TMAHC week day 3: sickfic || misunderstanding || overwhelmed
I finished this at around 7 am so apologies if there’s any errors, I’ll fix them later on
Set sometime while Martin is still sleeping at the Institute
To be completely honest, Jon had no idea how he made it to work in one peice this morning.
Actually, it could be counted as afternoon now since it was around half past twelve when he stumbles into the Institute, but he still made it, and that’s all that counts.
He’d slept through the multiple alarms he had set, which was unusual for him since he’s normally not the deepest sleeper— the drop of a pen was enough to wake him with a start these days. A pulsing pain within his skull eventually drew him out of the comforting darkness of sleep as it throbbed in time with the annoying beep of his alarm. He wanted nothing more than to let sleep take him away again, away from the pain, but he knew he had to get up and head out.
Suck it up, you’re fine. It’s not even that bad. You’re just being dramatic, he grit his teeth as his exasperated grandmother’s voice rung out in his aching head.
“Let’s get on with it then” Jon muttered while he scrubbed a hand down his slightly flushed face.
The day only seemed to get worse the more it dragged on.
He was already late, which of course Tim just had to make snide comments on, it was making the pounding headache turn into feeling like a jackhammer across his temples. It was bad enough that he was shambling down the hall like a drunkard, having to hold onto the wall for support every few steps, but he almost let out a frustrated groan when he heard Tim’s footsteps follow him.
He has neither have the time or the energy for this.
He wants to be left alone, is that so much to ask?
His office.
All he has to do was reach his office and he could find some peace, he was so desperate already that he flung open the door and slammed it after his entrance, nearly toppling over afterwards and wincing hard. He hadn’t actually meant for the door to slam shut as hard as it did, but the damage was done and he was regretting it. He had to lean back against the door as he rubbed at his temples with both hands, the loud slam made the pain 10x worse.
At least he was alone now. Alone in the quiet darkness, that seemed to help slightly after a couple of minutes.
The next three and a half hours are an agonizing blur of statement readings and recordings. A deep ache had made itself at home in his bones and his small frame is wracked with chills that switches to a sweltering heat in the blink of an eye. His free hand reaching up unconsciously to jam two fingers into his temple again for the umpteenth time, this time frowning when he notices the heat and sweat on his brow.
He isn’t sure if his throat feels sore from all the reading without anything to drink or if it’s just a little added bonus to his illness— but the coughs he produces after clearing his throat are answer enough.
Lucky him.
He’ll finish this statement, it’s getting a bit hard to focus anyway, and then lie down in the cot for a quick 10 minute power nap.
It’s worked in the past so why wouldn’t it now?
He remembers the old bottle of paracetamol in his desk before getting up, knowing that he should probably take something before heading over to the storage room, but his face falls upon finding it empty without so much as a rattle. Well... so much for that.
—————
Martin quietly shuffles around the Institute after hours; making sure everything’s locked up tight, washing up in the restroom, fixing himself dinner and a cuppa, and settling down by watching the telly in the break room before heading to bed on the cot that Jon lent him for the time being. It’s been his nightly routine since Jane Prentiss trapped him.
There’s no one else here to his knowledge, even Jon’s office is dark and empty, so he doesn’t expect company until at least 6 or 7 am.
Jon usually got here the earliest but today he threw a bit of curve ball at them by arriving at 12:30 pm while looking quite disheveled, almost like he’d just rolled out of bed. 
He really didn’t look good, and Martin wanted to press on the matter, but he’d promised to do the lunch run today so it would have to wait. By the time he returned, Tim made sure to let everyone know that ‘boss’ was in a mood. Martin went to check on him but decided against it when he felt the locked handle and heard Jon’s strained voice while he read aloud. He’d just check in before Jon goes home then.
He must have missed him.
But if Jon’s well enough to leave then he must be fine, maybe he was just exhausted after a few nights of restless sleep— Martin now knows the feeling.
He almost falls asleep in one of the wooden chairs as the show he was attempting to watch drags on. Turning off the boring show, he makes his way to the restroom one last time to change into sweats and a tee.
The silence of the Institute after hours is probably something he’ll never get used to. There’s just something eerie to it, like it’s too quiet, too calm.
A noise cuts through the silence, effectively spooking him, that’s coming from further down the corridor ahead of him. He’s not sure he wants to continue after that but he thinks it sounded like a moan of pain, there’s a beat of hesitation before his curiosity and concern win out as he continues to silently press on.
The door to the storage room is ajar so he makes his way over with caution until he can peer inside. What he sees isn’t what he was expecting. Jon’s on the cot, curled in on himself and shaking like a leaf while the blanket is hanging off the edge onto the floor. Martin’s quick to enter, concern overtaking caution as he hurries his way over.
“Jon?” Martin starts softly as to not cause more harm than good, “I thought you went home.”
He doesn’t like that Jon barely stirs at the intrusion, but instead he focuses on taking in more of the sight before him. Jon’s face looks too drawn and pale, a high flush on his cheeks, sweat making his shirt cling to his skin, and the ragged breathing that had a slight wheeze on the end— he looks a right mess. Before he even realizes it, he’s reaching a hand out to brush against Jon’s forehead.
He expects Jon to startle when he touches him, but the only response he gets is another moan that gets choked off as the poor man’s voice cracks painfully.
“Oh, Jon” Martin coos while brushing sweaty bangs out of the way, “that’s a pretty nasty fever you’ve got.”
Jon really doesn’t want to wake up and he wants to open his eyes even less with the spinning sensation he’d felt earlier when he woke. He registers a warm hand brushing his hair and chances cracking one eye open. It’s so gentle, working out the tangles and smoothing his sweat soaked curls, he almost falls back asleep before the person says something he can’t make out.
“Wha’d say?” It comes out a lot less elegant than he wants it to but whoever it is seems to get the point.
“I asked how you were feeling.” Martin is as patient as a ever while he watches Jon’s eyes blink blearily up at him as of trying to process what’s going on and what’d he just said.
“M’tin” recognition flashes in glassy eyes when he sees that Martin isn’t in his usual clothes anymore. “S’rry, I’ll get up. Jus’ needa sec.”
“No, no you’re fine there” Martin’s hands hover over Jon should he need to push him back down but Jon’s arms give out before then, “stay right here. You’re alright. I’d like to get a read on that fever and a bottle of water for you.”
“But your cot—”
“Don’t worry about it, plus it’s really yours and you need it more than me. Now, can you stay here for me? I’ll just be a second.”
Martin’s satisfied with the small nod he receives and bolts out to the break room for the first aid kit and a bottle of water from the fridge. Jon’s still in the same spot when he returns to his side.
He must really feel poorly if he’s accepting help so easily, Martin bites his lip while shifting through the kit, looking for everything he needs.
It’s a good thing he always checks the kit to make sure it’s well stocked with whatever the crew might need. He holds out the thermometer and waits for Jon to open his mouth far enough to slip it in. He’s already shaking a few tablets out of the bottle of paracetamol before the device beeps.
39.6
Martin tsks softly, helping Jon sit up before depositing two tablets and the bottle of water into his shaky hands. He doesn’t even complain when Martin helps lift the bottle to his lips.
The quick interaction seems to take what little energy Jon had left out of him as he slumps bonelessly against Martin, head pillowed on his chest. He’s never seen Jon like this before, and of course that’s concerning, but at least he doesn’t have to suffer alone through it.
“Stay” Jon whispers hoarsely against Martin before an even quieter, “please.”
“I’ll be here.” Martin shifts slightly to run a hand through Jon’s hair, gently coaxing him to sleep. He holds back a chuckle when he watches Jon try to fight against closing his droopy eyes.
Martin stays with him for the rest of the night and doesn’t dare move his body except for the hand that’s playing with Jon’s hair, even though the heat of the fever penetrates his shirt and leaves him a bit uncomfortable and sweaty— it’s well worth it.
