damn it!” She starts to scratch at your senter trying to grab you out of the map you hold her away from it with your hand

“That’s not vary nice, if you wanted to leave you could have just ask”

“Bloody hell? Fine? How do I leave?” She pops out of nowhere and in to somewhere away

“See all you had to do was ask” you whisper in to her ear

You stand up to the side you head just barely touching the floor no it’s not quite the floor it’s the inside of what what’s you before you whet it

“Ah.. that’s it I’m not Michael.. what am I?.. we should go find out” you walk out of the in and in to the out of the door in the middle of the archives

“Um.. h-hello is someone there?” A voice calls out of a door to and office with the label ‘head archivist’

“If it’s you me.Lukas I-I already told you my answer..”

you close the door and walk out

The man inside stars at you slowly and calls a name

“Is that mine?” You ask

“I-is w-what yours?” He looks around nervously and alert

“My… ‘name’… is that it? Do I own a part of that name, is sounds like a very stupid name,” you repeat the name over and over once

“M-mayby” he seems to be breathing heavily tears stabbing his eyes

You move a finger to his eye he is frozen in fear and you slowly smooth the tear out of his eye with your thumb

“Martin… you should’ve not done that… your much to pretty to be leaking from your eyes…” you stand up straight “hmm strange… how do we might know your name” you laugh like a whiny kicked puppy with four sharp inhales and a soft sigh at the end “how fun..”

White Smokey tendrils form in the corners of the small office as ‘Martin’ stares blankly at you

He sits down in his chair and blows a tendril of smoke of his tea

“Gosh! That’s a nasty burn there! How’d you get it?” He bites his lip and shakes trying to hold back tears but fails miserably as he grips his mug in his hands tendrils of smoke reforming on his tea as more smoke fills the room “what’s wrong Martin? You look upset?”

He shakes in place “leave.”

“Pardon?-“

“LEAVE!” His cup shatters in his hand spilling hot tea onto his hand “fuck!” He runs his hand over his face and chokes back a sob

“Are you alright? That looks like it might’ve been painful if it was hot did you do that on purpose Because if you did it on purpose you shouldn’t have done it at all beca-“

“Stop… just leave… please..”

“Hmm.. alright i suppose,” you walk through the wall in to your door “Good bye, have fun without me I hope”

(I fucking live for writing spiral content!)

[hardcourtsterektrash]

Stiles Stilinski vs The Universe: PT 2

@axelwolf8109 @wendysbrassknuckles @greek-freak101 @epickiya722 @thebejeweledwatercat @sterekmpreg

Stiles dreamed about his dream guy for the next two weeks, every time he scowled at him with absolute contempt and ignored Stiles.

And yet he couldn't stop thinking about him. Stiles had been tasked with helping Isaac pick up some gaming guides at the library. The twenty year old went on and on about Bayonetta and Mario to the point Stiles thought that Isaac was making stuff up.

The two descended down the stairs, Stiles stopping in shock. His dream guy was right there!

He was handing a package to the lady at the front desk, a ghost of a smile on his perfect face, green hazel eyes sparkling, and of course the red streaks.

He looked up at Stiles who hid his face behind Isaac's many books. He softly laughed and skated away.

-----

"Why are we going to Theo's party, I hate Theo" Stiles whined. "I do too" Isaac whined identically. "Because he invited us and we need to relax before we enter this battle of the bands" Scott said.

Allison rolled her eyes, immediately going to get drunk. "This sucks!" Stiles yelled before running to find Liam Dunbar, Theo's boyfriend who knew everyone.

"Liam! Have you seen a guy? Hot, green eyes I wanna swim in and red streaks?" "Oh yeah, Derek Hale, he moved her from New York" Liam nodded sagely. "He's here" "What?!"

A spotlight might as well have Illuminated Derek leaning against a wall, looking uncomfortable. Stiles slid over to him.

"Hi" "Hey" God even his voice was hot!

Stiles resisted the urge to squeeze his muscles. "Are you gonna ask stare at me or?"

"How are you in my dreams?" Stiles blurted out. "Subspace, I work at Amazon, yours is the fastest way I can get to my deliveries. I forgot you don't have that in California"

"Wow" Stiles said dumbly. Derek laughed again. "Not gonna lie, you've grown on me a bit" "Uhhhhh" "You wanna get out of here?"

------

Derek used subspace to get Stiles to his house, holding him on his back.

"I can see why you like using that!" "Right? It's faster than a car" Derek took off his leather jacket. "Why'd you move from New York"

"Bad breakup, I have a lot of those unfortunately" He sighed, making a cup of peppermint tea. "You?" "Just one really, Lydia Martin" Stiles said sadly, expecting Derek to call him a liar like everyone else did.

"Well her loss" Derek shrugged.

Stiles gaped. "My ex girlfriend always said I move on too fast, in my opinion we can do whatever we want" Derek sat next to him.

Stiles stared into his green eyes, Derek cupping his cheek and kissing him. Stiles kissed back, not caring that they were moving extremely fast

------

Derek dropped Stiles back at his house. "Um, my band The Wolf Pack are playing tomorrow night at the Eclipse theater, you wanna come?"

"Sure, why not" Derek grinned. Stiles whooped when he got inside, not realizing the world of chaos he was about to face.

[lycanlovingvampyre]

MAG 189 Relisten

Activity on my first listen: mowing the lawn.

MARTIN: "It’s the final battle, right? We climb the tower, take out the bad guy, figure out how to change the world back, and back in time for tea." No Martin, after this episode there are still 11 left! (Martin seems so stressed.)

MARTIN: "Yeah. They did roll out the red carpet, didn’t they? Must be nice getting the star treatment." JON: "I’d hardly call flooding Oxford Street with blood, the 'star treatment'." Sooo, the "red" carpet was literally blood? (Also, reminds me of The Shining). Martin is so snippy in this one. Been a while since he last did that, like to this extent.

MARTIN: [Amused] "Seriously? Stage fright? The great Archivist, master of all he surveys can’t handle a bit of public attention?" And boyfriend of said master of all he surveys also seems pretty scared and on edge. It fits his character that he gets nervous and is irritated easily because of that. Still, shitty way to treat Jon.

JON: "You don’t need to be sarcastic, okay?" MARTIN: "You’re right, I’m sorry. If it’s any consolation, I’m scared too." I'm happy it got to that though. Jon calling him out and Martin realizing, it's wrong and apologizing.

JON: "Yes. Except one of the contestants is also planning to try and murder the judge." MARTIN: "… Um. [Searchingly] Maybe it hasn’t realised?" It has not, Eye's too dumb for it, you're good to go!

Oh no, Martin's getting worked up again... That was an ugly, ugly fight. If it can even be called a fight, it was mostly just Martin being all angry and yelling around. And I'm kind of disappointed that Martin still reacts so annoyed whenever Jon has to make a statement. It's a physical need of Jon and reacting to physical needs like that is horrible. At least the two of them get some space now and Martin can go cool off somewhere.

"The light takes on a crimson tinge as he passes an office dried with gore, and turns away from a back room where three men in fine suits laugh among themselves as they weave their pile of nooses." That's Tim, right? The laughter we can hear in the background, that's his uncredited cameo and neither Alex nor Jon knew about it at the time.

"He takes his place, marvelling again at how comfortable the seat is, how well it seems to fit," Forget the Lonely, join the Eye! We have comfortable chairs!

I don't quite get this statement, what is it a metaphor for? What is that pit? What it it about that minister, who seems to care about people in a way (or at least recognizes their suffering), but is ashamed of being wealthy while others starve?

MARTIN: [Brightly] "All good?" JON: "Yes. Just, uh… Left a bit of a bad taste in my mouth." MARTIN: "Oh great! Fantastic!" Martin is so bad at this xD Why? He could keep it together during MAG 118 when confronting Elias while Melanie searched the office for evidence. He kept Peter on the hook for several months! And now he's, what, too giddy to try to act normal?

Hmm, when Georgie and Melanie pulled Jon into the tunnels there was the same sound effect we hear when Jon smites someone, even if only for a brief moment.

JON: "Likewise, I… oh… Ooo…" MELANIE: "Oh, I know that sound. He’s going pale, right? Five quid says he’s about to collapse again." JON: [Archly] "I am not going to collapse. What do you mean again?" MELANIE: "Oh come on. You do it all the time." Yeah, Jon's "hobbies", getting kidnapped and collapsing. Sounds fun!

JON: [Brokenly] "I do not – I’m just feeling a little bit woozy alright? I ca-can’t quite think straight. Like at, um… um, Martin, you remember?" GEORGIE: "Is this what you were talking about?" MARTIN: "Yeah, if something messes with his connection, he can get a little… vague." JON: "I don’t like being discussed like I’m not here." I mean... Jon tried to tell what happened to him at Salesa’s and couldn't, then asked Martin what it was like. Georgie asks Martin, if this is what he was talking about (It makes sense to ask Martin, cause it was him they have spoken to earlier. How would Jon know what Georgie means, he certainly can't Know it here.) and Martin explains what Jon just couldn't put into words. I wouldn't have seen this as "discussing me like I'm not here". But I understand, there are people out there, who are really bothered by this. Friends of mine are like that. He tries to tell something, doesn't quite know how to proceed, she chimes in and says just straight out what he wanted to say and he get's all angry for being interrupted and having the story told for him. I don't know, I wouldn't mind that, I'd see it as a "Oh good, I don't have to explain everything, others already get it."

MELANIE: "It’s fine, Georgie. You can use the “c” word." MARTIN: "E-Excuse me?" GEORGIE: "Fine. We’ve got, sort of a… cult." Yeah, same Martin. This being a British show I thought it would be the word with an N instead of the L xD

GEORGIE: "When the world started to change, it just didn’t hit me and Melanie. Not, not really." ... Not really!!!^^

MELANIE: "There was nowhere to go back to, so I told her about the tunnels. Turns out, not only were they still here, they actually do a decent job of hiding things. When you aren’t painting a huge target on our backs." Mrrrrrhhh, until know this could have been excused as the Slaughter's influence, but Melanie still want to pin everything on Jon!

GEORGIE: "How could we not? The entire city knows you were there." MELANIE: [Sarcastically] "Everyone is so excited to see the Ceaseless Watcher’s special little boy." [GIGGLES] Okay, the entire city knows, but how did they learn about it? Do... the things here in London speak with actual words and they overheard them talking? Bit unspectacular... I'd like to think that every single screen in London now live-broadcasts Jon, as long as he is in London on the surface.

Heh, Jon laughing at Martin getting owned by Melanie XD Serves him a bit right after this episode ^^''

@a-mag-a-day

[slipping-through-my-fingertips]

Klaine Advent 2022

Christmas Crush

AO3

Converge

Kurt’s POV

Kurt had spent all day Saturday planning: trying on outfits, rehearsing what he wanted to say, and wondering if he should try to guess what kind of coffee Blaine drank. When Sunday finally arrived it was after a restless night’s sleep, he was just too amped up for today. He was ready to go two hours before he needed to be and Kurt arrived at the Lima Bean 45 minutes before the agreed upon time. So, he ordered a hot, decaffeinated tea and sat at the corner table. The last thing Kurt needed was his lack of sleep and too much coffee to converge. He was nervous enough as is. His leg was jiggling under the table so he took out his phone to text Mercedes. She’d know how to talk him down. 

Mercedes: I know you’re not texting me while Cutie McButt is sitting across from you

Kurt: I’m early, he’s not here yet.

Kurt: and we agreed not to call him that

Mercedes: you agreed, I’m an independent woman and will call him whatever I damn well, please.

Kurt sighed. 

Mercedes: I know you’re nervous but don’t be

Mercedes: Blaine likes you

Mercedes: trust me, I got an eye for these things

He smiled, Mercedes may think she has an eye for these things but couldn’t see Sam Evans making goo-goo eyes at her all week. 

Texting Mercedes did make Kurt feel better. At exactly 12, Blaine walked in. Right on time. Punctuality was definitely one of the things Kurt liked about him. 

Once he was actually in line with Blaine at his side, Kurt felt calmer. The nerves shot straight through him again if he so much considered the Winter Formal. It was still over a week away but Kurt needed to know if he was planning to match someone or not. While Kurt was caught up in his thoughts, the line in front of them dissipated. 

“Medium drip,” Blaine said. 

Oh, not a latte guy then. 

“And whatever the gentleman beside me wants, I’m buying.” 

“Um, non-fat mocha. Also a medium, please.” 

Blaine paid and they went to stand at the end of the counter. 

“Thank you for getting mine,” Kurt said. 

“Next one is on you,” Blaine teased. 

The Lima Bean wasn’t too busy so it didn’t take long for their drinks to be called out. When they sat down together, all Kurt wanted to do was blurt out an invitation to the dance. 

“I didn’t see your car in the lot,” Blaine commented. 

“Yeah, my dad dropped me off. My car’s in the garage, inspection time.” 

Blaine nodded. 

“Well, if you need a ride home, I can take you.”

Kurt’s cheeks threatened to redden so he took a sip of coffee before answering, “yeah, that would be nice.” 

For most of their time together, they talked about school stuff. Namely, their big history test coming up this week—Kurt managed to ask if they could have another study session.

Then, Blaine started talking about Tina and Mike and glee. 

“They’re really great but sometimes they just make me jealous being all couple-y and adorable. I mean they sing duets all the time, even when we aren’t in glee.” 

Noted, Blaine wants to be couple-y and adorable. But does he want to do so with Kurt? 

Kurt chuckled. “Rachel is the same way, except it’s usually a solo. Drives Finn crazy.” 

“I can imagine.” 

Blaine swirled his nearly empty coffee, “another?”

Kurt checked the tim; it was already 2 and he had a text from Martin at the garage. 

 “Only if it’s to-go, I gotta pick up my car.” 

“Fine by me.” 

This time Kurt paid for their coffee.

[stray-tickles]

All In Good Fun

Read on AO3

--

When Martin had come to live in the archives, he hadn’t really expected that there would be someone else already living there.

He said as much to Jon, on his fourth night there and the third night that he’d found the head archivist holed up in his office after eight. Jon had huffed, unamused, but did thank him for the tea, voice softer than Martin had heard before.

It was… perplexing. The only conclusion Martin could draw was that his boss wasn’t quite as much of an asshole as he’d thought. That was an inconvenient thought, so he tried to ignore it, but Jon had mellowed out considerably since Martin had moved in.

Mellowed out enough that Martin felt safe to nag him about his habits, if only a little. “You do need to go home, you know.” He said from the doorway. “You’re not gonna get rid of the circles under your eyes with more statements.”

“Yes, I know, I-” He stopped mid-snap, and took a deep breath. “Sorry. You’re right, I’m… I’ll head home soon.”

Martin nodded, then paused before leaving. He’d had friends who got sucked into things like Jon did. “Um… would you like a reminder, at- at a certain time?”

Jon looked up at him. Fuck, his eyes were deep.

Jon considered it. “Ah, I think the last train I can catch leaves at nine-thirty? So, if I’m not packing up by nine…”

Martin shook himself. “Yeah, yeah sure! Um- consider it done.”

Against all reason, Jon felt himself smile. “Thank you, Martin.”

Oh, he had a cute smile. “No worries!” Martin said, trying for casual and probably failing. Shit shit shit! Without saying anything more, he fled.

Shit. It was bad enough having some passing acknowledgment that his mean boss was kind of hot, it was another to start getting lost in his eyes and having stomach flips over his smile.

Stop it. He begged himself internally. Just because he’s started being civil doesn’t mean you have to fall over yourself for him!

Part of Martin knew though. He was doomed.

--

Martin had been through a lot. Jon knew that. He also knew that it was almost entirely his fault. He’d pushed Martin into taking more and more risks to prove himself, had admitted as much himself, and nothing had made Jon feel quite that sick in a long time.

He was trying to be better. It was hard not to snap sometimes, Martin’s good-natured inquiries into his health feeling unbearably patronising, but Jon tried to stay patient. Martin might be coping well given the circumstances, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t been through something traumatic.

All that said, when Martin carefully cracked his office door open one night with a cup of tea and a quietly cheerful, “Knock knock.” Jon couldn’t stop himself.

His hand slammed onto his desk in shock, making both of them jump. “Must you- shit, sorry, sorry.”

Martin was blinking at him. Jon chose to interpret it as surprise at his outburst rather than at his apology.

He swallowed. “I shouldn’t have- have snapped, sorry.”

“It’s okay.” Martin said that too quickly. He always did, Jon had noticed. He looked down. “Look, I know it’s not the- the most professional, it’s just… knocking on doors has been sort of getting to me lately.”

If Jon had less self-control, he might have laughed. “I… understand.”

Something in Martin’s face relaxed. It was a nice look on him. “So, it’s- it’s okay if I say that. I-instead?”

Jon cringed. How did he even begin to explain? “I… is there any alternative?” He felt like he was begging. He wished it didn’t feel like that.

Martin frowned, and entered the room fully, placing the tea on Jon’s desk and sitting in the free chair usually used by statement givers. “Um, probably? Is it, is it the talking? Don’t want me interrupting a statement?”

God, that would be convenient, wouldn’t it? “N-no, there’s um- interludes in statements all the time.”

“Okaaay.” Jon stared at the cup of tea in front of him. It was easier than looking at those big blue eyes. Martin sighed softly. “Um, can you tell me what it is that you don’t like about me saying… that?”

Jon’s throat was suddenly bone dry. He took a sip of the tea, burning his tongue but helping him gain some courage at least. “The words.”

He waited for Martin to ask, to laugh, to push or say something about how ridiculous that was. Instead, he nodded. “What if I just said hello instead?”

What?

“What?”

Martin fidgeted. “I just thought… if it’s me saying the words that’s a problem, then I could say… something else?”

Jon stared.

“Look if that’s not- if it’s not a good idea-”

“No!” Jon yelped, coming back to himself. “No, yes, um, that- that should be fine, yes.”

Martin nodded. “Okay good, and you- um- you’re alright with me not… tapping on the door.”

“Of course.”

“Cool.” He gave a little smile and pushed himself to his feet. “I’ll um- leave you to it.”

“Thank you.” Jon felt frozen. He felt like he had to say something; part of him wanted to tell Martin all of it, about the book he’d found as a child and the horrors contained in it. Why he felt that way, Jon couldn’t fathom. He hadn’t told anyone about that before, but he wanted Martin to know. At the very least, so that he felt less alone after his own terrors.

But God, actually opening up? He’d never been able to do that. “M-Martin!” He burst out, before he could leave, noting how Martin stopped at the door. “I-I do understand… how it feels.”

Martin watched him for a moment, then smiled sadly. “I’m sorry to hear that.” He murmured, and slipped out.

--

Much as Martin was sure Jon wouldn’t like to admit it, they had gotten closer. Lunches had started appearing for him at shockingly regular intervals, in conjunction with Martin ordering extra take-out of an evening, sliding noodles or pasta or curry onto Jon’s desk along with an evening cup of tea. Jon had mellowed considerably since Martin had moved in. Probably because someone had been making sure he actually went home of an evening and ate something, he mused.

It was more than that though. Jon was… kind. Martin would never have believed it before, but he was kind and awkward and adorable.

That last part was horribly inconvenient, but it was still an improvement.

They were more familiar now, Martin could tease Jon without feeling like he was being misunderstood, and he’d started to notice the subtle twitch of Jon’s cheek that meant he was joking or having Martin on. It was nice. Martin would even say they were friends.

And as Jon’s friend…

“You have to go home!”

“Martin it’s fine, honestly, I went home last night, got plenty of rest!”

Martin groaned, “You’re supposed to go home every night!”

Jon frowned, then pouted thoughtfully. “Well, that doesn’t sound right.”

Fuck you, no. Martin thought, fighting a grin. It wasn’t funny, it wasn’t cute, no matter how hard Jon tried to make it either of those things. He could see the sparkle in Jon’s eyes and the ghost of a smirk that told Martin he had noticed him trying not to smile.

Fine. Fine. If Jon was going to use his dumb cute face to get out of this, Martin could use his own tricks as well. “If you think I won’t carry you out of here, you’re sorely mistaken.” He said loftily.

Jon’s eyes narrowed. He appeared to be appraising the situation. “You’re bluffing.”

Martin laughed. “Oh, am I?” He took a step forward, delighting in how Jon drew back.

He swallowed. “I’m your boss.” But there was no bite, no annoyance. His voice was flimsy and weak and… oh? Was Jon now the one fighting against a smile?

“Mmm, I’m not actually on the clock at the moment.” Martin said. “Neither are you. In fact, I’ve got permission to be here after hours, you’re technically trespassing.”

Oh, there it was, nervousness leading Jon’s little smile to sneak through. “You-you have permission from me!”

Martin tutted. “Well, unfortunately Jon, you don’t have my permission to be here after hours, and as there’s no security guards here at this exact moment, I’ll have to do that job myself and remove you from the premises.”

Jon wheeled his office chair away with a snicker. He knew there wasn’t any real escape, but he’d known that from the moment he’d engaged Martin in this little argument of theirs. On one hand he sort of did want to get his work done, but on the other he liked his and Martin’s little fights. He wasn’t sure why, but it made him smile. Made him happy.

It also made him yelp, when Martin’s hands gripped him from behind and lifted him, struggling not to laugh from the sheer silliness, from his chair. Fingertips curled into his ribcage, making Jon snort and try to double over, and burst out, “Aahaha- don’t tickle!”

Martin stilled, and Jon realised he’d just made a terrible mistake.

Martin blinked slowly, processing Jon’s protest. There was really only one reason he’d say that, wasn’t there? “What was that?”

Jon felt his face go warm. “I-um, nothing, nothing… will you put me down?”

A smug grin had started to spread across Martin’s cheeks. “I don’t know, it sounded to me like you said-”

“I said nothing!”

“That you’re ticklish.” Martin finished, still holding Jon up like a misbehaving cat.

Jon thanked God that a blush didn’t usually show on him and that Martin couldn’t see his expression. His face was on fire. Every twitch of fingers had him trying not to flinch or squeak or melt. He got the distinct feeling that he was doomed. “W-well I’m not. That would be um- faintly ridiculous.”

“Mmm? How’s that?”

“Ah, I-” Oh no, those fingers twitching more and more. He was definitely doomed. “I mean I’m, um, I’m a grown man after all, with a lot of- serious work to do, so it’s very unlikely that I’m…” Oh dear. He couldn’t say the word.

“Hmm?” Martin sounded so smug.

Jon wriggled and tried not to smile. “Martin please, my shoulders are starting to hurt.” It wasn’t true, but he hoped it was a believable enough lie to get him out of this.

“Oh! Right, sorry, of course.” Martin sounded genuinely surprised and concerned, making Jon feel a little guilty until he realised Martin’s solution was not, in fact, to put him down. Instead, he turned Jon around in his hold, now holding him in a bear hug. He grinned smugly. “Better?”

Jon cringed back as far as he could, ducking his head in embarrassment. No, this was not better. Now Martin could see everything, including his wobbly smile and his flushed cheeks. Not long ago, the thought of Martin seeing him like this would have been unbearable, but now it… well, it was still unbearable, but not in the same way.

Martin laughed quietly. “Alright, good! Now as I was saying before, you should really go home, you agree?”

This was an out, Jon realised dimly amidst the disconcertingly powerful urge to crush his face into that soft jumper. Martin was offering him a way out of this with his dignity somewhat intact. And yet… “But I’m almost done!” He said, squirming against Martin’s hold back towards his desk.

Martin sighed, sounding incredibly put-upon and utterly delighted all at once. “Alright, if you insist!”

The moment those soft fingers dug into his underarms, Jon let out a sound that could only be described as a scream, quickly devolving into loud cackling when Martin eased off to a gentler touch. It was mad, Jon had always been embarrassed by his laugh, it was never quite what he wanted it to be, all messy and snorting and high-pitched and loud.

Martin snickered. “You, um- you’re sure you’re not ticklish?”

Jon kicked his feet weakly, more to vent out the excess energy than anything else. He tried to convince himself that he hated this, wrapped up in a warm, soft hug with laughter being teased out of him, but no part of that was anything less than delightful.

That didn’t mean he was going to be quiet about it. “Nono- no, Martin plehease!”

“Ready to go home yet?” His fingers continued their agonisingly soft scratching, even through Jon’s cardigan it was enough to have him squealing.

Jon’s hands bunched in the back of Martin’s jumper, his eyes screwing shut from laughing. “This- this is cruel!”

“Uh huh?”

He landed a weak punch against Martin’s back when one hand migrated to pinch at his side and stomach, snorting helplessly. “AHA- c-cruel and unusual punishMENT!”

Martin laughed, not quite trusting that slipping a hand under Jon’s shirt would be okay. Little steps. “Say you’ll go home and I’ll stop.” It hadn’t escaped his notice that Jon’s protests had so far lacked any pleading for him to actually stop. Good God, he was cute when he laughed.

Those awful, wonderful fingers continued to play across his stomach, sides, and ribs, not digging in, not even really lingering on some of Jon’s apparently squeal-inducing spots, simply poking and wiggling up and down his torso enough to keep him in silly fits of laughter and squirming.

He hiccupped. “Ma-Martin wahahait!”

Martin’s fingers stilled. “Hmm?” Jon refused to look at him, hiding his face in his shoulder, but he sounded unbearably smug.

The smile wouldn’t go away. “U-um, common article three of the Geneva conventions actually prohibits cruel treatment and torture of um- of civilians, so technically you’re committing a war crime.”

It was silly. It was silly, Jon knew that, which was why when Martin burst out laughing, his only reaction was to bite his lip in anticipation.

He was doomed.

“Oooh, a war crime, huh?” Martin teased. “Hey, do you think they’ll throw me on trial at Nuremberg for this?”

And then his fingers were digging, vibrating into Jon’s ribcage, sending him right into screeching cackles that he had no chance of holding back even a little, kicking and squirming as Martin’s hands moved up and down, snorting and squealing whenever he found a tender spot and lingered there for a moment longer, his cheeks aching from the wild, silly smile painted across his face.

He felt shaken up, carbonated, bubbling over with laughter and giddiness that he’d normally never allow himself to feel, let alone have a cause to, but this? Jon barely had a choice in the matter, and wasn’t that just a little bit thrilling.

Barely though, as his bones melted into goo and his resolve wavered, he was aware that the helplessness was an illusion. He could stop this any time he wanted. And, regrettably, his stomach was starting to ache. “A-alright!” He snorted, batting at Martin’s hands as best he could. “I surrender!”

Martin chuckled and stilled his hands. “Alright, alright.” He said, giving Jon a moment to catch his breath before letting him down. Seeing Jon’s giddy, bashful grin made him feel all warm and fuzzy.

He took a half step away. “Sorry if I overdid it.”

Jon’s eyes widened and he immediately ducked his head to stare at the ground. Thankfully any of the heat in his cheeks could be blamed on a lack of oxygen, but that did nothing to help him figure out what to say now. He couldn’t be angry, even if he wanted to; he was still giddy and smiling after all. And he didn’t want to be angry, he didn’t want Martin to think that he’d hated that. It was fun. Nice to be close to someone in that playful way.

And besides, Martin was very warm.

Jon coughed, embarrassed. “It’s- ah, it’s alright.” He muttered, impressed at how relatively calm the words sounded. “I-I know it’s um- all in good fun.”

Martin tried to bottle his surprise. “Oh, um, yeah.” He grinned to himself. “Good.”

Jon hoped that he’d be able to hold onto this giddy, floating feeling at least until he got home. “I suppose I should be off, then.” Though as he went back to get his bag, he noted the slight wobbliness in his legs.

The snort from behind him said that Martin had noticed too. “Sure you don’t need a minute to catch your breath?”

Jon never usually smiled this much. “Apparently so.”

“Come sit in the breakroom with me then, I can make tea. Herbal tea.” He added pointedly.

Jon huffed a laugh. “Alright.” He said softly, feeling an odd burst of affection at the offer. Heard Martin’s footsteps retreat and briefly considered going back to work if only to aggravate him, before gathering his things and joining him in the breakroom.

He entered just as Martin was adding a spoonful of honey to each cup, and couldn’t resist. “Sugar, at this time of night? Martin, how ever will you sleep?”

“Oh, ha ha.” He rolled his eyes. “As if I could trust you to ever drink anything that doesn’t have sugar in.”

Jon held back his smile. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

“Uh huh, of course you don’t.” Martin said fondly, tossing the spoons in the sink and turning with both cups in hand. “Go on, sit down, you’re meant to be getting your energy back so you don’t collapse on the tube.”

Jon rolled his eyes, but did as he was told. He liked how much closer he’d gotten with Martin. Liked their playful back and forth. “Thank you.” He said, taking the cup.

“Anytime.” Martin sat beside him.

“It almost is anytime.” Jon smiled, the steam swirling up into the air between them. “It’s… good of you, to make everyone tea all the time.”

Martin flushed, both hands gripping the burning ceramic. “It’s- it’s not a big deal.” He muttered. “It’s just tea.”

Jon shrugged. “It’s nice.”

“Oh.” Martin took a sip of his tea to buy time. “Um, thank you. I’m glad you like it.”

Jon smiled and had a sip of his own tea. “I do.”

Martin let out a contented sigh. “You’ve seemed… better, lately. More rested, I guess?”

There was laughter in Jon’s voice. “Well naturally, when someone’s forcing me out of here every day.”

“Oh, so I should be taking credit for you looking less like a zombie?”

“Now you’re just twisting my words.”

“Of course.” He grinned into his tea. “There’s obviously a different reason you’re suddenly getting enough sleep.”

Jon stifled a yawn. “For all you know I’ve just gotten a new mattress.”

“Mmm.” Martin hummed, putting his almost empty mug down. “Nice mattress?”

“Feather down.” Jon replied, sinking back into the couch.

Martin chuckled sleepily. “Feather mattress? Surely that’s too soft. Can’t be good for your back.”

“Maybe not.” Jon admitted, imagining the softness of such a mattress. Couldn’t be as comfortable as Martin’s jumper looked. “S’nice though.”

Martin’s limbs felt very heavy. “Sounds it.” He mumbled. It did. It was so easy to imagine being swallowed up by a big, soft, comfy pillow. Like sleeping in a cloud.

Yeah, he thought, letting his eyes rest for a moment. That would be nice.

--

Martin woke feeling quite well rested, slightly stiff, and a little cold. He shifted, blinking away the sleep from his eyes, and realised that he was still on the breakroom couch.

Ah.

And, it seemed, he was not the only one there. Jon was still there next to him, his head rested comfortably against Martin’s shoulder, one hand gripping his arm, almost cuddling it.

Before he had the time to process that, there was the subtle bang of the breakroom door, followed by what he could definitely hear as stifled giggles and shushing. Great.

Martin had just resolved to wake Jon when he started to blink awake himself, seemingly not terribly bothered by snuggling up to his coworker in his sleep. Or maybe just that groggy. “Mmm? Where- oh. I see.”

When Jon realised where he was, he shifted away, apparently awake in an instant. “U-um, I’m sorry about- about that, Martin, I um- didn’t mean to.”

Martin blinked, trying to process. Oh, of course. “Oh, uh, it’s okay,” He hoped it wasn’t obvious just how okay it was. “I mean you- it was an accident, not like your cardigan could keep you warm enough.”

“Oh… alright.” Jon hesitated, then huffed a laugh, sitting up. “How did forcing me to go home go, then?”

“Oh, shut up.” Martin groaned, shoving him. “Too early for this.”

“It’s a good thing I’ve got a change of clothes, at least.” Jon said, stretching and getting to his feet. He patted Martin gently on the shoulder. “Better luck next time!”

Martin pulled a face at him as he left, vowing revenge, and set about making himself a morning cup of tea. There was barely enough time for the kettle to click before the door opened again, this time to reveal a very smug sounding Tim. “So…”

Martin tried not to think about how Jon had snuggled up to him. Tried not to think about his eyes, his smile, oh god, his laugh? Martin had almost forgotten until that moment. That radiant smile, the squeaky, bubbly laugh. God it was so cute.

Wait…

He turned, holding up a finger to stop Tim before he could speak. “I have an offer for you.”

Tim crossed his arms, clearly amused. “Oh yeah?”

“Mm-hm!” Martin felt more confident as the seconds went by. “You don’t make fun of me for any of… that, and I’ll let you in on some fun gossip.”

Tim pulled a thoughtful face. “Hmmm, how fun are we talking?”

Martin smiled to himself. “I think you’ll like it.”

“Don’t suppose I can reserve judgement until after I’ve heard this hot goss.”

Martin stirred his tea, mulling it over. “As long as I can trust you to be fair.” He mused. There wasn’t really any chance that Tim wouldn’t be delighted by what he was about to tell him.

Tim chuckled, fishing his own mug out of the cabinet along with Sasha’s. “Hand to god, if I find this goss remotely hot, not a word about you and Jon all snuggled up.”

Just hearing the words had blood rushing to his cheeks. “Tim!” He choked, unable to come up with anything else.

He laughed, mussing Martin’s hair playfully. “Deal’s not valid until you give me the goss Martin!”

Martin batted at him, still flushed, but laughing as well. All in good fun, after all. Like Jon had said. He grinned at the counter. “Jon’s ticklish.”

Silence followed, confusing Martin for the moment. Was he wrong? Was Tim just going to tease him more, asking how he knew that? Did Tim know already? His brain had the chance to throw all those questions at him in the second it took for him to look up and register the look of stunned shock on Tim’s face.

“No.”

Martin grinned. “Yeah.”

“No!”

He snickered. “Yes! Really um- quite badly.”

Tim seemed caught between shock and delight. “No way! Mister bossman, stick up his arse, scowl-y face is ticklish?!”

Martin snorted. “I know.”

He stiffened. “And he never told me?!” With that outraged exclamation, Tim turned and barrelled out the door.

Martin let out a chuckle and, because Tim had just left them there, poured his and Sasha’s tea. And Jon’s for good measure.

He’d just stepped out into the main office when there was a loud screech from down the hall, followed by a triumphant laugh.

“Oh my god, it’s true!”

“Tim- Tim no let me go, Tim!”

That familiar bubbly laughter echoed through the archives, making Martin grin and Sasha giggle.

“MARTIN! Traitor! TRAITOR!” Jon shrieked dramatically.

Martin laughed, noting Sasha doing the same. “Sorry, what? Can’t hear you!”

Jon’s threats of vengeance were barely coherent through his giggly squeals, but Martin wasn’t terribly worried.

After all, it was all in good fun.

[voiceless-terror]

Jon wears a leather jacket to work. No one is immune.

Jon’s running late.

He doesn’t often run late. Ever since he got the promotion, he’s been working overtime- coming in early, staying late, sometimes not leaving at all. He had a mess on his hands, and its one he intends to fix.

So while it’s been some time since he’s seen Rosie at the front desk, it isn’t enough for her to do a double take. But that she does, her usually stoic face going red and her eyes widening in what looks like shock. That’s a bit dramatic.

“O-Oh!” She’s stuttering. Rosie never stutters. “G-Good morning, Jon. You look- you’re looking very nice today!” 

That can’t be true. He slept through his alarm, something he hasn’t done in ages. He didn’t have time to comb his hair and decided to leave it in the messy bun from yesterday- at least it’s out of his way. He skipped shaving altogether and couldn’t find his usual cardigan, instead resorting to an old, beat up leather jacket from college. It’s seen better days, and it reeks of guilty cigarettes snuck in his most desperate hours. The picture of professionalism he is not.

“Um, okay,” is the only response he can think of giving, scurrying past her desk and down to the basement. He doesn’t have time to parse that interaction out, not when his assistants are probably already gathered round, gossiping about his absence. Sure enough Tim’s sitting on Sasha’s desk, smirking and whispering something as he walks through the door, keeping his head down with a grumbled “Good morning.”

The chatter instantly stops. He hazards a glance to find Tim and Sasha, open-mouthed and staring in what can only be horror or fear. He was never any good at reading people. 

“Good Lord,” Tim whispers, borrowing a phrase from Jon’s book. It sounds odd coming from his mouth, and even stranger in that soft tone. Tim’s deafening on a good day, and Jon’s never seen his golden skin turn quite so red. 

“Good morning, Jon,” Sasha’s smirking, her voice turning velvety and smooth. He’s heard her use that tone in bars when she wants another round for the table. Never in the Archives. And never once has it been aimed at him. Jon bristles.

“What is going on?” he asks impatiently, running a hand through messy hair. He could swear Tim gulps. “Do I have something on my-”

He’s interrupted by a loud, high-pitched squeal, followed by the shattering sound of two mugs full of hot tea hitting the tile. He jumps back to avoid the mess, scowling at the man in front of him. Martin looks like he’s having a coronary; Jon wasn’t aware faces could turn that red. And he, too, is staring. 

“I’m late, I don’t have time for this,” he says, side-stepping the spreading puddle and throwing a scowl at Martin’s gaping face. “Clean this up.” He walks away to sputtered apologies and a snicker from Sasha. What’s gotten into them today?

He shuts the door with a decisive click, should anyone think of bothering him.

_________

And not an hour later, someone does.

He answers Martin’s tentative knock with a curt “Come in.” Martin’s looking at his feet as he shuffles in with a cup of tea, his face only slightly less red. He stands as far away as possible when he deposits it on his desk, refusing to meet Jon’s eyes and likely not seeing his nod of thanks. But instead of leaving, he just stands there.

“Do you need something?” Martin jumps at his voice, raising his eyes minutely before lowering them again. What in the world…?

“Y-Your jacket.” He flushes again and Jon’s starting to think he should really see a doctor about that. “You’re still wearing it.”

He is. He hadn’t given it much thought; it’s cold down in the Archives, and sometimes he’ll go all day with a jacket or cardigan over his shoulders. Still, Martin’s right- it doesn’t look very professional. He starts to shrug out of it when Martin throws his hands out in front of him, like Jon’s about to cut the wrong wire on a bomb.

“N-No!” His voice comes out high and strangled. It’s very irritating. “Don’t!”

“What on earth is going on with you-”

“It’s just- you shouldn’t! Not if you’re cold.” Martin gives him a weak smile that Jon doesn’t return. “Wouldn’t want you to get s-sick or something!” 

Jon stares. “Please leave.”

“O-Okay.” Martin backs out of the room. Jon keeps the jacket on.

It is cold.

_______

Thirty minutes later, Sasha comes in with a file he doesn’t need. She lingers with some inane chatter which is very much unlike her, and her phone’s positioned awkwardly in front of her. If Jon didn’t know any better, he’d think she was taking a photo.

The last straw comes when Tim leans in the doorway, a leer on his face. That always means trouble.

“Come to drop off an unnecessary document?” he snarks, slamming a book closed. He’s tired of this game they’re playing. “Maybe finish whatever strange prank you’ve got planned? You know I don’t have time for-”

“Boss.” Tim’s face goes serious, an alarming sign for him. “I have to tell you something. And I promise I’m not making fun of you or anything. I know where your mind goes.”

Jon rolls his eyes at the dramatics. “If you insist-”

“Jon.” Tim comes closer and Jon subconsciously shifts back in his chair. “Objectively, this is the hottest you’ve ever looked.”

What?

Tim raises a finger. “Don’t give me that. I mean, did you look in the mirror today?”

Well, that’s a bit uncalled for. Jon knows he looks a bit scruffy, but this teasing has got to stop. He’s starting to feel a bit insulted. “Tim-”

“You look good. You look dangerous.”

“That’s not a compliment-!”

“Like you ride a motorcycle,” Tim continues, inching closer. His eyes are staring intently into Jon’s, but it seems like he’s lost in his own little world. “Or maybe you’re in a gang, or an underground syndicate. You’ve got a rough past but really, a heart of gold.” Perhaps Tim’s drunk. Or on drugs. He could be on drugs. It’s the only thing that would explain whatever the hell...this is.

“I meet you at a bar,” Tim’s sat down now, right in front of Jon’s desk. Instead of throwing his legs over the side of the chair he leans forward on his knees, still with that disconcerting eye contact. “You’ve stepped out for a smoke.” Oh God, can he smell it? “I’ve had a few too many. You say ‘Got a light?’ in a dark, husky voice.”

“Husky?”

“I nod, flicking my lighter on and raising the flame to your cigarette. You look me directly in the eyes as you inhale-” At this Tim does his own little breathy intake, a finger to his lips as if he’s putting on a one-man show. And Jon- well, Jon’s not immune.

Tim sighs, leaning back in his seat and letting his hands fall back into his lap. “And the rest? Is history.” He takes a moment to recover, blinking slowly. Jon stares.

“What I mean to say is-” Suddenly Tim’s back again, as if the previous minute had never happened. “-do you want to get a drink later?”

What the fuck?

Jon opens his mouth but then pauses, considers. It’s been a week. He’s tired, at the end of his rope. And maybe-

Maybe he misses Tim. Just a little. They did used to have fun, sometimes. Before all of this. Back when they were friends.

“Okay.”

Tim blinks. “What?”

“I’ll come,” Jon agrees, though the rational part of him wants to take it back. But Tim’s in front of him-ridiculous, charming, idiotic Tim- and how can he resist? “But I don’t smoke anymore, so I’m afraid I can’t quite live up to your fantasies.” Tim barks out a laugh and Jon finds himself smiling back, his face growing warm. 

Perhaps he should wear this thing more often.

ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28491015

[splitting-infinities]

11 for any pairing for the touches ask game? :)

Hi anon! Thanks for the ask! I’m not sure which of the #11s you meant so I just blended them all in one jonmartin fic, hope that’s ok!

11 hand holding: not wanting to lose each other in a big crowd

11 hugs: clinging to each other

11 kiss: welcome home kisses

11 touching: laying their hand on the other’s neck

---

Their life in the time After starts out like dark, strong tea and water vapor. It’s a lot of heavy words and murky depths when they start couples’ therapy. Eventually, though, they muster through and put in the work. After that initial push, Jon and Martin slide into a new kind of mutual comfort, the way the rounded edge of a mug fits in your palms. From there, things get easier. They get lighter.

There are days of searching for the tiniest bookstore they can find in London, dashing past Oxford Circus in an effort to avoid the summer tourist traps. There’s a moment where they almost lose each other; Martin’s warm hand just barely catching and grabbing at Jon’s to keep him from getting buffeted into M&S by a crowd of American tourists in Skechers. It doesn’t hold a candle to Jon pulling Martin out of the Lonely, but there’s something that still feels Right when their hands find purchase and Jon grabs tight. When they’re reunited Jon looks at Martin a little breathless, face flushed. Neither of them pretend it’s just the weather.

-

Their first trip together is dust motes in the air and sunshowers. It’s contemplative, quiet, and rainy. They are back at Daisy’s cabin, a therapist-recommended scar for them to properly confront and close. Neither of them wants to be the first in the door.

It’s a strange thing: the cabin looks unassuming and almost charming from the outside, as if all the time in the Other Place was a mere ghost story. But the ghosts are inside the walls. Inside Jon and Martin’s rapid-beating hearts.

“I’ll go first,” Jon offers. There’s no bravery in his voice. Classic Jon, doing the hard thing because better him than someone else suffering through it. They’re working on that; Martin on accepting that this is Jon’s defense mechanism, and Jon on slowly letting go of those defenses.

Martin shakes his head. “We’re making this bigger than it is. The cabin didn’t do anything wrong. It’s just a cabin. And we’re just people. Nothing is going to hurt us here.” The part that goes unspoken is: I won’t let it.

Jon still looks unsure. He doesn’t move from where he leans against his cane in the dandelion-sprinkled grass. From the sounds of thunder, a storm is brewing on the horizon, but Martin doesn’t dare look up at the sky. Not here.

Then, he gets an idea. “Okay, I’ve got it. Um. Brace yourself.”

Jon squares his shoulders, as if he’s been told to give a spontaneous lecture, only for Martin to bend and hoist him in a bridal carry. They make a sort of makeshift hug as Martin tucks his arms against Jon’s back and under his knees.

“We’ll go in together,” he grins, “one way or another.”

“You’re ridiculous,” Jon sputters good-naturedly. “I love you.” He squirms and flails a bit, trying to find purchase. His cane bonks against the side of the cabin door. They both laugh.

Eventually, they swing the door open. It conjures a flourish of dust and stale air. Martin steps them both over the threshold until they’re met with cool shadow and vivid memories. It’s impossible not to think of the only time they were truly happy before the world ended. Before the cabin became a monument to all they’d lost. Before Jon was robbed of the last of his innocence by a statement that once sat upon that scratched coffee table beside the fireplace.

It’s overwhelming. Martin can’t move out of the doorway. He feels Jon clinging to his shirt, bending in to rest his cheek against Martin’s chest. A sniff. Martin waits.

“Sorry,” Jon says after a while. “It’s a lot.”

“Me too,” Martin says thickly.

“Dust in your eye?” Jon asks, giving him an out.

A watery chuckle. No need to hide it. “No.”

Jon wipes at his eyes with the heel of his hand. “Oh good, me neither.”

“Are you... okay?” Martin asks, tightening his grip on Jon. He’s so warm - the fact shocks him. Jon’s warm and alive. Why is that just hitting him now?

“I will be.” A bit of fabric rustles, and Jon breathes against Martin’s shirt. “I have you.”

“Oh, Jon.”

-

The days in their new flat pass like dripped honey and falling snow. Slow, sweet, and beautiful. They get a cat. And a dog. Despite Jon’s objections to dogs during his and Martin’s initial meet cute, it turns out he really only took issue with the dog being in the Archives. So he welcomes little Chewy into the family rather easily. It takes a bit longer for Lady, their black cat, to accept such an exuberant playmate into her sovereign lands. But it happens all the same.

Jon gets a job at the tiniest bookstore (they finally found it squashed between a crystal shop and a street-wear boutique). Martin gets a job at a library, retreading the old, familiar path of shelving books and directing patrons to the right Dewey Decimal section.

Due to his evening hours, Martin’s the one who comes home later. Jon is usually in the kitchen around that time, puzzling out some new recipe. Cooking has become his favorite pastime. Lady supervises Jon from the top of the cupboards. Chewy disinterestedly gnaws on something forbidden, usually a table leg.

But the moment the three of them hear Martin’s key in the lock, their attention is directed to the door. As Martin stumbles in with groceries, a folded and dripping umbrella, or both, Chewy’s the first to meet him with floppy, imprecise paws sliding every-which-way. Martin bends down to say hello and Chewy bestows wet-nosed kisses to every bit of exposed skin he can reach. Lady doesn’t move from her throne in the kitchen, but gives Martin a look of acknowledgment.

And Jon is there, he’s always going to be there.

He waits for Martin to set down all his stuff, then spreads his arms. Martin meets them, and they embrace. Jon pulls away first, cupping the sides of Martin’s shoulders, running his hands up to the sides of Martin’s neck before cupping his face. “Good day?”

“It is now, yeah,” he beams. “You?”

Jon nods. “It was exceedingly normal and I couldn’t be happier.”

“Normal is good. We like normal,” he says.

Jon puts his hands down and starts gushing to him about whatever’s on the hob. He offers Martin several spoonfuls of something garlicky and savory to taste. The air smells like citrus peels and olives. “Be my sous chef?” he asks.

Martin assents.

This is bliss. This is home.

[bananonbinary]

Time for a Salty Meta Post about Martin!

people who’ve followed this blog for a bit know that spending six hours combing through text for some goddamn sources is my specialty, so i compiled every time jon ever talked about martin’s work in season 1. which for the record, he stopped complaining about all the way back in episode 26, where he was angry that martin of all people got hurt.

things jon gets mad at martin for:

not being able to find records that don’t exist

not being able to find someone based only on a first name

the Dog

not wearing trousers in his off-hours

being the one that got caught up in the jane prentiss thing

mag 004 and mag 012 both have jon taking potshots at martin over research that was proven accurate by outside sources

things jon has never once complained about:

martin not understanding the filing system and just putting stuff away at random

martin being clumsy, constantly ruining things, spilling tea everywhere everyday, etc

martin turning in incompetent, poorly-edited, or badly formatted reports

martin not understanding the terminology used, skills expected, etc., and generally being extremely new to the field

please for the love of god stop making martin the silly bumbling idiot who can’t do anything right just because he doesn’t have a formal education. there’s zero evidence for it in the text, and it’s really weird to act like a 4 year degree would outweigh the *10 years* of job experience he has, not just in academia, but in the institute itself by season one. my boy has worked there longer than ANY of the rest of the main cast. screw you guys.

tl;dr: martin is never once shown to be bad at his job, jon pretty much only ever gets mad at him for the really stupid first impression and also not finding stuff that no one else was able to find either. after martin got hurt, jon talks about his research basically the same way he talks about tim’s or sasha’s work.

fucking proof under the cut:

(i didnt include the s1 finale or martin’s statement bc that’s just...two entire episodes of them talking to each other, but there isn’t really any notable Martin Complaints in either of them imo)

I swear, if he’s brought another dog in here, I’m going to peel him.

[pre-launch trailer]

.

Well, technically three, but I don’t count Martin as he’s unlikely to contribute anything but delays.

[...] Alongside this Tim, Sasha and, yes, I suppose, Martin will be doing some supplementary investigation to see what details may be missing from what we have.

[MAG001 Anglerfish]

.

Martin couldn’t find any records of Ex Altiora as a title in existent catalogues of esoteric or similar literature, so I assigned Sasha to double-check. Still nothing.

[MAG004 Pageturner]

.

I had Martin conduct a follow-up interview with Mr. Woodward last week, but it was unenlightening. Apparently there have been no further bags at number 93 and in the intervening years he has largely discounted many of the stranger aspects of his experience. I wasn’t expecting much, as time generally makes people inclined to forget what they would rather not believe, but at least it got Martin out of the Institute for an afternoon, which is always a welcome relief.

[MAG005 Thrown Away]

.

Martin was unable to find the exact date the original house was built but the earliest records he could find list it as being bought by Walter Fielding in 1891.

[...]

We cannot prove any connection, but Martin unearthed a report on an Agnes Montague, who was found dead in her Sheffield flat on the evening of November 23rd 2006, the same day Mr. Lensik claims to have uprooted the tree.

[MAG008 Burned Out]

.

According to Martin, who was here when they took this statement, it was at this point in writing that Mr. Herbert announced he needed some sleep before continuing. He was shown to the break room where he went to sleep on the couch. He did not awaken; unfortunately succumbing to the lung cancer right there. Martin says the staff had been aware of how serious Mr. Herbert’s condition was, and had advised him to seek medical aid prior to giving his statement, but were told rather bluntly by the old man that he would not wait another second to state his case. I can’t decide whether this lends more or less credibility to his tale.

[MAG010 Vampire Killer]

.

“Veepalach” might also be a mishearing of the Polish word “wypalać”, according to Martin, which means to cauterize or brand. Admittedly, if Martin speaks Polish in the same way he “speaks Latin,” then he might be talking nonsense again, but I’ve looked it up and it appears to check out.

[MAG012 First Aid]

.

I sent Martin to look into this ‘Angela’ character - not that I want him to get chopped up, of course, but someone had to. Apparently, he spent three days looking into every woman named Angela in Bexley over the age of 50. He could not find anyone that matches the admittedly vague description given here, though he informs me that he had some very pleasant chats about jigsaws. Useless ass.

[MAG014 Piecemeal]

.

Martin declined to help with this investigation as he’s “a bit claustrophobic”

[MAG015 Lost John’s Cave]

.

There simply aren’t enough details given in this statement to actually investigate, short of Martin confirming that Mr. Vittery did indeed live at the addresses he provided.

[MAG016 Arachnophobia]

.

Oh, he’s off sick this week. Stomach problems, I think.

Blessed relief if you ask me.

[...]

I asked Martin to try and hunt down Mr. Adekoya himself for a follow-up, but have been informed that he passed away in 2006. 

[MAG017 The Boneturner’s Tale]

.

MARTIN

Well, I need to tell someone what happened, and you can vouch for the soundness of my mind, can’t you?

ARCHIVIST

…

That is beside the point.

[MAG022 Colony]

.

Martin! Good lord man, if you’re going to be staying in the Archives, at least have the decency to put some trousers on!

[MAG023 Schwartzwald]

.

Martin found one other thing while combing through police reports for the Hither Green area. About a month after this statement was given, on May 15th, 2015, police were called out to once again investigate the chapel.

[MAG025 Growing Dark]

.

I know, but it would have to have been Martin, wouldn’t it? I mean, anything goes wrong around here, it always seems to happen to him. Anyway, we’re getting off topic. Why didn’t you report this?

[MAG026 A Distortion]

.

Martin made contact with the son, Marcus McKenzie, but he declined to talk to us, saying that he’d “already made his statement.”

[MAG027 A Sturdy Lock]

.

Tim and Martin had a bit more luck investigating Tom Haan, though only really enough to confirm that he seems to have completely vanished following his departure from Aver Meats on the 12th of July.

[MAG030 Killing Floor]

.

Martin’s research would seem to indicate the place employed a reasonable number of international staff they preferred to keep off the books

[...]

TIM

Ah well, that’s actually what he was asking, huh! Um, apparently Martin, uh, took delivery of a couple of items last week addressed to you. Did he not mention it?

ARCHIVIST

No, he… Oh, yes, actually. I completely forgot. He said he put it in my desk drawer, hold on.

[MAG036 Taken Ill]

[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.

[red-archivist]

Not quite part of the liveblog but, lil post-092 hc fic :3

~~ 

As he leaves Elias’ office, Jon’s feet automatically take him down the stairs leading to the archives.

  It is a habit that his long absence hasn’t managed to break but he stops himself from walking straight into his own office.

To do so, he would have to pass the open space where the assistants work, and call him a coward but he just isn’t quite ready to see the state that Elias’ little reveal has left the others in.

  He retreats to the breakroom instead, keeping the lights off and taking a moment to take a few steadying breaths in the cool darkness.

As soon as he stops moving, the injuries he has been ignoring loudly make themselves known.

The constant ache of his burned hand provides a low steady hum of contrast to the staccato pulse of his throbbing throat.

He needs to clean them both up in order to avoid infection, and if he doesn’t want some concerned passer-by to call an ambulance on him when he leaves, he will have to bandage his neck as well.

He walks to the nearest press and begins rooting around for the first aid kit. It doesn’t seem to be where he last saw it months ago and a stumbling search in the dim light reveals nothing to him.

Jon is about to give up and just try to give himself a bit of a rinse in the sink when suddenly the door creaks open, and the lights click on behind him.

He whirls around with his heart in his bloody throat expecting something to pounce on him. Perhaps it is Tim come to take his weary anger out on him? Or Daisy aiming to finish what she started? Or maybe Elias with some other unsolvable puzzle to dump into his lap?

The fright only lasts an instant however, when he sees who is standing in the doorway looking even more surprised to see him.

“Martin,” He sighs with relief.

Martin’s mouth opens and closes a few times before he manages to find his voice.

“Uh, h-hi?”

“…Hi. Did you- Ah. W-Was the first aid kit moved?” Jon points to the mess he has made of the open presses.

Martin jumps in place before rushing forward.

“Oh! Uh, y-yeah, sorry!”

He crouches down to pull the kit out from under the sink and when Jon raises a questioning eyebrow, he shrugs meekly.

“Melanie moved it,” He says, “She said we all had to be able to reach it in an emergency.”

“Right.”

He takes the box from Martin with just one hand, keeping the bandaged one away from his body at an angle so it won’t bump into anything.

  It’s a heavy, clunky thing and hoisting it onto the counter makes his joints sting. Ignoring the pain, he flips the latch and starts rummaging through it. A thin roll of bandages, antiseptic cream, gauze and dressing are placed in a pile on the counter as he mentally goes through the half-remembered steps of cleaning an open wound.

Just as Jon starts to unravel the hand bandage, the side of his face burns with awareness. He looks over to find Martin staring at him.

  His gaze lingers on his hand, taking in the old bandages and his cracked nails, both still caked in grave dirt. Jon does his best not to squirm under the scrutiny.

 When Martin’s eyes dart to the mound of medical supplies Jon is compiling, he also realises he is taking up most of the counter space.

“Am I… in your way?” He asks, about to sweep it all to the side.

Martin starts, as if he just remembered where he was and stammers as he turns away from him

“N-No! Sorry, sorry!”

He fusses with the kettle, taking out mugs as it boils, and does not face Jon again.

Jon is glad for the privacy. He doesn’t want to look at his own hand any longer than he has to, no-one else needs to see it.

As he peels the rest of the dirty wrappings off, they catch on his ruined skin and he can’t quite hold back a pained hiss. The burn is still dreadful to see, blistered like bubbling wax and so red it’s almost black. It weeps a clear discharge, making the whole thing reek a fluid, animal smell.

  He rinses it off in the sink, pats it awkwardly dry, smears the whole thing in antiseptic cream and clumsily wraps it up again. It’s a messy, slow process and he barely remembers to clean his other hand as well.

Martin stays stock still as he works, standing guard over two brewing mugs and, as he glances at him, Jon can practically see the questions he wants to ask in the stiff line of his shoulders.

  Jon feels both grateful and guilty that Martin holds his tongue. He owes him answers but his mouth is so tired of talking.

Tentatively, he starts prodding at the cut on his neck. It is long but shallow, already clotting. He can feel the skin around it is tender with a blossoming bruise. Daisy wanted it to hurt.

Jon pries his mind away from that thought. If he thinks about how close he came to dying today, he won’t be able to keep himself standing, nevermind clean up.

He just needs to get through the next few steps, and then he can go back to Georgie’s, lay down somewhere quiet and try not to have a complete breakdown. Laying out gauze and dressing, he wets a clean tea towel. He is halfway to raising it to his neck before he realises his mistake.

“Damn.”

“…Jon?”

Martin is peering over his shoulder at him, concern drawn in deep lines around his face.

Jon blinks back at him. He had almost forgotten he was there.

“I… uh,” He waves the tea towel, “I need two hands, should have done this first.”

He is going to ruin the clean wrappings on his hand. He will either have to do them again or wait to get back to the house and hope Georgie won’t be too pissed off to help him. Clucking his tongue, he weighs up his options.

“Um… Do you…” Martin’s soft voice cuts across his thoughts, “I mean, I can… i-if you want?”

“What?” Jon turns and sees him holding out a hand for the tea towel, “Oh.”

“O-O-Only if you, y’know, you’re comfortable with…”

  Jon stares at him for a moment and regrets flickers across Martin’s face. He starts to draw his hand back.

“Uh, yes, no, I mean, I-I appreciate…” Jon stammers, “You don’t have to. I-I don’t want to interrupt… what you’re doing…”

The sheepishness fades from Martin as he chuckles slightly.

“I just came in to get a bit of a break from everyone else, really,” He immediately winces, “God, that sounded bad, didn’t it?”

“No… no, I understand.”

  Martin smiles slightly and Jon’s feels his lips twitch upward in response.

“So, uh,” Martin holds his hand out again and Jon passes him the towel, “Might be easier to sit.”

“Right.”

Jon brings the gauze and dressing to the rickety coffee table while Martin wrings out the towel in the sink. They sit facing each other, and Martin scoots close enough that their knees brush.

“Can you lift your chin?” He asks, “And please tell me if I hurt you?”

Jon raises his head and stares into the yellowing florescent light embedded in the ceiling as Martin starts delicately dabbing at the cut.

It stings, of course. He can feel the edges of the wound prickle with pain as the meagre scabbing that covered them is wiped away. He hopes he isn’t letting it show on his face.

It is a little uncomfortable, letting someone else touch his neck. Especially someone he hasn’t seen for over two months. He peers at Martin out of the corner of his eye.

  He looks exhausted. There are heavy bags under his eyes and the light from above washes him out terribly, making him seem even paler than usual. His hair has grown a bit, more from neglect than choice. His fringe droops over the frame of his glasses.

Guilt bites at the back of Jon’s mind. Without him here, he is almost certain Martin has been doing the lion’s share of the work in the archives. Melanie is only new to the position and Tim… Jon is doubtful Tim has been working at all.

  Martin mumbles a pre-emptive apology as he moves the towel slowly over the cut. His touch is soft but steady, gentle in a way that is completely alien to Jon.

Martin’s gaze is focused on Jon’s neck, intent on washing away every speck of pain scrawled onto it. Instead of the sting of the wound, Jon feels something in his chest ache.

He can’t remember the last time anyone was this careful with him. That thought, more than the pinch of physical pain, makes his eyes water.

He blinks rapidly and rattles his brain for anything that will keep his mind off of how tender Martin’s touch is.

His mouth runs ahead of his head and he tries not to swallow too hard as he speaks.

“Martin… ah…”

“Sorry, am I pressing too hard?” The pressure on his throat eases slightly and Jon wills himself not to chase after it.

“No, no, I just, ah, I wanted to-” Jon bites his tongue in his haste to speak, “H-H-Have you been getting on alright?”

The pressure disappears entirely as Martin reels back to gawk at him, his mouth hanging open in shock. Jon might be offended at his surprise if he wasn’t too busy kicking himself.

He keeps babbling before Martin even has a chance to respond.

“God, that’s stupid- stupid question, of course you’re not-!” He sighs, “Just- Ignore me. Apologies.”

He looks back up to the breakroom lights, his face burning hot.

Martin chuckles.

Jon dares to glance at him.

The surprise has faded into something softer, a not-quite-there smile lingering on his lips.

“Yeah…” He agrees quietly, “That… is pretty stupid.”

“Well-! Pardon me for asking,” Jon snaps.

Martin’s smile grows.

“I’ve… I’ve got a pretty stupid answer for it though?”

“Uh,” Jon leans forward in his seat, “Yes?”

“Despite um, well, all of it…” Martin swings a hand around the room, “It’s… It’s really good to see you, Jon.”

He stares.

  It’s Martin’s turn to try and hide from the scrutiny. Jon watches with fascination as he starts to turn a blotchy red.

He doesn’t understand. The last time they spoke, Jon gave him nothing but a weak apology after suspecting him of murder and invading his privacy for months. Martin should be angry at him, or maybe even afraid. Jon doesn’t want him to be, but he would understand if he were.

Instead, Martin sits in front of him with a shy smile and soft hands, helping him, missing him. Jon can’t possibly understand that.

He opens his mouth without any clue as to what to say.

“That… doesn’t actually answer my question?” He says weakly.

Martin laughs. Not a chuckle or a giggle but a full-throated belly laugh. It is a sound Jon has never heard from him before. His face feels even warmer.

As soon as he calms down, Martin shakes his head before delicately placing his fingertips on Jon’s chin and tilting his head upward.

“I guess not.”

He finishes cleaning and dressing the wound in silence. When he presses the dressing against the cut to make sure its smooth, Jon can’t help but shudder.

A frown crosses Martin’s brow.

“Don’t suppose I can convince you to see a doctor about this?”

“You suppose correct,” Jon sighs.

Martin clucks his tongue but doesn’t push him any further.

Jon is overcome with the sudden desire to sit in this chair for the remainder of the afternoon, resting in Martin’s half-joking disapproval with their kneecaps just about touching.

He is also keenly aware that that desire isn’t something he can afford to indulge in.

With a weary groan, he hauls himself upright.

  “I… appreciate the help.”

Grabbing the now-stained tea towel, he turns away to toss it in the sink.

“O-Oh, uh, sure, anytime,” Martin says automatically, “Well, n-no, not anytime- I didn’t mean- I don’t want you to get hurt again or a-anything!”

“It’s fine, Martin, I know what you meant.”

He puts the first aid kit back under the sink and pats his pockets to make sure he has all the things he came in with. It’s not much.

“Right, I won’t be back today, but I’ll be in the office tomorrow.”

“You’d better not be!” Martin exclaims, suddenly loud.

Jon blinks at him.

“I beg your pardon?”

“You’re hurt! You need rest!” Martin squeaks indignantly, “Proper rest, Jon not just a half-day off!”

“I- Wh- You can’t stop me coming to work!”

“I bloody well can!”

Jon boggles as a memory suddenly strikes him full-force. He had tried coming back to the archives early after Prentiss’ attack as well, hadn’t he? Martin had practically carried out of the building. At the time, it was just another reason for Jon to be suspicious of him. Now, he can see it for what it was.

  Martin cared.

  He still cares, whether that care takes the form of washing his wounds or scolding him for his poor work-life balance. It’s not a feeling Jon is familiar with.

Martin still sits at the coffee table, arms crossed over his chest, colour high in his cheeks. With a wistful smile, Jon decides to let him have his way. It’s paltry thanks for his ministrations, but it is all Jon has.

“Alright.”

Martin’s glare vanishes under his shock.

“Alright?”

Jon nods.

  “Alright. I’ll rest.”

“Oh! Oh. …Good!”

“It’s what, Friday now?” Jon says, “Maybe I’ll even take the weekend off.”

“Wow, let’s not go overboard,” Martin grumbles.

Jon snorts, hiding his laughter behind his bandaged hand. Martin smiles brightly and somehow, gets even redder.

“I’ll see you Monday.”

“Y-Yeah.”

Jon heads for the door. His feet are like lead weights and he already knows he is going to have to stop himself from napping on the tube. He can sleep properly once he is back at Georgie’s. It might even be nice to rest, for once.

He pauses in the doorway, glancing back.

Martin has stood up, his arms still crossed even as he flicks a hand up.

“See you.”

As he stares at him, Jon’s chest aches again. He is overcome with the urge to speak, as if that will ease it.

“For what it is worth… It is really good to see you too.”

Martin’s face goes slack with a look as soft and tender as his hand was on Jon’s throat. It makes the ache worse.

Jon turns away without another word, knocks once on the doorframe and walks away.

  As he heads for the stairs, his hand still throbs, and his neck still stings but it is the hurt in his heart that distracts him. The sound of Martin’s laughter echoes in his head and Jon thinks that this particular pain is one he doesn’t mind keeping.

[bibliocratic]

45 or 10 from the kiss prompt for JonMartin? :)

Thank you!! :D Number 10 Already posted - > Number 19, Number 26, Number 38

Broad spoilers for S5 up to 194. Content warnings in the tags

MARTIN … and that’ll be all outside, and y-you’ll be able to see them, through the glass doors at the back. […] [muzzy] Jon?

[…]

[slightly more urgent] Jon.

JON [woozy, coming to] Hmm?

MARTIN Just. [obviously relieved] Just checking.

Thought you’d lost me?

MARTIN … a bit. Yeah.

JON I’m still here. [a shifting sound of unstable brickwork] I think one of my arms has gone to sleep.

MARTIN ‘s what happens when you bring the whole building down on us. JON [mock affronted] It was a team effort, thank you. MARTIN [a small quirking laugh, trailing off into a wet-sounding cough] My mistake.

… Jon?

JON … sorry, it’s – hard. To stay awake, now the Eye’s… [a self-deprecating sound] I didn’t realise how much I needed it.

MARTIN [trying to reassure] I know. It’s… it’s OK.  [a gasping wince] Fuuuck. Jesus.

JON Try not to move too much.

MARTIN [through gritted teeth] Fantastic advice. [another grunt of pain] N-not like there’s…  [shuddering inhale] … anywhere I can go.

[the silence is sober, a conversation already had and ran dry]

JON I think I can… give me a…

MARTIN W’ are you doing?

JON I can... if I just…

[the sound of a dead-weight dragging, laboured panting, several moments of this]

[the movement stops]

Argh. That’s… that’s better.

MARTIN [pushing for light-hearted] Any – huh – any excuse for a cuddle. You’re getting dust all over me. JON You weren’t going to be moving to me, so. It’s not exactly my fault you’re more comfortable to lie on than the floor.

MARTIN High praise there, don’t – heh [wincing gasp] use up all your compliments at once.

JON [tentative] It doesn’t hurt when I…?

MARTIN No. Well, yes, but no more than the rest of it anyway.

JON I can…

MARTIN Stay. Please, Jon. I’d… I’d like you to.

JON …

Think anyone’s noticed all this mess yet?

MARTIN I mean, my guess is that Hill Top Road’ll just look like a construction site  to anyone walking past. If it worked… if everything went… went back.

JON It worked. It has to have.

MARTIN [quiet] No one is coming then.

JON No. No, it’s just us.

MARTIN Right. Right. Suppose that’s not the worst conclusion.

JON [trying to keep himself together] No. It isn’t.

[silence for a few moments.]

JON Go – go on then. What’s next?

MARTIN What’s that?

JON Before. You were talking about the house.

MARTIN Oh. Thought you’d tuned out, to be honest.

JON I was listening.

MARTIN Any changes you’d make then?

JON Bigger garden. [a shifting creak of fabric – Martin gasps, and Jon apologises] Maybe a patio area.

MARTIN [winded, recovering with effort] Very fancy.

JON All that walking we did… think we – huh – deserve to be able to sit down in some deck chairs.

MARTIN Too right. [struggling, pushing the words out harsher] Your… your go then, lazybones.

JON What do you want me to say?

MARTIN Just… Tell me about a day we’d have. Any day.

JON [soft, tragically fond and heartbroken] Alright.

[clears throat] Right. So I’m… er, I’m in the kitchen. Um, cooking I guess?

MARTIN Heh, that’s a stretch – I’ve seen your kitchen skills.

[there’s muttering, and a tired chuckle] Ha, OK, sorry, sorry – spoiling the momentum. Carry on.

JON [affectedly prim] Thank you. Right, so I’m cooking. Pasta, o-or stir fry or – something easy, quick, not too much effort. It’s been a long day at work, and I left later than usual. It’s… yes, it’s dark outside, sometime in Autumn maybe, and I’ve put the heating on full blast. You’re… you’re usually home by now, but you… [trailing off]… you… um….

MARTIN [prompting] I’m caught in traffic?

JON [pulling himself back] Y-yes. You text me earlier, t-to tell me you’d got caught at the road works coming out of town, so you’re running late.

MARTIN Silly of me not to have taken the long way round to avoid it.

JON I’ve told you that. You haven’t replied but I know you’ve read it.

MARTIN I’m too proud to tell you you’re right.

JON Heh. Yeah. [a ripped-up out sound]

MARTIN What next then?

JON Give… give me a minute. I-I, er…

MARTIN It’s alright. No rush.

JON [recovering from whatever episode has passed] OK. I’ve… I’ve got the radio on. I’m listening to some sort of talk show, and they’re going on about a political scandal of some sort.

MARTIN Tories at it again?

JON Of course. [warming to the thought] I know the commentators irritate you, so I only put it on when you’re not at home or if I know you’re working upstairs. And I – um… I’ve fed the cats, but they’re hovering around my legs hoping I drop something.

MARTIN [gently teasing] Cats plural, then? We had only had the one before.

JON They’ve multiplied.

MARTIN Hm. Our squadron of cats know you’re a soft touch, and that you’ll accidentally-on-purpose drop something.

JON I would never.

MARTIN Liar.

JON True.

The cats are hovering. And I’m thinking about… well, nothing special. The day, things I want to get done tomorrow. I’ve got a pile of marking to do, but I’m going to leave it, because it’s Friday, and you’re always telling me I need to set healthier work-life boundaries.

MARTIN I’m being listened to? A true miracle.

JON Hush. Anyway, the food… it’s a pasta bake, and it’s in the oven. And I’m tidying up because the kitchen’s messy, and then I hear your key. You’re kind of muttering loudly and I can hear you through the glass in the front door. The lock sticks sometimes, but only ever when you use it.

MARTIN [pained, words pushed through teeth] S-so we’ve a cursed door. N-nice touch.

JON …

MARTIN A-and then…?

JON You… [groaning] Christ, I’m… I’m getting really dizzy.

MARTIN Shh. I-It’s alright, it’s ok. Close your eyes, deep breaths.

JON [a series of stuttering breaths] Y-you come in. Your bag slumps heavy on the floor, I’m always telling you it’ll give you a bad back, the weight you put in that’s making the straps fray. You kick off your shoes, b-but then you set them neatly by the door, right alongside mine. And then you greet the cats and stroke them behind the ears and you fuss and coo in a silly little voice at them.

And then you – you kiss me on the cheek. Without thinking. Not – not that it doesn’t mean anything. Like you’ve… [huff] you’ve done it so many times now it’s a habit, that we’ve had the chance to make over all the years we’ve had together…

…

Martin?

MARTIN [drowsy, words slurring] K-keep going love. I’m… ‘m listening.

JON [it is audibly harder for the words to come to him, but pushing on almost desperate, voice thick] … and I kiss you back, and ask you how your day was… you have a bit of a moan. Y-you’ve wrapped your hands around me now, and you’re freezing and I tell you if you don’t let go, the dinner’s going to burn, and you tell me the tea will be just fine for another minute, and I tease and ask if you’re speaking Northern again, l-like it’s a running joke of ours – and, huh – you pretend to be offended…

And while we eat, we talk. About… about so many little nothings we’ve made into somethings, a-and…

[drained, lost] I-I can’t think of anything else.

…

Martin?

[fracturing] Martin?

[a trembling swallowed sob] Alright. ‘s alright, you rest, I-I’ll keep going. Jus’ give me a minute to catch my breath…

[harsh inhale, exhale]

[inhale, exhale]

[inhale, exhale]

[stop]

[nat-20s]

for @jonmartinweek THE FINAL DAY prompt- Pining/Longing. This one takes place, well, you’ll see

~*~

A Study of Longing, Told in Six Parts

Part 1

Martin wonders if he’ll ever get to a point in his life where kindness doesn’t feel like a shock to the system. It’s already surprising enough when Tim and Sasha invite him for drinks in a genuine offer of friendship, but for that kindness to come from Jon? Martin has no idea what to do with being believed, let alone being protected.

And now here he is, blearily opening his eyes only to find himself staring at a mass of hair. As he sits up and rubs the sleep from his eyes, the shape resolves into the form of one Jonathan Sims. He had apparently fallen asleep with his head cushioned on his arms, against the cot Martin was currently occupying. It’s not an image that Martin can fully process at the moment, so instead he debates whether or not to wake Jon up or quietly get off the cot to let him get some much needed sleep. He decides on the former, both thinking that it would be hell on his back to keep sleeping in that position, and that he would like an explanation.

Hand hovering above Jon’s shoulder, but not fully touching, Martin oh so quietly calls out, “Jon?”

That’s all it takes for Jon’s head to rush up with a gasp, glasses askew, and with the texture of his sleeves pressed in red marks on his face. It is a horribly endearing look. “Hrn?”

Martin opens his mouths, closes it, and waits for Jon to get his bearings. Jon smooths down his (frankly ridiculous) sweater-vest, adjusts his glasses, and slips back on his professional demeanor. “My apologies, Martin, I, ah, must have fallen asleep.”

Glancing to the crappy little digital clock resting on a file box next to him, Martin rolls his eyes. Only Jon could be quite so stuffy at 4:32 in the morning. “No apologies needed. Though, um, was there? Something you needed or..?”

Jon shakes his head and stands up, dusting off imaginary grime. “No, no, nothing like that. I had just, er. I had heard you cry out and I- I wanted to make sure nothing was going on. It appears that it simply a nightmare,so I will be.. taking my leave. Now.”

He doesn’t know what part of himself replies, “Oh! You don’t have to go!,” but he replies it anyway. Jon does that little thoughtful frown at him, which forces him to continue, “I mean, if you wanted the cot. For sleeping. I’ll probably be awake for the rest of the night, so, you know, no skin off my back .”

“Ah. No, that’s quite alright, Martin. Try to get some more sleep, there’s still a long work day ahead.”

Jon doesn’t even wait for a response before turning on his heel and leaving. Martin sort of hates how much he wanted him to stay.

Part 2

Jon is laughing. Jon is terrified, all the damn time, and yet, somehow, he’s laughing. Honestly, he was starting to wonder if he was still capable of it. Martin is gesticulating wildly with his fork, animated in a way that Jon’s only ever seen when in they’re in the middle of a rather silly debate. He thinks this lunch’s topic was something like whether or not snakes were cute? He lost the thread of conversation about half an hour ago, honestly. Covering his mouth, he lets the giggles run through his whole body, shaking his shoulders and heating his core. He feels light, heady, like he’s reminiscing with an old friend and they’re both on the edge of having had too much to drink.

He only wishes he could trust this feeling. He wishes that he could trust Martin, that they were normal coworkers having a normal lunch, that the previous person in Jon’s position had gone into an easy retirement instead of being violently murdered. He wishes he hadn’t read that letter telling him, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Martin, Martin, who took him to lunch and brought him tea and seemed so very warm in so very cold circumstances, was lying to him.

Jon stops laughing.

Part 3

Of course, the second his body hits the simultaneously stiff and weirdly lumpy motel mattress, his phone goes off. It may only be about 8 pm, but he’s tired, and he’s sore, and he’s had a persistent headcold for the past week for some unholy reason, the last thing he wants to do is talk. However, only about four people have the number to the burner cell, and they’re almost certainly have a purpose behind their call.

Closing his eyes and letting out a sigh that turns into more of a groan, he picks up on the 4th ring. “Hello?”

“Hey, Jon! It’s Martin, I’m not sure if you have my number programmed in that phone, or if it even has caller ID if you do. Anyway, it’s been about a week since I’ve heard anything, and I wanted to make sure you weren’t, y’know, dead or arrested or anything.”

His previously tense and aching muscles all relax, without him consciously deciding to relax them, and a sleepy smile spreads across his face, because some time in the past year he’s become a parody of himself. Yes, maybe he should be more affronted by how much Martin’s tinny voice brings him comfort, but he’s had a rather terrible time of things since...since he began work in the archives, really, and he’s worn down enough that he can admit he misses his friend.

Huh. Friends. They are, aren’t they? Wonder when that happened. (He can guess, something involving a fake CV admission, but he doesn’t feel like it right now.) “Martin, I recognize your voice, no need to introduce yourself.”

“Right! Yes, uh, ‘course..of course you can. Right. Sooo...I take it you’re not dead, then.”

“Correct. I haven’t been arrested, either.” It’s only sort of a comforting lie, so Jon thinks it can be forgiven.

“Good. Great! Yeah, that’s...that’s good.”

The conversation could probably end there. Jon could probably tell Martin good night, and they’d hang up, and Jon could get the sleep he had been so desperately craving not moments ago. Somehow, he thinks that neither of them want that. Scrambling for something to talk about, Jon replies, “Hang on, isn’t it something like 2am over there?”

“It...might be.”

“Martin!”

“What! It’s not like you have a monopoly on bad sleeping habits. Besides, I was up anyway, and I just..”

“Just what?”

“I just missed your voice.”

Oh. Heat rushes to his cheeks, and tears start to prick at the corners of his eyes, and god. He had missed Martin’s voice too. “Really? I know you’ve had to listen to a fair number of tapes lately, thought you might be sick of it by now.”

“No. I mean, I am a bit tired of tapes, honestly, but even the ones that you recorded, that not really your voice, is it? I mean it is, but it doesn’t sound like you when you’re actually, um, you. I wanted..I wanted to hear you.”

Jon’s far too worn out to deal with that sentiment, and the way that it makes his heart clench. So instead  of addressing it, he says, “I am very close to being asleep.”

“Oh. Right, sorry, I’ll let you go-”

“No! No. Um. Would you mind staying on the line? Until I’m gone? I-I like hearing your voice. As well.”

“Oh! Sure, yeah, definitely. Anything in particular you want me to talk about?”

“Whatever you like. Something nice?”

“All right. I can do that. Um. Did I tell you about this little yarn shop I found the other day. It’s called ‘Puttin’ on the knitz’, and it’s…”

Jon peacefully drifts off, listening to the voice of the man who he can only admit in moments such as these, he wishes was in this bed, laying beside him.

Part 4

please come back please come back for the love of god come back I can’t believe you’re doing this do you have any idea how stupid this is come back to me come back come back come back

Part 5

There is plenty of things to long for in the apocalypse. A decent cuppa. The relief of actual sleep. Murdering Jonah Magnus. For there not to be a apocalypse. They are grateful, however, to not have to long for each other.

Part 6

Martin comes to without a knife in his hand, or bloodstains on his clothing. Those, under other circumstances, would be good things.

Martin comes to, laying in the grass, without anyone beside him. He barely has the moment to feel agony spike through him before he’s out once more.

There are no Jonathan Sims admitted to the hospital. As far as he can tell, no one was admitted into the hospital at the same time as him, and certainly no one with a stab wound.

There are thousands of ‘Jonathan Sims UK’, typed desperately into a library computer search bar, wielding mostly results about a sport manager and a romance novelist. None of the images are of the right person.

Sometimes Martin puts one foot in front of the other, carefully blank in heart and head. Surviving, even  during times that he’s not sure he wants to, is one of his greatest abilities.

Sometimes Martin despairs.

On the worst nights, he tries to call the Lonely back to him, tries to be swallowed whole. It never works. He’s not sure if it’s because the fears aren’t in the reality or if they’re not established enough to have any leverage or if his connection has simply been broken. (He doubts the last reason. He hasn’t been this alone since Tim’s funeral. Even then, Melanie had thrown a few stilted condolences towards him. No one is aware enough of him to give condolences now. He misses Melanie. He misses all of them. He misses Jon like a gaping, bleeding wound misses skin.)

Seven months later, and he has enough money saved and identity built that he moves on to Scotland. The little village they had been adjacent to exists in this reality. Daisy’s cottage does not.

On a whim, he enters the yarn shop. He’s not going to pick anything up, hobbies are the last thing he can focus on, but it’s nice to look. To feel the various textures, to take in the rich variance of colors, to, hopefully be present in his own body, if only for a moment.

Martin steps in. The bell chimes. He’s there. Standing in front of him. Whole. In a cry that’s closer to a gasp, he calls out, “JON!”

Jon turns, looks up at him, recognizes him even before he’s even fully seen him. It’s his Jon, he’s here he’s here he’s here. The callback of “MARTIN!” sounds like it was punched out of him, the start of a sob and a laugh all at once.

In a blink, they’re together, their embrace a tangle of limbs, a collision of lips, a mixture of tears. Martin can’t tell which of them is saying the litany of “thank god thank god thank god” and who’s repeating “it’s you it’s you it’s you.”

It’s Jon that’s telling him, “I knew you had to be here. I knew it, because I kept thinking. Surely. Surely this new universe wouldn’t be so cruel as to allow me to live, but to make me live without you.”

It’s Martin that replies, “I didn’t know. I thought it would be that cruel. Please don’t make me go through that again.”

Jon pulls him in tighter, eliminating the centimeter of space between them. Speaking into Martin’s neck, whispered in fierce devotion, Jon promises, “Never again. Never again. You and me. Together. For the rest of our lives.”

Barely discernible through his sobbing, Martin tells him, “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

~*~

There are people that think that wanting is more worthwhile than having. Martin thinks, frankly, that those people have never been in love.

[shelobussy]

ASH’S TMA HURT/COMFORT/FLUFF REC LIST 

For the gays. (And @damcrows who’s been dead for the past 24 hours. Rest in peace babe. Read some gay fic. Deny the inevitability of canon. <3)

___

the end, but the start (of all things that are left to do)  by @ajkal2

Jon wakes up.

aka. mag200 tore out my heart

(Very smol, very short, very spoiler. Def recommend for anyone who just finished the podcast.)

remind me how to smile by @tamerofdarkstars

Jon is probably fine, just hiding out somewhere while the whole murder thing blows over and that's... fine. Martin is fine with that explanation. Really. He's got plenty to distract himself - like listening through the entire What the Ghost episode library, for example. Or watching Georgie Barker's Instagram livestreams.

(Yea this was in the last rec list, but you don’t understand THE ADMIRAL GIVES CUDDLES)

Chamomile by Dribbledscribbles

Whatever the ex-tea was, if it really had ever been that last bag of chamomile Martin claimed he’d found tucked in the back of the cupboard, it was fast now.

Martin had tried catching it, chasing it, blocking its way with shoebox lids and plates and an upended footstool, but the thing was just too quick. Jon knew as well as Knew that he might have left off the attempts completely if not for the creature’s preferred game.

The game was, See How Many Times I Can Push Martin Towards Cardiac Arrest Before He Comes at Me with The Broom.

(Scottish Honeymoon Era. Adorable and weird. A vampire gets harassed.)

hey stranger by @ennuijpg

It’s a late night Tesco run, how eventful could it be? It’s not like Martin is going to run into his boss who’s wearing something absurdly different from usual and get the most acute form of whiplash possible from seeing him, right?

(Martin runs into Jon at the grocery store and has an existential crisis.)

roses roses, roses. by @judesstfrancis

Rose scented laundry detergent. Running into Jon in the breakroom. Running into Jon on his way back to his desk. Rose scented detergent. Running into Jon. Roses. Jon. Roses, roses, roses. 

(Canon enemies to friends to lovers au-ish. Martin POV. Very pining much sweet.)

go softly by doomcountry

And there is nothing else besides this. 

(More hurt/comfort than fluff. Scottish Honeymoon Era. Mild eye mutilation.)

Not Alone by @backofthebookshelf

After the coffin, Daisy and Jon are both fragile. They hold each other up. 

(Post-buried Jon&Daisy starter pack. Very hurt/comfort.)

trust my love by antlsepticeye

“you… you’re real, aren’t you?” jon whispers, the fog slowly dissipating from his mind. “it is not a trick?”

“i’m here,” martin says softly, reaching up to grab jon’s hand that was resting on his cheek, intertwining his fingers with jon’s and squeezing. he moves jon’s hand to martin’s chest, resting it over his heart. “you’re alright. i’m alright. take your time, love. let’s just take some deep breaths, okay?”

(TOUCHSTARVED JON HAS ENTERED THE CHAT.)

reaching out by Athina_Blaine

By the time things settled, when Martin had finally managed to crack through his cold shell, feel some of his old self returning to him in bits and pieces, they had found their little routine.

One that had the two of them sleeping in the same bed, making breakfast, going to the mart. Where Jon reached for his wrist while they slept, and Martin luxuriated in the gentle warmth of his fingers.  

But not one where Martin reached back. One that had Martin kissing Jon awake or taking his hand over the breakfast table, because ... Martin never had the courage to try. And then it never became a part of the routine.

And Martin desperately wanted it to be.

-

Martin and Jon have an important conversation.

(More Scottish Honeymoon Era for the soul. Hurt/comfort/fluff.)

Belabor by @janekfan​

Jon's given the position of Archivist and is falling apart at the seams. Tim and Sasha are upset and playing games. Elias is overbearing and manipulative.

And poor Martin is stuck cleaning up the mess.

(THEE first fic I ever read for tma. Season 1, hurt/comfort/fluff, and hints of Jmartin. janekfan is the absolute master of seasons 1-3 hurt/comfort. This is my favorite, but pls check out the rest of their fics.)

tea, blankets, and a damnable stubborn attitude by ivelostmyspectacles

“Are you really gonna stay here and pester Jon all evening?”

“I’m not pestering him,” Martin retorted, sounding vehement if not busy going through the cupboards. “I’m heating up soup.”

“Oh, you might as well make him another cup of tea while you’re at it.”

“Oh, good idea.”

Jon shot Tim a withering look.

(The one where Jon is ill, Martin makes tea and they watch doctor who together. Fluff 1000%.)

A Kind Hand by @voiceless-terror

Jonathan Sims was adjusting just fine, thank you very much.

In which a minor workplace spill causes Jon to realize that he might have friends.

(Ah yes, the other master of seasons 1-3 fic aka voiceless-terror being my other fav author in the fandom. This one is also season 1 hurt/comfort/fluff.)

A Weather In The Flesh by @cuttoothed

"There is a span of years where Jon doesn’t touch anyone other than the occasional hand shake. It’s not so bad. He’s never been someone who’s needed physical affection."

*

Jon has never been any good at making people want to stick around.

(More touched starved Jon! Much hurt/comfort!)

Something Old, Something New by @cirrus-grey

Months have passed, and everyone is doing better than they were. Daisy and Basira are getting married, Melanie is feeling her old self, Georgie is as much herself as she has ever been, and even Jon has stabilized on his wild fall away from humanity. Everyone is doing better.

Well. Almost everyone.

(Daisy/Barsira wedding! Melanie is a bitch and we love her! Jmartin dance! Post-canon (almost) everyone lives!)

The Weight of Love by @voiceless-terror

Jon is a restless sleeper. Martin attempts to adjust. 

(The fic where Jon is literally me and Martin attempts to sleep for 1k words.)

The Art of Conversation by @voiceless-terror

"Do you ever stop talking?"

Jon has a complicated relationship with words. Difficulties come and go.

(Jon has adhd and Martin is in love.)

Novelty by @backofthebookshelf

Jon experiences A Sexual Attraction; Martin has A Concern. They figure it out.

(Any fic that explores the ace spectrum is a 10/10. We stan all ace interpretations of jon on this blog.)

Half a Hug by Dathen

I know you weren’t going to hurt me, I trust you, he said again and again. And then a different kind of fear shone through, hollow and echoing: “Please don’t stop touching me."

-

Or: Life is hard when you're touch-starved but have trauma related to your closest friend.  Spoilers through TMA 132.

(Honestly bless every author who saw jon&daisy and was like. They’re siblings. No I will not elaborate.)

the loneliness never left me (but i can put it down in the pleasure of your company) by Athina_Blaine

It was about Martin making Jon feel safe, treasured, and loved. And it had been so, so long since anyone made him feel that way.

And, in the face of it all, Jon was starting to flounder.

(At this point I just need to make separate rec list for Scottish Honeymoon Era.)

you can watch me corrode by scarletfish

"So, how long have you been pulling this shit then?"

"I… excuse me?" Jon’s indignant, certain she can’t mean what he thinks she means.

"When was the last time you ate?"

(Georgie decides Jon and Melanie need a normal day off. Jon learns that he and Melanie have more in common than he thought.)

(Look, Melanie isn’t my favorite person in tma, but she and Jon are like THE SAME PERSON and I adore fics that elaborate on their relationship.)

Out of the Wind, In From the Cold by @ostentenacity

There are two bedrooms in the safehouse, and two beds.

For a moment, Jon considers asking to share, but decides against it with a wince. “I really loved you,” Martin had told him. Loved. Past tense. And Martin doesn’t exactly have a lot of choices right now in terms of company; it would be cruel to demand he play at feelings he no longer has just to make Jon happy.

(For a moment, Martin considers asking to share. But he dismisses the idea with a shake of his head. Jon has already done so much for him. Martin isn’t about to ask for more, especially not when it’s something he doesn’t really need. He has his right mind back, and he has Jon’s friendship. That should be enough for him. It’ll have to be.)

---

Jon thinks that Martin doesn’t love him. Martin thinks that Jon doesn’t love him. They do not, of course, discuss this. Unrequited love is already awkward enough, right? No need to dwell on it.

(THEE SCOTTISH HONEYMOON ERA FIC. IT’S ABOUT THE PINING, BEING MUTUALLY OBLIVIOUS AND FALLING IN LOVE. 10000/10.) 

I Do by @voiceless-terror

“I, um- this was supposed to be a lot more romantic, I swear.” Martin looks down at the dirty bar floor. “I had it all planned out, I-I was going to take you somewhere nice, and then we’d go for a walk in the square- I’ll still do it!” He hurries to explain, as if that’s the most pressing part of this situation. “It’ll be really nice, I’ve already hired a photographer-”

In a fit of protectiveness, Martin proposes to Jon.

(Everyone lives, Martin accidentally proposes and Jon is crying in public.) 

________

[simplee-dreaming]

I Was Acting!

A/N: Okay so this was kinda rushed because stuff kept happening but I still hope it's good!

Word count: 1846

Summary: Tom Hiddleston discovers the reader is ticklish.

--------------------------------------------------

“Great acting today guys. Let’s all get home and rest before another fantastic day tomorrow!” said the director.

You, amongst everyone else, packed up your stuff and headed back to the hotel you were staying at during filming.

You were working on a new movie, about a single father and his teenage daughter conquering real life problems as a team of two. It was a really sweet film and so far you’d had a great couple of weeks on set with the cast and crew. Tom Hiddleston was playing your father and you still couldn’t get over the excitement whenever you saw him walking around the set. You almost fainted when you met him for the first time at the read through.

You decided to get an early night and rest well before another long, but exciting, day of filming tomorrow.

The morning finally arrived and you completed your morning routine before heading off to the set. Tom was already there when you arrived, unsurprisingly.

“Good morning darling, sleep well?” He asked.

“I did indeed. You?”

“Very much so. Would you like a tea?”

“Yeah sure! Only if you’re making it though,” you winked at him. He walked into the kitchen and appeared a few minutes later with a lovely hot cup of tea to give to you.

“There’s my favourite stars! How are we feeling today?” said the director, approaching you both.

“Ready to roll!” replied Tom, you nodded.

“Awesome! Now, one of the scenes we’re filming today, as you know, is the one of just you two at home where Martin - uh, yourself, Tom - is comforting Harriet - of course, you, Y/N - after she breaks down about being bullied at school. You’re both aware of this scene happening today I assume?”

You both nodded and murmured agreement.

“Okay good. Well, it’s the first scene we’re going to film today but I’ve been speaking with the producer and we both agreed that we could add something to the scene to really show the special connection between their father/daughter relationship,” he said.

“Go on..” Tom replied.

“Would you two be comfortable with filming a little tickle scene?”

You blushed.

“See, our thought process was that after Harriet confides in Martin about her bullying, he could cheer her up by tickling her a bit - really showing the bond between them. We’ve added a couple of lines to the script which are here. Don’t worry if you forget or improvise, we have plenty of shooting time today. Would you be okay with that?”

“Absolutely fine with me! Y/N?” Tom replied.

“Hm? Oh yeah, um, yeah that’s fine,” you said, trying to act cool.

“Perfect!” The director said, handing you both a piece of paper with the new lines on. He gave you both a smile and walked off.

“Well then, better get practising,” Tom said.

“It’s only one new line each, hardly needs to be practised,” you laughed.

“I wasn’t talking about the script,” Tom said. He turned to you and winked before walking off. Your heart jumped.

The time had come for you and Tom to film that scene. You both got into position as the lights and cameras were adjusted appropriately.

“And, action!” The director called.

“I was thinking of just making an omelette for dinner. Nothing special but might be nice,” said Tom.

“Mhm,” you murmured.

“Did you just want ham and cheese? Or something more adventurous?” he asked.

“Mhm,” you repeated.

“And what was that an answer to?” he asked.

“What?” you said, looking up from your prop phone.

“I asked if you just wanted a ham and cheese omelette or something more,” Tom said.

“Oh, yeah, that’ll be fine,” you replied, looking back at your prop phone.

“What’s wrong? You don’t seem yourself tonight,” Tom said.

“I’m fine,” you replied, not looking up.

“No you’re not. What’s wrong?” He asked, taking a seat next to you.

“It’s just...just some girls at school. They’re not exactly the nicest,” you sighed, hanging your head.

“Is it the same girls as last term?” he asked. You nodded.

“Oh Harriet, why didn’t you say something?”

“Because I thought I could handle it,” you replied. He sighed and put an arm around you.

“Okay, here’s what we’re gonna do. I’m gonna contact the rest of the PTA tonight and see the headteacher tomorrow. These girls are on file from the last time they bullied you so it won’t take much to make sure they’re punished. I’m sure the other parents on the PTA will have something against them too. Does that sound good?” he said. You nodded again.

“Good. But right now I gotta make sure my little girl is happy,”

“I’m not little anymore, Dad,” you replied.

“You are to me. Now come on, where’s that smile?” he asked. You continued to hang your head. He moved his hand down and gave your side a squeeze. You yelped, not expecting him to tickle you at that moment. He looked at you, a mischievous look in his eye. He squeezed your side again, making you yelp louder and twist away from him.

“Nohoho!” You giggled.

“My little girl is still just as ticklish,” he teased. You fell backwards into the sofa when he started clawing at your tummy.

“AHAHAHA NO!” You cried. He laughed with you, clearly surprised at your reaction.

“I’m just cheering you up!” He said, squeezing your sides again. You latched your hands onto his wrists to try and pull him off you.

“NO PLEHEHEASE!” You yelled, trying so hard not to scream “Tom” and ruin the scene.

“And cut!” the director shouted. Tom instantly stopped and helped you sit up on the sofa.

“That was the perfect take guys! Alright, break for 30 then back for the next scene. Nice job Y/N and Tom,” the director said, applauding you both. The rest of the crew disbanded to go on break. You and Tom were still sat on the set sofa. He looked at you.

“So…” he said, smiling.

“So?” you asked.

“So, how long were you gonna hide this from me?” He asked.

“Hide what?...” you replied.

“You know what,” he said, grinning at you. He poked your side and you yelped.

“Tom...no…” you said, panicked.

“You’re really ticklish Y/N, I can’t just ignore that,” he said. The smirk on his face gave you butterflies.

“No I’m not, I was just acting,” you said, faking confidence. Unsurprisingly, he didn’t believe you. He slid across the sofa towards you and the sudden movement made you panic. You leapt up from the sofa and fled.

“Oh no you don’t!” He yelled, running after you. You looked back and screamed when you saw him chasing you.

You ran round the corner and headed towards the back of the set. You turned another corner and found yourself at a dead end. You slowly turned around and found Tom standing behind you, an evil grin on his face.

“No...Tom...please…” you begged, holding your hands up in front of you.

“Well, well, well. Look what you got yourself into. A very ticklish girl, trapped. No escape,” he teased, wiggling his fingers by his sides. You took a deep breath and let the adrenaline take over. You ran towards him and tried to dodge him, thinking you could get past and escape. He was too quick for you and grabbed you by the waist, spinning you round in the air before lying you on the floor. He knelt down and straddled your waist.

“TOM WAIT!” You screamed. He let out an evil laugh before squeezing your sides again.

“Acting eh?” He teased, smiling at you as you shrieked beneath him.

“I AHAHAM AHAHACTING!” You shrieked. He moved his hands up and scratched at your ribs.

“Who-oh-oa!” He said, giggling at your reaction when he started tickling your ribs. “Bad spot?” He asked.

“NOHOHOHO!” You screamed. You grabbed his biceps as he continued to scratch and squeeze your ribs. He finally stopped and grabbed your arms, pinning them above your head.

“Ah ah ah,” he mocked telling you off. “Now then, where else are you ticklish?” He asked.

“N-nowhere…” you blatantly lied. He looked at you, eyebrow raised.

“Tell me or I’ll have to find out for myself,” he said, a teasing tone in his voice.

You stayed silent.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” he gave you a sly wink and let go of your arms to shove his hands in your armpits. You slammed your arms down to your sides and shrieked louder than ever.

“My, my. Is this a bad spot?” He asked.

“AHAHAHAHAHA NOHOHOHOHO!”

“No? Are you sure? It seems pretty ticklish to me,” he said with a puzzled look on his face. He picked up the pace of his wiggling fingers and you threw your head back in ticklish agony.

“Does this tickle?” He asked.

“NOHOHO!”

“Hm,” Tom bent down and nuzzled his beard into your neck. You twisted your head to the side but he had already buried his face into the crook of your neck. Without warning, he blew a big raspberry whilst still tickling under your arms. You screamed.

“FUHUHU-AHAHAHAHAHA!”

“Did that tickle?”

“NOHOHOHOHO!”

“Damn. Okay,” he said. He shuffled himself down a little bit, his hands leaving your armpits to scribble over your ribs again. He thought for a moment before lifting up your top with his nose.

“TOHOHOHOHOM DOHOHON’T YOHOHOU DAHAHARE!” You shrieked, knowing full well what he was planning.

He grinned at you and winked before lowering his head. Your screams turned desperate after he blew raspberry after raspberry up and down your tummy. The worst one was when he blew a raspberry just under your belly button and nuzzled his beard into your tummy. It was torture.

He kept blowing raspberries on your sensitive tummy, his beard tickling you as he did so. His hands switched between tickling your ribs and your sides. You finally gave in and fell into a silent laughter, weak from the tickles. He lifted his head after one more nuzzled raspberry and ceased his attack.

“Still acting?” He asked, chuckling.

“Shut….up... “ you panted.

“Answer the question,” he said, dragging one set of nails down your tummy.

“Ohohokay, I was acting!” You giggled, swiping at his hands.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were this ticklish?” He asked.

“Because I knew you’d do that,” you replied.

“You say that, yet not once did you actually ask me to stop,” he said. You went silent.

“Did you want me to stop?” He asked. You blushed. You brought your hands up to hide your face and he awed at you.

“Hm, 15 minutes till we’re due back. I think round two,” he declared. He quickly grabbed your arms, before you could protest, and pinned them to your chest before bending down and blowing more raspberries on your sensitive tummy.

You were both laughing so much that you lost track of time and were 10 minutes late back to set. But you made sure to get Tom back after filming...

[morning-softness]

Happy 11-month anniversary to the first fic I wrote for TMA! I just realized I never posted this on Tumblr.

Archive Shenanigans

Summary: All the assistants are the hot assistant, or Tim says Hot Martin Rights and Hot Sasha Rights and even Hot Jon Rights.

Words: 1,137

Chapters: 1/1

Full text below:

“Sasha, Sasha,” Tim calls, nearly tripping over himself as he tumbles into the break room, a wider than usual grin stretched across his face, “you won’t believe who Elias transferred in from the library to work with us!”

Sasha pauses her search through the cabinets for a box of tea that isn’t years out of date—had Gertrude never used the break room, or had she just taken all the good tea with her when she left?—long enough to try to process what Tim had said. “So Elias brought in another assistant without telling us? Jon’s going to be upset when he finds out.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Tim’s smile falters for a moment before he waves away her concern. “He’s already upset Elias made a molehill out of a mountain when he told us that Gertrude had left the archives in a state of ‘slight disorder.’” He makes air-quotes as he says the words in an exaggerated imitation of Elias’s voice that makes Sasha giggle. “That’s not the important part. What matters is we now have a sexy librarian on our team, who, I might add, is incredibly hot.”

Sasha frowns. “Look, Tim, not to cast aspersions on your taste, but you’ve also described Jon to me as ‘very hot’ before, so forgive me if I need a few more details on this ‘hot librarian’ before I make up my own mind.”

“Oh, c’mon,” Tim argues, “Jon is absolutely hot: those sharp cheekbones, that dark hair streaked with silver, those eyes—”

Sasha laughs, cutting him off. “I know, Tim, I know, you’ve told me at least twelve times. Now, let’s go check out this new putatively hot assistant.”

The new assistant has his back turned to them, bent over to arrange his personal items in the desk he’s staked out, and in the process giving them a nice view of his trouser-clad rear. He actually has one, which is already a point in his favor in Sasha’s book, especially compared to Jon.

“Oh, hello,” he says, straightening quickly as he notices their approach and raising a hand in greeting. “I’m Martin. Ah, Mr. Bouchard said I’d, ah, be working with you. I, um, I originally worked in the library, so I’m sure we’ve seen each other a few times, although, heh, I guess this is our first time meeting officially.”

“Sasha James,” Sasha says by way of self-introduction as her gaze rakes over him, taking him in.

He’s tall—taller than Tim even—and broad, with wide shoulders and hips and a round, freckled face framed by soft messy curls. His eyes are bright and warm behind his large glasses—gold cat eye frames, really?—and his lips are soft and full, although the way he’s worrying his bottom lip between his teeth screams ‘anxiety’ more than ‘sex appeal.’ He’s wearing an enormous knitted jumper, which—she realizes as he smooths the front down nervously over his middle—while a bit loose-fitting, isn’t nearly as baggy and oversized as she’d assumed at first glance. She has to fight to keep her jaw from dropping as she sees just how much of it he fills out.

“It’s good to meet you Martin,” Sasha says warmly, stubbornly trying to maintain her professionalism while Tim bounces around in the background like an overexcited puppy. “We’re glad to have you on the team.”

Martin’s large hand closes around hers in a handshake, his grip warm and surprisingly firm despite the nervous smile wreathing his face. He’s practically glowing as he stutters out an effusive speech about how happy he is to be joining the the archives crew, how glad he is to have such friendly and welcoming coworkers, and how excited he is for the work they’ll be doing. It’s heartwarming, and it soothes just a tiny bit of the disillusionment Sasha’s been feeling with the whole archives situation.

He is, Sasha admits to herself as Martin finally releases her hand and goes back to sorting out his desk, fairly good-looking. He’s also Jon’s physical opposite in every way, which completely throws off her former estimations of what might constitute Tim’s ‘type’.

“Timothy Stoker!” Sasha hisses, eyes flashing with amusement as she pulls him back into the break room by his elbow. “First Jon and now this librarian. Don’t tell me you have a size contrast kink! Do you only go for people who are substantially smaller or larger than you?”

“That has nothing to do with it!” Tim insists hotly. “People of all sizes and body types can be attractive! Besides, you know how gorgeous I think you are, and—barring the gender differential—we’re close to the same build and height.”

“Hmm, that’s true.” Sasha’s eyes twinkle playfully even as she rubs her chin, pretending to be giving the matter serious thought. “Wait,” Sasha says, snapping her fingers in mock-realization, “I know what it is! First Jon with his sweater vests, then me with my cardigans, and now our new ex-library assistant with his jumpers” she ticks them off on her fingers as she lists them, “Admit it, you just have a knitwear fetish, don’t you?”

Tim laughs. “You’ve got me!” He exclaims. “In winter I have to take a taxi to work because my heart can’t handle the overwhelming sexiness of everyone wearing hats, scarves, and mittens on the Tube.”

Sasha snorts. “Just wait until I come in tomorrow in my knit dress,” she threatens, grinning. “I’ll have you absolutely swooning from my attractiveness.”

Tim doubles over with laughter. “Seriously, though,” he says when he finally straightens, wiping moisture from the corners of his eyes, “the new assistant: hot or not? What’s your verdict?”

“He’s a teddy bear,” Sasha says, “he’s adorable. It’s so sweet how excited he is to be here.”

“Sasha,” Tim gives her a look that says he knows she’s holding out on him and he’s not amused.

Sasha laughs. “Fine, fine,” she says, patting his arm, “The new assistant is in fact very hot, and you should watch out or I’ll steal him away from you before you can make your move.”

“You wouldn’t dare!” Tim exclaims, half-serious even as he clutches his chest in mock-horror.

“I guess you’ll just have to see~”. Sasha sticks her tongue out at him as she ducks back out through the break room door into the office.

“You never know! He could be gay!” Tim calls after her.

“Only one way to find out!” Her voice echoes teasingly back as he hurries to follow her.

Back in the office and completely unaware of the break room shenanigans, Martin hums to himself as he surveys his finished desk arrangements with a sense of satisfaction. He hasn’t met his new boss yet, but his fellow assistants seem nice. He has a feeling he’s going to like working in the archives.