Chapter Text
Archive shelving was a mess.
Now, what Martin thought was a mess was different from what Jon thought was a mess. They did, however, agree on this particular state of disaster. Martin didn’t know the first thing about archiving, but he could guess that the boxes everywhere - in neat lines on the shelves nonetheless - should probably have labels. The room had been dusted and vacuumed before their new archival team started work, so if they had somehow fallen off, they were long gone.
Jon spent his first few days barely reigning in incredulous annoyance, which was not helped at all by Martin spending his first day ducking around shelves in search of a small dog. There were multiple places to hide in there when you were barely a foot tall. It was a tight fit, especially for Martin, who had to move carefully to make sure he didn’t knock anything over.
Jon was far from a foot tall, yet he fit in there almost as well as the dog had. Martin would still sometimes stumble across him sitting on the floor, nearly hidden by boxes and rumpled folders. He would hardly pay Martin any attention besides a glance up before he went back to his reams of paper, always frowning. He’d assigned the assistants some filing work when he didn’t need them on a case and Martin could sometimes sneak glances at him from behind his own tower of files. He probably shouldn’t be bringing tea into the archive, but Jon never scolded him about it and would accept a cup on a good day. Most of the time he waved it off and went back to sitting in silence with an occasional grumpy murmur that made Martin smile.
Jon was not sitting today. Martin walked in to see him on a step stool and straining to reach the top shelf of the “Follow Up - Ghosts” section. Martin cleared his throat so as not to startle him; he didn’t look very stable. “Uh, do you need any help?”
“No thank you, Martin,” Jon said absently. He pulled the box down into his arms and wobbled dangerously. Martin took an instinctive step forward, but Jon caught his balance and moved the box down to the shelf at hip height. He reached up for the next one; it was further back on the shelf and he had to rise onto his tiptoes.
“Jon, really - ”
“I’ve got it.” With his arms at an angle fast approaching the limits of how elbows could bend, he managed to hook his fingers around the back of the box. As he pulled it toward him, Martin saw a dark grey metal lockbox resting on top, out of Jon’s line of sight. It pressed a slight dent in the cardboard and it was sliding straight toward Jon’s head.
Martin didn’t think; he snatched Jon off the stool and out of the way. Jon yelped and his hands gripped where Martin’s arms wrapped around his waist as the box fell to the floor and spit its nest of papers everywhere. The lockbox crashed on top of the stool with a sound that made Martin wince and clutch Jon tighter to his chest. A few of his curls brushed Martin’s chin. He suddenly realized he was holding Jon completely off the ground and, mortified, put him back on his feet. All the sloping lines of him were ramrod straight and his hands were tense on Martin’s forearms. They were really nice hands.
“Is everyone okay?”
“What was that noise?”
Tim and Sasha appeared in the doorway at a run. Tim stumbled over a box and Sasha bumped into his back. She hauled herself up by the back of his shirt and nearly pulled him over again. Jon squirmed out of Martin’s arms in a way that left him simultaneously bereft and endeared.
“Oh Jesus, Sash - ”
“Sorry!”
“ - everyone good, anyone get crushed?”
“We’re fine, I just knocked something over.” Jon smoothed the front of his jumper; he looked remarkably calm despite the...everything. “Thank you for your assistance, Martin.”
“No problem,” Martin squeaked.
“Enough gawking, everyone can get back to work now,” Jon said with a wave of his hands.
“We can help clean up,” Sasha offered, but Jon shook his head.
“No, Martin and I can handle it.” Jon bent down to pick up the lockbox and looked at it with fascination, as if it hadn’t almost caved his head in. Tim and Sasha looked to Martin and he shrugged, hoping his face wasn’t bright red.
“Alright, then.” Tim glared at the box that had tripped him and nudged it out of the doorway with the toe of his shoe. “Have fun, you two.” He and Sasha left, the sound of him fussing about stretching out his shirt wafting out from the hallway.
The lockbox wasn’t actually locked and Jon popped the latch. “There’s tapes in here,” he said with open curiosity. Martin crouched to start picking up the papers and stared at the floor instead of Jon as he said, “Sorry about that.”
“I hope you’re not apologizing for saving my skull,” Jon said. He joined Martin on the floor and Martin tried not to look at the way his wrists, elegant and narrow, peeked out from his sleeves as he gathered papers.
“No, no, I mean for...uh, just grabbing you like that. I wouldn’t have, if there had been time.”
Jon let out a little huff. Martin forgot the papers as a hint of rosiness surfaced in Jon’s cheeks. “Well, it wasn’t ideal, but it was preferable to the alternative. Just don’t do it again.” As if Martin had made an error in paperwork rather than picking up his boss like a cat.
“Yeah, yeah, of course!” Martin beamed. “I’ll put in a request for taller step stools.”
The archive got their step stools and it may have indirectly led to Elias lecturing Jon about HSE standards, therefore evaporating any positive feelings he had toward Martin. At least he was less likely to hurt himself. Martin would take that trade.