lady_mab | Fic - JonMartin - Forehead kiss (Reply)

Or, more accurately to the request, "soft Smoöch...."

There’s a couch in the break room that gets used on occasions — mostly for mid-shift naps, and Jon knows he’s in no position to scold anyone for doing that when he’s fallen asleep at his desk more than once.

No one is certain how long it’s been there, but it’s clean and comfortable, and currently quite a glorious investment in Jon’s opinion as he sprawls out over it.

The world had been spinning after that last statement, and he needed to lie down to wait it off before filing follow-up requests on the witnesses. He had never been a man prone to vertigo, but after his conversation with Michael where he felt like he was falling for a solid ten minutes, well…

Sometimes, even solid ground didn’t feel sturdy enough some days.

Jon doesn’t remember what time it is. His glasses are… somewhere, and he has an arm thrown over his forehead as he stares at the ceiling and waits for the dizzy spell to pass.

The door to the breakroom cracks open, and Martin’s suddenly audible, mid-sentence, “—me that we’re running out of sugar—”

Jon wonders if he should feign sleep but if he closes his eyes then his stomach tilts one way and his chest tilts the other and he feels like he’ll twist apart and fly off in different directions so he keeps his eyes open as Martin cuts himself off and the door swings shut.

“Oh. Were you sleeping?”

“No,” he says, resigned. “Just... “

“Yeah.”

“Needed a break.”

Martin crosses the distance to the couch, pausing long enough to pick up Jon’s glasses and place them gently on the table. “Do you want me to get you anything?”

“I take it you’re here to make tea?”

He can practically hear the wry smile, even though he keeps his gaze focused on the reassuring stillness of the ceiling tiles. “Now what gave you that idea,” Martin says, though it isn’t quite a ‘no’, isn’t quite a ‘yes’. There’s a moment of hesitation, then Martin pulls one of the chairs over so he can sit down without being too much in Jon’s space. “Are you okay?”

Jon closes his eyes, testing his limits, before tilting his head to the side to watch a fuzzy Martin watch him warily. “I will be, given time.”

Martin takes a breath, and Jon can see all the potential questions swirling in his lungs as his chest expands. He waits for them, wondering which will be first, wondering which he will be able to answer truthfully, before Martin lets out a sigh and doesn’t ask a single one.

“I’ll make you some tea,” he says instead, and Jon is more thankful than he can put into words.

He returns to his study of the ceiling tiles as he listens to Martin bustle through the small kitchenette, muttering to himself as he puts on the kettle and prepares the mugs. It’s comforting, and for a brief moment, he can feel himself relax, almost to the point of sleep.

It’s there, tugging at him, the promise of another breathless journey into the Vast, but he’s just so tired that he’s not sure he can fight it.

And then there’s a hand against his brow, fingers carding back through his hair in a way that is both painfully familiar and incredibly alien to him.

His eyes open, and he looks up to again watch Martin watching him.

The hand doesn’t pull back, like a part of him thought it would. Instead, like the small, tiny part of him hoped it would, the fingers continue to trace a shape only they can see, brushing stands of graying hair away.

“Let me read the next one,” Martin says, more of a plea than an offer.

“Martin, I—”

“You’re not fine.”

It’s not even worth lying about. “I can handle it.” That’s not a complete lie, at least.

He almost pouts, stubborn, but instead he lets his thumb follow the ridge of bone between Jon’s eyes, pressing the spot where a wrinkle is undoubtedly forming. “So can I.”

Jon continues to watch him, though Martin’s gaze has shifted, focused on something else somewhere just below his eyes. He takes a breath, clicks his tongue, and wonders at what Martin is thinking when the gaze jumps back to meet his. “I will let you know when I need your help.”

It sounds a bit abrasive and dismissive, so he hurries to clarify, “I promise.” He is careful of how he has to phrase things, unwilling to wonder if he’s forcing Martin to believe him or something worse.

But Martin’s expression falls, softens into something unreadable. His fingers, still half-tangled in Jon’s hair, shift enough so that he can lean in and place a soft, lingering kiss to Jon’s forehead. “I believe you,” he murmurs into the minimal space between them.

Jon’s hand lifts before he can think about it, before he can second guess himself. It catches onto the back of Martin’s head before he can pull away, allowing himself the indulgence of catching the ruddy curls in his grip.

The kiss is barely that, but sweet in a way that Jon misses as soon as Martin pulls back. Across the kitchenette, the kettle hisses in promises off a boiling scream, though Jon catches a brief look of reluctance as Martin rises to his feet — fixing his own glasses, fixing his shirt, touching his fingers briefly to the back of his neck then to his own lips.

Jon watches him, content to let it be that, content that the world stops spinning like a teacup ride at a carnival when Martin is his center of gravity.