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As he leaves Elias’ office, Jon’s feet automatically take him down the stairs leading to the archives.
It is a habit that his long absence hasn’t managed to break but he stops himself from walking straight into his own office.
To do so, he would have to pass the open space where the assistants work and he can't face them all just yet. Call him a coward but he just isn’t quite ready to see the state that Elias’ little revelations have left the others in.
He retreats to the breakroom instead, keeping the lights off and taking a few steadying breaths in the cool darkness.
As soon as he stops moving, the injuries he has been ignoring loudly make themselves known.
The constant ache of his burned hand provides a low steady hum of contrast to the staccato pulse of his throbbing throat.
He needs to clean them both up in order to avoid infection, and, if he doesn’t want some concerned passer-by to call an ambulance on him when he leaves, he will have to bandage his neck as well.
He walks to the nearest press and begins rooting around for the first aid kit. It doesn’t seem to be where he last saw it months ago and a stumbling search in the dim light reveals nothing to him.
Jon is about to give up and just try to give himself a bit of a rinse in the sink when the door suddenly creaks open, and the lights click on behind him.
He whirls around with his heart in his bloody throat expecting something to pounce on him. Perhaps it is Tim come to take his weary anger out on him? Or Daisy aiming to finish what she started? Or maybe Elias with some other unsolvable puzzle to dump into his lap?
The fright only lasts an instant however, when he sees who is standing in the doorway looking even more surprised than he feels.
“Martin,” Jon sighs with relief.
Martin’s mouth opens and closes a few times before he manages to find his voice.
“Uh, h-hi?”
“…Hi. Did you- Ah. W-Was the first aid kit moved?” Jon points to the mess he has made of the open presses.
Martin stares at him a moment longer before he remembers himself and jumps in place before rushing forward.
“Oh! Uh, y-yeah, sorry!”
He crouches down to pull the kit out from under the sink where it is buried behind washing-up liquid and bin bags. When Jon raises a questioning eyebrow at him, he shrugs meekly.
“Melanie moved it,” He says, “Said we all had to be able to reach it in an emergency.”
“Right.”
He takes the box from Martin with just one hand, keeping the bandaged one away from his body at an angle so it won’t bump into anything.
It is a heavy, clunky thing and hoisting it onto the counter makes his joints wail. Ignoring the pain, he flips the latch and starts rummaging through it. A thin roll of bandages, antiseptic cream, and gauze are placed in a pile on the counter as he mentally goes through the half-remembered steps of cleaning an open wound.
Jon starts to unravel the old bandage on his hand, and the side of his face burns with awareness. He looks over to find Martin staring at him again.
His gaze lingers on his hand, taking in the dirty dressing and his cracked nails. The entire hand is still caked in grave dirt. Jon does his best not to squirm under the scrutiny.
When Martin’s eyes dart to the mound of medical supplies Jon is compiling, he also realises he is taking up most of the counter space.
“Am I… in your way?” He asks, about to sweep it all to the side.
Martin starts, as if he just remembered where he was and stammers as he turns away from him
“N-No! Sorry, sorry!”
He fusses with the kettle, taking out mugs as it boils, and does not face Jon again.
Jon is glad for the privacy. He doesn’t want to look at his own hand any longer than he has to, no-one else needs to see it either.
As he peels the rest of the wrappings off, they catch on his ruined skin and he can’t quite hold back a pained hiss. The burn is still dreadful to see, blistered like bubbling wax and so red it’s almost black. It weeps a clear discharge, making the whole thing reek a fluid, animal smell.
He rinses it off in the sink, pats it awkwardly dry, smears the whole thing in antiseptic cream and clumsily wraps it up again. It’s a messy, slow process and he barely remembers to clean his other hand at the same time.
Martin stays stock still as he works, standing guard over two brewing mugs and Jon can practically see the questions he wants to ask in the stiff line of his shoulders.
Jon feels both grateful and guilty that Martin holds his tongue. He knows he owes him answers but his mouth is so tired of talking.
Tentatively, he starts prodding at the cut on his neck to gauge how bad it is. It is long but shallow, already clotting. He can feel the skin around it is tender with a blossoming bruise. Daisy wanted it to hurt.
Jon pries his mind away from that thought. If he thinks about how close he came to dying today, he won’t be able to keep himself standing, nevermind clean up.
He just needs to get through the next few steps, and then he can go back to Georgie’s, lay down somewhere quiet and try not to have a complete breakdown. Laying out gauze and dressing, he wets a clean tea towel. He is halfway to raising it to his neck before he realises his mistake.
“Damn.”
“…Jon?”
Martin is peering over his shoulder at him, concern drawn in deep lines around his face.
Jon blinks back at him. He had almost forgotten he was there.
“I… uh,” He waves the tea towel, “I need two hands, should have done this first.”
He is going to ruin the clean wrappings on his hand. He will either have to do them again or wait to get back to the house and hope Georgie won’t be too pissed off to help him. Clucking his tongue, he weighs up his options.
“Um… Do you…” Martin’s soft voice cuts across his thoughts, “I mean, I can… i-if you want?”
“What?” Jon turns and sees him holding out a hand for the tea towel, “Oh.”
“O-O-Only if you, y’know, you’re comfortable with…”
Jon stares at him for a moment too long and regrets flickers across Martin’s face. He starts to draw his hand back.
“Uh, yes, no, I mean, I-I appreciate…” Jon stammers, “You don’t have to. I-I don’t want to interrupt… what you’re doing…”
The sheepishness fades from Martin as he chuckles slightly.
“I just came in to get a bit of a break from everyone else, really,” He immediately winces, “God, that sounds bad, I- uh-”
“No… no, I understand.”
Martin smiles slightly and Jon’s feels his lips twitch upward in response.
“So, uh,” Martin holds his hand out again and Jon passes him the towel, “Might be easier to sit.”
“Right.”
Jon brings the gauze and dressing to the rickety coffee table while Martin wrings out the towel in the sink. They sit facing each other, and Martin scoots close enough that their knees brush.
“Can you lift your chin?” He asks, “And please tell me if I hurt you?”
Jon raises his head and stares into the yellowing florescent light embedded in the ceiling as Martin starts delicately dabbing at the cut.
It stings, of course. He can feel the edges of the wound prickle with pain as the meagre scabbing that covered them is wiped away. He hopes he isn’t letting it show on his face.
It is more then a little uncomfortable, letting someone else touch his neck. Especially someone he hasn’t seen for over two months. He peers at Martin out of the corner of his eye.
He looks exhausted. There are heavy bags under his eyes and the light from above washes him out terribly, making him seem even paler than usual. His hair has grown a bit, more from neglect than choice, Jon guesses. His fringe droops over the frame of his glasses.
Guilt bites at the back of Jon’s mind. Without him here, he is almost certain Martin has been doing the lion’s share of the work in the archives. Melanie is only new to the position and Tim… Jon is doubtful Tim has been working at all.
Martin mumbles a pre-emptive apology as he moves the towel slowly over the cut. His touch is soft but steady, gentle in a way that is completely alien to Jon.
Martin’s gaze is focused on Jon’s neck, intent on washing away every speck of pain scrawled onto it. Instead of the sting of the wound, Jon feels something in his chest ache.
He can’t remember the last time anyone was this careful with him. That thought, more than the pinch of physical pain, makes his eyes water.
He blinks rapidly and rattles his brain for anything that will keep his thoughts off of how tender Martin’s touch is.
His mouth runs ahead of his mind and he tries not to swallow too hard as he speaks.
“Martin… ah…”
“Sorry, am I pressing too hard?” The pressure on his throat eases slightly and Jon wills himself not to chase after it.
“No, no, I just, ah, I wanted to-” Jon bites his tongue in his haste to speak, “H-H-Have you been getting on alright?”
The pressure disappears entirely as Martin reels back to gawk at him, his mouth hanging open in shock. Jon might be offended at his surprise if he wasn’t too busy kicking himself.
He keeps babbling before Martin even has a chance to respond.
“God, that’s stupid- stupid question, of course you’re not-!” He sighs, “Just- Ignore me. Apologies.”
He looks back up to the breakroom lights, his face burning hot.
Martin chuckles.
Jon dares to glance at him.
The surprise has faded into something softer, a not-quite-there smile lingering on his lips.
“Yeah…” He agrees quietly, “That… is pretty stupid.”
“Well-! Pardon me for asking,” Jon snaps.
Martin’s smile grows.
“I’ve… I’ve got a pretty stupid answer for it though?”
“Uh,” Jon blinks in surprise and leans forward in his seat, “Yes?”
“Despite um, well, all of it…” Martin swings a hand around the room, “It’s… It’s really good to see you, Jon.”
He stares.
It’s Martin’s turn to try and hide from the scrutiny. Jon watches with fascination as he starts to turn a blotchy red.
He doesn’t understand. The last time they spoke, Jon gave him nothing but a weak apology after suspecting him of murder and invading his privacy for months. Martin should be angry.
Less than half an hour ago, he was told that a co-worker had been murdered and that he was trapped in some eldritch scheme. Martin should be afraid.
Jon doesn’t want either of those things for him, but they would at least be understandable
Instead, Martin sits in front of him with a shy smile and soft hands, helping him, missing him. Jon can’t possibly understand that.
He opens his mouth without any clue as to what to say.
“That… doesn’t actually answer my question?” He says weakly.
Martin laughs. Not a chuckle or a giggle but a full-throated belly laugh. It is a sound Jon has never heard from him before. His face feels even warmer.
As soon as he calms down, Martin shakes his head before delicately placing his fingertips on Jon’s chin and tilting his head upward.
“I guess not.”
He finishes cleaning and dressing the wound in silence. When he presses the dressing against the cut to make sure its smooth, Jon can’t help but shudder.
A frown crosses Martin’s brow.
“Don’t suppose I can convince you to see a doctor about this?”
“You suppose correct,” Jon sighs.
Martin clucks his tongue but doesn’t push him any further.
Jon is overcome with the sudden desire to sit in this chair for the remainder of the afternoon, resting in Martin’s half-joking disapproval with their knees just about touching.
He is also keenly aware that that desire isn’t something he can afford to indulge in.
With a weary groan, he hauls himself upright.
“I… appreciate the help.”
Grabbing the now-stained tea towel, he turns away to toss it in the sink.
“O-Oh, uh, sure, anytime,” Martin says automatically, “Well, n-no, not anytime- I didn’t mean- I don’t want you to get hurt again or a-anything!”
“It’s fine, Martin, I know what you meant.”
He puts the first aid kit back under the sink and pats his pockets to make sure he has all the things he came in with. It’s not much.
“Right, I won’t be back today, but I’ll be in the office tomorrow.”
“You’d better not be!” Martin exclaims, suddenly loud.
Jon blinks at him.
“I beg your pardon?”
“You’re hurt! You need rest!” Martin squeaks indignantly, “Proper rest, Jon not just a half-day off!”
“I- Wh- You can’t stop me coming to work!”
“I bloody well can!”
Jon boggles as a memory suddenly strikes him full-force. He had tried coming back to the archives early after Prentiss’ attack as well, hadn’t he? Martin had practically carried out of the building. At the time, it was just another reason for Jon to be suspicious of him. Now, he can see it for what it was.
Martin cared.
He still cares, whether that care takes the form of washing his wounds or scolding him for his poor work-life balance. It’s not a feeling Jon is familiar with.
Martin still sits at the coffee table, arms crossed over his chest, colour high in his cheeks. With a wistful smile, Jon decides to let him have his way. It’s paltry thanks for his ministrations, but it is all Jon has.
“Alright.”
Martin’s glare vanishes under his shock.
“Alright?”
Jon nods.
“Alright. I’ll rest.”
“Oh! Oh. …Good!”
“It’s what, Friday now?” Jon says, “Maybe I’ll even take the weekend off.”
“Wow, let’s not go overboard,” Martin grumbles.
Jon snorts, hiding his laughter behind his bandaged hand. Martin smiles brightly and somehow, gets even redder.
“I’ll see you Monday.”
“Y-Yeah.”
Jon heads for the door. His feet are like lead weights and he already knows he is going to have to stop himself from napping on the tube. He can sleep properly once he is back at Georgie’s. It might even be nice to rest, for once.
He pauses in the doorway, glancing back.
Martin has stood up, his arms still crossed even as he flicks a hand up.
“See you.”
As he stares at him, Jon’s chest aches again. He is overcome with the urge to speak, as if that will ease it.
“For what it is worth… It is really good to see you too.”
Martin’s face goes slack with a look as soft and tender as his hand was on Jon’s throat. It makes the ache worse.
Jon turns away without another word, knocks once on the doorframe and walks away.
As he heads for the stairs, his hand still throbs, and his neck still stings but it is the hurt in his heart that distracts him.
The sound of Martin’s laughter echoes in his head and Jon thinks that this particular pain is one he doesn’t mind keeping.