It couldn't be had, what he wanted to hold (TMA, Jon, 1 of ?)

[Frick]

Trying hard not to awaken
The voice of regret in his ear
He can’t escape the timeline
So much worse than he had feared
Lived every moment
Wishing the past would disappear
~ Eddie Vedder, Long Way

 

Ever since he could remember (and how long is that?), whenever Jon had a fever, no matter how slight, he would have nightmares. Not dim shadows, vague with foreboding, but technicolor, detailed. Not flimsy things, easily torn away, but more like cobwebs, clinging and sticky. Worse, they were just close enough to reality that he was always left questioning after, which dream, which not?

“That doesn’t sound promising.” Martin’s voice breaks the stillness.

Jon looks up from his book, blinking. “Mmm?”

“You’ve been sniffling for the past hour.” Fortunately, instead of annoyed, he sounds concerned. In the soft light of evening, Martin’s hair glows. His glasses reflect firelight. He looks warm and soft and Jon wishes they were curled up together on the couch. But Martin had wanted the table for his tea and notebook, a chance to write in quiet for a change. Jon’s trying not to be greedy. After all he has Martin to himself for a whole fortnight.  He can allow the few feet of space between them.

“Sorry, have I?” He rubs absently at his nose. He hadn’t realized, but now that his concentration is broken, maybe he does feel a bit like he needs a handkerchief. “Allergies must be… ht’ngxt!”

Martin huffs. “Allergies, in the middle of November?”

“Mold,” Jon suggests, hopefully.

“I told you Tim was sick. Sasha told you Tim was sick! But did you listen?” Even as he scolds, Martin pulls a clean square of cloth from his pocket and holds it out. Behind his glasses, his eyes sparkle, fond.

Jon takes the handkerchief, but can’t bring himself to use it, not with Martin looking. “Well, what was I supposed to do?” His voice takes on Tim’s cadence. “Abandon him to ride the tube, when I’m already forcing him to spend the most boring day ever at a rare book conference even though he’s practically dying of plague?”

“Nice impression,” Martin says, laughing. “Maybe next time pay for his cab?”

Jon shrugs, smiles as well. “Bit of a cold, not the end of the world.” But the words echo strangely in his ears, and he rubs his temples with cold fingertips.

“Headache?”

“No, I’m fine.”

The expression on Martin’s face speaks clear as words –  if you say so –  laden with doubt.

“Really,” Jon assures him.

“It’s so weird when you do that.”

“Sorry?”

“Answer something I didn’t actually say.” Martin leans over and brushes Jon’s hair from his forehead - not so surreptitiously checking for fever.

“You need to work on your poker face.”

“That’s not what Tim says.”

“He lets you win.”

Martin gasps, hand to his chest in mock affront. “He would never!” But they both know he absolutely would, especially when it means Jon would lose, especially when it’s Martin. “Take it back, or I’ll publish that limerick I wrote the other night.” He brandishes his pencil.

Jon waves the handkerchief, white flag of surrender. “All right, all right. I rescind my statement.”

“Best you had,” Martin says, turning back to his notebook.

Freed from his gaze, Jon ducks his head and blows his nose, hoping it will ease the drippiness and building tickles. He’s still hoping for allergies. After all, the flora and fauna of Scotland is likely different enough that it could cause some sensitivity.

Instead of the relief he wants, the sensation rises more intensely and he’s forced to stifle several sneezes into the cloth. He exhales on a sigh. Well, if he has to be ill, at least he’s already taken time off from the Institute.

Martin murmurs a blessing.

Outside the cabin, wind whistles and clouds scuttle over the setting sun. The fire snaps, a log shifts and breaks, sending up a swirl of sparks. Martin’s pencil scratches across the page. Jon leans his head against the back of the couch and closes his eyes, just for a moment. There are worse places to be ill, he supposes. Unfortunate, though, he might not be able to do everything Martin wants. See the sights, such as they are.

He must have dozed because when next he opens his eyes, Martin has disappeared, and there’s a steaming mug of tea on the little side table next to his arm, as well as a box of tissues. Even though his senses are beginning to have that familiar wrapped in cotton wool feeling, he can still catch the sharp scent of mint and a bright note of lemon. He takes a sip and sighs. Just the slightest bit of honey sweetness to soothe his throat. Perfect, as always. And under the cup, a note.

Just ran down to the shops to pick up a few things. Didn’t want to wake you. Back soon. ~ M

He smiles, even though he feels markedly worse. The headache has settled into his sinuses, pulsing behind his eyes. His skin tingles with chills, though his face feels overwarm. Hopefully one of the things Martin’s picking up is LemSip. The steam from the mug makes his nose tickle, just on the wrong side of a sneeze. Not quite enough to get there, but enough to leave him hazy and short of breath.

He’s still staring rather vaguely into the middle distance, waiting to see what develops, when his phone chirps, urgent. He startles and fumbles it for a minute before managing to accept the call.

“Oi, Boss. How’s Scotland?” Tim’s voice is too loud, too cheerful, no lingering remnants of his cold. Nothing keeps him down for long.

“What do you need, Tim?”

“Is that any way to greet your very best friend?”

“When I specifically said only call in an emergency, yes.”

“How do you know it’s not?”

“We’ve been gone two days. Even you couldn’t manufacture an emergency in less than 48 hours.”

“Oh, ye of little faith!”

“What have you done?” Unease slides into his stomach, oily. When he blinks, strange shadows shift in the periphery of his vision.

“Nothing, honest. I just wanted to…”

But Jon doesn’t hear what, exactly, Tim wants because relief washes over him, and in its wake the sneezes finally hit their tipping point. He manages to hold the phone away from himself and grab up a couple of tissues. He stifles the sneezes, mostly.

“Ht’ngxt! N’gxt! Ch’t!” He exhales wearily. “Pardon.”

“Geez, Boss. Bless you,” Tim says.

“Thank you. I think Scotland might not agree with me.”

Tim laughs. “Sure, Scotland. Or maybe it’s that your body can’t handle breathing fresh air. Your lungs need the refined yet musty atmosphere of the Institute.”

“Yes yes, as you always say.” He wants to sniff, to blow his nose. He does neither. “Why did you ring?” He asks finally, pleased he managed it without sneezing, and with his consonants sounding mostly normal. Silence falls on the other end of the connection long enough that he checks to make sure the signal hasn’t dropped.

“How are you, Jon?” Tim’s voice has gone low, unwontedly serious.

Even from this distance, even though Tim can’t see him, Jon shifts uncomfortably. “Just a touch of cold. No cause for concern,” he says, aware of how stiff he sounds as he does.

A sigh crackles through the speaker, a mix of frustration and fond. “Not what I meant, and you know it.”

He does know, (why does he always know?) wishes he didn’t. Unspoken words hang between them with the cold, damp, grey of fog. What about the nightmares? What about the weight loss? What about the damned silence? He doesn’t glance down to see mist swirling around his ankles.  He tenses against the urge to shiver, but the chills shudder through him anyway and he pinches off another set of sneezes. “I’m fine,” he insists, irritated at his own stubbornness.

“And how’s Marto?” Tim asks, even as the questions he leaves unvoiced ghost underneath. Why won’t you talk to me anymore? Why do you keep disappearing?

“He’s writing,” Jon answers. He blows his nose quietly, easier now that the beam of Tim’s curiosity is focused elsewhere. “Enjoying the pastoral - appreciating the cows.” In between taking care of me, he doesn’t say, unwilling to answer the unspoken.

“He deserves the break.” The words are careful, but Jon catches their edge, no matter how slight.

“He does.” This time the silence lingers between them, neither able to breach the divide grown between.

“Don’t forget to ask him about that pub,” Sasha calls from somewhere in the background.

“Right!” Relief palpable, Tim latches on to the question. “You check out the pub with the open mic night Gerry suggested?”

“It’s only been two days; we’ve barely arrived.”

“Plenty long enough to visit several different establishments. You’re falling down on the job, Boss.”

Jon forces himself to laugh and it comes out naturally enough that the tension between them eases, for the moment at least. By the time Martin returns from the shops, the conversation is more effortless and for a while the four of them trade banter over speaker phone as Martin cooks dinner and they eat. Almost like they’re all together in one room. It’s getting on half ten when Jon’s voice goes from scratchy to a mere croaky whisper and he interrupts himself with yawns more often than sneezes.

“Better let the marsh frog get some sleep,” Tim says, yawning as well.

“Pardon me; frog?” Jon protests, but with no real heat.

Sasha laughs. “Only the most adorable of marsh frogs, round and bright green. Barely slimy at all.”

“Not making it better.”

They ring off, still laughing, though it edges Jon into a spasm of coughing.

“All right?” Martin asks, a hand on his back comforting and gentle.

Jon nods. He is, mostly. But despite the lingering warmth from good conversation with friends, there’s a background hum of unease, static and disjointed, that leaves him feeling somewhat off-kilter.

He slides into bed and Martin pulls him close. He sighs, relaxing into Martin’s warmth. Focus on this, he tells himself. On the softness of the mattress, the ghosting of Martin’s breath across his head, the way the moonlight spills in the window, the soft chirp of crickets and hiss of wind through the trees. Nothing to fret, they are safe here. He turns his thoughts away from why that might even be in question.

“Feel better, love,” Martin says. “Sleep well.”

Jon drifts.

 

 

 

 

 

 

[fickle_tickle]

This is so lovely and soft! I was so excited to see a new sickfic of Jon! I'm just now getting into season three of TMA and he is my favorite distaster man! His character just sets all my caretaker instincts on red alert! I love how you've written him as a shy nose blower and a stifler. He's practical about it but still has undertones of embaressment, which is just so perfect for Jon. Also, the "pardon" is very on brand and makes me very happy. Everyone is super in character! Martin's perfect tea and unintrusive but highly efficient caretaking😍 And how observant and intuitive he is about how Jon's feeling? Noticing the sniffling before Jon does and correctly assuming he'll feel worse and be in need of more supplies when he wakes up- I'm melting! I'm super excited for the possibility of more, especially with the lovely forshadowing of nightmares you've opened the story with! I love that you've written Tim in over the phone, too! I'm hoping he calls to check in again (especially since it was his cold in the first place!)