Chapter Text
Martin Blackwood ached. The light filtering through the window was a steely gray, and it seemed to be much earlier than the late mornings his unusual schedule allowed for. Martin closed his eyes again, allowing his other senses to take over. He was in bed, and there was something warm next to him. The realization of what exactly that presence was didn’t register until a moment later, when a volley of coughs erupted from Martin’s throat. Jon shot up beside him.
“Martin?” His voice sounded far away.
Martin could barely scrape out a response before he was coughing again. He vaguely processed the feeling of Jon’s hands slid around his waist, lifting him up. He frowned. Jon shouldn’t waste his energy like that. He made to push him away, but found his arms did not seem to be remotely capable of carrying out the command. Then lips were being pressed to his cheek, and the warmth beside him was gone, and he was slipping back into darkness.
A mug was being pressed into his hands, then raised to his mouth. Something warm and salty slid down his throat, and thin fingers stroked back his hair. It felt nice. Martin smiled, then blinked, and Jon’s concerned face appeared in front of him.
“Are you alright?” Martin whispered. Jon looked terrible, his already lined face exhausted and worn. He smiled, though, at Martin’s question.
“Just fine. How are you feeling?”
Martin looked down. The sun had managed to pierce through the clouds, a single shaft illuminating the hands encircling his as he gripped the mug.
“It’s daytime.” He said, stupidly. This felt important, although he couldn’t seem to ascertain why.
“Yes, it is.” Jon said. “Are you tired? You can rest some more if you need.”
Even through Martin’s addled thoughts, he could detect the note of worry in Jon’s tone.
“It’s daytime.” He repeated, his voice higher. Why did it matter?
“You should rest.” Jon said, firmly. He gently removed the mug from Martin’s hands, hitching his arms around his waist once more. In the descent, Martin caught a glimpse out of the window.
The lighthouse.
He whirled around, the sudden movement leaving his head swimming, unable to tell up from down. For a moment he was on his own, spinning through a world he did not recognize, and then Jon’s arms were around him again.
“Martin. Martin!”
“The lantern.” Martin said, grabbing Jon’s wrist. “It’s daytime, that means- last night, the lantern?”
“I lit it.”
The lantern had been lit.
Martin had not been the one to light it.
“You should sleep.” Jon murmured, smoothing back Martin’s hair.
Martin did not argue, and let the light slip away from him again.
The sun was setting when Martin awoke. He felt utterly spent as he blinked the sleep from his eyes, but his mind was mercifully clear. Jon was gone. Probably to light the lantern, Martin thought, and his already empty stomach twisted painfully. He rested his own hand on his forehead, the once familiar action suddenly jarring. He wondered if Jon had performed it as well. His head felt normal, but he remembered vague patches of pain and uncomfortable heat. How long had he been ill, unable to do his duty? He pushed himself up on trembling arms, attempting to swing his legs over the side of the bed.
A shadow graced the edge of the doorway, and Martin froze.
“The lantern’s lit, love.” Jon said gently, approaching Martin. “C’mon. Let’s get you back to bed.”
“I’m alright.” Martin said, holding his hand out in front of him. Jon stopped short, eyebrows drawn together.
“You’ll forgive me if I require a bit more evidence for that.” He said. He pressed his hand to Martin’s forehead. Martin couldn’t suppress his smile, which only widened as Jon’s frame sagged with relief,
“Oh thank God.” He muttered, slinging his arms around Martin’s neck. “I- Martin, you have no idea, I was so-” He pressed his face into Martin’s collarbone, then straightened up. “Well, your fever broke. That- that’s good. You should still stay in bed, though.”
Martin began to protest, but Jon gave him a look that had not appeared since his early days on the island.
“I told you. The lantern’s already been lit. I’m getting you some supper, and then you’re resting.”
“Thank you, but really, you don’t need-”
“Where have I heard that one before?” Jon said, crossing his arms.
“You don’t understand.” Martin sighed. “I appreciate you taking care of me, I really do. It’s just the lantern- it’s my job, you know? A-and obviously I understand that I was ill, it’s just…” He trailed off. Someone had helped him. Someone had stayed. The guilt tasted like sand in his mouth.
“If you’re concerned about me being incapable, I can assure you that that is not the case. I’ve watched you light it dozens of times, and you’ll notice that the lighthouse is still standing from last night as well.” Jon said, his voice approaching dangerous tones.
“What? No, of course it’s not about that!”
“Then why, Martin?” Jon said, raking his hand through his hair. “Why are you so insistent on this?”
“Because it’s my own fault that I have to light the damn thing in the first place!”
“What does that mean? It’s your fault that you were born into a family of lighthouse keepers? It was your fault that your mother died?”
“Yes!” Martin yelled, his voice breaking. He looked down at his hands, unable to muster the willpower to cover his face despite the tears flowing down it.
He felt a hand on his cheek.
“Please tell me what happened.” Jon said, quietly.
Martin bit his lip. “You’ll hate me.”
“Oh, Martin.”
Martin inhaled. “She was sick. I’ve mentioned that. It was just me and her on the island. I- I didn’t want to leave her, Jon.” He glanced upwards, then back at his hands, unable to bear Jon's gentle expression. “I wanted to get help.” He whispered. “I didn’t think I could do it on my own, so I sailed off to get help. A-and when I came back-” His chest hitched painfully. “If I’d known-”
“I understand.”
“No, you don’t.” Martin said, glaring at Jon. “I left her, Jon. The least I can do is keep up her memory.”
“And try to save everyone else.” Jon said, smiling sadly.
“What?”
“Your entire job is keeping sailors from being shipwrecked. You run that lantern religiously every night, don’t tell me that has nothing to do with your mother.”
“And so what if it does?” Martin spluttered. “Isn’t that right? I did something wrong, so isn’t it right that I should do, I don’t know, penance?”
“Martin, look at me.”
Martin raised his head, and resisted the urge to duck it again at the sadness in Jon’s expression.
“Tell me what you see.”
“I see you, Jon.” Martin said, confused. Jon smiled.
“You see someone that you saved.” He said. “You saw someone who made so, so many mistakes- who couldn’t even properly thank you for everything you’d done- and you saved him.”
“So, is that it?” Martin said, his lower lip wobbling. “I’ve done my penance by saving you?”
“You have nothing to do penance for. If anyone does, it's me” Jon said. Martin vaguely registered his thumb sweeping across his cheekbone. “I mean it.” Jon said, catching the doubt in Martin’s expression. “You have no wrongs to right. But you saved me anyway. You give so freely, Martin, even to someone who's done wrong.” He kissed his forehead. “Why don't you think you deserve the same?”
“Because none of it changes what I’ve done.”
“Then if you need to think of saving me as penance for whatever sins you think you’ve committed then that- we can work with that.” Jon said, squeezing Martin’s hand. "You've done so much for me, Martin- can that be enough for now?"
Martin felt the sob rise in his throat before he could stop it.
Jon hugged him, his thin arms somehow stronger than Martin had ever felt. Against all better judgement, Martin nodded.
“Thank you.” Jon whispered. “We can start here, then. Now-” He said, standing up. “I’m going to make you some supper.”
“Jon?” Martin asked. He was sitting at the kitchen table, attempting to darn a pair of socks in the fading sunlight.
“Yes?”
“I was thinking.” He said, setting down his needle. “Well, I was thinking that I could show you how to light the lantern properly.”
“Oh?” Jon turned around from the pot of stew he had been stirring.
“Just in case something happens, and I’m not able.” Martin said, keeping his eyes trained carefully on the table. “It only makes sense to have someone else who knows how to care for the lighthouse.”
He heard Jon approach the table, and watched his hand slide over his.
“That’s a very rational suggestion, Martin.”
“Maybe all your talk about research has started to rub off on me.”
“Perhaps.” Jon said, a smile audible in his voice.
“Alright.” Jon stood beside Martin, oil canister in hand. He looked nearly as nervous as Martin felt.
“I know you’ve lit the lantern before, but, I’ll just tell you what to do, and you follow what I say, alright?”
Jon nodded.
“So, obviously you’ve got your oil, the actual reserves are in those barrels over there, and you’ve got this little opening here, at the base of the lantern, see?” He pointed out the measurements on the side of the base, showed Jon the mechanism that increased the height of the wick, even opened the small maintenance panel that showed all of the inner workings of the lantern. Jon followed his instructions carefully, and Martin could practically see the gears whirring in his head, storing the information away somewhere he would never forget it. “Alright, shield your eyes.” Martin said, and flipped the switch.
In that first moment of brilliance, he felt Jon’s hand slide into his. As the light fell into steady rhythm around them, he saw that Jon was smiling.
“What?”
“You’re a very good teacher.”
Martin snorted. “Thanks.” He looked around the lantern room. “Well, nothing’s on fire, and it’s burning bright, and the frequency is correct.” He looked at Jon. “Well done!”
Jon laughed.
“Settle in.” Martin said, sitting down in his chair. “It’s the winter solstice. We’ll be here a while.”
Jon sat down in the chair next to Martin’s. It was a new feature of the room, but Martin found it fit quite nicely.
“I’d imagine winter is a difficult time to be a lighthouse keeper.” Jon said. He squeezed Martin’s hand. “I suppose I’ll find out soon enough.”
Martin shut his eyes. Jon wants this, he reminded himself. He wants to help. It still didn’t feel right. That was alright. They had time.
“I never minded the long nights. It gave me time to reflect, I guess.”
“And now?” Jon said. Martin could feel his gaze. He returned the squeeze to Jon’s hand, and hoped that was answer enough.
If Jon’s contented sigh was anything to go on, it was.
“I certainly chose a desirable place to be shipwrecked, didn’t I?”
“Don’t say that. You still could’ve died.” Martin said, glancing at Jon.
“And yet, here we are.” Jon said, smiling at Martin. Martin shook his head, but exhaled a laugh all the same. He returned his gaze to the window of the lantern room, the lighthouse beacon illuminating his field of vision, then leaving it in darkness again.
Martin Blackwood was the keeper of St. Mary’s Light.
He wondered how he had ever been content to be alone.