An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Martin has two boring months to spend at Uncle Peter's remote fishing cabin, but on his first week there, he stumbles upon a man loudly arguing. With the waves.
Alright then.
prompt: treating injuries | confession
Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Tags: Fluff, Alternate Universe - Merpeople, Merfolk AU, Merman Jonathan "Jon" Sims, Hurt/Comfort, mention of martin's mother's stellar parenting..., Jon in Martin's Clothes which is important, Treating injuries
cw: mention of minor shallow cuts along jon’s palms from climbing sharp rockface (happens pre-story), blackwood-mom’s child neglect (Martin is 21 atm though)
With the brief break we have from season 5 of the Magnus Archives wreaking havoc on our emotions, we thought we’d unwind by... wreaking havoc on our emotions! In between the horror of canon and the fluff of escapist AUs lies the well-loved medley of suffering and support: Hurt/Comfort!
We are holding an event for Hurt/Comfort fan content, including both art and writing. Your creations can be about any character(s) from The Magnus Archives, AU or canon, gen or shipping. The event will run from Monday, August 24, to Sunday, August 30.
For each day of the event, one Hurt/Comfort trope and two other prompts will be provided for inspiration. Use one or multiple prompts, or go in your own direction! Any Hurt/Comfort fanworks will be included, as long as they contain both elements of the genre.
Event and Prompts
We will be using the #TMAHCweek tag to collect works on tumblr. To ensure the well-being of those enjoying the event, please make sure to include applicable content warnings (including NSFW content), even if they’re canon-typical, and use a read-more cut or link to ao3. There is a TMAHC Week tag on ao3 as well, if you would like to use it.
My first entry for The Magnus Archives Hurt/Comfort Week: a short JonMartin safehouse ficlet.
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7
Rating: G
CW: past shame over a medical condition (early essential tremor)
Prompts: self-worth issues, pretend, shaky hands
Word count: 732
Jon jumps when the blanket touches his shoulders. Everything is still so new and raw after escaping the Lonely, and the Scottish peace and quiet is only just now starting to feel like a reprieve.
Two warm hands lay on his shoulders over the blanket, stilling him. “It’s just me.”
It’s never just Martin, but Jon doesn’t correct him. The weight of his hands is an unexpected comfort that ends too soon, but it can barely be mourned that Martin sits next to Jon on the old, musty couch, sinking in it.
The movement makes Jon lean in, as if pulled in by gravity, and he doesn’t fight it. This is also new.
They take a few moments to settle in, then Jon breaks the silence. “Why the blanket? I mean, thank you, but I wasn’t cold.”
Martin clicks his tongue. “I looked for tea, but there isn’t any. And you’re shaking.”
“Oh.” Jon looks at the familiar sight of his trembling hands and considers all the lies he’s told, the pretenses. He exhales them all away. Guilt has no place here. “I always do.”
There’s a beat while the meaning of his words sinks in. “What? Really?”
Realising that’s a lie, Jon shakes his head. “I have since my early twenties. Tremor. A hassle to explain, more than anything.”
“I never noticed it.” Now Martin sounds more hurt than surprised.
Holding the blanket closed with one hand, Jon reaches out with the other to cover Martin’s. Their fingers lace together as if it were their natural purpose. “I never wanted anyone to notice.”
They’re so close that Jon can feel Martin’s restlessness. “No, but I should have…”
“You couldn’t have. I was very careful.” He remembers how natural hiding his hands under his desk came after a while, or waiting until he was alone to drink Martin’s tea, letting it cool down enough to hold the cup with both hands.
And yet something slipped, of course. He thinks about Tim making fun of his handwriting. Or the times he decided he would look more unkempt with the shadow of a beard than with his face covered in cuts. Or how he got so used to hurting himself in the kitchen that the scalds and the injuries became par for the course, until Georgie noticed and bullied him into getting a diagnosis.
“It’s… easier to overlook a thing like that in a professional context, especially if one does his best to conceal it.”
“That’s not the point! And even if it was true, I… We've been alone with each other for days, how could I not have noticed?” Martin runs his free hand through his hair, which gets all mussed up.
Something inside Jon’s chest clenches with the ache to smooth it down. Then he remembers he can, so he does.
Martin flinches, surprised, but then lets out a shaky breath and lets Jon pet his hair. Jon leans in a bit more, letting the blanket fall from his shoulders. They are both getting used to contact, learning how to be around each other. “You noticed.”
“What do you mean?”
Jon’s smile is as delicate as the memory that elicits it. “You kept holding my hands.”
He watches as Martin remembers all the time he has taken one or both of Jon’s hands in his, apparently without realising it, on buses and trains, during the endless waits and the lulls in their journey.
A blush blooms on Martin’s cheeks, drowning out the freckles. Jon wants to kiss it, all of it, and he will, but right now the man is too flustered already, and Jon’s not entirely devoid of mercy. He lowers the hand that has done more damage than good to the state of Martin’s hair. “It’s alright.”
“Is it… Can I…”
“You can ask.”
“Is it painful?”
“No. It’s just… It gets worse when I’m nervous.”
Martin nods. They’ve both had plenty of reasons to be nervous in the last few years. Then he shakes his head. “Why are you hiding it?”
“I’m not anymore.” Jon inhales, straightens. He feels small and naked without the protection of his pretenses, and he wants to get used to it. “I thought it made me weak. That it meant I was weak. I was ashamed of it. I’m past that, now.” He scoffs. “My worst weaknesses lie elsewhere.”
“Hey.” Martin catches both his hands. “No trash-talking my boyfriend.” And he seals that sentence by kissing the palm of Jon’s right hand, blushing furiously and completely avoiding eye contact.
Alright, here’s a ficlet I’ve got for day three of TMA hurt/comfort week from @themagnuswriters!
Prompts used: Sickfic + Overwhelmed
Other tags: Jonmartin, season 3, statement withdrawal, asthma, fever
“I’m confused, I’m-I’m dizzy, I—”
Jon breaks off with a sigh, feeling so endlessly out of breath that the next words come out in a rush.
“I think I saw the police officer from Chicago again—in the station where I was talking to Rebecks. I—”
God, I can’t breathe.
“I’m not—feeling well.”
The tape clicks off on its own right as Jon starts up coughing again, harsh and painful, into his elbow. He’s been at it all day—the gasping, heaving breaths, the constantly dripping nose, throat on fire—all serving to make him properly miserable. Even the paracetamol he’d managed to find after a long struggle at the chemist hasn’t worked, and Jon is fairly certain his fever has only been climbing.
And, as is often the case, it makes him…upset.
It’s just that it’s so miserable here, roaming about a hospital looking for news of Gerard’s horrendous death, trying to find a decent cup of tea only to come up empty, endlessly searching through the aisles of the American “pharmacy” to find some damn fever reducers, only to learn it’s called by a different name—
And there’s no one here with him. He is well and truly alone.
His chest aches. His very soul aches.
Damn it, I can’t breathe.
Stars begin to spatter across his vision as he reaches down to his bag, hands shaking so badly he can barely grab hold of his inhaler, dropping it several times before managing to set it on the hotel bed.
Spinning spinning spinning
Squeezing his eyes shut against the endless whorl of colors around him, he pants into the stillness for a moment, until the wheezing of his own chest begins to scare him. Shaking the medicine weakly, he exhales as much as possible before drawing a deep breath—praying that it will work this time.
It doesn’t. Of course it doesn’t. It may have stopped his chest from wheezing for now, but—there’s still no room, no air, no one to—
Martin.
Jon curses himself for the thought at once.
No, he doesn’t…he doesn’t need…
Running a hand through his overgrown hair draws up a memory, gentle and light, of warm hands pulling his hair up while he’d been ill, warm hands brushing against his own in the hall, warm hands checking his forehead for fever, supporting him when he’d fallen, even after everything—
His own hands still shaking, he picks up the phone and calls.
“J’n?”
Martin picks up after a few rings, voice low and slurred with sleep.
Oh, shit—
Jon stares wide-eyed at the clock, makes the time conversion in his head, and…it’s four in the morning in London.
“M-Martin I…I’m so sorry, I didn’t—I didn’t realize the time, I—”
“No no, it’s—” he breaks off to yawn for a moment. “It’s alright, what’s going on?”
I shouldn’t have called.
“Really Martin, just—go back to sleep, I apologize—”
“Are you alright?”
The concern evident in his voice sends a ripple of guilt through Jon’s empty stomach.
“I’m—”
“Don’t say you’re fine, you don’t sound fine at all,” Martin says, and Jon can hear the rustle of fabric as he sits up in bed. “Are you ill?”
How do you know these things? Jon wants to ask, but refrains—instead swiping a hand across his brow.
“Jon?”
Oh, right.
“Err—I don’t know, exactly. I’m um—heh—”
Can’t breathe
Another coughing fit bursts from him, and he holds the phone far away from his face to spare Martin’s ears. Even with the medicine, it’s somehow more ragged than before, every bit of his lungs on fire has he struggles to contain it. When he at last manages to settle it, he picks the phone back up, voice whittled down to nothing more than a haggard whisper.
“Sorry—” he sniffs, swiping a tissue to stem the renewed flow of his nose. “Sorry, I suppose I might be ill.”
“No kidding. You sound awful, Jon. Have you got your inhaler?”
He remembers.
…of course he does.
“I-I do, it’s just—” he sighs heavily, letting his forehead drop onto the palm of his hand. “It’s not really working.”
“How do you mean?”
“I mean—it helps a little, but…not for long.”
“So it’s not asthma then?”
“I suppose not.”
They let the silence hang for a while, and Jon lets his eyes fall closed, not wanting to hang up the call, wanting to keep Martin’s presence with him somehow.
“What’s really wrong, Jon?”
And there it is again, Martin’s ability to read him even without seeing his face. Tears begin to sting, hot and relentless, behind his eyes, and he tells himself it’s from the fever, wants to tell Martin that’s all it is, but—
I’ve got to be honest.
He trusts me and I’ve got to be honest.
“I don’t know, Martin,” he whispers, sniffing back the congestion that’s rounded out the consonants of his name. “I don’t know, I just—I just wanted to talk to you.”
I miss you, he wants to say more than anything.
He knows he cannot, or he’ll actually start to cry, and that wouldn’t do to put him through that.
“Okay,” Martin says, keeping his tone light—but Jon can hear the concern behind it all the same. “Okay, that’s alright, Jon—I’m glad you called. What can I do to help you feel better?”
Jon can’t help but let out a quick laugh at this, a bit damp and gasping, as he swipes quickly at the tears now spilling from his eyes.
“Nothing, Martin,” he says, still smiling a bit. “Just…good of you to answer.”
“Jon, I—” he cuts himself off, sighing a bit shakily. “Jon, I’m worried, I—can I stay on the line with you a bit? I can—here, I can read you something, or-or we can talk, or—or we could just sit, it’s alright, just…just don’t hang up, alright?”
Jon can’t help but bury his face in his hands, shoulders shaking with choked-back sobs.
“Jon? Are you there?”
Sniffing quickly, Jon replies.
“I-I’m here, sorry, I—”
He sniffles again, scrubbing a hand over his eyes.
“Thank you. I would—”
His pride nearly stops him from saying it, anything but to admit he needs help—
“I’d love it if you read to me.”
Though he cannot see his face, Jon is absolutely certain of the wide smile broadcasted all the way from London.
“Of course, Jon. Whatever you need.”
He allows the gentleness of Martin’s voice to carry him away with the tide, pulling his small boat away from the shore, and into the oceans of sleep.
Day 1: Self-Worth Issues (Pretend, Shaky Hands, Etc.)
Setting: Season 3, Soft JonMartin
Jon’s exhausted, a bone-deep cover of fatigue draped across his muscles, and yet, no matter how hard he tries to sleep, his mind can’t seem to shut down. He thinks, at first, it’s because he’s in America, in a foregin country by himself, but, while he tries to cling to that notion, he knows, deep down, that he needs to record.
He doesn’t have a statement, and his head begins to spin in a twisting spiral that leaves him dizzy, unearthed, and he reaches for his phone to call Martin, hoping, almost desperately, for a tether back to the presence.
Martin picks up on the first ring, and, how it has been since Jon hopped on his first flight, he sounds just a tad alarmed.
“Jon? Is everything alright?”
Jon moves from where he’s been hunched over a small, wooden desk in his motel room to the rickety bed, dropping ungracefully atop the must blankets with a groan that vibrates deep in the back of his throat.
“Jon?”
“Ah, yes, I’m fine,” Jon lies easily, his mind, once growing fuzzy around the edges, starting to smooth out. “How are things?”
“Um, well, things are... going?” Martin laughs, short and lacking heart. “We’re all carrying on with work the best we can manage. Well... most of us are. Tim’s still... well, he’s still having a hard time adapting, I think. I don’t see him most days, but when I do, he just looks... tired.”
There’s a long pause between the two. Jon’s head is beginning to hurt again, a rather agressive thump against his temples, and Martin’s only breathing quietly on the other end of the line, waiting.
“Are you sure you’re alright, Jon?” Martin cuts through the silence, his voice dancing around the edges of Jon’s headache. “Normally when you phone, you ask me to look into something for you. You don’t... well, you don’t sound well.”
Humming, Jon drapes one arm across his eyes. “I need... a distraction, I think.” He sighs, wincing at the drum in his head. “How are things with you? Outside of work, I mean.”
“Oh! Well... Things are fine, I suppose? I got a new house plant! I decided to challenge myself and get one that requires more care and attention than my others. It helps me not think about... well, you know. It’s a bit weird being back home. I think I rather got used to sleeping at the institute, but...”
Martin’s voice falters, and Jon can fill in the blanks without Martin’s verbal direction.
“How about your poetry?” He asks, quiet, only vaguely aware that it kind of hurts to speak.
“Oh! Well, I haven’t had a lot of time to write because it’s been pretty busy at the institute, and-”
“Can you read me one?”
Jon jerks the phone away from his hear at the loud shout on the other end, grimacing as he slowly moves it back to try and make sense of the frantic chatter on the other line.
“-can’t possibly! Jon, they aren’t even good! It’s just something I fiddle around with here and there, and you would hate-”
“Martin.” Jon’s voice is flat, dark, and he swears he can hear the click of Martin’s teeth as the latter presumably snaps his jaw shut. “I’m sure you’re quite the poet. Now, will you please read one to me? It... Hearing you... it helps me feel present.”
“Oh... Okay, well, sure, Jon. Just a second...”
Jon can hear rustling on the other end of the phone, a few, hushed curse words.
“Got it! Couldn’t find the damn thing.”
The flipping of papers begins to emit from the other line, and oddly, Jon can feel himself relaxing just a fraction more against the bed, the mattress underneath starting to feel a little less lumpy and old.
“No. No. Definitely no. Too dark. Too... wormy. Too... well, I suppose this one would work. Are you sure, Jon? I’m really not a poet in the slightest. I could grab a book from the shelf and read to you instead? Something by someone who actually knows what they’re doing-”
“No,” Jon sighs, thumb pressing into his temple. “Just... Let’s hear what you’ve got.”
“Right, sure.” Martin clears his throat, and Jon allows his eyes to flutter closed.
“My chest hurts, when I see you.
A deep pang, a tight thud against my rib cage.
I have to wonder, does your chest hurt, too?
When you dive into someone else’s brain on a page?
Getting lost among sentences until you’re through?”
Jon, to his muted surprise, finds that his mind grows soft, and for a long, breathless moment, all he can see is Martin standing before him, his backdrop a bright white with light pinks, yellows, and oranges swirling out from teh center into intricate designs. In front of Martin is a large podium, and he’s reading through his poem, his voice gentle yet impossibly raw, and Jon wants to move toward it, move toward him, chase that endless feeling of quiet calm.
“Jon? Jon, are you still there? Jon?”
Jon’s eyes shoot open, and his chest deflates at the sight of the grayed motel ceiling. Yet, his headache has quieted to a dull, rhythmic thump, and though still feeling rather poorly, he also feels oddly relaxed, and he can’t seem to get Martin’s words out of his ears, his mind.
“Jon, do I need to phone for help? Did you faint?”
“That was... that was beautiful, Martin.” Raw is what he wants to say. Real. Intriguing with somber hints to it. He’s not typically one for poetry, but he finds it’s quite different when it’s someone you know speaking from their heart.
“Oh, come off it, Jon. You fell asleep, didn’t you? Though, I wouldn’t be surprised. My poems are rather dull.”
“No... I...” Jon’s always struggled with verbalizing what he feels, what his heart and muscles are telling him through feelings alone. “Really, Martin, it was quite lovely. You should... be proud of your work because it’s yours and only yours.”
Jon’s voice is barely above a whisper, the fatigue pressing down on him, but he wants to fight against it, to try and remedy that heavy presenece of low self-worth that somehow always manages to sneak through Martin’s tone.
“You really think it’s good?”
“I do,” Jon says firmly, voice surprisgly loud against the bare motel walls. There’s a breath of hope in Martin’s words, and Jon nudges it forward the best he can. “You’re really quite talented. What or who was the inspiration behind this piece, if I might ask?”
“You cannot ask! Goodbye, Jon! Do try and get some proper sleep!”
Martin’s tone is unabasheldy flustered, and he hangs up the phone before Jon can interject, leaving him in silence, but also with a hint of a smile that seems to linger as he nods off.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Jon pulls open the box, and nestled within some white tissue paper is a ring: a simple dark black band. For a split second he studies it, utterly bewildered, before it clicks. Martin's here, nervous, presenting him with a ring. Martin's proposing to him.
I FINALLY wrote the fic based on the ace ring proposal post I made forever ago.
And, it happened to fit in nicely with the prompt "Misunderstandings" for The Magnus Writers h/c week!
Read on AO3 through the link above, or under the cut.
"Martin," says Jon fondly, when Martin comes back into their bedroom for the fourth time in a row without a word or an apparent reason, "Just tell me whatever it is already. Please?"
"Mm, what?" Martin asks, even though he was looking directly at Jon when Jon spoke to him. Martin's brow is furrowed in thought, his body tense with anxiety.
"Really, Martin, spit it out." Jon shakes his head but can't hide the warm smile on his face even if he tried. Things between them for the past week since they had arrived at the safe house had been good, wonderful even, as they tested out and fell into the habits of a new relationship.
Martin had gotten back from a trip to town not too long ago, and had seemed on edge about something since. But Jon isn't worried; he Knows there were currently no threats around, so whatever is bothering Martin is something they could solve together. He has no shortage of faith in that.
Now that he has Martin in the room for more than 3 seconds, he can see Martin is holding a small, black hinged box, like a jewelry box.
"What's that?" Jon asks lightly, nodding towards the box, compulsion held back like a breath.
"Oh!" Martin bites his lip, and glances down at his hands as if he's surprised there's something there. "This? Hah. Well, um. I, er? Got you something."
"Like… a gift?" Jon asks, bewildered. The word feels foreign on his tongue. He… can't remember the last time someone gave him any sort of present. Well. Maybe Prentiss' ashes. Jon cocks his head at it. What could it be this time? Some sand? Dust?
"Yeah, a-- a gift." Martin has a queer sort of look on his face, like he can't quite believe it either.
After several moments of quiet, Jon cannot stand the wait any longer. "You... said it was for me, right?"
"Yeah! Sorry, hah, here you go." Martin hands the black box over to Jon. Jon traces his thumb over the box as he takes it, enjoying its texture of smooth velvet.
"What's the occasion?" Jon asks, still studying the small box, before glancing up at Martin. Martin's brow is pinched and he worries his lower lip between his teeth.
"No occasion," he replies with a shrug. "Just saw something at a shop earlier today when I made the trip into town for groceries, and, uh. I thought of you?" Martin takes a deep breath, as if readying himself. "Listen, you don't have to keep it or wear it or whatever, especially if it makes you uncomfortable, and I--I hope this isn't inappropriate or--"
" Martin ." Jon steps forward, putting a hand on Martin's arm, steadily catching his gaze. "You're an incredibly thoughtful person. I'm sure I will love it."
Martin nods once, swallowing, and slips his arms around Jon's waist. "R-right. Thanks?" his voice wavering. "You haven't even opened it though," he says with a hint of reproach.
Jon sighs before leaning in to press a kiss to Martin's cheek, then immediately pulling back to admire the lovely flush of color that's spread across Martin's face. With some regret, he steps back to be able to open Martin's present; he'd rather spend more time in Martin's arms.
Jon pulls open the box, and nestled within some white tissue paper is a ring: a simple dark black band. For a split second he studies it, utterly bewildered, before it clicks. Martin's here, nervous, presenting him with a ring. Martin's proposing to him.
Jon could feel his heart pounding in his chest as he gazed down at the ring. He'd… actually never really thought about marriage before -- at least not in these terms. Marriage had always seemed for people in love, people who had things figured out -- normal couples that didn't include him. But, now, when he examined his future, all he saw was Martin.
He wanted Martin to be with him always, forever, and isn't that really what marriage was? Or should be? He wanted to wake up every morning and see Martin lying there beside him, be greeted by Martin's warm, soft, sleepy smile, have Martin in his arms. He wanted to be able to care for him, be cared for by him. He wanted to make sure Martin was happy like how happy Martin had made him. This past week had been like a dream, and now that he had a taste of what his life looked like with Martin in it, he couldn't go back. Sure, it may be a little hasty for this, but when had either of them done anything conventionally? Jon had already made Martin wait long enough. Jon could see the beauty in a spontaneous proposal, the romance, but what really spoke to him was making sure, no matter how much or how little time left they had together, with whatever Jonah was planning, Martin knew how much he cared for him, how much Martin meant to him, and how seriously he took their relationship.
"Uh, Jon?" Martin asks, nervously.
"Oh!" Jon gives himself a little shake out of his thoughts, excitement finally settling in. He had been keeping Martin waiting.
"Yes," Jon responds solemnly, but is unable to keep back a small smile as he gazes back at Martin. Though slightly uncertain about convention, he decides to just go ahead and put the ring on. He slips it on his left hand on his ring finger; it's slightly loose but, all things considered, fit rather well.
Jon holds up his hand to admire the black ring on it. "I'd be honored to marry you."
Martin makes a choked sound and turns bright red; Jon steps forward immediately, concerned.
"Martin, what is it?"
Martin is still sputtering, his mouth opens and closes but no words come out. Jon isn't sure if he's ever seen Martin this flustered and… well, that's saying something. Especially after the other day when they were both rather wine drunk and Jon shared with Martin a number of affectionate ramblings, such as that Jon hadn't seen a more beautiful man in his life than Martin, and that Martin smelled good, like home.
Jon bites his lip, anxious dread settling low in his gut that he had done something wrong, messed this up somehow, to upset Martin like this. "Did I-- are you, are you happy? Martin," Jon pleaded, "what is it, please?"
Martin inhales sharply at Jon's beseeching tone, shaking his head rapidly. "Sorry, sorry! I'm just. Surprised?" his voice pitched higher than normal.
Jon frowns at this, trying to push aside the hurt uncurling in his chest. Surprised? Did he… expect Jon to say no? Did he think Jon wasn't the type? Or did he think Jon wouldn't want to ever marry him? But then why ask in the first place?
"I don't understand," Jon says slowly, cautiously, afraid his voice would waver. He pulls his arms to his chest and wraps them around his middle, his hands clinging to his sides tightly.
" Jon," Martin says, pained, hushed, apologetic. He sighs heavily. "The ring… it was meant as an--an ace ring. I thought I'd show support, you know? For you. I saw that ring at the shop, and it looked about your size, and I thought of you. I had done some reading after our talk last week, and this seemed… like fate or--or whatever. It felt right . To give it to you. I--" Martin swallows, before taking a shuddering breath, "I'm sorry that it was misleading, I love you, Jon. And…" Martin stops, brow furrowed, pensive.
As he listens to Martin speak, Jon swallows past the pin-pricked tightness in his throat, fighting the urge to flee. An ace ring was nice, lovely even. He had never owned one, had never gotten around to it. He already felt safe and assured in Martin's quiet but eager acceptance of him when he explained his asexuality to Martin last week, but this…this was everything. A wonderful, thoughtful gift. Despite this though, his face still burns with embarrassment that his initial thought when being presented with a ring from Martin was marriage, how utterly stupid could he be?
"O--oh. Right. I'm sorr--," Jon begins, after several seconds goes by without Martin saying anything else, and Jon does his best to sound unaffected, calm, nonplussed.
"No!" Martin interjects, holding out his hands, as if reaching for Jon, but stops short. " Please don't apologize, Jon, never. I think… now that you mention it--I, I would be honored," Martin's voice wavers, thick with emotion, "to marry you too."
"I--" Jon starts before Martin's words catch up to him. He blinks, trying and failing to process it all.
Martin finally, finally, bridges the gap between them, taking Jon's hands in his. Jon feels Martin's thumb pass over Jon's new ring, bumping up against it. Martin's hands are warm, his smile tentative and kind. Martin's always been kind though, even when Jon didn't deserve it.
"I love you, Jon. And if you think you'd be happy married to me--"
That jolts Jon into action. "Now hold on," he says indignantly. "'I think' nothing. I know I would be happy married to you. No, not happy. Joyously ecstatic and immensely lucky to be your husband."
To his pleasure, Martin is finally blushing again.
"Jon," Martin says, fondly exasperated.
"Martin. I mean it."
Martin let out an exaggerated sigh. "Fine," he says, smiling, squeezing Jon's hand. "If we were to do it, how would we go about it? I mean." Martin bites his lip. "Everything I know about weddings comes from movies, or…"
"Books?" Jon finishes with a wry smile. "It's the same for me. Hm. We can contact the registrar tomorrow… where is the nearest registrar?" he asked no one in particular before the information came to him with a hint of static. "Ah, perfect. There's one a town over, I bet we can call for a cab, or--"
"T-tomorrow?" Martin sputters, eyes wide.
Jon laughs, breathlessly giddy. "Well, we did already sort of elope, didn't we?"
Martin huffs a laugh back. "I guess… So are we really doing this? Are you being serious?" Martin said with a smile, tone carefully lighthearted, but Jon could hear and understood the fragile cautiousness underneath. They had both spent too long being hurt by the world.
Jon let go of Martin's hands, instead cupping Martin's face with one hand, the other wrapping around Martin's waist, drawing him close. Martin blinks rapidly as he scans Jon's face for a hint of a rejection, or a sign that Jon's joking, or something that would tell Martin that he wasn't wanted. Jon made sure he found none of that, as he calmly, resolutely stared back, thinking how lucky he really was to have Martin's love after everything they both had gone through.
"Martin, I--I can't see my future without you in it. I can't think of anything I'm more serious about."
"Okay."
"Okay?"
"Let's get married," Martin says, though he looks like he could still barely believe it.
Jon can barely believe it either after the emotional roller coaster of the past quarter hour. His heart and mind races, and he can't recall the last time he felt such combination of quiet contentment and near euphoria. As he starts mentally running through everything they'll have to do--like a cake! They can't have their wedding without a cake--Jon realizes a small issue.
"Just one problem." Jon pulls back slightly to look down at his left hand, where the black ring rests on his ring finger.
"Hm?" Martin quirks his head, bemused.
"Should I keep wearing this on my ring finger or move it to where ace rings are supposed to go?"
"Oh," Martin says with a laugh, looking a bit relieved. "Think of it as an engagement ring, but put it on your middle right. We don't do things traditionally anyway, do we?"
"No," Jon murmurs, finally leaning all the way forward so his head rests on Martin's shoulder. Martin's arms envelop him and hold him close, like he's something precious, and Jon takes a deep breath, relishing being surrounded by Martin (his softness, his scent, his heartbeat, the rise and fall of his chest, his warmth, his love) and the feeling of safety that brings. Jon thinks back to how many times over the years they had carefully danced around each other, going on lunch not-dates, quiet evenings of tea, emotionally laden looks and words, but, finally, here they were after years of folly, pain, and misfortune, together, navigating their relationship, no matter how unconventional it had progressed and came to be. "No, we don't."
Jon jerked awake, uncomfortably soaked with sweat and trembling fit to shake apart, each thought swirling into wisps of cloud between his fingers even as he tried in vain to catch them.
He couldn’t breathe.
Not with his chest so unbelievably tight, caught in a vise; there was no room. No room. There was no room.
He ached badly. The caress of the bed linens against his skin was like a brush fire and his head pounded in tandem with his pulse as it hammered loudly through his blood and Jon couldn’t hear anything but a high pitched ringing between his ears. Disoriented, the plaintive sob grated on his sore throat, swallowed up by the deep dark so black he couldn’t see, and sudden tears slipped down his face, over the bridge of his nose where he curled up against the pillow, so hot. So hot. Nerves set ablaze, the roadmap of his veins spreading the pain like an injection of battery acid.
A nightmare. That’s what this was. It had to be.
Please. Just a nightmare or else he was surely dying.
Please. It hurts.
It hurts.
And then there was nothing.
Somehow, Jon slept through his alarm for the first time in his working memory, waking groggy and aching, shaky legs barely able to hold his weight as he made his way slowly to the kitchen. He was late for work. He was never late for work.
Two firsts in one morning.
The texts were. Worried? Martin was worried. Wondering. Wondering where he was. If he was okay.
He was fine. Just. Tired. Headachy. A bit rundown, that’s all. He couldn’t recall with much clarity, but it felt like he hadn’t slept well.
When he looked down at his hands, he found himself gripping the sink for dear life. The only thing keeping him up. Ridiculous. Of course not. He was fine. Jon drank down a full glass of water and forced a piece of dry toast on himself before dragging what felt like someone else’s body to the train.
It was nearing noon when Jon was able to drop into his desk chair, covering his eyes when the lamp was enough to make them hurt and the footsteps hurrying their way towards him inspired a sinking dread in his stomach.
“Jon!”
“Keep it down, Martin.” Abandoning all pretense, Jon flicked the light back off, unwilling to worsen what was already an awful ache, an awful, unrelenting pressure in the back of his skull.
“Oh, s’sorry, of course.” A flash of guilt passed too quickly, as did the moment in time he would have taken to apologize for snapping if his thoughts weren’t processing so slowly. “I was worried. You look. Jon,” and there was no mistaking the worry there. “You don’t look well.” Just as Tim decided to pass by for a friendly jab.
“Long night at the bar, boss?” What was once an endearment now sounded like a curse and Jon repressed the physical wince though it was nothing he didn't deserve.
“Leave off, Tim.” Exasperated, Martin pushed him on his way and opened the door to his office a little wider, speaking softly for his benefit. Kind. Always so kind and Jon didn’t deserve an ounce of it, not after the wrongs he’d done. “You look like you could use a day at home.” The fragment of concerned warmth coming off of Martin was inebriating, like he’d been socked in the jaw with a sudden and excessive want.
Or, like he was seconds away from begging for any and all scraps of affection, of human connection. A touch, another kind word, heaven forbid a genuine smile. He was just so. So.
Lonely.
“Just a bit of a headache.” He swallowed with difficulty, a little nauseated, trying to put forth even a quarter of the effort Martin deserved. “Th’thank you, Martin.” He gave him a wan smile, an olive branch, maybe he could begin repairing what he’d so thoroughly broken, and was almost hysterically pleased when he received a grin in return.
“Alright. I’ll bring you some tea--”
“You don’t have--!” Jon scrambled for words, afraid he’d been found out and Martin felt some sort of obligation, or, or.
“And paracetamol.” He looked back before leaving. “Because I want to.”
The hot drink and medicine revitalized him just a bit, enough to complete a couple hours work before he began to flag. Seconds dawdled. Minutes crawled. The next hour overstayed an incredibly rude and malingering welcome and Jon’s cheek met the blotter long before he would be able to skive off in good conscience. He felt strange. Cold and clammy but uncomfortably warm. His head was pounding in earnest now, an aura taking up residence in the corner of each eye, tunneling his vision and dizzying him despite his not moving. Thankfully, he’d been left alone for the most part.
Luckily.
Because something was wrong.
Wrong.
He felt wrong.
Frustrated, because there was a better word for how unbalanced, off center? he was and he couldn’t think of it.
Time was an unexpectedly slippery thing and as each moment wheeled by Jon became more and more confused, more exhausted, to the point where gulping for air seemed useless because none of it seemed to reach where he desperately needed it to go. When he lifted his head, his vision went spotty, blacking out for a terrifying split second before he laid it back down, tears welling in his eyes.
Why was he like this? So irrational, emotional.
Overwrought. When he finally.
Finally realized what this was.
Finally realized what he'd allowed to happen.
He was sick.
He’d come to work sick, contagious. He wasn’t supposed to be around people when he was sick; it was irresponsible and selfish to put others at risk. How could. After everything he’d already done to them, and now. And now he’s done this.
He would keep them away. He could do that. He was really good at that. Even when he wasn’t capable of anything else.
Breathing harshly through his nose, he forced himself to his feet, catching himself on his desk, a filing cabinet, the wall, in order to make it to the door and depress the lock. He would keep Martin well. And Tim. And stay here until it was safe to go, to go home but the idea of sitting back in the chair was too much. He needed. Needed to lay down. Soon. Now. Just as his knees gave way at the back of his office, behind the desk, and Jon let himself sink to the floor, the inside of him trying its best to claw its way out, and curling into his guilt when the pain and heat and cold crested over him like a smothering wave and he whimpered, pressing his hot cheek against the cool linoleum and shivering.
He wanted to go home.
Crawl into bed and hide from everything.
Isolate himself like he was supposed to so he wouldn’t make anyone else sick. But he couldn’t keep lashes seemingly painted with lead apart. Could hardly remember why he should keep alone in the first place, what he was supposed to be doing. Let himself fade. Until all the misery fell away into the background and he let the rest go.
“Jon?” He jerked awake, biting down on the groan all the aches and pains returning with a sudden vengeance pulled from between his teeth. It took too long to remember where he was, only able to focus on the sticky sweat all over his skin, tacky where his face rested on the floor, his damp clothes and the chill buried in the center of him. “Jon?”
Martin.
“Y’yes?” He flopped to his back, the room split into a double image, and he closed his eyes against it, breath shallow. Panicking a little when he heard him check the handle.
“Are you alright?”
“Mm. Yes.” Forced himself to inject annoyance into his tone. Irritability. He was irritable and wanted Martin to leave him alone. Definitely didn't want any more tea or to see his face creased in something like concern or, or god forbid, he (please) touch him. Because if he came in here he would fall ill. “I’m doing.” Speaking was so hard, tongue clumsy in his mouth. “Important work.”
“With the door locked?”
“In an effort to limit disruption, Martin.” Breathe. Breathe. “If you would, please.”
“Yes, Jon.” Martin was upset with him. That was good. Good because he would stay on the other side of the door. He couldn’t get sick on the other side of the door and Jon let himself go at the sound of retreating footsteps. He’d gotten good at crying silently and did so now. His grandmother didn’t like being disturbed and he could hear her scolding voice explaining that young men weren’t supposed to cry. He doubted men his age were supposed to either. But he was scared. So scared. There were wicked things hiding in the corners, in the shadows, at the outermost edges of his unsteady vision. Flickering in the dark and he curled into himself, covering his head with his arms and pressing against the boxes containing the multitude statements that brought all these fears into being. But he would be safe here. With his eyes closed and hidden among his cardboard walls. Safe. If he was quiet. If he was quiet he would be safe and he clapped a hand over his mouth to stifle his silence.
He wanted Martin to come back. To beg him not to leave him all alone. To, to bring him tea. Would feel nice. Martin. Kind. Soft voice that didn’t hurt. Soft hands. Soft touch. Soft.
Jon burned.
Those shapes shifted, transformed into dangerous things. Mean things. Clinging in the corners of the room and coaxing fire from the very walls, unfurling wings of bone and ash and death.
It licked at his body, his skin, his clothes, and hurt, hurt, hurt.
He couldn't breathe.
Couldn't move.
Could only be consumed.
Eaten away to nothing by the creatures in the corners.
“Jon?” Martin was worried. He hadn’t seen Jon since he came in late (already cause for alarm), and his office was locked. “I’m sorry. I know you’re working, but can we talk?” He knocked again, listening hard, and was again met with only eerie quiet. No statements being read or tape recorders running. “Jon?” It was probably nothing. He’d stepped out. He’d gone home. He was ignoring him because Martin was a constant aggravation. But it didn’t seem right. Tim had a skeleton key from a while back. When things were simpler, and he found Tim in the breakroom, poking away at a game on his phone. “I need the key.”
“To what?”
“Jon’s office.”
“Ohh.” He raised an eyebrow, smirking in that knowing way of his and Martin felt himself go bright red.
“He’s not answering the door.”
“So?” He went back to his screen. “Why even bother, Martin? He’s probably just hiding from us because he thinks we’re after him or some other nonsense.”
“Please, Tim?” At least he turned back, knitting his brows at Martin’s persistence. “I think. I think something is really wrong.” With a put upon sigh, he pocketed his phone and gestured for Martin to lead the way.
It was calm and still and for a moment Martin thought Tim was right, that he’d gone home and just hadn’t been noticed.
“Jon?” It felt like he had to whisper, keep the dark undisturbed and was about ready to let it go when he heard something shift in the back of the room. He looked at Tim who just shrugged, leaving to go stand in the hall with his arms crossed. As his eyes adjusted to the dim, he caught sight of Jon’s jumper on the floor, it moved, there was a hiss of pain. “Jon?”
Dusty light from the hall filtered and fell across the figure curled up on the floor, skin ashen and pale despite his dark complexion, face dotted with sweat and dark swathes of charcoal drawn thick beneath half lidded eyes. Each breath was labored, too quick, too shallow, too uneven and Jon moaned, a pitiful, pained thing, struggling to put more room between them though he was already boxed into a corner.
“Jon,” Martin reached out, pulled back when he reacted in fear, glancing around at things only he could see.
“Nnnoo.” Voice thin and thready, barely audible as he panted, letting his temple fall back to the floor. “Mmartin. No…”
Jon, you’re not well.” He glanced back at Tim who at least looked somewhat worried now. “You need help.”
“No…” Fading in and out, chills made his thin frame shake, glassy eyes round and searching in the dark but not truly seeing him. “No. You.” He groaned, shaking his head back and forth. “Can’t. Can’t be here…”
“If this is some spooky shit, you should have told someone sooner.” Tim was angry and Jon winced when he spoke harshly, squeezing his eyes shut and ducking his chin.
“S’sick.”
“Yeah, I see that.”
"Tim, I think, I think he's just confused. He looks feverish."
“C’can’t.” Desperately, Jon was trying to make them understand something but he didn’t seem to have the wherewithal to elaborate, barely even conscious as it was and still distracted by whatever it was he saw in the dark. "M's'sorry. Sorry."
“I don’t understand.” Martin drew closer, pushing forward despite Jon’s frantic warnings. “It. It’s alright, I need to see.” To his horror, his breath hitched and tears rolled down his face. “Hush, it’s alright.”
“No, no. No.” He flinched, closed his eyes against Martin’s form inching closer to his tightly coiled body. “Can’t.” Wretched, small. Pleading and begging them to leave him here as if that were ever an option in any reality, let alone the one Jon was currently trapped in.
“S’alright, love.” He ignored Tim’s snort of derisive laughter.
“Not. It’s not.” Martin hushed him gently, pushing away the strands of sweat damp hair out of his face and keeping his expression and tone forcibly even despite the railroad spike of anxiety slamming straight into his stomach. Jon was burning up under his hand, hot as anything, and he stroked his head when he began to cry in earnest, speaking low.
“It’s alright, I promise, everything is alright. Let me help.” He glanced back at Tim and even through the intentional indifference could see worry in the way he bit his lip. “Can you get the paracetamol from my desk? Some water? Please.” Limp and exhausted, Jon struggled to focus, to move away, eyes fever glazed and vacant beneath damp lashes fluttering like a moth’s wing. “Shh, you’re alright.” Martin knuckled away the tears still tracing paths across Jon’s skin, shifting his shoulders despite delirious protests and rambling into his lap and folding his trembling, frozen hands into his own. “You’re alright.” He wished for a thermometer, Jon was like a brand even through both sets of clothing, but he was responsive if upset, and he’d give him another dose and see where they were in an hour or so.
“I’ll stick around for a while. Be in the office.”
“Thank you, Tim.” Martin knew a bit about what it took for him to make that decision and appreciated it, offering up a grateful smile before crushing up the pills in the bottom of Jon’s mug from earlier and filling it halfway with water. “Sit up for me, Jon. Just, there you are. Drink this down, good, good.” Praising and soft, getting as much water into him as he would take between his fits of pleading.
“Martin.” He sounded miserably undone, coughing weakly against the back of his hand.
“Still me.” Dark brown eyes, pupils blown wide in the low light, stared up at him though Martin couldn’t quite catch them. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“Martin.” He stroked light fingertips over his eyelids in response, continuing his murmuring and reassurances, at a loss in this situation where he found himself on the floor of his boss’ office with said boss half in his lap and now dead asleep. Martin let himself lean back against the shelves, listening to the slight wheeze on his breath and shoving the worry away. The medicine would work and then Martin would get him home and into bed.
“What…” Martin put down the supplementals he’d been leafing through to palm Jon’s forehead. Still high. But Jon seemed at least a bit more with it, voice stronger if still tired. “Martin?”
“How’re you feeling?”
“T’terrible?” He hadn’t seemed to realize where he was, still drifting in and out. “Gotta...go.” He sat up on his own, wavering, though Martin hovered, ready to catch him if he began to go down. “Can’t be here.” And he stood so quickly, Martin almost didn’t grab him in time when he started to collapse, blood draining from his already pallid face.
“Whoa! Okay, easy, easy, easy. Sit down.”
“S’sorry.” Bare more than an exhale, Martin was sure it was reflexive. Jon couldn’t possibly know what was going on. Not really, in the state he was in.
“I’m taking you home with me.”
“What?” Jon blinked, not really tracking or Martin was sure he’d argue harder.
“I’d hazard a guess you have few, if any supplies.” Getting him to the beat up car Martin still drove was fairly simple with Tim’s reluctant help, but even he couldn't hide his concern at the heat coming off him, going so far as to reach across and buckle him in when it became abundantly clear he didn’t have the coordination.
“Text me if you need anything.”
“Thanks, Tim.”
39.7.
Martin insisted he get a read on him first thing after he helped him stagger into the flat. Jon refused to think about how strong he was, how he probably could have carried him the whole way and blamed the fever for his inappropriate thoughts. It was bad enough Martin felt he had to supervise him.
If Jon wasn’t so very poorly, he was sure he’d be feeling much more embarrassed but as it stood, he was strung out and aching, so cold he couldn't stop shaking. Probably due for more medicine and speak of the devil, Martin handed him a cup of tea and some lemsip, setting a bottle of some sports drink he didn’t recognize on the table beside him and sitting across from him. Jon felt ridiculous dressed in Martin’s spare and well worn clothes, bundled up in a soft, plush blanket that made him feel better somehow though there was no reason for it to do so. Dutifully, he took his medicine and then hid behind the mug because he just knew Martin was going to ask and Jon had a feeling that he’d done something wrong.
“Why did you feel like you couldn’t tell us?” Martin probably thought it was because he felt better than them, better than the help they could provide. Or that he didn't trust them. He knew Tim felt that way. But really. Really. He didn’t deserve it. He’d treated them with suspicion instead of colleagues and friends and on top of that he was infectious, dirty, and needed to be isolated until he wouldn’t make people sick. They deserved at least that much from him and he couldn’t even accomplish that. So he tried again to explain.
“I’m. Sick.” Completely at a loss, and suddenly, Jon felt ashamed. It was becoming clear that his behavior had been abnormal and that at his most feverish he’d gone to harmful extremes. Martin probably thought he was a fool but he just waited patiently, adding quietly,
“I’m not angry or upset with you.”
Because he was such a good person.
“My grandmother.” Would be. Would be furious. Jon paused to turn his head away from Martin and cough harshly into his elbow. He was fumbling with words, worried that he would think. Well he wasn’t sure what he would think. “Wasn’t. I had to stay--couldn’t get anyone else sick.”
“Oh, Jon.”
“No! No, I. I thought. Thought that was what everyone did.” Martin sipped his own tea and Jon copied him. “I.” He withdrew into his borrowed blanket, weary and sick. “I’m sorry. I. Should have known better.” Martin looked upset. It wasn’t the right thing to say but he didn’t know what the right thing was and it hurt to think but thankfully he took pity on Jon’s poor aching self.
“You should get some sleep.” Jon felt small being tucked in but with being so tired it was a comfort when Martin let his hand linger on his forehead, lifted his glasses away to fold them aside and he relaxed.
“Thank you, Martin.”
Tim would laugh if he knew what Martin was thinking about. An even tinier Jon curled up in a dark room, sick and alone, and expected to stay away from everyone while he was ill. How lonely, how sad, to be isolated from any comfort when you were at your most vulnerable. No wonder Jon was so confused at the Institute today and Martin’s imagination had no trouble running wild with different worst case scenarios, so much so that he put aside the poetry he’d been attempting to work on in favor of turning in early.
Something snapped Martin awake and when he looked at his bedside clock the red numbers glared 329 and he almost turned back over to go back to sleep when he remembered who was sleeping on his couch and stepped out to check on him.
A whimper. In the pitch black of the room. He should have left a light on for him.
“H’hello?” He sounded frightened, shaky and his inquiry cracked around what sounded like tears.
“Jon?”
“Martin?” He sniffed suspiciously, voice thick and choked. “Wh’where are we?”
“You don’t remember?” He flicked the hall switch, letting enough light into the sitting room to see by and he met Jon’s wide, damp eyes, filled to the brim with fear, and he shook his head, bottom lip visibly trembling. “You’re at my flat, on the couch.”
“Wh’what?” Martin sat beside him where he was folded up onto one cushion, fever flush high in his face and a thin sheen of sweat glistening on his exposed skin. He should have known. Fevers were often worse at night.
“You’ve not been feeling well.”
“Feel.” His throat clicked with a heavy swallow, and when he closed his eyes, tears slipped down his hollow cheeks. “Feel. S’s’strange.” Martin helped him hold the bottle of sports drink, encouraging him to take at least a third and some more medicine, and when he couldn’t cajole anything else out of him, he let Jon’s forehead tipped against his chest, the heat billowing off him intense. Martin cupped the back of his head, let him cling, breath shuddering. “Thought. I thought I saw.” He broke off with a whine, burying his face in Martin and he stroked his back, counting his ribs without meaning too.
“That should help.” Jon breathed unevenly, coming down from his nightmare or panic, the whole of him shaking with chills. “You’ll feel better when your fever isn’t so high.”
“S’sorry.”
“So you keep saying.”
“You’ve d’done so much.” He nuzzled Martin’s tee, curling into him, and it was so Not Jon he thought he might combust because it was adorable, even if he was sick. “And I’ve. I’m.” Now wasn’t the time for such serious conversations. Not when Jon could barely string two words together and was still seeing things that frightened him in the shadows.
“It’s alright.” It wasn’t a hard decision to make. “Up you come, now.” And this time Martin did swing him up into his arms, tucking him close, the gasp of surprise just a puff of warm air against his throat. No wonder this illness was hitting him so hard, he weighed far too little and Martin knew he wasn’t sleeping well. Eating well. He clung to him, dizzied and reeling.
“Head hurts…ev’rythin’ hurts…”
“I know.” He tucked Jon into bed, brushing a stray strand of hair behind his ear before climbing in beside him.
“You’ll...get sick.”
“I’ll be fine.” When he tugged him close there was no resistance, all pretense and worry stripped away with exhaustion and fatigue, and Jon melted willingly into the comfort he offered, too feverish, too tired, too frightened.
“Mm.”
“Sleep, Jon. Tomorrow, everything will be better.”
