Work Text:
Thirty minutes. Thirty minutes.
That was what circled around Jon's head as he sat at his desk, as he fought against the dry thinness of his own voice and pressed 'record' on his laptop's audio software, as the exhaustion dragged his eyelids down, down, down.
Thirty minutes.
Twenty-nine minutes, now.
Just twenty-nine minutes to go, and he'd be safe to take another dose of painkillers. He could get through this.
Jon took a shallow breath, pressing one hand against the lower half of his stomach in an effort to relieve the tight knot of pain centered there, and cleared his throat.
"Statement of Maya Holman, regarding a, ah... strange dog seen in her neighbor's yard. Hm. Statement recorded by Jonathan Sims..."
It was enough of a distraction, though he was pretty quick to add it to the 'discredited' pile once he'd finished recording it. Only five minutes to go after that; his fingers shook ever so slightly on the keyboard as he saved the file, naming it and sending a copy to his own backup drive before uploading it to the Institute's database.
One minute.
Close enough.
Jon fumbled his bag from where it was hanging on the back of his chair, wincing as he turned halfway in his seat to reach it. There was a water bottle in there, and a small lozenge tin, dented from years of use. With one hand he unscrewed the lid of the bottle; the other popped the top of the tin, tipping it over and spilling out-
Nothing.
Oh, god damn it.
Jon closed his eyes in frustration, then slowly, carefully recapped the bottle and replaced the tin in his bag. He should have checked before he left his flat that morning, but he never thought to do that. It was once a month, for christ's sake, it wasn't like he could build a routine around this.
Which meant he had no painkillers. Which meant he either had to keep suffering here, or somehow drag himself all the way out to the main office to see if anyone else happened to have painkillers with them today.
God damn it.
Jon slowly straightened from the slouched curl he'd slipped into over the course of the morning, closing his eyes against the sharp stab of pain in his gut that came with the movement. Then he slowly, carefully, stood, gripping the edge of his desk for support.
His legs felt weak and slow, and he didn't so much walk as shuffle, but he still managed to make his way out from behind his desk and over to the door.
Then from there to the assistants' office, with a quick divergence to the bathroom in between because oh, right, he'd been sitting at his desk since seven and that couldn't be helping with the cramps.
His assistants had kept their door open, as they normally did, and Jon leaned against the frame of it as he poked his head inside, hoping he looked at least a little less wilted than he felt.
"Do, uh..." He cleared his throat awkwardly as they all looked up from their computers to see him in the doorway, and stood up straighter under the scrutiny. "Do any of you have any paracetamol?"
Tim frowned at him. "You okay?"
"Just a headache," Jon deflected, because even with the small trans pride flag he had displayed on his desk it was an easier answer than the truth.
"I've got some ibuprofen." Martin, who had bent down to search through one of the drawers of his desk, emerged triumphantly, shaking the small bottle in his hand.
Jon grimaced. "I, um. I can't, I'm afraid. Allergic."
The way Martin's face fell would have been cartoonish if he didn't seem so genuinely distressed about it. "I didn't know that," he said.
"I didn't even know you could be allergic to ibuprofen," Tim said.
"I have paracetamol," Sasha said, and Jon elected to ignore the other two in favor of moving over to her desk.
"Thanks, Sasha, you're a lifesaver," he said quietly, as she passed two small pills across the desk.
"No problem!" She gave him a small, bright smile, and turned back to her computer.
He made his escape quickly, or as quickly as he could when his whole body still felt weighed down with lead.
That was one of the worst parts, he reflected, sinking back behind his own desk with relief. The exhaustion. He didn't sleep well on the best of nights, and add to that cramps and lingering overall muscle soreness... Even just being in pain was enough of a strain on the body without adding sleep deprivation to it.
Suffice to say, it was only just past noon, and Jon already felt prepared to curl up and fall asleep for at least twelve hours. Preferably under a soft, warm blanket. On a mattress squishy enough to sink into and get lost forever. With mood lighting. And maybe something warm to drink...
He forced his eyes open, grabbed his water bottle, and swallowed down the pills. There was work to do.
~~~~~
Jon jolted awake some time later to the sound of quiet knocking on the door. He peeled his head off his folded arms and blinked blearily at his surroundings.
Martin was standing in the entrance of his office, one eyebrow raised and his lips quirked in a small smile, and Jon was very glad indeed that he was still too out of it to feel properly embarrassed about falling asleep at his desk.
"Martin. What... what?" he croaked, sitting up. His body protested with a sharp flair of pain across his core, and he drew in a sharp breath, pressing a hand over the epicenter of it. The heat from his palm helped, a little.
"It's getting late," Martin explained. "I was just going to cook something up for dinner, do you want me to make enough for you?"
"I..." Jon glanced at his phone, waking it up to check the time. The last time he had done so was at three, right before putting his head down for what was supposed to be a short, five-minute break to rest his eyes. Now the screen glared an accusing half past seven up at him from its place on the desk. "O-oh," he said, startled. "Um, I should be heading home, actually."
"Are- are you sure?" Martin's voice crept up as he spoke, going high with nerves. "I, I mean, there's been a lot of... worms about. I thought you were trying to avoid being out after dark?"
"I was. But the trains are still running and I'll bring an extinguisher, and anyway-" He lifted his head a little bit too quickly in an attempt to look at Martin; the room swam around him, his vision going blurry at the edges from exhaustion. "-I think it'd do me good to get a full night's sleep in my own bed."
Martin tapped his knuckles against the door frame, a seemingly unconscious gesture, and chuckled. "Well, I can't exactly argue with that. Do you want to eat before you go? It's no trouble for me to make extra, I'm just heating up some canned soup."
Jon opened his mouth, ready to protest on principle alone- then paused, and actually gave the offer the consideration it deserved. He'd been too nauseous to eat anything for lunch, which meant that other than the tea Martin had brought him earlier, he hadn't eaten anything since... six am? He didn't feel particularly hungry, but with the way the cramps were flaring up, he honestly wouldn't be able to tell even if he was starving.
"That," he said, and gave Martin a small, tight smile. "That would be great, actually. I'll clear things up here and meet you in the breakroom."
"Oh!" Martin jumped slightly, looking surprised that Jon had said yes. "Oh, that's- g-great, that's- I'll go get it started, then."
He turned and left before Jon could respond.
Jon took a moment to just sit there, steeling himself against the inevitable pain of moving. The paracetamol had worn off entirely while he slept, and as much as he knew it would be good for him, he was not looking forward to dragging himself all the way to the breakroom. He didn't even want to consider the walk to the station, or the commute that awaited him from there.
It would be fine. He just had to grit his teeth and push through it, and when he got home he'd have painkillers and a hot water bottle waiting, and - hopefully - a full night's sleep.
Which... he'd just slept for almost five hours and he was still exhausted.
This was hell, Jon decided, as he finally inched into movement and started packing his things into his bag. This was actual hell.
He stood up and immediately regretted it. There was a pulsing pressure behind his eyes, darkness creeping in at the edges of his vision, the room felt off balance-
He sat down again, closed his eyes, and waited for the headrush to pass.
A little over a minute later and he felt stable enough to stand again. He braced one hand on the desk as he did so, prepared to sink back into his chair if necessary, and breathed a sigh of relief when the room stayed steady around him.
Jon swung his bag over his shoulder, clicked off the lights, and left.
He took a brief detour into the main office on his way to the breakroom, feeling only slightly guilty about rifling through Sasha's desk to find the paracetamol. It was in the top drawer, in among the paperclips and pencils, and it didn't feel like too much of an invasion of privacy to dig it out. He wouldn't be able to make it home without it, in the state he was in, so needs must.
Martin was already setting out bowls by the time he made it to the breakroom, and he glanced up with a smile when Jon walked in.
"Just in time! It's just canned chicken noodle, I'm afraid, but it's better than nothing."
"That's... that's great, Martin. Thank you." He felt like he should offer to help, but there wasn't much to do; so he sank onto one of the chairs around the rickety table with a small exhale that hopeful didn't sound too pained as Martin bustled around grabbing spoons from a drawer and stirring the soup over the small electric hot plate Tim had brought in when Martin started living there.
Martin served them both, tipping a generous portion of soup into the two bowls on the table before setting the rest aside. He pushed one bowl toward Jon, then sat down opposite him with the other.
"Bon appetit," he said, with a small grin, and Jon couldn't tell if it was supposed to be a joke or not. Either way, he didn't have the energy to return the smile, so he just nodded his head muzzily and hunched forward over his bowl to eat.
The soup was good. It warmed him from the inside out, helping to push back the chill that had invaded his bones during his extended and unintentional nap. He could barely keep his eyes open as he ate it, and chose to stare at the peeling laminate surface of the table instead of trying to meet Martin's eyes.
The only sounds in the room were the click of their spoons on the side of the bowls and the slurping noises as they ate. Occasionally Martin would take a deep breath, and Jon had the feeling he was on the verge of saying something. But every time he paused, and let it out in a sigh, and remained silent. Jon was quietly glad for this: he wasn't focused enough to manage a coherent conversation, anyway.
Eventually he finished eating, and stood cautiously to go wash his dishes in the sink. Martin was still sat at the table, idly picking at the laminate and studiously not looking at Jon.
Jon sighed, plugging the drain at the bottom of the sink and turning on the hot water to fill the basin. He really wasn't trying to be rude, or dismissive of Martin. He'd made a conscious effort to be better about that since Prentiss had trapped him at his flat. He just didn't have the energy to talk right now, or even to explain why he wasn't talking.
He shut off the water, grabbing the sponge from the side of the sink and plunging his hands in. He washed his own bowl and spoon; then his mug, from the tea earlier; and the other random dishes sitting on the counter from the day. His head felt thick and fuzzy, but it occurred to him that Martin must do this every night, cleaning up for the rest of them once the workday was done.
The water was very warm. Jon breathed deeply, the air in his lungs feeling thick with steam as prickles of heat ran across his forehead. He didn't seem to be taking in enough oxygen, all of a sudden.
There was a pulse of sensation, and a numb feeling began to spread across his chest, up and over his face; his mouth fell open, slack as he heaved in another deep breath, and even his nose felt strange and out of place under the numbing rush. He grabbed for the edge of the sink, wildly, as the room started to spin around him and a black haze encroached at the edges of his vision. His knees buckled slightly.
Martin's voice, from behind him, sounded muffled and distant. "Jon? You okay?"
"I'm fine," Jon said, or tried to say; his lips still felt numb and unresponsive. "Good lord," he added, as he finally cued into what was happening. "I think I'm about to faint."
He didn't hear Martin stand up, or see him rush over, but the next thing he knew there were warm hands gripping his elbows and leading him back over to his chair. He sank down into it, hardly feeling the movement, squeezing his eyes tight shut and just focusing on his own breathing.
His ears were ringing. The sounds of the room were muffled as Martin pressed a towel into his hands, urging him to wipe the lingering soap bubbles off. He gripped it weakly, twisting his fingers in the cloth. He could feel his own heartbeat, thrumming far too fast in his chest.
Sitting down, away from the steam, his head started to clear. After a minute he pried his eyes open, squinting against the swirling lights of the room before they finally resolved themselves into an image of Martin, kneeling in front of Jon's chair, brow furrowed with worry.
"Are you okay? Should I call an ambulance?" he asked, an edge to his voice, and Jon winced as the sound of it came through clear and sharp after the muffled haze he had been in.
"I'm fine," Jon said, even though he still felt shaky and weak. He made to stand up, bracing one hand against the table for support, and Martin shot to his feet in alarm.
"What are you-"
"I'm fine," Jon repeated, but didn't resist as Martin pushed him gently back into the chair. He could stand up, technically, and often had in this state in order to move from his shower to somewhere he could lay down, but his legs felt wobbly beneath him and there was nowhere better for him to move to, anyway.
"R-right, just- just stay there, okay?" Martin said.
"Fine." Jon sighed. He hated the weak feeling that came after a fainting spell, hated that his body continued to shake even after his head had snapped back to clarity. He held up a hand in front of himself, just to check, and frowned at the way his fingers shook.
"Oh christ," Martin said, and Jon's eyes flicked up to see him watching the hand as well. Jon quickly lowered it.
"You don't have to worry-" he began, but Martin was already speaking over him.
"You haven't- I mean, you didn't hit your head on anything recently, did you?" he asked, pulling up a chair so he could face Jon.
"What? No." Jon started to roll his eyes, felt his vision blur again. Stopped. "I don't have a concussion."
"Have you had enough to eat today? I didn't see you come out of your office for lunch."
"I wasn't hungry, and I don't need you to give me a full medical examination." He tried to make the words come out exasperated, but got the impression the tone fell flat.
Martin frowned. "I just want to make sure you're alright. You... you don't look good, Jon."
"Thanks," Jon said, dry, and Martin's lips twitched in a smile.
"Okay, okay. I'm allowed to be worried when my coworker almost passes out in the breakroom, though."
It was a fair point. Jon took another deep breath, grateful that the air was coming free and clear, now, and sighed. "Okay. But you don't have to be. This has happened before, I know how to deal with it."
"This- what?" Martin looked startled.
"It's nothing to worry about, I've talked to my doctor about it," Jon reassured him. "It's just a blood pressure thing, sometime it drops unexpectedly and I just- I get faint. It usually happens in the shower, but the water in the sink must have been warm enough to set off a spell. I'm fine now that I'm away from it."
Martin did not look convinced. "No offence, but you don't look 'fine'."
"Well..." Jon said, shrugging, and hoped it looked defiant. "I am."
Martin chewed on his lip, still staring at Jon. Jon probably would have squirmed under the scrutiny if he had the energy for it.
"Are you sure this is a normal thing?" he pressed. "It's just- you were asleep at your desk earlier too, and you're holding yourself like you're in pain, or something-"
Jon winced. "I didn't sleep well last night. And, um..." Another wince, and he pressed a hand over his abdomen. Both it, and his hand, were cold. "I've been cramping pretty bad today," he admitted. "I took some paracetamol before eating but it hasn't kicked in yet."
"Oh," Martin said, flushing slightly. "I didn't know you were. Um."
Jon just raised an eyebrow. Martin nodded, once, acknowledging that he'd stumbled onto an uncomfortable topic. After a minute, though, he rallied.
"So you're telling me you're sleep deprived, probably dehydrated, haven't eaten since breakfast, have a history of blood pressure issues, and are experiencing minor blood loss? And are in extreme pain?"
Jon blinked at him for a moment. "Well, when you say it like that it sounds bad."
Martin let out a bark of surprised laughter, and Jon smiled.
"I am okay, though," he insisted. "None of this is new, for me."
Martin nodded, though he didn't look entirely convinced. "And you'll be even better after you get some sleep."
"Right." Jon braced himself, hands on his knees. "I should be able to make it to the station before the next train."
"What? No." Martin frowned at him. "There's no way you're surviving public transport back home in this state. Take the cot."
"I'll be fine," Jon said and wondered how many times he'd said that in this conversation. "Trust me, I just need to sleep this off."
"You can do that here," Martin pressed.
"Martin-"
"Either you stay here or I follow you home to make sure you're safe," Martin said, and gave Jon a look that let him know he was dead serious. Jon didn't know whether to be grateful or annoyed. He really didn't want to have to travel all the way back to his flat, tonight.
"Fine," he relented. "I'll stay."
Martin visibly relaxed at the words, tension leaving his shoulders and a small smile rising to his lips.
"Good," he said. "Good."
Jon stood up. He didn't think about it much - a decision had been made, and he was simply following through on it - but he regretted it the second he was on his feet. The room went dark around him again, legs giving out, and he heard a small exclamation from Martin before there was an arm wrapping under his own to hold him upright.
"Jon! Are you okay?"
"Fine," Jon grumbled, blinking the stars out of his eyes. "Just a headrush."
"Right," Martin said, then took a quick breath and continued, "look, you're not, um. You're not wearing any, ah, constricting clothing, are you?"
"What?" Jon asked, then realized. "Oh, uh, no, no, this isn't because I'm having trouble breathing, or something, I had the foresight to- no."
He'd had the foresight, when he was getting dressed that morning, to not wear his binder, and he was grateful for it now. He didn't think he'd have the strength in his arms to take it off, if he'd been wearing it.
"Okay, good," Martin said. "I just- you know, people are always fainting in movies because they can't breathe, and stuff, so-"
"Yes, I'm aware," Jon interrupted. He wished Martin would calm down. His nervous stuttering was making this far more awkward than it had to be. "I'd really like to just lay down as soon as possible."
"Right," Martin said. "Um. Can you walk on your own, or...?"
"I could," Jon said, and then hesitated. "But... I probably shouldn't."
"Together, then," Martin said, and he didn't seem nearly as put out by the prospect as Jon would have been, had their situations been reversed. "Let's go."
Jon leaned against the shorter man as they walked, trying not to feel embarrassed about it. He'd normally hate to accept such help from anyone, but given how vulnerable Martin had already seen him tonight it seemed like far less of a big deal.
He pulled them both to a stop as they passed the bathroom, waving a hand vaguely to the side.
"I need to- if I'm staying the night-"
"Oh, yeah, of course." Martin carefully extricated himself from Jon, making sure Jon could support himself on the wall before stepping away. "I'll, um. Wait out here?"
"Thanks," Jon muttered, and fumbled the door open so he could step inside.
He snagged a fresh sanitary pad from the dispenser on the wall and locked himself into a stall, grateful that Martin hadn't pressed him with questions about the sudden detour.
He spotted a tube of toothpaste sitting on the edge of the sink while he was washing his hands; Martin's, probably. He didn't have a toothbrush with him, but he could still use his finger to clean his teeth a little-
A curl of pain shot through his gut as he was reaching for it, twisting and hot and feeling like it was pulling his entire being into that one spot. His vision swirled dark again, and he grabbed the edge of the sink, breathing hard as he waited for it to pass. Christ, Martin had been right, he wouldn't have been able to make it home like this. He was worse off than he thought, if the lightheadedness hadn't passed yet.
He glanced up into the mirror, a morbid sort of curiosity leading him on. His face was completely bloodless, with a grey cast to his lips and the dark circles under his eyes even more prominent than usual. He looked like a walking corpse.
No wonder Martin had wanted to call an ambulance.
He held onto the sink with one hand and reached for the doorknob with the other, swinging it open and then shifting his grip to the doorframe so he could stumble partway into the corridor. Martin stood up from the wall where he'd been slouching, tucking his phone back into his pocket, and offered Jon his arm again. Jon took it without a word.
When they reached document storage Jon collapsed onto the cot immediately, listing sideways where he sat and only halted from laying down entirely by Martin's hand on his shoulder. He frowned at it, then frowned harder as Martin kneeled on the floor and started unlacing Jon's shoes. He didn't have the energy left to protest at the strange intimacy of the gesture; didn't have the wherewithal to wonder why it brought tears to his eyes, to be cared for so gently like this.
It was probably for the best, anyway. Jon might have fainted for real if he'd tried to bend over to take them off himself.
Martin turned away to set the shoes neatly against the base of the box that was serving as a bedside table, and Jon keeled over on his side, curling in on himself and shivering a bit.
Martin pulled the blankets over him. "I'll go get you some water, and the paracetamol," he said softly. "Just in case you wake up in the middle of the night."
Jon nodded, not trusting himself to speak, and discreetly dried his eyes on the sleeve of his over-large jumper when he heard the door close behind Martin.
He drifted; startled awake when the door creaked again.
"Sorry, just grabbing my things, I'll be gone in a minute..."
Martin was bending down next to Jon, pulling his phone charger out of the wall by the cot. Jon frowned.
"Where are you going to sleep?"
"Oh, uh, I was..." Martin trailed off, looking unsure. Jon's hand shot out almost without his permission, grabbed Martin's wrist in a loose grip, and tugged him toward the cot.
"There's room for two, and it's just for one night," he said quietly. "Me staying here shouldn't mean you have to leave." He had assumed they would be sharing from the moment he'd agreed to stay.
"Right." The light in the room was low, but Jon could have sworn Martin's cheeks turned pink. "Um, in that case, I still need to get into pajamas and brush my teeth..."
"Right..." Jon let him go, missing the warmth of Martin's skin as soon as it was gone. His own hands were still cold.
Exhaustion took him over again before Martin left the room, and he didn't know how long it was before the mattress dipped, settling with Martin's weight behind him. Jon curled closer to the edge of the cot to give him space, and he could feel Martin doing the same, laying with his back to Jon's and a good few inches between them.
Jon closed his eyes against the wave of dizziness that swept over him at the movement. The cot wasn't exactly the most comfortable resting place at the best of times, and with two people on it he could feel every slightest movement from Martin echoed by the springs under him. The gap between them left a break in the blankets for cold air to creep down, and Jon shivered against the chill. The edge had been taken off his exhaustion already, and he had a feeling he'd have a much harder time falling asleep now.
After a few minutes he heard a light inhale from Martin.
"Jon?"
"Hm?"
"Are you, um." Martin paused. "You seem cold."
He must not have been hiding his shivers as well as he thought. "Just a bit. I don't exactly have any blood in my extremities right now."
"Right." Another pause. "Okay. Um. Would it be okay if I- I mean, would it be too awkward if I, um. Turn around?"
Jon frowned into the darkness. "What do you mean?"
"Um," Martin said, and Jon could almost hear the blush in his words. "If I spoon you. For warmth. Like, an arm over your side. Um. It'll hold the blankets closed better, and I just thought, well...." he trailed off.
Jon was pretty sure he would have blushed, as well, if his circulatory system was behaving as it should. "Martin, I know I'm not at the peak of health but I don't want you to feel like you're obligated to-"
"I don't." Martin's voice was surprisingly steady and sure. "Jon, this isn't an obligation. I'm offering. But only if you'd be comfortable with that."
"I-" Jon began. "Yes. I think I would be. I think that would be nice, actually."
Martin turned over, and Jon squeezed his eyes shut against the sickening lurch of the mattress as he shifted. Then, before he could fully register the change, there was warmth pressed up against his back, an arm around his side, the adjoining hand resting near the bottom of his ribcage.
"Is this okay?" Martin asked, so, so softly.
Jon curled his fingers around Martin's wrist; shifted his arm a few inches down, so that it rested over his stomach instead. The gesture had been intended so that his hand wasn't so close to Jon's chest, but Jon realized as soon as he'd moved that it had an added benefit: Martin's arm was very warm, and it served as well as any heating pad against the cramps.
Jon squeezed his wrist lightly, holding him close, and let out a deeply contented sigh. "Yes. Yes, it's... warm. Steady. The room isn't spinning so much."
"Good." He could feel Martin's breath on the back of his neck when he spoke.
"Thank you," he said, quietly. Martin's arm tightened slightly around him.
"Of course, Jon. Anytime."
The teariness was back. Jon blinked a few times, fighting against the choking feeling in his throat. "Goodnight."
Martin tucked his head against the back of Jon's neck. Jon could feel his forehead pressing into the collar of his jumper.
"Goodnight," he murmured.
They both fell silent. Jon closed his eyes, listening to the quiet rush of Martin's breath from behind him, feeling the warmth of him warding off the pervasive bloodless chill. Without thinking about what he was doing, he let his hand slip down from Martin's wrist, lacing their fingers together lightly. Martin's hand twitched, his own fingers curling around Jon's in turn.
It would be weird in the morning, he knew, but at the moment he couldn't bring himself to worry about that. It was too comfortable here, too comforting, and he simply let himself enjoy the close presence of someone he cared about, and who cared about him, without fretting about the repercussions.
Safe in the warmth of Martin's arms, Jon fell asleep.