Chapter Text
It ended up taking two days to make the house livable. Getting everything running was designed to be easy, of course, but no amount of careful design could keep entropy at bay. Dirt and dust and grime settled so deep into the bones of the house that it practically already had a foot in the grave.
As with all abandoned places, smaller things filled in the spaces left when humans weren’t there. Not many to be seen, but there was evidence. Buzzing of which nobody caught the culprit, beetle shell husks in the corners, rustling and clicking in the walls at night. Jon tried very hard to believe they were all mundane, and that Daisy’s house was safe. Never mind how he idly tried to Know, and frustratingly failed—he was choosing to be less paranoid.
And, of course, the cobwebs.
He hadn’t found any live spiders yet, but he also hadn’t been looking.
So far they had only cleaned it to the point of basic liveability. There were some stains and deep-pounded points of dust which would take a day each to get out—though, it had only taken the second day for Jon to realize exactly how many hours filled dawn to dusk. They’d gotten home from shopping and eaten an awkward lunch and then sat on the couch reading Daisy’s books in silence. Jon had itched with boredom within the hour. Maybe it would be easier if they could fill the time with each other, but Jon had no idea how to do that. He hoped Martin would stay okay for a while until Jon got over his cowardice.
The third day dawned quietly behind a weeping torrent of rain. Jon woke slowly, or maybe he only was slow to accept that he was awake. Sleep was no respite, but being awake meant he had to get out of bed. Even under the covers, it was clear that the storm had brought with it a slight but pervasive chill.
Today, he was pressed against Martin, shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip, calf against calf. A sizzling line of connection up his side, yet oddly businesslike. Maybe it wouldn’t be rude to stay like this for a while.
It sometimes felt like the only human thing left in Jon was his stubbornness. That stubbornness was borne of spite, more than anything, though a thin and wavering thread of hope, bruised and abused, tangled through it. Spite pushed him the first steps forward, and hope continued to pull him toward the illusion of a happy ending. He just wished it didn’t always draw him into danger.
They were marginally safe, for the time being. Elias loomed on the horizon of everything, but that was nothing new. For now the issues at hand were navigating Martin through the lingering effects of being so deeply marked by the Lonely, and keeping Jon from hurting anyone.
If he had to guess, he had about two weeks before the hunger became unbearable. He’d had the foresight to take a handful of statements while he was still in the archives, and he trusted that instinct had guided him to the ones with substance, but they still wouldn’t last long. They’d have to get into contact with Basira before then, and see if she could send up some statements.
He turned his head to the side to look at Martin, only to find him already awake, staring at the ceiling. His eyes were vacant, and his breathing was shallow, but he still seemed solid. Jon almost convinced himself to roll away, but maybe if Martin wasn’t moving away himself, that meant this was okay. Maybe Jon was helping, in a way. (Maybe Martin hadn’t noticed how close they were, somehow. No matter the truth, better safe than sorry.)
Jon tried to speak, but his voice just creaked into a cough. When he finally caught his breath, Martin had turned to look at him. Their faces were only a few inches apart, which was vaguely flustering but not too much so. It probably helped that Martin had morning breath, and for all that Jon was thoroughly foolish about the man, he wasn’t quite fuzz-brained enough at the moment to work around that.
After he properly wetted his mouth and hummed around a few more false starts, he managed to ask, “What’s on your mind?” He coughed again after the question, embarrassed by the contrast of gravel and voice cracks. Georgie had once said she’d liked his morning voice, but come to think of it, she had been extremely biased at the time, and also always liked making fun of him. Perhaps not a romantic asset to bring out yet.
Martin blinked back at him slowly, frowning slightly. “It’s a bit early in the morning for this, don’t you think?”
Jon sighed pitifully, and Martin sighed exasperatedly. After a pause, Martin mumbled, “I’ll say if you will.”
It was very obviously a side-stepping tactic, and Jon was chastened to say that it almost worked on him. Almost. He cared about Martin enough not to let him hide so blatantly. And maybe he was petty as well, sue him. He searched the other man’s face, looking for an invitation but unable to find one, and soldiered on anyway. “W-well, I, I will, then.”
Martin’s eyes widened, barely, and he turned his head again to look at the ceiling. Jon watched him for a few seconds, before taking a deep breath, also looking to the ceiling, and trying to recall what, exactly, he was thinking about. “First off, er, I suppose I’m just thinking about how shit everything is, to be honest,” he admitted after a moment of consideration. He looked back at Martin again, and Martin was smiling, though the humor on his face seemed detached from any happiness. “B-but, but, I’m also thinking that it’s nice you’re here, too. Would be quite grim, if I had to be alone.” Martin glanced at him sideways for a brief moment, then resumed his observation of the space above him. Jon wished Martin was a bit more readable, or that the Eye was a bit more in the business of understanding, on top of knowing.
Martin picked at his cuticles above the sheets. “I suppose I’m thinking the same thing,” he replied. He tipped his head to face Jon. “Just a-a right load of shit, yeah?” He looked down at his hands. “Don’t feel too torn up about it, really, but it’s objective truth.”
“Yeah,” breathed Jon. “Don’t quite know how to feel about it, but it’s…certainly not great.”
Martin idly hummed an agreement. Then his brows furrowed, and he looked back at Jon, really looked. “I agree, by the way.” He rocked slightly in place, and his shoulder pressed into Jon’s for a moment. “Not just with the shit part, obviously, but it’s nice to be with you. You’re nice to be around.”
Jon felt his gaze drop to Martin’s hand like his vision was being snapped taut by a rope. He didn’t even mean to, but apparently he was fixated. No kissing Martin right now, but evidently he was still fluff-brained enough for holding hands. Maybe Martin’s hands were warm. Maybe one day he’d stop fussing about this.
He looked back up at Martin’s face. Would it be okay? Martin looked down at his hands and folded them together, neat and tight as a knot. No. Martin sighed. “I think it will take a long time for me to stop being lonely—if, if it ever happens at all.” He looked at Jon one last time before sitting up and sliding off the bed with a heavy oof! He examined his hands again, then offered one to Jon. The rain was so loud. Maybe, then?
He took it gently in his left hand, pressing down along the back to feel the tendons, cataloguing the dry knuckles down to soft fingertips. Most of Martin’s freckles had faded, if not outright vanished, but there was a small, pale mole between his thumb and index finger. Jon knew about it now. Eventually, he simply clasped Martin’s hand in his own, and rested it on his knee.
When Martin started to pull, Jon opened his fingers as wide as he could and whipped his arm back. He did something wrong again, he messed up again, but when he looked at Martin’s face, expecting betrayal and hurt, all he saw was bewilderment and a vague flavor of judgement. His cheeks were powdered pink, but his lips were drawn into a confused almost-sneer. “I’m trying to help you up, Jon,” he said slowly, like Jon was a spooked animal.
Jon wanted to cover his face with his hands and melt into the covers so he’d never have to come out again. If Daisy had seen this she would have never let him live it down. Even being in her house probably sent ripples through the universe, and whatever of her was left was definitely laughing at him. He once again dropped his left hand into Martins, and winced at the strain against his shoulder as he was pulled to his feet.
Small mercies, that he didn’t overbalance and faceplant on Martin’s chest. That would be an embarrassment he would never recover from.
Martin looked him over, head to toe and back again, then sighed and turned with a weak declaration of “Breakfast.” Jon had no idea what prompted that, but he had several dozen guesses bouncing around the inside of his skull like percussive throwing stars. He was going to overthink himself to death and he’d barely made it through two days here.
Alone in the room, Jon took the opportunity of privacy to get dressed. He had admittedly panicked while packing, and had packed a lot of clothes which were already out of season, and many of his warmer clothes were scavenged jumpers from Martin, which was a fact Martin didn’t seem to be aware of and that Jon wasn’t keen to bring to his attention. Daisy had packed her closets full of thermal underwear and thick cable-knit jumpers, and while they were somewhat closer to Jon’s size, their texture was absolutely catastrophic and Jon would be avoiding them at all costs. He eventually settled on a dark red jumper, which he didn’t quite remember the origin of but looked a bit too small for Martin so it was probably safe in that regard.
When he emerged, sitting on the table were two bowls of oatmeal and two steaming mugs. Jon was inordinately excited about the tea. He wished he could say Martin’s was leagues better than his own, and he technically felt that way, but he didn’t have the most discerning palette for this sort of thing. Still, it was the principle of it. When they got back from shopping and Martin made them each a mug of tea to warm up, Jon had to fight to keep himself from doing something foolish like jumping for joy and cheering. Finally, after all these months, tea from Martin in his hands.
Martin looked up at Jon’s entrance, and immediately his mouth fell open and his eyes squinted in indignation. “That’s my jumper,” he accused. “It’s been missing fo-for years at this point, how long have you had it?”
Jon looked down at the sleeves, covering his palms. Maybe, maybe, it would have fit Martin, but surely not, no? He’d remember if this was one of the jumpers he took from Martin, no? He had to have at least one jumper of his own, no? He looked back up at Martin, puzzled. “No? It’s not? I-I’m—there can be multiple articles of clothing that look the same in the world at one time, you know.”
Martin pointed more insistently. “No, n-no, but that one’s mine, I know it, I lost—I remember I lost it b-back when Prentiss attacked and I figured it was, it, it was a biohazard and fu-full of worms or something and they threw it out! What the hell, Jon!”
Jon crossed his arms. “Well then it’s definitely not yours, if it went missing that long ago, because why on earth would I have stolen your clothes at that point in our respective lives.”
Martin sputtered and looked around furiously, as if searching for a sympathetic face, or perhaps a camera. “Are you saying you would find it more plausible if it was recent? Have you stolen my clothes?”
“I didn’t have a surplus of my own left after I woke up, so I…well, that is, everyone’s laundry already tended to get a bit mixed up living in the archives, and sometimes something of yours would surface and get mixed in, and I suppose—”
“That seems to point extra hard in the direction of it being mine!”
“Look, how about we agree to disagree and move on with our lives.”
“I’ll prove it, somehow.”
“Finders keepers.”
Jon took an insistent sip of tea and tried to hide his wince when it scalded his tongue. Martin seemed disappointed his meal wasn’t one he could reasonably saw at with a knife, but he managed to bring a simmering menace to his spoon all the same. Even so, the tension was superficial.
Jon was giving a second chance to paperback romance, mostly because it was one of the only forms of entertainment available at the moment. On the one hand, the formulaic nature of these books would probably begin to grate on Jon practically immediately, but on the other hand, unexpected supernatural spoilers were rendered less potent when the plot was so predictable anyway.
He was just beginning to come to some sort of conclusion on whether or not he liked the characters—it was a knife’s edge for the time being—when Martin sighed, tossing his own book to the side and slouching deeply into the couch to toe at rug. “What kind of bones do you think Daisy’s got under here,” he blurted out.
Jon eyed the garish pattern on the floor. He hasn't managed to Know what was under it yet, which either meant it was entirely mundane, or it was something deeply cursed that the Eye wanted Jon to interact with directly. “Martin, I know we’re already on the run, but I’d rather we not make ourselves accessories to any of Daisy’s crimes in any way.”
Martin jerked his back from the rug so fast that the edge flipped up. Knee pulled protectively to his chest, he leaned in close to Jon and whisper-yelled, “Wait, do you know what’s under there? I-is there, like, a vampire skeleton under there?”
Jon sighed and set the book down, pages-down to remember his spot. Martin wrinkled his nose and picked it back up, finger slotted to the appropriate page. “I don’t know what’s actually down there, except that there’s a trap door. I just figured if it’s something truly, ah, necessary, or legal, it wouldn’t be hidden under the floor.” Sliding inelegantly onto the floor knees-first, he began to roll back the rug. “We might as well look now, though. Get the surprise over with.”
Hands at both of his shoulders jerked him back. “Woah, Jon! Jon! Think about this for more than, oh, three seconds! I was speculating, not saying we should look right this second! Who knows what kind of, of, oh, I don’t know, some sort o-of bone stealer is down there!”
“Helen already dealt with Jared,” Jon replied absent-mindedly. He gently pried off Martin’s hands—too dry, maybe we should buy some lotion—and pulled the rug the rest of the way off the trap door. “Besides, Daisy wouldn’t leave anything, um…alive.” There was no lock, but there also wasn’t a handle. Jon tried to pry his fingers into the narrow seam, but they didn’t quite fit. “Is there a crowbar around here?”
“Oh, yeah, the crowbar, just by the door. I’ll just pop over and get that. What do you think, Jon?”
“Well I don’t know, Martin, it seems to me like a perfectly reasonable thing to expect in a house like this! It’s a common tool, for do-it-yourself and survival types.”
“Oh, and you’d know all about that. Don’t you think we would have found it, and used it by now, if there was one just lying about?”
“There’d certainly have been less of your complaining about the hammer,” Jon muttered under his breath. Before Martin could process the comment and get too indignant, Jon barreled on, “Can you bring me a spatula, then? Or one of the wooden spoons?”
After a minute of finagling using an assortment of kitchen utensils, Jon finally had his hands braced under the door. “Any last thoughts?”
“If we die, I’m haunting you.”
“We’re tied to the wrong cosmic entities for that,” Jon grunted as he heaved up the trap door. He nearly overbalanced, but stopped himself from falling in. He blinked at the sight below.
“Ah.”
“What is it?” Jon started lowering the hatch, but Martin caught it before he could fully close it. “Jon, what is it? Oh god, it’s a body, isn’t it? I don’t want to see another body.” Despite all this, Martin was leaning in closer and pulling the door open. “Oh. Oh, wow. This, this cannot be legal.”
Jon stood and backed away a few steps as he wiped his hands on his pants. He didn’t touch anything inside the hidden compartment, but being reminded of Daisy and guns at the same time was not exactly pleasant.
“Like, I assume she had some sort of license, as a police officer,” Martin continued, reaching to plunge his hand into the veritable mountain of bullets, sending them tink-tink-tink!-ing down in a cascade of lead and brass. “And, well, I don’t know, uh, anything, really, about guns, but some of these seem a little heavy-duty, t-to be legal. Or, uh, heh, really necessary, f-for anything.” His voice wobbled up at the end, like a question.
“She’s never used any of these before,” Jon said, realizing after he spoke that it was true. “Those ones—” he pointed at a pair of unpleasantly familiar handguns “—are the same model as her police-issue firearm, and she’s used every other model here at least once, but none of these guns have been fired before. If she’d tested them, she’d know that the bolt-action rifle in the corner there has a crippling manufacturing defect which will cause a bullet to jam on the very first trigger pull. There are only seven legal firearms in here, twelve more that were purchased legally but modified after the fact, and the rest she confiscated from her victims. She only has one semi-automatic rifle, and it’s only for emergencies, because she prefers—”
“Jon, stop.”
Jon realized the trap door was closed, and Martin had turned around to face away from it. He took a deep breath and tried to un-tense his shoulders. It didn’t work.
“I didn’t want to know all that. I, um, don’t think you did either.” Martin fidgeted uneasily. “Neither of us know how to use anything in there. So—wait, scratch that, do you—?”
Jon sat down heavily on the couch. It really wasn’t comfortable; lumps in the cushions were digging into his thighs. “No, I, uh, don’t know how to. Use a gun.”
Martin nodded decisively. “Great, then. We can pretend it’s not there.”
Jon snorted. “Ah, yes, a sound strategy.”
Martin flopped onto the couch beside Jon and picked his book back up. “It’ll work well enough.”