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As it turns out, being forced to go on a wild goose chase across half the UK in search of an ancient, probably-cursed gorilla skin is not without its perks. Those perks are mostly related to the fact that Jon is apparently not above spitefully splurging a considerable chunk of the Institute's travel budget on the nicest hotel room money can buy.
This is, without a doubt, the fanciest bathroom Martin has ever used. Definitely the nicest sink he's ever spit into. He takes a moment to self-consciously wipe his toothpaste flecks off of the mirror before he leaves.
The first thing Martin registers when he emerges from the bathroom is the fact that Jon is shirtless. He's swapped his no-nonsense slacks for a set of baggy sweatpants, which is a whole other mental image that’s going to take Martin some time to process, and he's fortunately too busy fussing with something on his phone to notice Martin’s eyes leaping out of his head. He's probably texting one of the others. But, yeah, it's mainly the shirtless thing that Martin notices. Martin tries hard not to stare, at first.
But then suddenly he's staring blatantly, because there, incongruous among the constellations of worm holes, he sees a pair of tidy white keyhole scars encircling Jon's nipples.
A silent moment passes. Jon looks up from his phone and gives Martin a questioning look, then looks down at his own chest, like he'd forgotten it was there. "Ah," he says, somewhat sheepishly, "I never did get around to telling you about that, did I."
Martin gawks a bit more, just for good measure, and then picks his jaw up off the floor and tries to recover his voice. "I can't believe you!" he says, because the complicated roulette of emotions spinning in his mind has apparently decided to land on indignant. "I, I was tearing my hair out for weeks before I came out to you, I was so scared, and all this time you- you were- you could've said something!"
Jon grimaces guiltily and shifts where he stands. He clicks his phone off and shoves it into his pocket. "Well. Uh, in my defense, I wasn't sure it was...appropriate? As your supervisor? And then there never seemed to be a good time, and then it had been so long-"
Martin immediately backtracks, feeling like a bit of an ass. "Oh, I didn't mean you- you didn't actually owe it to me, to tell me. It's just. Kind of funny in hindsight, is all."
Jon shrugs uncomfortably. "Honestly, I kind of assumed you would just figure it out through osmosis, at some point?"
"I absolutely did not. You, uh. You're very stealthy."
"Well." Jon looks a little mollified, verging on flattered. And, yeah, honestly, Martin would be too, in his position.
And then the realization hits him. "Oh, is that why you do that voice thing?"
"What voice thing?"
"Oh, you know. Jonathan Sims, deepest voice in all of London," says Martin, pitching his voice as low as he can get it, in the closest approximation he can manage of what he used to think of as Jon’s "spooky narrator" voice. Back before the "spooky" part became a bit too accurate for comfort.
"I do not sound like that." Jon sounds like he's making an effort to be annoyed, but his lips are twitching up at the corners. "But, yes, okay, maybe I do play it up a bit. From time to time."
And then he laughs in his normal voice, rich and warm, and Martin has to laugh too, because if he doesn't release the tension somehow he's pretty sure he's going to burst into glitter and confetti like a party popper. God, if T had given him a voice that gorgeous, he would probably ham it up for all it was worth, too.
There's a brief, weird silence, where they're just sort of looking at each other and smiling and there's some kind of energy in the air that's making Martin feel very nervous all of a sudden. Then Jon’s face falls, and the moment dies.
"...I'm sorry you were scared. To tell me," he says, looking anywhere but Martin’s face. "I know I wasn't very- back then, I wasn't the best..."
Jon trails off, visibly struggling, and Martin just has to stand there and try to keep it together while his heart does complicated flip-floppy things in his chest, because for some reason he has decided to fall a little in love with a man who apologizes like he's passing a kidney stone.
After a few awkward moments of watching Jon squirm, Martin finally takes pity. "Okay, Jon, don't strain yourself."
"Oh, shut up," grumbles Jon, looking profoundly relieved to be let off the hook. "That's what I get for trying to be less of a bastard."
"Well, look on the bright side. As terrified as I was of you, I never once worried that you might beat me to death with a rusty pipe."
Jon barks a startled laugh. "I suppose that's the one thing Elias is good for. Making me look good by comparison."
The next few moments pass in companionable silence while they unpack their sleep things and lay out clothes for tomorrow, and then Martin has to hesitate, because he normally likes to sleep shirtless, but, but, but-
Martin hates that he even feels like he has to ask, when Jon is already unselfconsciously bare-chested, and if there's anyone Martin could rely on to understand how very much these are not girl boobs, it would be Jon. But. It's just.
"Uh, do you mind if I…?" he lifts the hem of his shirt demonstratively, trying not to sound like he's making it a Thing.
"O-oh, yes, of course, go ahead," says Jon, fluttering his hands vaguely without looking up from his luggage.
And then Martin takes his shirt off, peels himself out of his compression bra, throws on a pair of boxer shorts, and it's fine. Everything is fine. Aside from the fact that Martin can't seem to stop himself from sneaking peeks at Jon’s chest every few seconds.
The idea of top surgery is mostly something that Martin just sort of...idly rolls around in his mind, sometimes, in the hopes that one day he might work up the nerve to poke it with a stick. The whole clownpocalypse situation has definitely put it firmly on the backburner, of course, and the sight of those silvery scars fills him with a combination of curiosity and maybe-envy. And, uh, the knowledge that Jon looks really good with his shirt off.
"They, uh, did a good job on you. Your chest looks good," says Martin, in what he can only hope is a casual tone.
"Thanks. Yours too," Jon replies automatically. A beat passes, and then Jon's eyes go wide with horror while Martin stands and splutters with some unnameable emotion. "Oh, good lord, I didn't mean-"
"No, no, no, it's okay," says Martin, once he's peeled his eyebrows back off the ceiling. "You're good. I, I actually appreciate it?"
Jon clears his throat, rubbing the back of his neck. "Well, I suppose now you see why I don't normally talk about this sort of thing."
"Yeah, no, I get it."
But then Jon keeps talking, while Martin listens with the kind of helpless fascination that comes with watching someone dig themself deeper and deeper into a conversational hole. He rarely gets to experience it from this perspective, since he's usually the one doing the digging.
"I have no objection to- to them in principle, you understand. Just. Not on me."
"Uh-huh," says Martin, still trying his best to act like the idea of Jonathan Sims looking at any part of his body with appreciation doesn’t shiver him from head to toe with guilty pleasure.
"Sometimes they're quite nice, even. Generally speaking." Jon sounds a bit faint, like he can't believe the words that are coming out of his mouth.
Martin makes a vague, somewhat strangled sound of agreement, pressing his lips together hard in an attempt to stop himself from doing something unforgivable. Like giggling. Or asking Jon if he'd like to cop a feel. He crosses his arms over his chest, suddenly conscious of the fact that his nipples have decided to wake up and say hello.
Aaand, judging by Jon's sudden interest in analyzing the texture of the wallpaper, he definitely noticed. Fuck Martin’s entire life.
"Bit cold in here," he says with awkward good cheer.
"Yes. It is," Jon agrees, no less awkwardly. "Right. Well. I'm going to shower."
And then Jon marches off to the bathroom with his shoulders somewhere in the vicinity of his ears, shutting the door behind him more forcefully than necessary. The sound echoes in the suddenly very quiet room.
Martin sits on the nearest bed and proceeds to have a minor emotional crisis.
-
In the end, Martin decides that discretion is the better part of valor, so he's already curled up under the covers with the lights off by the time Jon returns from the bathroom. He's not hiding. He's living to fight another day.
He almost thinks Jon is going to let him get away with it, at first. There's the sound of a door opening, a momentary flood of light through Martin’s eyelids, a waft of soap-scented humidity. The light turns off, and there's the rustle of Jon getting into bed. Martin starts to relax.
Then he hears Jon clear his throat, and his stomach drops. "Martin."
"Hmm?" says Martin, because nowhere near enough time has passed for him to plausibly pretend he's already asleep.
"I'm sorry if I made you...uncomfortable, earlier."
And okay. Okay. Martin needs a minute.
"Jon," he says carefully, after a very nervous pause, "I am literally the furthest thing from uncomfortable with the things you said."
"Oh. Oh. Uh. Well. I. Um. Hm," says Jon, each monosyllable an entirely different tone from the last. Jon continues on in this vein for some time while Martin stares into the dark in some kind of incredulous fugue state.
Martin, who has never once in his life been romantically forward, is slowly reaching the conclusion that it may be up to him to shoulder the burden of being the brave one in this situation.
Martin takes a deep breath through his nose and tries to figure out the most Jon possible way to phrase what he wants. He may actually be trembling slightly, because apparently, despite his numerous encounters with supernatural horrors, his body is not desensitized enough to the sensation of fear to make the idea of propositioning Jonathan Sims any less nerve-wrackingly terrifying. He's been lying in bed doing nothing for the past half hour, but he feels as breathless as if he just ran up a flight of stairs.
"Okay," he says, and his voice is not going to crack, he is past that stage, "Here's what's going to happen. I'm going to ask you a question. And if the answer is no we don't ever need to mention this conversation again."
"...okay?"
"Do you want to come cuddle with me. In the most no-strings-attached manner possible."
There's a silence, and Martin fully expects it to go on forever, to leave him staring at the ceiling and stewing in humiliated rejection until dawn. He feels hot and cold all over.
And then, all at once, he hears an explosive rustle of bedding from the direction of Jon’s bed, and a thump of feet hitting the floor. A second later there's a rush of cool air from his own blanket being lifted up, and then there's a warm body gluing itself to his chest.
And whatever Martin had expected after all Jon's hemming and hawing, it wasn't this, because this is a proper, full-on, no-holds-barred snuggle. Jon presses the full length of his body against Martin and clings, and then spends a moment just shifting and squirming around like he could somehow burrow closer. Martin feels a cold nose against his collarbone, a nuzzling brush of beard hair, and then a rush of warm air as Jon lets out the longest, deepest sigh of contentment. Martin could just about faint with relief. And a bunch of other emotions.
"Oh, thank god. I really went out on a limb for you just now, I hope you realize that." He wraps an arm around Jon and squeezes, then loosens his grip just enough to let him stroke a hand up and down Jon’s back, feeling the sharp ridges of his shoulder blades, the knobbles of his spine. Jon actually arches into the touch, and Martin is going to die. His heart is going to burst right out of his chest. The hotel staff are going to be cleaning him off the ceiling for weeks.
"Your initiative is very much appreciated," Jon mumbles, sounding like he was aiming for facetious, missed it by a mile, and ended up landing on sincere. Yeah, he'd better.
"Tell that to my blood pressure."
And then Jon makes a sort of snuffly noise against Martin's sternum, and Martin abruptly decides that he forgives him. Jon is a bundle of delight in his arms, warm and bony and a little wiggly, and he smells like citrus-y hotel shampoo, it's unfairly attractive, and that reminds him-
"God, I should have showered earlier," Martin mutters, because one of the miracles granted by testosterone is the ability to smell like ball sweat without the benefit of actual balls. In his defense, he had definitely not anticipated Jon getting within sniffing distance of him tonight.
"Hmm. I like the way you smell." There's another one of those palpably awkward pauses. "And I really need to stop trying to compliment you, because I can't seem to manage it without sounding creepy."
Martin’s eyes prickle a bit at the idea that Jon thinks he could find more things about him to compliment. At the same time, he kind of has to hold his breath for a second to keep himself from cracking up. Not for the first time, Martin thinks that the conflicting emotions Jon inspires in him might be in danger of giving him an aneurysm.
"You'll have to think up some normal ones, to balance it out," says Martin, in a wavering faux-casual tone. "Otherwise I'll think you only like me for my pit stink and my great tits."
Martin feels the huff of Jon’s laughter against his skin. The curve of his smile. "I'll draft up a list for you."
And Martin can't possibly keep his voice steady enough to reply to that, so he tucks his face into Jon’s hair and smiles.