you're shaking like a leaf

Jon doesn’t have a mug of his own. 

Actually, that’s not quite true. He does have the DILF mug that Tim bought him last year for Christmas. He had tried earnestly to explain that not being a father, he couldn’t possibly be considered a DILF, whilst Tim had laughed raucously and Sasha had tried to explain that no, Jon, it’s about the energy. Martin hadn’t been any help; just sat there giggling.

He uses it sometimes. Grudgingly. And never when he’s taking a statement.

Whilst the DILF-emblazoned mug is the only one he can stake a real claim of ownership to, Jon does have a favourite mug, in fact. 

Several months ago, a few extra mugs turned up, pushed to the back of the cupboard like someone was trying to hide them. They’re a little wobbly in shape, imperfect, clearly handmade. But they have satisfyingly thick handles and are a comfortingly solid shape to hold. Their designs are delicate, simple, yet charming: one the colour of a dawn sky, another pale blue with fluffy clouds, another - and Jon’s mug of choice - a deep indigo with little moons and stars painted in an uncertain hand.

He often leaves it on his desk by accident, by virtue of using it so much. Only today, when he doesn’t particularly wish to leave his office, it’s apparently been returned to the kitchen. Of course.

The problem with the kitchen, on top of its being painfully dismal, is that people always expect conversation. Something that Jon simply doesn’t feel equipped for today. It’s barely ten am, far earlier than his usual break for a tea or a coffee, and yet he’s exhausted. Exhausted, and sniffling.

It’s with some trepidation, therefore, that he comes upon Tim already there.

“Morning, boss!” he says brightly, like it’s no consequence to him that it’s a dreary Monday. He’s filling a large cafetière with hot water. “Coffee?”

Jon feels it would be sensible to opt for tea, given his scratchy throat and budding cough. But when he weighs it up against the tiredness he feels behind his eyes, he decides that coffee may be his best bet after all.

“Yes-snf-please, Tim.”

He scrambles hurriedly for a tissue to press to his nose, thankfully coming up with one he’d thought to stuff into a trouser pocket. It seems as though he only has to move, and he starts sniffling.

As he moves to the designated mug cupboard, Tim gives him a sympathetic smile.

“Hayfever?”

“What? Oh.” Jon wishes he could take the excuse. It would be easy enough to brush it off as a symptom of the early spring and the ridiculous amount of pollen that’s simply everywhere. Unfortunately, he suspects the excuse will be harder to stick to in a few days’ time. He shakes his head.

“A cold, I think. I’ll try to-snf-keep my distance.” He fetches the mug with the moons and the stars from the cupboard, trying not to cringe at Tim’s awww of sympathy.

“That’s rough,” he says, beginning to pour out the coffee into what must be Sasha’s, Martin’s and his own mug of choice. “Let me know if you need anything, yeah? Please don’t hole yourself up in your office for three days, barely sleep and only let us in when you’re half-dead from pneumonia.” He holds out a hand to take Jon’s mug.

“That was once, Tim,” Jon says, and resists the urge to add and I’d do it again out of pure spite. 

To his surprise, Tim grins when he receives the mug Jon’s chosen.

“You really like this one, huh? I’ll be sure to give Marto your compliments.”

“I-what?” Jon is both confused, and distracted. Confused because he’s unsure as to why Martin is related to his choice of mug; distracted because the vague itch at the back of his nose, that’s been bothering him all morning, is starting to make his breath shiver.

“You didn’t know? Martin made this one. The other handmade ones, too. I wouldn’t have guessed he did pottery, to be honest.” Tim holds out the mug, Martin’s mug, full of coffee, but pauses. “Need a minute?”

Jon holds up a hand, twisting to direct a sneeze into his right elbow. “hh’DTSCHH!” Half-stifled, it makes his head pound and his nose run all over again. Waving away Tim’s “bless you!”, he returns the tissue to his nose with one hand and takes the mug from Tim with the other.

“Sorry. I, hm. I wouldn’t have guessed, either.”

Martin had always struck him as. Well. Rather clumsy. Certainly far too clumsy for pottery, of all things.

“Thank you, Tim.”

“Feel better!” He shouts much too loudly as Jon leaves the kitchen. Jon hopes desperately that no one else has heard.

Back in his office, everything is mercifully quiet. He sits down at his desk with a sigh, one which catches at the end, fluttering into shuddering breaths, before his eyes are snapping shut. “hh’TSCHH!” It doesn’t hurt his head, this time, but his throat. He truly can’t win.

After a moment to blow his nose, he turns to his coffee, hoping that will at least help a little.

He wraps both hands around the mug. He’s always felt that he’s able to almost feel some tangible mark of the intent that went into making it. The care that went into its softly shaped sides. A warm sense of static at the back of his mind, a suggestion at his fingertips.

Jon had never before considered who might have made it.

He appraises the mug for a moment, takes a sip of his coffee, and goes about his day.

When they flee to the safehouse, the Institute’s collection of mugs is truly not something that crosses his mind. Mugs, in general, aren’t exactly at the top of his priority list.

It’s only when they’re unpacking their meagre belongings, trying to settle into the cabin in small ways, that he sees Martin extract it from his backpack. His favourite mug from the kitchen, with the hand-painted moons and stars.

“I, um. I thought you might like this,” Martin says hesitantly.

“That’s your mug. That you made?”

“Actually, it’s your mug now,” Martin replies. He smiles. “It’s for you.”