This is partly inspired by a post headcanoning that Jon has dyslexia. (This is kind of long, sorry. I might ao3 it??? Did I just use ao3 as a verb? [Yes. Yes I did.]) Edit: I found that post! Yay! Link to the post

…

A small house in Scotland. The fire is blazing, since it is early October in the Scottish Highlands. Jon and Martin sit in surprisingly comfortable, green-upholstered chairs. They are reading. Jon is reading some five-dollar fantasy book Martin picked up at the village bookstore. Martin can tell he does not like the book from the expression on his face. He’s reading a romance novel. He had to defend this choice to Jon for some reason, even though he’d already bought the book and Jon probably knew it wasn’t fair to judge his reading choices, but his reason was that he just wanted some fluff for a change. Also romance novels tended to be profoundly un-Lonely books, as the end goal was intimacy.

“Oh, please,” says Jon. “This totally contradicts the lore in the previous chapter!” Martin can’t hold back a snicker. Jon glares at him from over the top of his book. “What, Martin?” he says, with no heat behind it. It still makes Martin nervous. It’s not like his glares have really changed since they were directed at him for being worthless.

“Oh, uh, um…nothing really. I’m just…I love to hear you ranting about that terrible book. It’s very…entertaining?” he says. That wasn’t the right word to use, was it? Jon wasn’t doing it to entertain. Jon raises his eyebrows and lowers the book. Martin wants to turtle into himself.

“I…see. Martin, it’s, it’s fine,” says Jon, seeing Martin’s reaction. He smiles gently. “Martin, I, uh, would feel the same way. Georgie used to rant over sexist movies and books all the time. I would be…enraptured.” Enraptured. What a nerd, Martin thinks fondly.

“Okay, that’s good. Um, now I kind of want you to read it to me, so we can both see how bad it is.” Martin’s expecting Jon to laugh a little, or at least ponder over the suggestion with good humor. He doesn’t expect Jon to whiten. Jon’s hands clench around the book, although he still looks right at Martin.

“I, uh, um. Let’s, um. I think. Um. Well, you see…” Jon rambles, not really coming to any conclusions. Martin looks at him, wondering why he’s so nervous.

“Jon, if you don’t want to, you can just say that. I’ll read it after you finish. I was just thinking, since your voice is so nice, and you read those, well,” he doesn’t necessarily want to reference the statements, “you’re a great narrator.” Jon looks more stricken, but smiles weakly.

“Th-thank you. Martin.” He sounds like he did before Prentiss here. Clipped. Curt. He only does that when there’s something he doesn’t want to say, when he’s hiding something. Well, or he feels actually irritated for another reason. “I, I believe I will pass here.”

“Okay! That’s all you had to say.” Martin smiles. Jon nods and returns to his book. A few seconds pass like that before Martin blurts out, “But why don’t you want to?” Crap, why can’t he just…keep his mouth shut? He flinches again, reflexively. He’s going to get yelled at, he knows it. 

No yelling comes. Martin looks at Jon. Jon is looking at him with the most heart-melting look he’s ever seen, and this counts puppies. He looks concerned and afraid (why afraid?) and loving and those huge brown eyes are—Martin clears his throat. Jon blinks. The fire literally flickers. The entire thing, like a lightbulb.

“Um, sorry, I guess the Eye wanted to jump in there.” Jon sighs. He looks ashamed now. Why ashamed? “Martin, I…dear god. I’m terrible at…trusting? I, I mean, I trust you. I do. But sometimes trusting people for small things is, is harder in…practice than big things. At least, at least for me. Uh…” He sighs again. Martin frowns. “Don’t—ah. It’s just…I have dyslexia, Martin.” Martin blinks.

“Oh. Oh. So you didn’t want—oh, Jon! That’s not—I—but what about the statements?” he says.

“The Eye helped, like it helped statement givers tell coherent stories about their trauma. And, nevertheless...I still did mess up a little bit, early on.”

“Oh. Okay. And—and would you have read that story…” Martin can’t finish the sentence. He has the feeling Jon knows what he means, though. Jon looks conflicted now. He looks down at the book still gripped in his hands.

“…didn’t want you to think I was…stupid,” he mumbles. Martin can hear it, though, but doesn’t press. Jon looks back up at him. “It would have been…slow going. It wouldn’t have been, uh, fun, I guess, for you. Or, or me, really. I like reading and narrating, but when both are a challenge, and, and a separate one, I, uh. Don’t find too much enjoyment in it.” Martin nods.

“Right. I totally get that. But, uh, I…why didn’t you say that? I mean, I can see that you’re, uh, I guess, ashamed of being dyslexic, which is complete BS, but did you think I would…laugh at you? Like, really really, not lizard brain really.” Jon sighs and shakes his head.

“I…you…Martin, I…” Martin shifts in his seat but keeps his mouth shut. “No. I didn’t think you’d laugh at me. Or, or be mean about me having dyslexia. I didn’t really really, at least, as you say. It’s just that, it felt like a lie that I would have broken.” Martin doesn’t get it, but he keeps waiting. “You’ve…heard me. All those times. Reading statements. I know you, uh, you like listening to me, which I will admit activates the theater kid part of my brain. And, I, I didn’t want to destroy that idea of me.” Martin looks at him. Then it hits him like an extended, brutal pipe.

“Jon! I love more about you than your voice! Or, or your storytelling ability! Listen, I love those things because you have a very soothing voice and are good at acting. But, but Jon, I…they’re just parts of you! And I, I love you.” It’s there. He’s said it. “All of you. Which means, well, you’re…it’s not like I’ve never seen you before! I love you for the way your hair falls over your face and your dry humor and your trust that I can be worth something! If you never spoke again, Jon,” and he’s standing now. Why is he standing? His voice has risen in intensity and pitch. Jon is looking up at him in mild alarm. “If you never spoke again, I’d still love you. I love you,” and now he’s kneeling. Christ, why is he kneeling? “I love you, Jon, because you’re Jon. This is just one part of you. Because, Jon, I like you, not the Archivist.” Martin’s slightly winded now, for whatever reason. Jon’s eyes are brimming with tears. Has he done something wrong?

Jon slides down from his chair, putting his book on the table, and hugs him, bony limbs flying into his chest and under his arms. He lays his head on Martin’s shoulder, silvery and dark hair falling everywhere. So, no. Martin has not done something wrong.

“I love you, Martin,” Jon says, muffled in his shoulder. “I, um, I needed to hear that. You…you are worth something. You’re worth this. You’re worth, you’re worth that same speech you gave to me. That same love I don’t feel like I’m worthy of half the time, you, you are.” Why is Jon consoling him? “You are worth a safe future to make up for your past. And I will give it to you.” They’re both crying now. They stay like that for a while, fire blazing, books forgotten.

The next day is October 18, 2018.