Work Text:
Jon stretches, standing up from his desk for the first time in hours. His stiff bones creak and pop as he rolls his shoulders back. He squints at the clock on the wall and is surprised to learn that it's nearly midnight. The exhaustion he's been ignoring for hours hits him all at once.
He tries to remember the last time he ate as he slinks into the breakroom's kitchenette, his stomach rumbling loudly. He opens the fridge and pulls out a takeaway box, wracking his brain as he inspects the noodles inside. He knows the pad Thai is at least a day old, but it smells fine so he assumes it's worth the risk. He drops it onto the faded countertop, deciding he can count the day as a victory if the worst thing that happens to him is food poisoning.
The drawer sticks when he tries to open it, everything inside clattering together with each pull. He gives a final tug and peers inside. The breakroom is about as organized as the archive itself, which is to say not at all. The cutlery is often thrown haphazardly into drawers without much thought. He absently wonders if he should tell Martin to organize the kitchen as he digs through the drawer. He finds a fork wrapped up in a tea towel and holds it into the light to see if it's clean.
The sound of a distant scream pulls him out of his dazed thoughts, followed by a loud thump. Jon's fingers tighten around the utensil as he rushes toward the sound without hesitation. The door is slightly ajar when he approaches it, and his stomach drops in anticipation and concern. He throws it open with enough force to send it crashing to the wall and charges in.
"Martin," he yells, brandishing the fork like a weapon, "Are you okay?"
Martin lets out a soft, surprised noise at Jon's sudden appearance. He's sat on the floor, his legs tangled up in a blanket. His face is flushed and sweaty, and he's trembling slightly. He looks at Jon with wide eyes and untangles himself from the blanket as quickly as he can. He wraps it around his shoulders, attempting to hide his bare chest.
Jon feels a sudden wave of embarrassment at the evident lack of danger. He lowers his arm slowly and straightens his posture, trying and failing to appear nonchalant. He hovers awkwardly near the door, already planning his escape.
"S-sorry," Martin says, his voice shaky. "I, uh...I had a nightmare and I fell off...I-I'm sorry for startling you."
Jon nods, the discomfort flooding his body. He tries to calm his thoughts, searching for something comforting to say to the frightened man in front of him.
"uh..." He says, drawing a blank.
Martin stares up at him, still clearly shaken by the strange combination of nightmares and Jon bursting into the room.
"Worms," Jon says, his tone a strange combination of sympathetic and matter-of-fact. He gives a stiff nod.
Martin blinks at him, confused and uncomfortable. Jon stifles a groan, realizing as soon as the word leaves his mouth that he's not exactly acing this social interaction. He eyes the door, wondering if it's too late for him to just leave. Deep down he knows that charging into the room at midnight, saying the word "worms" and immediately leaving is probably not his best course of action, but the anxiety twisting in his stomach is screaming at him to run.
"Er..." Jon says, "Your nightmare, I mean...I'm assuming it was about the...t-the worms?"
Martin laughs, and Jon isn't sure that's much better than him just staring in silence.
"No, I was just dreaming about taking a test in my underwear again," He says, sarcastically, "Nothing to do with the spooky worm lady who trapped me in my apartment for weeks."
Jon's brain takes a second to process the words and decode his sarcasm.
"Oh," Martin says. "Sorry, I-I...I probably shouldn't...yeah. Yeah, It was the worms."
He shakes his head slightly as if the motion might knock the image out of his head. He shutters.
"No, it's okay," Jon says, "I'm the one who just barged into what is essentially your bedroom."
Martin blushes, a second wave of embarrassment washing over him at that revelation.
Jon extends a hand, offering to help him up off the floor. Martin hesitates before taking it, pulling himself up and readjusting the blanket as soon as he's steadily on his feet. The silence quickly turns awkward.
"Wait," Martin says, knitting his eyebrows together, "are you still working?"
"I lost track of time." Jon mumbles, his eyes cast to the floor.
"Right..." Martin says. His eyes are distant and distraught, and Jon can tell the nightmare is still vibrant in his mind. Martin tries to be casual as he lifts his food, peaking beneath it as if there might be unseen worms beneath his socked feet, but the panic is emanating off of him.
"I was about to eat my supper," Jon says, "would you like to...join me? You don't have to eat, obviously but I could...uh. I could make you a cup of tea?"
"Supper? Jon, it's... never mind..." Martin says.
He runs a hand across his eyes and sighs. He's too tired to scold Jon for his questionable working habits, and he's still too out of sorts from the nightmare to go back to sleep. He gives Jon a small smile and says, "Yeah, actually. A cup of tea sounds lovely."
"Okay, Jon says, "I'll...prepare the kettle then."
He stands awkwardly, unsure if he should give him privacy or stay to show Martin he's here to support him through his fear. He averts his eyes as Martin retrieves his shirt.
He drops the blanket back onto the cot and nods, indicating that's ready to leave. Jon steps aside, gesturing for Martin to proceed with the forgotten fork still clutched in his hand. Martin starts to laugh when he notices it.
"Really? A fork?"
"I didn't have time to think," Jon says, his cheeks turning pink, "it was already in my hand."
"And you were, what? Planning on jabbing the intruder to death?
"Shut up, Martin."