Work Text:
The first time was an accident.
It’s nearly midnight when Jon creeps silently into old document storage, hoping to track down a statement that supposedly references an unusual incident involving blood flukes. It’s not quite the same thing as Prentiss’s tissue-dwelling worms, but it might be similar enough to provide some sort of clue as to just what they’re facing. (Jon almost hopes this lead turns out to be a dud. Being stalked by carnivorous worms that are large enough to see is bad enough; the idea of microscopic parasites entering his bloodstream without his knowledge doesn’t bear thinking about.)
He normally tries to avoid this room when Martin is sleeping, but Jon has never been good at stopping a line of inquiry when he’s on a roll. He’s buzzing with caffeine and sharp, manic focus, and he’ll be tearing his hair out in frustration all night if he breaks his train of thought now. Besides, Martin went to bed hours ago. He should hopefully be sleeping deeply enough by now that Jon won’t disturb him
He’ll be in and out in a moment. No harm done.
In contrast to the dry chill of the rest of the archives, document storage is cozily warm, almost stifling. The small space heater Jon had recently purchased whirrs quietly away in the corner, the light of the ‘on’ button casting a faint orange glow on the reflective metal of the rows of filing cabinets.
It’s not the best thing for the documents, honestly, but, Jon had rationalized, everything here has already languished for decades with no particular care shown for its wellbeing. Anything too delicate to survive an extended period of neglect has likely already crumbled, and anything else can stand a few weeks of warmer-than-optimal temperatures if it keeps Martin from shivering so miserably in the mornings.
It may be a bit too warm for comfort, in fact - for the first time in Jon’s knowledge, instead of bundling himself up in a cocoon, Martin has sprawled on his back on the cot with his blankets arranged around him like a nest, drool pooling in one corner of his wide-open mouth. He’s wearing a pair of baggy flannel boxer shorts, and, ah, nothing else.
Something in Jon’s brain skips like a broken record.
That. That sure is a bare chest, isn’t it.
The sight isn’t exactly a shock - Jon isn’t that oblivious, and Martin is hardly closeted - but, as it turns out, understanding the presence of breasts in the abstract and seeing breasts in person are two very different experiences. Everything is just- it’s very- it’s out there, looking round, and soft, and drooping slightly under their own weight to hang in opposite directions across his chest. There’s a trail of curls running down the midline of his torso, with a lighter fuzz of chest hair spreading outward. His areolas are large and very pink. His nipples are soft in the warmth of the room.
There are freckles.
Jon doesn’t know how long he stands there, gaping like a landed fish, before he finally snaps himself out of his train of thought with a jolt of alarm. As soon as he realizes just what direction that train of thought was travelling in, Jon slams on the brakes as hard as he can.
That’s just- no. Those are completely unacceptable thoughts to have about a coworker, let alone a subordinate. Martin has been forced by circumstance to sleep here, with little comfort and less privacy. The man can sleep shirtless if he wants to. Jon sleeps shirtless! Jon has no right to any opinions whatsoever on his- his- his sleeping habits.
Having entirely forgotten what he came here for, Jon promptly turns on his heel and walks out.
-
Days turn into weeks. Worms keep showing up. Jon comes in to work earlier and earlier, and stays later and later.
Martin, for no reason Jon can understand, continues to live in the archives, instead of doing the sensible thing and quitting. Jon is in no position to cast stones on this subject, so he lets the matter lie.
One morning, as Jon is passing by the open door of the archive’s restroom, he glances over at the now-familiar sight of a bleary-eyed Martin brushing his teeth in front of the small, chipped sink. He's wearing a thin, worn t-shirt, logo so faded and peeled as to be unrecognizable. The shirt isn't even tight, but the soft cotton drapes in such a way that Jon catches sight of- of something, reflected in the bathroom mirror.
More specifically, Jon catches sight of nipples standing perky in the chilly basement air, and experiences a minor cardiac event.
After beating a hasty retreat to his office, Jon pauses and takes a deep breath, pinching the bridge of his nose like he’s trying to ward off a headache. He can’t go on thinking like this. He just can’t. It isn’t fair to Martin, and it’s not doing Jon’s blood pressure any favors, either. No one expects Jon or Tim to wear a bra at all hours of the day; there’s absolutely no reason why Martin should be expected to do so either, especially not for the sake of humoring Jon’s latest neurosis.
And a neurosis is exactly what it is. There’s no other explanation for it. Jon is just...stressed, and that stress has apparently decided to manifest in the form of Jon having some sort of irrational mental crisis in response to perfectly normal human anatomy. Jon will get past it.
It’s just tissue, he reminds himself. Just skin and fat, no more inherently interesting than any other body part. Jon is the one with the problem here. Jon is not going to make his problem Martin’s problem.
The palpitations eventually subside, and Jon spends another five minutes scolding himself viciously for good measure before he feels he's recovered his composure enough to begin his workday.
Even so, Jon can’t quite bring himself to look Martin in the eye for the rest of the day. His discomfiture is apparently so noticeable that Martin eventually outright asks him if anything is wrong. Jon panics, overcorrects, and snaps so sharply at Martin to go look for the missing pages from statement #0070208 that Martin all but flees from his office.
As soon as the door clicks shut behind him, Jon buries his face in his hands, ears burning.
-
Martin’s- his- his personal assets aren’t even particularly visible, normally. They're not exactly small, but Martin is a big man with a fondness for thick, cozy clothing, and his chest normally just sort of blends into his general everything.
But now that Jon knows for a fact that they're there, he...notices. And he notices himself noticing. And he notices how often he's been noticing himself noticing, and then he's driven to such distraction by the resulting fractal of self-recrimination that he ends up spending increasingly long periods of time just staring into space, eyes glazed like a shell-shocked soldier. He's pretty sure all three of his assistants think he's cracking up. He might actually be cracking up.
The thing is, the thoughts aren't even exactly lewd. It's more like...the way he would see a cashmere scarf on a rack at a store, and he would reach out automatically to touch it, because some part of his hindbrain knew the texture would feel soft and nice in his hand.
The only difference is, he doesn't usually have these kinds of intrusive thoughts several times a day, and they've never been exclusively directed at a feature of his co-worker's anatomy.
Hell, Jon doesn't normally have these kinds of thoughts at all! He's never been one to be distracted by a low-cut neckline. He’s never leered down a waitress's shirt, or spent an entire conversation with his eyes glued to a stranger’s cleavage, or- any of that sort of thing. He's not that kind of man. He sneers at that kind of man.
Besides, for all he knows, Martin's chest could be a source of immense distress to him. The idea of panting away at it without Martin’s knowledge feels...invasive. Hurtful. Like some kind of horrible, cartoonish stereotype of a lecherous boss. The kind of boss they make HR training videos about.
God, Jon needs to stop.
-
"A ghost! Really?"
"Shut up, Martin."
Jon slumps back against the wall, wincing as the motion jostles his worm wounds. He feels as though he's quite thoroughly met his quota for emotional vulnerability, thank you, and could happily go another year or two without expressing any of his personal thoughts or feelings aloud to another person.
Conversely, the near-death experience seems to have opened some sort of floodgate for Martin, because he continues, in an almost conversational tone: "So, as long as we're probably going to die anyway, why don't you tell me what the hell your deal is with my chest?"
Martin’s words hit Jon like a gut punch. He jolts, reflexively spluttering denials, but Martin just keeps talking right over him, like some kind of manic, adrenaline-drunk steamroller.
"Because, I mean, you're not subtle, like, at all-"
"Martin, this isn't-"
"-and you may be a bastard, but I'm pretty sure you're not a transphobe-"
"-this is extremely inappropriate-"
"-you've never been anything but a perfect gentleman to Sasha, as far as I've seen-"
Jon stammers, trying to figure out which part of that he ought to object to first. Martin must detect something in the guilty, hunted look in Jon’s eyes, because Jon can almost see when the lightbulb goes off over his head. Martin's jaw drops, along with Jon's stomach.
"Oh my god. You like them!" Martin exclaims in the most gleefully accusatory tone Jon has ever heard. There is no way to salvage this situation. Jon has dug his own grave.
Martin apparently takes his silence for acquiescence, because he starts to cackle. "Jon, you dog! Do you want to touch them? Is that what your problem is?"
Jon chokes silently for a moment, trying to summon up a response, any sort of response at all. A convincing denial, a clever evasion- hell, even a graceful concession would be preferable to- to whatever this is. It's no use. After a moment of useless gaping, Jon gives up, succumbs to despair, and hangs his head like a nobleman facing the guillotine.
"Christ, Jon, calm down, it's not a crime-"
Jon’s dignity, twitching in its death throes, rouses just enough to spur Jon to make an attempt at a rebuttal. "I can't believe this. You can't- I- I spend months feeling like a- a sexual harassment lawsuit waiting to happen, and now you just- blurt it out like it doesn’t matter at all!"
Martin's face lights up in a way that makes Jon want to run for cover. "You wanted to sexually harass me?!"
Jon backpedals. He has completely lost his grip on this conversation. "No! Maybe? I would never- I’m not- it just- it seemed disrespectful, under the circumstances-"
Martin is pressing his hand over his mouth, smiling with his eyes. He looks like Jon just handed him the world on a platter. "I can't believe I was ever intimidated by you. You are ridiculous."
Jon does his best to accept the diagnosis calmly, reasoning that Martin laughing at his foolishness must be better than Martin feeling- uncomfortable, or unsafe, or any of the other myriad awful things Jon had feared. To Jon’s consternation, the graveness of his expression only serves to spur Martin to further giggles. Braving Jon’s glare, Martin reaches over and gives Jon’s shoulder a tentative pat. "Poor Jon. First man in history to want to touch a boob. Must be hard for you."
Jon buries his face in his hands. "I hate you. You're a horrible man. Never speak to me again."
"Right, right." There's a brief silence. Then, sounding like he hardly believes his own daring, Martin continues: "But, just so we're clear, I'm extending you a standing invitation to respectfully harass my boobs whenever you want."
Jon raises his head to stare at Martin. He has no idea what his face is doing right now, but whatever it is, it sends Martin right back into hysterics, red-faced with some combination of laughter and giddy embarrassment. It's sort of comforting to know that Jon is not, in fact, the only one out of his depth here.
"You're going to put me in the hospital if you keep on like this," Jon finally manages to croak out, after a long hesitation. There's an involuntary smile starting to tug at his lips. His pulse is fluttering wildly.
"Um, thanks? I think this is the first time anyone's ever implied my tits might give them a heart attack."
"Wouldn't be the first time," Jon grumbles. Throwing caution to the wind, he continues, "I, uh, got a bit of an eyeful once, in document storage. Entirely by accident, mind you. You were sleeping on your back, with the blanket off, and I just about-"
Jon mimes clutching at his chest as though he’s about to keel over, wondering just what the hell he's doing, this is ridiculous, this whole situation is ridiculous- but then Martin laughs again, and it suddenly seems worth it.
"God. I bet that was a look."
"It was," says Jon, with an entirely different inflection. This time Martin is the one who has to duck his head. Jon feels absurdly as though he's scored some kind of point.
“Okay, you know what. Here.” Martin nods as though he’s come to some sort of decision, and then, before Jon can quite register what’s happening, Martin is shucking off his jumper and bra in one quick, wriggling motion. The elastic of the bra catches on his breasts as it goes, and they fall out with a cheerful little bounce that almost makes Jon reconsider whether he was joking about that heart attack.
Apart from that first, life-changing encounter, this is the most exposure Jon has ever had to Martin’s bare chest. It’s. It’s a lot. There are definitely a lot of feelings happening right now.
“Uh. I. Oh, good lord. Are you sure?” Jon hears himself say. He’s aware that he has just addressed this question primarily to Martin’s nipples, but he can’t seem to make himself look away.
“No, Jon, I’m having you on. This is all an elaborate prank," says Martin, his flat tone belied by his luminous blush. (He blushes all the way down, Jon can't help but notice, cheeks to neck to chest, rosy nearly all the way to his-)
Jon takes a deep breath, every instinct balking at the idea of approaching this so impulsively. They should- there should be discussion, expectations and boundaries laid down, because everything has to be so goddamn complicated with him he might as well just draft up a waiver for potential sexual partners to sign-
And then, abruptly, he decides: fuck it. Fuck everything. He's in pain and loopy with blood loss and he is going to grope Martin's breasts and damn the consequences, because his life is hell and he deserves to experience one nice thing before he dies.
After a moment of self-consciously trying to warm his hands against his neck, Jon scoots a bit closer to Martin. He glances nervously up at Martin’s face. Martin gives him a ‘well, what are you waiting for’ sort of look, and Jon reaches out, willing his hands not to shake.
His first attempt is tentative and almost clinical, like a medical examination, and he immediately feels silly for it. Christ, Sims, it’s not been that long since you last handled a set of these. Get it together.
With that self-directed pep talk firmly in mind, he cups his hands more confidently under Martin’s breasts, sweeping his thumbs across soft skin in a proper caress. Martin makes an appreciative sound, and the part of Jon that never stopped being an insufferable overachieving student preens at the idea that he's going to get a good grade in Feeling Up Martin, which is both possible to achieve and a normal thing to want.
He squeezes gently, feeling the weight of them, the way they fit perfectly in his hands. He’s enchanted. They are so, so much better than a cashmere scarf.
"Are they everything you hoped they would be, then?" says Martin, with a bit of a quaver in his voice.
"Yes, Martin, you have incredibly nice breasts," Jon replies evenly, not quite managing to sound sarcastic. It's probably for the best; grateful sincerity is probably the more appropriate tone to take when your coworker generously offers to let you fondle his chest, no matter how much it makes Jon squirm. "Easily some of the best I've ever experienced. Would you like me to espouse their virtues in detail?"
Martin, fortunately, decides to find this funny. "Well, it wouldn't hurt?"
Jon decides to opt for a practical demonstration. Riding the surreal high that comes with simultaneously manifesting dozens of daydreams into reality, Jon leans down and slowly nuzzles his face into Martin’s breasts. It easily ranks as one of the most luxurious sensory experiences of Jon’s life, warm skin and soft chest fuzz snuggling wonderfully against his cheeks, his nose, his lips. They really are lovely, lovely, breasts. The way Martin jumps and squeaks is also lovely.
"Jon, your stubble-! You could've warned me!"
"Well, you were the one who wanted to go all carpe diem-"
"I can't believe you're speaking Latin while you've got your face in my tits." That seems to set something off for Martin, because he starts giggling uncontrollably again. Jon looks up at him the most long-suffering manner he can muster.
"Sorry, just- what's the Latin for 'seize the titty'?"
Jon sighs, his cheek still pillowed cozily against Martin’s left breast. Then, because the know-it-all part of Jon’s brain has always taken precedence over his common sense, he replies, in a defeated tone, "I think it's 'carpe mammae', but I'd have to look it up to be sure."
"Oh, what, they didn't cover that one in schoo- ohh, ah, oh, Jon-!"
Jon is pleased to discover that sucking one of Martin’s nipples into his mouth is an extremely effective method of shutting Martin up. If they manage to survive today, he vows to make regular use of this knowledge. They're very, very good nipples, objectively speaking. Plump and perky and perfectly mouth-sized. He rolls his tongue against it to feel it harden up further, savoring the delicate pebbly texture, and presses his face closer, his nose buried in decadent softness.
Can’t let the other one feel lonely, Jon’s brain hazily reminds him. His hand busies itself with Martin’s other nipple, gently pinching and pulling, rolling it between his thumb and forefingers. When Jon tests his teeth against the nipple in his mouth, Martin makes an interesting noise. Even more interestingly, he draws up his legs, squeezes his thighs together, and wiggles.
"You're - ah - you're really just going for it, aren't you?"
In lieu of a reply, Jon withdraws just long enough to squeeze Martin’s breasts together, then proceeds to happily bury his face in soft, warm, Martin-scented heaven. He takes a deep breath and sighs in blissful satisfaction.
He's not sure why he raised such a fuss, earlier. He's having a fantastic time. Feels a bit like he might faint, actually, but otherwise, just fantastic.
Martin's hand comes up to rest in Jon’s hair, cupping the back of his head and stroking down to ruffle the nape of his neck. This makes something fluttery happen in the vicinity of Jon’s chest that he's not sure he wants to examine too closely. Jon chooses to believe the giddy, floaty feeling he's experiencing is a lingering after-effect of adrenaline.
Since today seems to be a day for fulfilling every single one of Jon’s fantasies in rapid succession, Jon nuzzles his way back out of cleavage nirvana and applies himself to the extremely important task of kissing every freckle he can find. That, of all things, is what finally gets an honest-to-god moan out of Martin. Jon feels like a king.
He's also apparently losing his goddamn mind, because now he's thinking about what else Martin has that must be pink and perky and nice to suck. He's about one second away from asking Martin if he'd like to pull down his pants when a muffled crash rings out from behind the wall, thoroughly killing the mood. Jon and Martin cling to each other in wordless terror as dust and bits of plasterboard begin to rain down.
This is how Jon is going to die. Bloody, worm-eaten, and huddled against Martin’s fantastic bosom.
Well. At least he’s in good company.
And then-
“Hi guys!”
“Tim?!”
Tim - dusty and disheveled, but apparently unharmed - opens his mouth to reply, and then freezes as he registers the scene before him.
Jon witnesses what he can only describe as a twenty car pileup of jokes, quips, and clever remarks in Tim's mind, none of which survive the wreckage to make their way out of his mouth. In the end, Tim settles for pointing at them and uttering a wordless holler of vindication. Jon’s life is in shambles.
"Yes, Tim, thank you for that," says Jon, with all the dignity he can muster. It’s not a lot. He snatches Martin’s jumper off the floor and shoves it into Martin’s chest, feeling strangely protective, and clears his throat awkwardly.
“You’re not bitten, are you?”