Work Text:
Martin’s lost in his work, gnawing absently on his lower lip. He’s spent the better half of an hour working through mental scenarios on how to approach a rather complicated statement follow-up, with each idea yielding the same, unfortunate result of a definite “no.”
He’s mentally working around the kinks, staring blankly at the biography, the adjectives and facts building within the introductory speech he’s writing word for word in his mind, when Tim slips in and slams a folder on his desk, startling him into a jump and a yelp.
“Tim, what-”
“Take this to Jon, will you?”
Though a question, Martin can hear the finality coating Tim’s tone, leaving little to no room for question or argument. He glances down at the file, flipping through the documents before bringing a puzzled look toward Tim.
“This is the research he asked you for. How come-”
“He’s in a mood,” Tim sighs, waving one hand about. “I don’t feel up to dealing with it today.” Tim starts toward the door, turning to offer Martin a quick “thanks” before disappearing around the corner.
Martin stares blankly at the empty doorway for a long moment, thoughts lost among erupting emotions: nerves, fear, a loud hint of excitement. But then he smooths his hand over the file, recalling the muted sense of urgency in Jon’s tone when he asked Tim for the research yesterday.
He grabs the folder, clutching it close to his chest for reasons he can’t quite pinpoint, and starts toward the archives, the walk long since easy muscle memory for him.
The door’s, unsurprisingly, closed when he reaches the archives, and he can hear Jon’s deep vibrato echoing from the gap at the bottom of the door. Martin reaches for the doorknob, hand freezing just before it, hovering in the air.
Though he would never admit it, Martin’s frequently been hesitating outside of the archives, taking just a few moments to just listen to Jon’s voice, to the way it takes to different timbres as he reads through statements, truly capturing the fear colored behind each word. It’s such a drastic contrast from Jon’s normal, dark, sharp tone, and Martin can’t help but take a few moments to get lost within himself when he listens to Jon read, even if it often results in Jon chastising him for his slow work ethic.
He’s quite aware at how creepy that makes him seem, but, today, he’s glad he’s taken to the rather odd habit, as he’s quick to pick up on the exhaustion laced in Jon’s tone. Frowning, Martin can almost pick apart each crack of Jon’s voice, and he rubs at his own neck with a frown when Jon stops more than once to clear his throat.
Jon sounds, Martin thinks, rough, the edge of his voice sounds frayed thin, tired, and he’s suddenly moving far too quick when he drops his hand to the doorknob and throws the door open.
He expects a yell, a curse even, as he’s heard so many times before, but Jon only briefly closes his eyes and sighs softly to himself. Martin takes that silent moment free of a verbal reprimand to study Jon’s drawn, sunken face with pink tinged cheeks and a red-rimmed nose. He moves his gaze further to Jon’s rumpled clothes that he knows, for a fact, Jon wore yesterday.
“Martin,” Jon draws out at the same time Martin sputters, “did you go home last night?”
“Excuse me?”
Jon’s eyes are open now, and behind the abundantly clear exhaustion, they are narrow, borderline dangerous, and Martin swallows thickly and absently clutches the folder tighter to his chest.
“I just mean,” Martin stammers, “your clothes. You wore those yesterday.” His voices trails off at the end, and he finds a stack of folders on the ground to train his eyes to, unwilling to meet Jon’s pointed gaze.
“Did you interrupt me to judge my attire, or did you-” Jon pauses to cough lightly into the back of his wrist, “-excuse me, or did you come to give me something?”
Martin drags his gaze up to see Jon gesturing toward the folder he’s got practically stapled to his chest, and he shakes his head quickly.
“No, sorry, of course,” he sputters around each letter as he hands Jon the file folder. “Tim asked me to bring this to you.”
“And he didn’t bring this himself because?”
“He’s busy,” Martin lies quickly, offering brief, made up details about research regarding a rather complex statement Jon read through yesterday.
“Right,” Jon mutters, already turning back to his tape recorder, eyes flicking briefly through the file, and Martin knows that’s his cue to leave, and he should leave because clearly Jon’s unwell, but it’s that notion alone that has Martin’s feet unable to move away from his spot.
He stares, instead, at Jon, at the barely visible tremor jerking over the curves of Jon’s shoulders, or the way Jon absently brings the sleeve of his sweater up to his nose, sniffling quietly. His heart lurches and twists, and he’s so lost in the mere thought that Jon is very much unwell that he doesn’t hear Jon call his name more than once.
“Martin, is that all?”
Shaking his head clear of loud thoughts, Martin cocks his head to the side slightly, brows furrowed. “Are you alright?” He knows the answer, and he also knows the predictable, clipped reply that’s to come, but he asks anyway because he’s worried.
“Of course I’m alright,” Jon snaps. “Close the door on your way out.”
Martin does so despite the pit pushing in his stomach, and he starts quickly to Tim, finding him half-reading through something on his computer while Sasha chats idly with him.
“Jon is sick.” He says, the words spilling quickly off his tongue.
“I know,” Tim answers, arching one brow that Martin shakes his head at.
“You said he was in a mood.”
“He is,” Tim responds easily, eyes falling back to the computer screen. “He’s always in a mood when he’s sick.”
“Shouldn’t we try to send him home?”
“Wouldn’t do any good,” Sasha says. “Jon will-
“-only leave in a casket,” Tim finishes for her, and Martin can only huff, frustrated, as he slips back to his small office.
He tries to get lost within his work, tries to chase the need to impress Jon, but worry is consuming him, twisting within the pit of his stomach, and he can’t keep his mind from drifting back to how poorly Jon looked. He wants badly to help, but he’s treading on thin ice as it is, and, as Tim said, Jon’s in quite the mood.
Still, Martin can’t shake the need to do something. He leaves to the break room to make tea, Jon’s favorite tea, but he only knows that by pure coincidence. At least, that’s what he always tells himself. He avoids Tim and Sasha as he makes his way back to the archives, waiting patiently outside the door until he hears the familiar “Recording End.”
He knocks this time, already wishing to make up for his abrupt entrance earlier, and he takes the distracted hum as an all clear to enter, pushing the door open slowly, frowning as he listens to the rather rough bout of coughing Jon’s struggling through.
“Martin, how many times do you plan on interrupting me today?” Jon chokes out around a few ragged breaths, and Martin holds up the mug as a silent peace offering.
“I made tea and accidentally grabbed the wrong tea bag,” he lies, setting the mug down on Jon’s desk. “Figured you might want it.”
Jon only mutters a distracted “thanks” as he brings his attention to his next statement, but Martin doesn’t miss the way Jon’s hand smooths around the mug as if seeking warmth.
Martin slips silently from the room, leaving his back pressed against the door as he listens to Jon roughly clear his throat before beginning his next recording. His head thumps softly against the door, eyes tipped up to the dusty ceiling light above him. He listens to the pained voice on the other side of the door, and though he knows he’s bound to bear witness to Jon’s wrath, he makes a silent vow to check on Jon once more before he leaves.
Somehow, he manages to get work done, albeit very little work. It takes him twice as long to conduct his follow-up research, stopping twice when he spots Jon shuffle by, once headed to the break room with a familiar, empty mug. Martin couldn’t help but smile at that, though, he wished it were under better circumstances.
Once it’s time to leave for the day, he practically leaps from his desk chair, only just remembering to lock his computer as he gathers his coat and heads toward the archives. He pauses before the door, only knocking when he’s sure by the silence on the other end that Jon’s not recording.
He gives a courtesy knock, and the weak, muffled “come in” that comes after has Martin all but ripping the door open out of concern alone.
Jon’s got his head resting atop his folded arms, his glasses resting on the table beside him. Martin can see him shaking, and when Jon finally lifts his head, as if the small movement is one of the hardest things he’s done, Martin can’t help but suck in a sharp breath. He’s got an entire speech about self-care curling to the tip of his tongue, mind only halting when Jon holds up a single hand.
“Don’t,” Jon mutters, and Martin frowns, sympathy coloring his eyes.
He opts for a softer approach. “I know I asked earlier, but are you alright, Jon? You really don’t look well.”
Jon tilts back in his chair and presses the back of his hand to his cheek. Martin can only imagine the fever heat, and he has to bite back the urge to feel for himself.
“I...” Jon sighs around a few coughs. “I will be,” he opts for, and if Martin wasn’t so worried for Jon, he would fall flat on his ass at the sheer transparency of Jon’s tone, at the admittance, the lack of heated argument.
“Elias has already graced me with quite the lecture,” he adds, voice thick with congestion, sounding impossibly deep, something Martin takes quick note of. “I’m to leave on time and rest until I’m well enough to return.”
“That’s probably for the best,” Martin mutters quietly, feeling almost relieved at the sharp glare shot toward him.
The two fall into an awkward silence, one Martin usually flees from for his own heart’s sake, but he can’t, once again, quite get his muscles to move. He clears his throat, stumbles over a few words. “I should... I’ll be going now. Please let me know if you need anything.” He didn’t plan on adding that last bit, it just slipped off his tongue, almost naturally, and he swallows harshly, biting back his nerves as Jon bids him a quaint “bye” as if he hadn’t heard anything Martin said.
Martin forces himself to turn and leave, pausing for a moment, eyes casting down to his coat folded in his arms. He turns back quietly, ignoring the studying gaze locked to his every move as drapes his coat over the back of the chair before wordlessly leaving the archives and starting the trek home, feeling cold in the chilly wind, but cold without regret.
He’s surprised when he wakes the next morning to an email on his phone from Elias stating that Jon will be out sick for the next few days and no one is to bother him for any reason. Yet, he’s even more surprised when he arrives to work an hour later to see that Jon is, in fact, not in, being as he’s notable for bypassing Elias’s orders on more than one occasion.
He greets Tim and Sasha as he starts toward his office, brows furrowing as both point out the absence of his coat with questionable smiles. Shaking his head, he ignores them, only shrugging at them as he enters his office, dropping his bag to the floor and sinking in his chair. He goes to shake his computer mouse, hand freezing as his eyes catch sight of a sticky note stuck to his monitor.
“Thank you for the coat. It’s... very warm. I will have it dry cleaned before I return it-- Jon.”
Martin’s cheeks flush a faint pink as his eyes follow the curve of each letter, and he smooths his hand over the sticky note before plucking it off his monitor and slipping it into a desk drawer, happy that, though not a lot, he was able to help Jon in some way.