huh thats weird

“Martin?”

At Jon’s soft call, Martin jolts to attention, blinking rapidly as his head adjusts to the sudden change of position. Moving his eyes quickly over him, he takes a moment to consider his appearance—the pallor of his face, the unusually mussed tangle of his hair, the way his eyelids seem to droop below their typical station—all serving to make Martin look decidedly unwell.

“Jon! Christ, you scared me,” he breathes, resting a hand against his chest in relief.

“I’m sorry,” Jon says at once,  and finding that he means it.  “What…what are you doing here, exactly?”

“Could ask the same,” he replies, a bit of accusation coloring his tone—and Jon supposes he deserves that.

“Forgot to lock up.”

“Could have texted me, I’d have done it.”

“I didn’t know you were here.”

At last, Martin drops his gaze, smashing a hand over his unkempt hair.  Something about this simple action stirs up something incredibly fond in the pit of Jon’s stomach—and he does his best to repress the feeling in favor of professionalism as quickly as possible.

“Which begs the question—why are you here?” he asks, watching carefully as Martin worries at his bottom lip, clearly hesitant to say something.

“I’m just—just finishing up a couple of things, that’s all,” he replies with a smile, tone kept intentionally light and jovial.

Something about this is not right, and Jon is determined to find out what.

“What are you working on?” he asks incredulously, squinting to get a glimpse of Martin’s laptop screen.  “It’s after nine on a Friday, Martin—you shouldn’t be here.”

“You’re one to talk,” he mutters under his breath, so openly that Jon is taken aback.

I suppose I deserved that too.

“I’ve…been trying to get better about that,” he says lowly, a bit hurt at the irritation he seems to have stirred up by his presence alone.

“I know,” Martin replies with a sigh, taking off his glasses to scrub a hand over his eyes.  “I know you have, Jon.  Sorry.”

The silence they hold is far from comfortable, but the look on Martin’s face tells Jon that he’s considering carefully what to say—and Jon will not hold that against him.  After a long inhale, eyes closed in an effort to—brace himself?—Martin speaks.

“I needed to catch up.  Because I was gone.”

“…oh.”

Oh, Christ.

Jon could just kick himself over this, over forgetting about his mum’s health scare this week—the one he had learned about only after he had gotten very terse with Martin over the quality of his work. Perhaps a bit more than terse, to be honest.

“Martin, I—I didn’t mean—“

“No, it’s alright,” he is quick to intercept, holding his hands up to stop him.  “You were perfectly in the right, and I know this work needs to get done.  So I will do it.”

Oh god oh god

It kills him—the exhausted smile shining across Martin’s face, just knowing that he is the one who put it there.

“I didn’t…I didn’t know.”

“I know.”

“I shouldn’t have—“

“It’s alright, I just—“ he cuts off, removing his glasses and setting them on the desk before leaning his head on one hand. “It’s my fault, Jon, really.”

Jon finds himself  unable to control the expression of shocked incredulity he feels washing over his face at these words.

“How on earth is this your fault?” he asks, tone ticking up in incomprehension.

“I don’t—“ he pauses, beginning to rub circles across his forehead and temples with the tips of his fingers, in obvious pain. “I don’t know, Jon.  Just…it is.”

What are you talking about? Jon wants desperately to say—but he stops himself in favor of taking in the renewed pallor of Martin’s cheeks that deepens with every passing moment.

“You…you don’t look well, Martin,” he says, stepping just a bit closer, forcing his tone into its gentlest possible shape.  “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” he replies at once, eyes still closed tightly where he leans on the desk.

You’re not fine.

“Let me—look, you should have some water at least, before you go home,” he says, turning to retrieve some from the kitchen—before turning back at once upon hearing the rather disturbing sound of derisive laughter from behind him.

“Not sure I am, though,” Martin says through his horrible laughter, swiping at his eyes with his sleeve.

“W..what?”

“I didn’t pay my bills,” he says, the sound of it coming out wet and muffled from behind his hands.  “I had to go up to Devon, and I left in a rush, and I didn’t get back in time, a-and I’m just…I had to spend so much on my stay that I’m not even sure I can cover it all—“

“Ah—Martin—“ Jon steps quickly over to him as he breaks off into a choked sob, patting his shoulder in what he knows must be the most awkward manner—but how could he just stand there, and do nothing?

“S-sorry, sorry,” he gasps as he struggles to contain the tears, driven by what Jon has been recently made aware has been a lifetime’s worth of pain and anger and solitude.

This won’t do at all, Jon thinks, starting to rub gentle circles between his shoulders as his breathing begins to even out.

“Come home with me,” he decides as he says it, voice now edging back into its usual commanding presence.

“Oh no, Jon—“

“I insist, Martin.  Get your coat.  We’ll get your bills sorted in the morning,” he says, already stepping towards the corner of the room to grab his coat for him.

“Jon, no, I really couldn’t—“

“Coat,” he says, holding it out towards Martin’s face with a meaningful glare.  “Now. You are coming with me.”

He looks at Jon hard and long, clearly disbelieving of his kindness, searching for the hidden motive behind it all.  Though he cannot say why…something painful twinges in his chest at the very thought.

“Alright,” Martin replies at last, carefully standing, both knees clicking and popping in the process.  “I—thank you, Jon.  Really, it’s too much.”