Work Text:
The thing about the Archives is: the ventilation down here is absolute shit.
It’s in the basement, so there’s already no windows, and if the Institute’s climate control system ever even made it this far down, it gave up the ghost long before Martin ever set foot in the place.
So what winds up happening is: for half the year it’s stuffy and stifling, claustrophobically hot in a way that almost makes it hard to get enough air in your lungs. And then, just when you think you’d give anything for some relief, a breeze or a hint of A/C filtering down from upstairs or anything, winter hits. Then, suddenly it’s so cold you feel like you might never be warm again; the kind of cold that makes you crave the embrace of the blankets on your bed at home like you might crave water in the middle of a desert.
After surviving his first summer as an archival assistant, Martin never thought he’d miss the stuffy heat. But when he has to curl up on an old cot with nothing but a single thin blanket between himself and the chilled March air in document storage, he just about manages.
It’s nearly spring, but the chill still hasn’t abated. Martin spends the first few nights curled in on himself and mostly sleepless, trying very hard not to let himself believe every bump and rattle he hears is Prentiss coming back to finish what she started.
His first weekend is mostly miserable.
There’s no sugarcoating it: he’s cold and the cot is uncomfortable and he has to wear the same clothes he’s already been wearing for days because he fled his flat with nothing. Jon promised to send someone to get his things from his place on Monday, but that does very little to make the rest of Saturday and Sunday any less dreary. He misses his comforter like a phantom limb. It’s heavy and feather down and all he wants to do is wrap it around himself and hide there for awhile and pretend he’s the type of person who gets to feel at home.
At least he doesn’t have to eat any more canned peaches. Jon ordered enough takeaway to feed a small army Saturday night, went out to the Sainsbury’s down the street and filled the fridge in the breakroom on Sunday. He even gave Martin the Archive’s departmental company expense card to buy more food with if he needs to.
And that— yeah, that part was nice.
That… does make Martin feel a little warmer, when he thinks about it.
Still. It’s not his best weekend.
Monday morning finds Martin, hours before work’s meant to start, huddled on the cot with a blanket draped around his shoulders, mug of luke-warm tea clutched tight to his chest. It’s so early still, Martin’s the only one here. Even Jon hasn’t come in yet. Aside from a spider crawling up in the far corner, Martin might be the only living thing in this building right now, the cavernous, dusty space yawning dark around him.
It makes Martin want to huddle in on himself; the smaller he makes himself, the easier it will be to keep warm. He pulls his legs up, takes a sip of his tea, and—
And then the door to document storage flies open, and Martin jumps so hard he almost spills tea all over his knees. Heart lodged somewhere behind his teeth, Martin’s eyes snap up, but it’s just—
“Tim!” Martin snaps, scrambling to set his tea aside. “Christ! What are you doing here?”
“Uh.” Tim blinks, eyebrows raising, stopping in his tracks and looking at Martin like a spooked wild animal. That’s fine, that’s about how he feels right now. “… Checking on you? Jon… told us what happened. Said you’d be staying back here.”
Now that the initial shock is fading, heart-rate coming back down from the stratosphere, embarrassment is starting to set in. He’s... in his boxers, hiding out, throwing a pity party for himself surrounded by boxes and piles of old files. At least it’s just Tim. They’re friends, right? Not as bad as it being Sasha or Jon or, god forbid, Elias. Martin straightens up, pulls the blanket tighter around himself self-consciously. “Um. W-why are you here so early?”
Tim huffs. “Early? It’s…” He pulls his phone out of his pocket. “Five-to-nine, Martin. Work starts in like five minutes.”
Aaaand Martin’s heart-rate shoots back up into the clouds. He looks around, but… it’s the basement. No windows. He doesn’t have his phone. There’s no clock in document storage. Lost in his thoughts like that, drifting and miserable, the hours must’ve just… slipped away from him.
“You’re joking.”
“I wish.” Tim stretches his arms over his head and yawns theatrically. “Could use some more sleep.”
“God, I—” He needs to get ready. He’s got five minutes and his head still feels thick with cottony fog. “Have you seen my—”
“Hey, woah, relax.” Tim holds out his hands as he comes closer, leans on the filing cabinet Martin’s got next to the cot like a make-shift bedside table. “Sasha’s not in yet. Jon’s already holed up in his office, he won’t notice. No rush.”
“Fuck.” Martin sighs. He pushes his glasses up, digs his fingers into closed eyelids. “Leave it to me to be late to work when I’m sleeping thirty bloody feet from my bloody desk.”
“You could always call in sick.”
“Haven’t I been ‘sick’—” Martin makes vicious air quotes with his fingers— “for the last two weeks?”
“Okay, then… take a personal day?”
“Tim, I live here now,” Martin says. “What would I do? Sit in the break room all day? Hide in here with all the dusty old statements?”
Tim shrugs. “You could go out? Do something fun?”
“I don’t even have my wallet,” Martin tells him. “Do you know somewhere that’s free where I can go in week-old pajamas?”
Tim makes a face, nose scrunching up. “No, guess not.”
Martin tries not to look too smug. “Didn’t think so.”
Tim sighs. He scuffs his shoe on the dingy carpet, picks at some invisible loose thread on his pants, rubs his other hand at the back of his neck. “You know,” he finally says, “you don’t have to live here. I-I’ve got a spare room. You… you’re more than welcome, Martin.”
Martin’s face does something that’s probably embarrassing, but he’s too surprised to feel any real shame. “Um.”
“As long as you need,” Tim goes on. “It’ll be nice to have some company.”
“I—” Martin sucks in his lower lip, drags it between his teeth, looks down at his hands. “I can’t.”
“Aw, c’mon. It’s not the biggest flat, but there’s plenty of space. It’s got to be more comfortable than…” He waves his hand around the room.
Martin sighs, shuts his eyes. He almost wishes he could just disappear, but apparently that only works when he’d rather it didn’t because he can still feel Tim’s eyes on him. “No, I-I really can’t.”
“Why not?”
Martin shakes his head. “It-It’s not safe? Not with Jane Prentiss still out there. Y-you should… a-ask Jon to hear my statement.”
“Are you… You sure?”
“Yeah. I’m sure.” Martin nods. “Look, t-that’s really nice of you. I appreciate it. I… I really appreciate it, but. I just can’t.”
Tim sighs. “There’s no way I’m gonna be able to convince you, is there?”
“Nope.” Martin gives his head a shake. “I’ve been told I can be a bit stubborn.”
“Yeah, I know.” Somehow, Tim manages to make it sound fond. “Well, hey. If there’s… if there’s anything else you need, you can ask me, okay?”
Martin nods. “Okay.”
“Seriously,” Tim says, knocking Martin’s shin with his toes. “Anything.”
Martin huffs. Not quite a laugh, but getting there. Warmer than anything else he’s felt today. “Okay, okay. I will.”
“I mean it.”
“I know you do, Tim.” Martin pokes his leg out of the blanket and taps Tim’s shin back with his own socked foot.
“Good.” Tim smiles, shoves himself up. He hovers for a moment. Flexes his fingers, gives his hands a quick shake. “Well. I’ll let you get ready in peace. Buy you some time if Jon comes round.”
Martin smiles. “Thanks.”
“No problem.”
He shoots Martin a singular finger gun, turns to go. Martin’s fingers twist into the fabric of the blanket. He bites the inside of his cheek, steals himself.
“Tim?”
Tim stops, hand just centimeters away from the doorknob. He turns back around, raises his eyebrows. “Yeah?”
“Um…” Martin fixes his eyes on the carpet. There’s a stain that looks a bit like a duck, right by Tim’s left heel. “Maybe you could… Maybe you could help, er. H-help me get some of my things from my flat? At some point?”
Tim blinks, and then he smiles. “Yeah, totally. No problem. Just write up a list of everything you need and I can pop by at lunch.”
“Oh, I can just come—”
Tim holds up his hand. “Nope, too late. Already going. Just give me that list!”
And then he’s gone, shutting the door quietly but firmly behind him. For a moment, Martin considers going after him, but… it’s been a long weekend, and… and having a friend to lean on finally makes him feel just that much warmer.
—
Turns out, when you’re living in a basement with no natural light, time moves funny. It passes agonizingly slow, even as the days blur together in a roiling stream of monotony, anxiety, drudgery, and nightmares. It’s a really weird combination that leaves Martin with even worse brain fog than normal and a bad case of cabin fever.
So when Tim and Sasha start packing up their things to head home on Friday, Martin startles internally, heart lurching into his throat. His laptop, rescued from his flat, tells him it’s 5:32 PM, and he has to double take. Last he checked it wasn’t even lunchtime. How did five hours just slip out from under him?
He blinks, and, god, yeah, there’s a painful sting behind his eyes and an ache in his back. An entire day is gone, and now it’s the weekend and Martin’s meant to survive down here until everyone comes back Monday morning. At least Jon sometimes comes in on Saturdays, but. It’s not like he’ll spend any time with Martin. He’ll hide in his office all day just like he does Monday-through-Friday.
“Hey.”
Martin jumps, whirling his chair around so fast he smacks his knee on his desk. “Tim.” He clears his throat. “Um. Hi. N-need something?”
“Yes.” He does that thing where he rocks up onto the balls of his feet before falling flat again. “I need you to come to my flat and eat take out and watch bad movies with me—”
“Tim—”
“Tonight, if possible,” Tim goes on.
“Tim,” Martin sighs, “I already said—”
“No, okay. I’m not saying… come stay with me. I’m saying… just the one night! Like a sleepover! You’ve been stuck here all week, it would be good!”
Martin opens his mouth, shuts it again. Frowns, twists his chair back around to face his desk. “I. I’m not sure…”
“Mar-tiiin.” Tim slides around behind him, braces his hands on Martin’s shoulders, jostles him back and forth. “You were held hostage by the worm queen! Just come over and have some fun for a little bit!”
“Is hostage the right word?” Martin hedges. “I think you need to make, like, ransom demands for it to be a hostage situation.”
And you need someone who would actually want you back, he doesn’t say, even though his mind helpfully reminds him there’s no one in the world who’d want him home safe.
“Mmm. I think that’s kidnapping.”
“What’s the difference?”
“Hey.” Tim leans down to Martin’s level, points at him. “Don’t try and distract me.”
Martin almost cracks a smile, then. “But it’s so easy.”
“Okay, takes one to know one.”
“Maybe, yeah.”
“C’mon.” Tim perches on the edge of Martin’s desk, leans forward into his space. “I have a spare room. With a real bed. Comfy pillows, heating system from this century, goose down duvet…”
Martin sighs. “I…” The thing about Tim is he’s pretty enough that his puppy-dog eyes have an unfair amount of power, even if you’re not Martin, a person with a weakness for pretty men acting sweet to him. “I guess.” Tim whoops, and Martin is sure to add, “just tonight, though.”
“Of course. I’ll bring you right back to your cot and dusty file boxes first thing tomorrow morning.”
“Okay.” A beat passes. “Oh. You probably mean— like. N-now?”
Tim smiles gently. “Work day’s over. I’m heading out.”
“Oh. R-right, uh.” Martin’s face heats up, and he pushes his chair back, forces himself to stand. “Um. Just give me a minute, I’ll—”
“Take your time.” Tim manages to catch Martin’s eyes, holds them, raises his eyebrows. “No rush, really.”
Martin nods. Makes himself relax. It’s easier than he expects, but. That’s what he likes about Tim; something about his earnest kindness makes it hard not to relax around him. He’s easy to be around, in a way things aren’t usually easy for Martin.
Maybe a night with him will be good for Martin. “Okay. Er, be right back.”
“I’ll be here,” Tim promises, and as Martin disappears back to document storage to get ready, he knows he will be.
—
Tim’s flat is… nice.
That’s really the only way Martin can describe it: it’s cute and cozy, but still manages to be sophisticated in a down-to-earth way that reminds Martin of Tim himself. This is a home, and it speaks to the person who calls it that.
Tim slips his shoes off, hangs his coat up on the coatrack — because he actually owns a coatrack. Martin usually just shucks his jacket off on whatever surface he happens to pass first: couch, chair, kitchen counter.
Martin toes out of his own shoes, and then Tim is here, hand on his shoulder. “Here, let me—” He helps Martin out of his jacket.
Martin huffs. “Such a gentleman.”
And, ah. That came out sounding… more sincere than he really meant it to. Oops.
Tim flashes him a grin. “I do try.” He hangs Martin’s coat on the rack. Next to his own. “Now. Are you hungry? I can start dinner.”
Martin looks up at him, brows pinching together. “I thought you were going to order in?”
“Changed my mind.” Tim shrugs. “How do you feel about stir fry?”
Protest leaps to the tip of his tongue so fast it’s like it happens automatically, a reflex. “You don’t need to cook for me.”
“Yeah, but I’ve got a crisper drawer full of veggies that are about sixteen hours away from spoiling, and if I don’t want to throw my money down the drain, I do need to use them. So.” Tim raises his eyebrows. “Stir fry?”
“Oh. Right.” Martin can already feel his cheeks heating. “Yeah. I-I like stir fry.”
“Great.” Tim smiles. It’s crooked and handsome and charming as ever. Bastard. “Here, lemme show you the guest room so you can put your things up, then I’ll get started.”
Tim’s spare room is down a short hall, right across from a second closed door. Tim’s room, Martin assumes, and then does his very best to shove any thoughts about that out of his mind like he’s stomping down overflowing papers in the bin. He is not going to imagine what might be hung up on Tim’s walls, if he keeps it messy or neat, what Tim’s sheets smell like.
Nope, none of that!
Despite Tim’s insistence that Martin ‘make himself at home,’ he doesn’t do any kind of unpacking or exploring. All he does is trade his binder for a soft sports bra, and put on a more comfortable T-shirt under a loose cardigan. Night clothes that manage to be comfy without looking too shabby, because.
Well.
Because he’s still going to make some effort when very pretty men invite him to their homes. The stupid worms can’t take that from him, thank you very much.
He shoves his old clothes back in his backpack and leaves it (zipped up like he’s ready to leave at a moment’s notice) propped up against the bedside table before he goes to find Tim again. Tim is standing by the stove, sleeves pushed up, and Martin is not going to stare at his arms, or the way his hair is already falling out of place, like he’s been running his hands through it, and how nice it would feel under Martin’s fingers—
“Can I help out?” Martin asks, cutting his own thoughts off at the pass.
“You—” Tim turns to him, waves a spatula in his vague direction— “Can go have a seat and relax.”
Martin is categorically not very good at sitting by while other people do all the work, but the way he says it has him fighting off a smile all the same. “I can sit, but I can’t make any promises about being relaxed.”
Tim glowers at him. “You’re a guest in my home. I think if I let you help my mum would materialize out of thin air just to shout at me.”
“Hmm. That might be kind of funny to see, actually.”
“Martin!”
Martin can’t fight the smile anymore. “Okay! Going, going.”
Tim grumbles something as Martin retreats, ending with something that sounds suspiciously like ‘lucky you’re cute,’ and Martin’s smile turns soft now that he’s safely out of Tim’s line of sight.
In the living room, Martin tries not to be nosy at first, but he’s still waiting for his replacement phone to be delivered, and he’s not sure if he’s welcome to turn on the TV or steal a book off Tim’s bookshelf, so he needs something to keep himself busy.
“Find anything interesting?”
Martin, who is definitely not snooping through Tim’s bookshelf and definitely not wondering why he has so many books about clowns, startles. “Um. I wasn’t—”
“It’s okay.” Tim grins at him, and Martin actually manages to believe him. “I’m friends with Sasha. I think the first time she came over here she tried to hack my email.”
Martin laughs. He can’t actually tell if Tim’s serious or not. “Well. Don’t worry. I’m not interested in any of your emails.”
“Aw, some of them are quite good, though.” And then Tim winks, and Tim winks a lot but Martin’s still so bad at taking it in stride. “Anyway. Food’s ready.”
They eat on the sofa, because Tim thinks it’ll be more comfortable after a long day at work, and Martin politely pretends he’s a grown up who owns a table and doesn’t just eat all his meals on the couch or in bed. Still, it’s nice. Feels cozier with Tim than it ever did when he was alone back in his own flat.
“It’s good,” Martin tells him.
“Thanks.” Tim beams. “I’m a man of many talents.”
Martin hums skeptically, ‘cause he just can’t resist. He’s not the best flirt, but it’s just so easy to get Tim riled up.
“Hey,” Tim complains, and Martin hides his grin in a bite of veggies and rice. “Oh, I see. Is this what’s happening? I open my home to you, and you mock me?”
“Sasha’s not around right now, so someone’s gotta do it.”
“That’s it, this is a hostile work environment. I’m quitting Monday morning.”
Martin huffs. “Go ahead and try. You’d miss us all too much.”
“Wouldn’t miss the evil flesh eating worms.”
Martin’s smile slips. He sets his plate down on the coffee table, appetite curdling inside of him.
“Oh.” Tim winces. “Right. Sorry. Too soon?”
Martin swallows down his unease. “Maybe a bit.”
“Sorry,” Tim repeats. “Just trying to… You know.”
“Yeah, I do,” Martin tells him. And he means it. Most of the time he loves the way Tim can always find something to laugh about even when things feel most dire, but he can still hear knocking ringing in his ears when he tries to sleep, and just the thought of peaches turns his stomach. “Just… not yet.”
“Gotcha.” Tim nods solemnly. “Worm jokes: off the table.”
Martin smiles shakily. “Thanks.”
“No problem. Seriously.”
They fall into a cautious silence, Tim peering cautiously at Martin with a worried furrow in his brows.
“Now that you mention it, though, have you ever thought about… just leaving?”
Martin huffs, but there’s no real humor in it. “What, trying to get rid of me now?”
“Oh, c’mon.” Tim knocks their shoulders together. “Don’t even joke. I just meant, like… God, you almost got killed by evil worms! Bet you aren’t gonna get that at, like, an office job.”
Martin shrugs. “I mean, I dunno, I guess it crossed my mind? Once or twice? But, like…” How can he leave now? When it feels like they’re just getting started? Like something big and important is happening around him and he needs to see how it ends? Or, more importantly: when he’s still barely keeping his and his mum’s bills paid. “Where else would I go? I need the job. I can’t just quit.”
Tim scoffs. “Martin, with your experience, I’m sure you could get a job anywhere. Hell, I could even put in a good word for you back at my old publishing firm. Pretty sure I didn’t burn all my bridges when I left.”
“My experience?” Martin gives him a look. “Tim, you remember that my entire resume is a lie, right?”
Tim rolls his eyes. “Okay, I don’t mean your fake Ghustbuster’s master’s degree. I mean your real Magnus Institute experience. You worked in the library for years, and you’ve got almost a year of archiving. That’s impressive.”
Martin snorts. “Yeah, and look how far that’s gotten me. I can’t even turn in a case report without Jon getting on my case a-about, about formatting, or, or something.”
“Okay, Jon’s just—”
“A prick?”
“— Particular,” Tim says, “and he doesn’t know you yet. Give him time, he’ll warm up.”
Martin shrugs. Tim’s probably right; Jon’s been… really, genuinely kind to Martin since he came back to work. “Still. Point is, I don’t think leaving is realistic.”
Tim sighs. “Fair enough. I guess we all have our reasons for being here, huh?”
“Yeah…” Martin nods. “I guess we do.”
Tim hums, letting his head fall back against the sofa. “Yeah.”
Martin looks down at his hands, runs his thumb along his palm, idly picks at the one last stubborn spot of faded purple-mauve polish on his pinky nail that managed to survive the last three weeks. Maybe he’ll finally get around to painting them again, now that he doesn’t have Prentiss to worry about. Maybe Tim has some nice colors he can borrow while he’s here.
Beside him, out of the corner of his eyes, he sees Tim’s hands fidget similarly, plucking at a thread on the hem of his shirt until it comes loose and he can pull at it in earnest. A commonality between the two of them: restless hands. A small act of honesty.
Tim is letting Martin see that he’s nervous, too.
Finally, Martin breaks the silence. Wryly, he asks: “Think Jon would give me a good reference?”
Tim snorts. “Well… I know Diana loves you. I bet she’d sing your praises to any potential future employers.”
And that. That does startle a laugh out of Martin, undignified and loud in a way Martin hasn’t laughed in weeks. It feels nice, to let the weight slip off his shoulders, even if it’s just for tonight.
He sighs, head falling back against the sofa cushions. “At least there’s that, I guess.”
“Hey,” Tim’s voice goes softer now, and he reaches over and lays his hand on Martin’s arm. “I don’t actually want you to go. I’m just… I don’t know. I don’t want to see you get hurt.”
Too late, Martin thinks. All he says is, “thanks.”
“I mean it.” Tim runs his hand up Martin’s arm and up onto his shoulders. He squeezes once, then pulls away, hoisting himself up. “Right, you know what we need?”
Martin thinks what he needs right now is for Tim to keep touching him. “What?”
Tim snaps his fingers. “Drinks.”
“Drinks?”
“Yep.”
“Alright then,” Martin agrees, as Tim disappears.
Tim pokes his head out of the kitchen. “You’re not a wine guy, right?”
Martin blinks. “You… remembered that?”
“Yeah. Tannins, right?”
“Tannins,” Martin agrees dumbly, “yeah.”
Tim grins. “Great.”
He ducks back out of sight, and when he comes back he’s got a glass of red wine in one hand and a bottle of beer in the other, and Martin tries not to fixate on the way his long fingers wrap delicately around each one.
“I hope this brand is okay,” Tim says, passing off the bottle to Martin. “I wasn’t sure what kind of thing you usually go in for.”
Martin’s strategy when he picks a drink is to find the cheapest six pack at the Aldi by his building. “It’s great. Thanks.”
Tim’s face lights up with something that looks an awful lot like relief. Like he was actually worried what Martin might think, and isn’t that something? Martin smiles, raises his bottle, and meets Tim’s glass in a quiet cheers.
After dinner, they sit back on the couch with full bellies and empty drinks and put on a movie. Martin’s not the biggest sci-fi fan, but Tim was so enthusiastic about showing him Galaxy Quest when he found out Martin had never seen it that it had been impossible to say no.
Still, half-way through the movie, Martin won’t admit it, but he’s barely paying attention. There is barely half a cushion of empty space between himself and Tim and nothing more, and he’s more aware of the distance than anything going on on the screen.
He sighs, wiggles back into the squashy cushions like he can vanish into them entirely, folds his arms tightly over his middle. His fingers twist into the fabric of his shirt just for something to do, to keep them still. When he chances a look over at Tim, he finds Tim’s eyes already on him.
Tim just smiles when he’s caught. He pulls a soft, quilted throw blanket off the back of the sofa. “Cold?”
Martin’s been a little bit cold since Prentiss first trapped him. Only the tips of his ears feel hot right now. “Maybe a little.”
“Well, c’mere, then.” Tim holds up the blanket, pats the couch next to him. “It’s not huge, but we can share.”
Martin doesn’t even have a snappy comeback to that. “Right.” His voice is not going to crack. He’s not going to squeak. He’s 29-years-old, he’s fine. “Okay.”
He scooches cautiously closer. His knee bumps into Tim’s, their hands fumbling as Martin takes his corner of the blanket and pulls it onto his lap. It’s not that big of a blanket. Martin tells himself that’s the only reason he settles with his thigh pressed together up against Tim’s.
Yep. That’s definitely it.
Except then when Tim leans back, he drapes his arms over the back of the sofa, right behind Martin’s shoulders. And that’s— well, that’s the oldest trick in the book, right? That’s, like, 13-year-old on their first date classic.
Forget the blanket, Martin can feel Tim’s body heat through two layers of clothes. Martin holds his breath. He sneaks a peak at Tim out of the corner of his eyes. Counts to three in his head, but Tim doesn’t move.
Emboldened, Martin shifts a single millimeter. Then another, and another, until he lets himself sag against Tim’s side, fitting right into place, snug in the crook of his arm.
He swallows, shoulders tense, looking firmly down at his fingers, curled unsteadily in his own lap. “Is. I-is this okay?”
And then he feels Tim’s hand drop onto his shoulder. His thumb brushes softly along Martin's clavicle, fingers squeezing his arm just so, sending goosebumps up and down his bicep as he pulls him closer.
When he says, “Yeah. ‘Course,” his voice is dandelion fluff-soft and sun-warm.
So Martin lets his muscles relax, lets Tim take his weight.
It’s… it’s nice. It’s so nice. Sturdy. Secure, in a way Martin isn’t used to feeling.
Martin’s not that short (tall enough that he’s never had any kind of height dysphoria, at least. He’s even taller than a lot of cis guys he knows, which has always been a little bit of an ego boost for him even before his transition) but even so, Tim’s got a decent half a foot on him, and Martin’s never really appreciated it quite like he does in this moment. It’s safe here, enveloped in Tim’s arms.
He’s got really bloody great arms to curl up in.
Martin turns his face to hide in the crook of Tim’s neck, buries his nose in the soft cotton of his shirt. He refuses to call it nuzzling, because he’s better than that, dammit, but. It’s not an inaccurate description, if he’s 100% honest with himself. This must be what a cat feels like when he finds that one really good spot of sunlight to curl up in, Martin thinks, shutting his eyes and taking a deep, contented breath.
… And maybe that comparison is a little too on the money, because the next thing he knows, he’s being jostled awake by a gentle hand on his shoulder.
“Martin?” Martin can feel Tim’s voice reverberating through his chest. “Still with me?”
When Martin blinks his eyes open, the television screen has gone dark, and the light coming in through the windows is the yellow, artificial kind beaming up from street lamps and tail lights.
“Did I, uh…” Martin clears his throat, pushes his glasses up and digs the heel of his palm into his eyes. “I missed the movie?”
Tim huffs out a quiet laugh. “Yeah, you definitely did.”
Martin sighs, scrunches up his nose as he looks over to Tim. “… Sorry.”
“It’s, uh…” He meets Martin’s eyes, and voice trails off. Martin’s not sure what he’s seeing, but whatever it is, it makes his whole face go soft, opening up like a blooming lily. His voice, when it comes back, is almost as croaky as Martin’s. “Don’t worry, you’re… um. You’re forgiven.”
Martin hums. In his sleepy haze, it’s hard to focus when Tim’s face is so close to his. He’s dizzy with proximity, it’s really not fair. “Cool. Good.”
Great.
“You, um—” Tim stops, wets his lips. “You tired?”
Huh, when did his hand end up on Tim’s thigh? That’s an interesting development. “… I guess I must’ve been.”
Tim sways forward, so minutely Martin might’ve missed it if he weren’t paying such close attention. “Do you. Do you want to… call it a night?”
Martin is wide awake, now. “N-no.”
Tim’s hand slides from Martin’s shoulder, up his neck, to cup his cheek gently. “No?”
Martin shakes his head. “I’m— I’m fine here.”
“Yeah?”
Martin swallows. His voice, when he finds it, comes out half-wrecked. “Yeah.”
Tim’s thumb skirts a delicate path across Martin’s cheek, warm and tender. They’re close enough now that Martin can feel Tim’s every exhale. His eyes flit down to Tim’s lips, scarcely daring to breathe. Something molten-hot flicks to life in his chest, spreading out through his veins to the tips of his fingers, sparking under his skin.
There’s barely a centimeter of space between their mouths. It would… it would be so easy, but… But Martin is, regrettably, as self-sabotaging as he is afraid to be happy, so he stumbles, heart in his throat. “I thought… I thought you like Sasha?”
“I. I’m thirty-four-years-old.” Tim blushes, all blotchy and pink, and. Oh. Martin didn’t know he did that. He’s Tim, he’s usually the one making Martin flush. “I’m a grown up. I can— I’m capable of, of— liking more than one person at a time.”
Martin kind of feels like his skin might catch on fire. The thing is, they do flirt sometimes. Maybe more than sometimes, but then again it’s Tim. He’s just easy to flirt with. Sasha does it too, he sees it happening.
And Martin isn’t a total idiot: he kind of thought, well, okay, maybe, when Tim invited him to his house and cooked him dinner and kept finding reasons to touch him. But he’s Martin, so it’s hard for the rational part of his brain to make contact with the part that lets him believe good things.
So he has to be sure. “So…”
“So…” Tim’s cheeks are still on fire, but he knits his eyebrows together determinedly. “Can I kiss you?”
Martin’s whole world blooms into technicolor.
He can’t seem to find the words to respond, so he ditches the words altogether and answers by tipping forward into Tim’s space and pressing their lips together decisively.
He’s not sure which of them he surprises more, but after the initial flash-bang of accelerated heartbeats and the handful of seconds it takes for them both to remember how to breathe, Tim tilts his head, and pulls Martin in closer, and, oh, there we go.
It’s been a long time (too long) since Martin’s been kissed like this; too long since someone held him or touched him as desperately as this, and Martin is hungry for it; he’s ravenous and he can’t get enough, head spinning, fireworks going off behind his closed eyelids.
He grabs a fistful of Tim’s shirt and pulls him closer, closer, closer until they’re pressed together, chest-to-chest, kissing and kissing and kissing, hands roaming everywhere they can reach, greedy like a pair of drunk teenagers.
He’s lost in the sensation, the sweetness of Tim’s mouth. He feels like he might float away entirely.
It’s Tim who pulls away first, flustered and breathing hard. “You don’t have to sleep in the spare room. You can stay with me if you want,” he says, and then blinks, eyes going very wide. “Oh, god. I mean— That sounds— I swear that’s not why I brought you up here. I didn’t mean anything, uh… Untoward.”
Martin bites the inside of his cheek. His eyes drop out of habit, but. But Martin can be brave, just this once, so he looks back up at Tim and stays there. What he’s about to say is either going to be a very good line or the lamest thing he’s ever said in his life.
“What if I… want it to be untoward?”
Tim raises his eyebrows, cheeks flushing, if possible, even darker. “Do you?”
“Would that… Would that be okay?”
“Okay?” Tim barks out a laugh. “Uh, yeah. That would be very okay. That would be more than okay.”
“Okay.” Martin nods. He’s definitely blushing, now, but so is Tim, so he thinks it’s probably fine. “Then… Let’s go to bed.”
“Let’s— uh, oh! Now? Yeah! Yeah, uh—” he scrambles to his feet, holding his hand out for Martin. “Yeah. Let’s go.”
Martin bites his lip to stop himself from grinning. He slips his hand into Tim’s, lets Tim pull him up alongside him, and doesn’t let go when he’s up. He squeezes Tim’s hand with his own, lets his smile slip free, fading into something soft and coy.
“Lead the way,” he says, and Tim doesn’t need to be told twice.
Martin gets the feeling, as they head back to the bedroom, that he won’t be going back to the Institute tomorrow. Somehow, he can’t even find it in himself to care. He can let himself have something good, for once.
He can give himself a weekend here with Tim.