#but due to CW getting Danny out Tim never noticed | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

celosiaa · 4 years

Text

no one’s here to sleep

Summary: “And just what do you think you’re still doing here, Jon?” he bellows, forcing his voice into something stern and paternal.

As expected, Jon nearly jumps out of his seat when he bursts in—but now sits stock-still, shielding his eyes from the glow of the lamp.

“Tim,” he whispers, like a plea.

Oh god.

Tim’s face falls at once as he realizes that something is deeply wrong.

(for a prompt from @captaincravatthecapricious, who requested Jon with a migraine and a side helping of Jonmartim. I hope you like it!! I got a little carried away as usual lol)

cw: nausea, language. Thoughts are formatted in italics.

It’s five o’clock somewhere…

Tim twiddles his thumbs, bouncing himself back and forth in his chair for the last fifteen minutes of this godforsaken work day. Martin, it seems, has already given up—he traipses in from the breakroom, heading down into his makeshift home with a steaming cup of tea cradled in both hands.

He really looks awful.

It’s been five days since he’d come back to the Institute, face ragged and worn, with dozens of silver worms trailing behind him. When he had very nearly passed out after bursting into Jon’s office, Tim and Jon had barely managed to coax some food and water into him before he’d insisted on giving a statement about the whole affair. Even now, the bruises under his eyes are black enough to rival Jon’s, and Tim knows for a fact that he hasn’t been sleeping. He briefly considers calling out after him, but ultimately thinks better of it.

Don’t need to startle him. He’s already so jumpy.

Left without even Sasha to talk to, Tim regrettably decides to use his last few minutes of the work day to look back over his notes on the case about the strange calliope. Something about the statement was…off to him—it pulled him back in over and over, reminding him of something important, of someone—

Danny.

Tim hasn’t thought about Danny in ages, and the gaping hole his loss has left in his chest tears open anew.

What have I been doing here?

How did I forget?

It feels uncomfortable, almost painful, to think about him now—like static rising in the back of his mind to drown out any memories that might arise. Tim doesn’t understand, can’t understand why he can’t just focus—

He looks up, and nearly two hours have passed.

Oh, Christ.

Sweeping a hand over his face, he tells himself that he had just fallen asleep; that whatever discomfort had been there was merely a dream. Danny falls far, far from his mind; the pain of the loss papered over with the reams and reams of statements surrounding him. He shakes his head, trying to center himself.

Right. Should head out, then.

Grabbing his jacket and slinging it over his shoulder, he begins to do just that—until he notices a light still on in Jon’s office. He can’t help but roll his eyes at this. Never in his life has he met a man so goddamn passionate about such a boring thing as archiving, often neglecting his literal physical needs in order to keep working. Tim decides that it is far too late for anyone to be staying in this lightless basement (apart from Martin, of course), and promptly strides toward Jon’s office to give him a proper chewing out for it.

Throwing open the door without warning, Tim bears down immediately upon Jon’s desk, where his small lamp casts strange shadows across the room.

“And just what do you think you’re still doing here, Jon?” he bellows, forcing his voice into something stern and paternal.

As expected, Jon nearly jumps out of his seat when he bursts in—but now sits stock-still, shielding his eyes from the glow of the lamp.

“Tim,” he whispers, like a plea.

Oh god.

Tim’s face falls at once as he realizes that something is deeply wrong.

“Jon? What’s going on, are you alright?” Tim questions as he leans closer, lowering his voice to Jon’s level.

With no small degree of alarm, he notices that Jon has his phone clutched in his hand, Martin’s contact pulled up on the screen, ready to call for help at any moment.

“I-I don’t know,” Jon replies, and god he sounds so scared.

“What do you mean?”

“I…every time I move my head, m-my eyes just…it’s like I can’t see at the edges, a-and then there’s sparks of light, and I…I don’t…”

He trails off, breath beginning to pick up as he shields his eyes again.

Oh god, this is bad.

Panicked, Tim does his best to keep his own breathing under control, frantically trying to think of his next move.

Of course.

Martin.

“Jon, I’m going to fetch Martin, okay? He might know what’s going on, just—just stay there,” Tim says as he makes his way hurriedly out of the room.

He half-runs down to the archives, hoping to god that Martin will be able to help; that it’s nothing serious, and that he’ll be just fine. Due to his background (albeit limited) with medical care, Martin had been appointed “safety officer” of their small department, which usually just meant keeping the first aid kit stocked. Today, however—today was something different altogether.

Finding himself at the door, Tim slams his hand against it and calls out.

“Martin? It’s Tim, open up—I need your help.”

He hears something crash from inside—perhaps the mug he’d been carrying earlier—and winces. A few moments later, a singular hazel eye peeks warily out of the door, before swinging it wide once he sees it really is Tim.

“Tim? Wh-what do you mean? What’s wrong?”

“It’s Jon. Something—something’s wrong with his eyes, and I think he needs help, but I don’t know what’s going on,” Tim spills out as quickly as he can, grabbing Martin’s forearm and dragging him along behind him.

“Alright, alright—let go of me, you don’t have to drag me along,” he says irritably, wrenching his arm from Tim’s grasp as they move quickly back down the hall toward Jon’s office.

When they reach the office door, Jon has covered his face with his hands, elbows leaning on the desk in front of him. His posture is rigid, even as his breaths come in shortened gasps. Upon seeing this, any bit of annoyance left in Martin fades away as he kneels in front of him.

“Jon? It’s Martin. Can you hear me?” Martin says, voice low and gentle.

“Y-yes,” Jon chokes, fear spilling over into his tone.

“Okay, good. Tim said something’s wrong with your eyes. Are you having trouble seeing?”

Jon does not reply immediately, and Tim decides to relieve some of the pressure on him.

“He said his vision was dark at the edges, and he’s seeing sparks of light as well,” Tim says from where he leans against the doorway.

“Hmm.”

Martin’s brow furrows, and he glances at the lamp for a brief moment before turning back to Jon.

“Is the light hurting your eyes?”

With what seems to be a monumental effort, Jon grunts in the affirmative. To Tim’s surprise, Martin let’s out a sigh of relief, mouth quirking up in a grimace.

“Have you ever had a migraine before?” he asks in a tone that is so very Martin, like a warm blanket draping over your shoulders.

After a moment, Jon replies shakily: “N-no.”

“I thought as much. Well, there’s a first time for everything, I suppose. Do you have any painkillers in here?”

“Drawer.”

Martin rises up to his full height, turning back to Tim.

“Can you find the meds? I’ll get him a glass of water, and then we’ll see if we can move him to my cot. It’s best if we do it quickly, before it gets any worse,” Martin says, so completely calm that Tim feels instantly calmer as well.

Just a migraine.

God.

Tim does as he’s told, finding paracetamol in the top drawer of Jon’s filing cabinet at once. Shaking it briefly, he sets it on Jon’s desk before leaning against it, arms crossed over his chest.

“And here I was, thinking you were having an aneurysm,” he says, grin spreading across his face.

“Not the time, Tim,” Martin says exasperatedly as he reenters the room with a glass of water, placing it in Jon’s right hand and shaking out two pills into the other.

Jon swallows them down at once before immediately replacing his hands over his eyes, and Tim can’t help but feel sorry at the sight.

“Right, Jon, do you feel like you can walk? I’d like to get you to the cot before it gets worse, so you can lie down,” Martin continues, holding a hand up to block the light spilling from the lamp.

“I dunno,” Jon whispers, wincing even as he does so.

“What if I helped you?” Tim asks, stepping back in front of Jon, keeping his voice low.

Silence hangs for just a moment as Jon considers, and Tim knows how much it must wound his severely inflated ego to ask for help.

“I…yes, thanks.”

Tim can’t help the way his mouth quirks up in a smile.

Stubborn, tiny little man.

Stepping forward, he crouches down to drape Jon’s arm over his shoulders, snaking his own across his back and lifting him to standing. Jon groans painfully as he does so, tipping his head toward his chest and swaying concerningly.

“Alright?” Tim murmurs as Martin flicks off the lamp.

Jon’s only reply is a sort of pained gasp, his free hand snapping up to press against his left eye.

“Let’s go, come on,” Martin orders, ushering Tim hurriedly out the door.

It takes some doing, but they eventually make it back to Martin’s small corner of the archives. By the time they get there, Jon’s breaths are audibly heaving, and Tim would very much love to just sweep him up into his arms and carry him all the way there. He thinks better of it, however.

Don’t think he’d ever forgive me for that.

As Tim lowers him down to sitting on the cot, eyes still closed, Martin rushes ahead—clearing away a notebook, a fire extinguisher, and…a corkscrew? Tim files this curious bit of information away for later, and helps Jon swing his legs onto the cot.

“Here, Jon, lie back—” Martin pushes gently against Jon’s shoulders, guiding him to rest against the pillows he’s propped up behind him.

As he does so, Jon’s grimace deepens, pushing back up to sitting against Martin’s hands and leaning over, breath picking up speed. Though the room is quite dark, Tim can easily see the sheen forming on his forehead, as well as the deepening ashen tone of his complexion.

“Shit. Do you feel sick?”

Jon nods briefly as his breaths continue to grow shallower.

At once, Martin crosses the room to grab the small bin from where it sits in the corner, pushing it in front of Jon. He immediately slumps over it—clearly nauseous, but unsure of whether or not he’ll actually be sick. Something about the way his hair hangs down over the bin is just so pitiful that Tim’s chest twinges—he reaches out a hand to rest on Jon’s back, before thinking better of it, and pulling back.

“Poor thing,” Martin tuts, eyebrows wrinkling together in sympathy. “I’ll go get you a cold rag, alright?”

He leaves the room, and Tim turns his attention back to Jon, who remains braced over the bin. To his relief, his breathing seems to have slowed back down a bit, and Tim hopes against hope that he’s not actually going to vomit. Even so, his shoulders still visibly shake, no matter how much he tries to stop them, and Tim lowers himself to sitting behind him on the cot.

“It’s alright, Jon,” he mutters. “It’s alright. Just let us look after you for a bit, eh? No big deal.”

In response, Jon sighs miserably, rubbing his forehead into the arm draped over the side of the bin. Tim has known him too long—far too long, actually—to miss the fact that he’s coming close to tears. He knows just how deeply Jon dislikes this kind of fuss, how he would do anything to just curl up alone in his misery right now.

“It’s alright,” he whispers one final time, as Martin steps back in with the cold rag.

“Okay, Jon, I’m gonna put this on your neck, alright? It might help with the nausea, but tell me if it’s too much.”

He places it ever so gently, pushing the long strands of his hair out of the way as he does so. Jon flinches for a moment before letting out a long sigh, as the coolness seems to alleviate some of the undoubtedly hammering pain. Satisfied with this response, Martin takes a seat in front of him, assessing his pallor with clinical gaze.

“Alright. We’ll just stay until the nausea passes, okay? Then we’ll give you some space, I promise.”

Giving him a sidelong glance, Tim just barely sees a tear leak of out Jon’s eyes, still squeezed shut against the pain.

God, I want to hug him.

…have I gone mad?

Tim refrains with some difficulty, and they sit quietly with him for nearly ten minutes, unmoving. At last, a whispered “okay” from Jon sets their wheels in motion, Martin placing the bin on the floor next to him as Tim helps him lean back against the pillows—placing the cool rag over his eyes in the process. Even as he lies there in what should be relative comfort, everything about Jon’s posture screams painpainpain—and Tim knows it’s time to leave him be.

“We’ll just step outside then, alright? Be back in to check on you in a bit,” Tim whispers, steering Martin out the door and closing it behind them, leaving Jon in near-complete darkness.

---

Five minutes later finds Martin sitting against the wall of the archives, in one of the chairs they had dragged over from the break room. Tim is on the return journey from making tea for both of them, piping hot mugs pouring steam from both hands, when he takes a moment to regard Martin where he sits. The way he slumps into his chair, head propped on one hand, blackened eyes threatening to droop closed…

His chest swells with responsibility at the sight—the sort of responsibility that any eldest sibling would recognize at once.

Have to fix this. As best I can.

Sitting down and handing Martin his cup of tea, Tim notices the way he distinctly avoids his eyes and curls around the mug.

“Thanks,” Martin mutters quietly into the steam.

“Don’t mention it.”

They sit in silence for a moment, while Tim considers how to approach him.

It’s just Martin.

Whatever I say, it will probably be fine.

Probably.

“You alright? You seem…not yourself,” he asks, turning slightly to face him.

Martin sighs at once, head drooping low enough for his fringe to fall into his eyes.

“I’m fine, Tim. You don’t need to worry about me right now.”

Tim just barely manages to keep from laughing at the sheer ridiculousness of it all.

“Martin, that is literally the worst lie I’ve ever heard.”

When the corner of Martin’s mouth quirks up in a smile, Tim feels as though he ought to run a victory lap to celebrate.

“Heh. Right. I dunno, I just…” he trails off for a moment, running a hand through his hair. “I haven’t really…slept in a while, you know? Since the whole Prentiss thing started. A-and I know what you all think, especially…especially Sasha thinks I’ve lost it—”

“—she doesn’t think that, Martin—”

“—but I haven’t. I’m not mad. I-I saw those things, I still…I still find them sometimes, and I’m just so afraid that she’s going to realize that she can’t get to me easily while I’m here, and she’s going to go after one of you next,” he finishes in a rush, voice trembling and thin.

Tim stares at him momentarily, shaking his head in bewilderment before laying a bracing hand on Martin’s forearm.

“Of course you’re not mad, Martin. Listen—neither me nor Sasha believe that, okay? We believe you. And…I’m sorry you feel afraid,” Tim says lowly, trying to catch Martin’s gaze.

I’m sorry you feel afraid, and there’s nothing I can do about it.

Martin exhales shakily at this, visibly deflating, and turns to meet Tim’s eyes with a bit of a watery smile.

“Thanks, Tim. That’s…that’s really nice of you to say.”

They fall back into silence for another moment, more comfortable this time, each sipping at their tea.

“Where are you going to sleep? Isn’t that your cot?” Tim asks, jerking a thumb back towards the door of the archives.

“Oh, uh…I hadn’t thought of that, really. I mean—I suppose it’s still early yet. The acute part of the migraine will probably be majority gone in the next couple of hours, and then I’ll…get him home, I suppose…” Martin trails off, looking extremely anxious at the prospect of leaving the Institute.

“No, I’ll get him home. In my car. Can’t have you throwing yourself out there for worm food, now can we?” Tim says, a grin spreading across his face.

“Tim, that is disgusting,” Martin replies with a wry smile.

“Sorry, sorry—” Tim laughs as he turns back to his tea.

---

A few hours and a few check-ins later, Martin has fully dropped off to sleep on Tim’s shoulder. Soft snores began to echo in the relative silence of their little basement home a mere five minutes after he’d closed his eyes, and Tim can’t help but feel a strange sense of pride at the way the lines of his face have relaxed against him.

If I stayed right here, maybe he’d sleep through the whole night for once.

However, Tim knows this is impossible—for one thing, Martin’s neck would be horribly stiff the next day, and for another, it’s time to check on Jon again. Regretfully, he begins extracting himself as gently as possible from Martin’s side, aiming not to wake him if at all possible. As he slides his shoulder out from underneath Martin’s head, tipping it slowly back against the chair instead, Martin groans lightly with increasing awareness.

“Sorry, Martin,” Tim mutters, receiving only a half-conscious grunt in return as he slips back into the archives.

To his surprise, Jon opens his eyes at once when he enters the darkened room, visible in the pale light spilling over from the cracked doorway.

“Hi, Tim. You can turn on the lamp, now,” he says, voice meek and low.

Tim lets out a sigh of relief and does as he asks, Jon squinting only mildly in the warm glow.

“Oh thank god. Is it over?”

“Well, not completely, but it’s not near as bad anymore.”

“Thank God Martin was around. I was ready to drive you to the A&E, you bastard,” Tim replies, coming to sit on the edge of the cot as Jon sits up.

Nodding in response, Jon frees a hair band from around his wrist to tie up his frizzed locks—only to wince and push a hand against his left eye once more. Tim frowns at this, brows knitting together in concern as he looks on.

“How are you feeling now?” he asks, trying to catch Jon’s gaze.

“Erm…tired, I suppose,” Jon replies, hand still pressed against his face and definitively not looking at him.

Tim rolls his eyes in exasperation.

“Right, and you’re just rubbing at your eye for no reason at all then?”

At this, Jon offers him the glare that Tim truly lives for, the “don’t push it, Tim” type of glare. The glory of the moment is a bit spoiled, however, when it causes Jon to wince again—closing his eyes fully against it. Taking pity, Tim returns his voice to a murmur and drops a soothing hand onto Jon’s upper arm.

“I’m trying to ask if you feel well enough for me to drive you home. It’s alright if you don’t, we can wait it out a bit more, but…this is Martin’s bed, after all.”

Jon’s head snaps up at this, meeting Tim’s gaze at last with eyes widened in horror.

“Oh fuck.”

Shocked at his outburst, Tim can’t help but bark out a laugh in response.

“Not sure I’ve ever heard you use that word, boss,” he chuckles, absolutely delighted.

Jon doesn’t appear to be listening, instead sweeping his eyes across the dim of the room.

“Where is he? Martin?”

“He’s nodded off just outside,” Tim replies, jerking his head towards the door. “It’s a bit pitiful, really. Said he hasn’t been sleeping.”

Guilt filling him up once more, Jon lets out an exhausted sigh.

“No, I…I don’t suppose he has been.”

They fall silent for a few moments, before Tim stirs.

“Do you want me to pull the car around, or do you need to wait it out a bit longer?”

“I think I’ll be fine. The light doesn’t hurt as much now.”

Tim grimaces at him.

“Well, I suppose you’re in luck, because it’s already dark.”

“What? Ergh—” Jon moans, burying his face in his hands.

Tim chuckles once more and backs out of the room. When he steps outside, Martin is clearly still napping, a bit of saliva beginning to seep out of the corner of his open mouth, and Tim can’t help but melt into a fond smile.

Oh, Martin.

Unfortunately, his nap is brought to an abrupt end when Tim shakes him lightly by the shoulder. Though he’d made a conscious effort to do so as gently as possible, Martin still jumps and bats off his hand, eyes wild before they settle on Tim.

“Jesus, Tim,” he sighs, putting his head in his hands.

“Sorry, mate. I’m just going to bring my car around to the front, and I thought you might walk Jon out to meet me, make sure he doesn’t fall or something. Then you can have your bed back, alright?” he says, finishing with a few amicable claps to Martin’s shoulder.

“Yeah, yeah, alright,” Martin replies around a yawn, and Tim turns to run out into the evening.

---

I must look ridiculous.

Jon has made it into the lift now, Martin trailing behind him with arms half-outstretched, as if afraid he would fall at any moment. Before they had left the dim of the basement, Martin had insisted on plopping a wide-brimmed, floppy hat over Jon’s head—adamant that he needed it to block out the brighter lights of the hall. Naturally, Jon had pulled it off with a sneer. And regretted it immediately. So back on it went, and here they are—both trying not to be embarrassed by the entire situation.

Though his eyes are closed against the harsh light of the lift, he can feel Martin’s gaze on him now, and knows he’s about to ask again.

“You still doing okay?”

Just stay calm.

He’s only trying to help.

Taking a deep, steadying sigh, Jon tries to keep the majority of his snappishness out of his words.

“Yes, Martin, I’m just as fine as I was thirty seconds ago.”

“Right. Sorry.”

Damn it.

So much for that.

Guilt flares up in Jon again at his anxious tone, and he cracks his eyes open just a bit to read his expression. What he sees, however, is not what he expected—rather than nervous energy, Martin radiates only sadness and worry, his fringe hanging loosely over his eyes where he leans against the side of the lift.

He really does look exhausted.

“Martin, you…you look dreadful,” Jon mutters, brows furrowing.

Martin shifts his posture at once, as if only now becoming aware of it, and settles his face into a warm and comforting smile.

“Don’t worry about it for a second, Jon. Just worry about you, okay? I’ll be alright,” he says, a slight pink rising to his cheeks at the attention.

Of course I’m worried.

Frustratingly, Jon cannot bring himself to say these words aloud.

“I’m sorry for stealing your bed,” he says instead, hoping that the meaning is clear.

Martin laughs sunnily at this, still careful to keep his volume low.

“It’s alright—it was your bed to begin with, Jon.”

“Still, I’m sorry.”

For so many things.

The lift opens its doors at last to reveal Tim, standing near the door and swinging his keys around his finger.

“Nice hat, boss. Really a good look for you. You ready?”

Prick.

Offering him a glare, Jon exits the lift wordlessly, before—

I’ve got to do something.

He turns on his heel, stepping back toward the lift and waving a hand to prevent the doors from closing.

“Oh, did you forget something?” Martin asks, also waving a hand between the closing doors.

Lifting a hand to rest behind Martin’s elbow, he looks up at him—wanting to convey the gravity of what he’s about to say.

“There’s some melatonin in my office, top drawer of the filing cabinet. Please try to get some sleep,” he mutters, a flush that he desperately hopes is not visible creeping up his neck and onto his cheeks.

God, what is wrong with me?

A smile—a real, honest, sunny smile—blooms on Martin’s face, the light pink that had been present beneath his dusting of freckles turning a deep red at Jon’s words. Flustered, Jon clears his throat and turns away at once, striding hastily back to where Tim stands, smirking devilishly.

“Y-you too!” Martin calls out after him as the lift doors close.

Warmth pools in Jon’s stomach, and he can’t help the small smile pulling at the corners of his lips.

Tim laughs deep and heartily now, absolutely elated by the bashful awkwardness of their exchange.

“Well well well, seems like Martin may have wormed his way into your heart, eh?” he teases, grin audible in his tone.

“SHUT IT, Tim.”

He keeps smiling anyway.

#tma #the magnus archives #tma fic #hurt/comfort #whump #cw nausea #my writing #thank you so much for the prompt!#sorry this is so long lmao

138 notes · View notes