Chapter Text
Martin was right, of course. The walk hadn't been long at all. He was also right to have taken Jon's bag, he mused, feeling the ache in his back as they approached the small house.
"Oh, isn't it precious?" Martin's eyes were shining as he took stock of the place.
"It's very small, if that's what you mean," Jon chuckled breathlessly. Martin made a face at him.
"No taste," he grumbled. Jon stepped in front of him as they came up the porch stairs and opened the door, letting Martin inside. "Thanks."
"Mhmm," Jon followed him in, taking in the front room. It was a sparse living room, consisting of a couch, armchair, and a television on a wooden stand. Across the room was a kitchen outfitted with the basics, including a small dining table.
Jon moved to the corner and pulled off his shoes as Martin passed into the hall between the kitchen and living room, his face bright and curious. Jon slumped onto the couch with a sigh, rubbing at the back of his neck.
"Uh… Jon?" called Martin from down the hall. Grumbling, he got up again and followed him down the hall. It led to two rooms and the door to a back porch. On the left was a bathroom, and to the right was a surprisingly well-furnished bedroom, where Martin stood awkwardly.
"What?"
"There's just one room," he mumbled, not making eye contact.
Jon's face grew warm. "Ah. Well, I can take the--"
"It's fine, I'll sleep out--"
Both their sentences screeched to a halt, leading to a too-long silence while they floundered in unison. Jon was first to break it. "Martin, you've been through a lot, I'm not going to make you sleep out in the front room."
"So have you," he countered stubbornly, and Jon had to admit he had a point. For another long moment, he didn't know what to say. He truly didn't want to place Martin in that situation, and yet he knew it wasn't in Martin's nature to accept a comfort someone he cared about couldn't have.
This time, it wasn't a voice that ended the silence, but the growling of Jon's stomach.
"Oh, we'll deal with this later. Let's see what's in the kitchen, Basira said it'd have some non-perishables at least." Martin looked relieved to change the subject, so Jon just let him, moving out of the doorway to let him through and following him into the kitchen.
After some exploration and mild ribbing about Jon's proclivity for instant meals, Martin had some canned soup bubbling away on the stove. While they waited for it to warm, they collapsed onto opposite sides of the small couch.
"My legs are killing me," Martin mumbled, his eyes shut tightly.
"Well, maybe if you had let me carry my own bag," Jon replied, earning himself a glare.
"Can't you let me do nice things for you without complaint?"
"No," he said matter-of-factly. Martin actually laughed, shutting his tired eyes again. "You went through a lot too, Martin." His tone was soft and sincere as he studied his exhausted friend's round, lined face, watching as it went slightly pink. The blush highlighted his freckles quite nicely, he noted, before shaking his head as if to dislodge the unbidden thought from his head.
"It was my own fault," Martin said sadly. "I should have…"
"Martin, no. None of this was your fault. You were doing what you thought would keep the rest of us safe," Jon said firmly. "Yes, you made the choices that led you into the Lonely, but you made them selflessly and with the intention of protecting the people you--you--your friends," he finished lamely. He didn't want to make any assumptions.
Martin looked over at him, his wide blue eyes brimming with tears. "I… yeah, of course. I didn't want… not everything should be on your shoulders."
Jon drew in a breath for courage and reached across the single couch cushion separating him from Martin to take his hand. It was pleasantly warm and soft. "Thank you."
Martin seemed uneager to tear his eyes away from Jon's hand in his, but met his eyes again. "Jon, I--"
The timer he'd left on the kitchen counter began to ring. Martin jumped up and went to the kitchen to shut off the stove, leaving Jon with a cold hand and intense curiosity about what he'd meant to say. Restraining himself from Knowing was almost physically painful, but he wouldn't let it happen. He'd let Martin speak on his own time.
Jon got up and followed him into the kitchen, and Martin promptly turned and pushed an almost too-warm bowl of chicken and rice soup into his hands. "Go on, sit," he told him when Jon hovered awkwardly for a moment too long, and he obediently went to the tiny table. Martin filled another bowl and came to join him, and they ate in comfortable silence.
By the time he'd emptied his bowl, Jon could see that it was taking Martin significant effort to stay awake. "Will you take the bed?"
"N--no, you can have it, I told you."
Jon sighed at his misunderstanding. "No, Martin, I'm asking you to. Let me do something nice for you without complaint," he echoed. Martin stared at him for a moment, his soft brown eyes filled with an emotion Jon couldn't quite decipher.
"... alright," he agreed, making Jon smile gratefully.
"Good. Thank you. Good night, Martin." He opened his mouth again to protest, but Jon was quick to cut him off. "I'll clean up here. You're exhausted."
Clearly too tired to put up much of a fight, Martin nodded and stood slowly. "Thanks. Really."
Jon gave him a small smile. "Of course." He watched as Martin went first to the door and removed his shoes, then into the bedroom. Surprisingly, he didn't close the door behind him, but that could be easily chalked up to his exhaustion, not an… invitation.
Jon busied himself about the kitchen, washing their chipped bowls and setting them out to dry on a rack along with the pot. He was determined not to think about the hot, pressing feelings blooming in his chest at the thought of Martin alone again. He's an adult , he chided himself, he'll be fine .
Still, he couldn't bring himself to lie on the makeshift bed he'd constructed on the couch out of pillows and blankets from a linen closet in the bedroom. Somehow, he was buzzing with energy now. He kept finding chores to do, starting with reorganizing the cans of food in the cupboards, then writing up a short list of other essentials they'd need to pick up, like bread and milk. And tea . Jon added Martin's favorite kind to the list with a smile. He considered adding the sort he liked, but really, he didn't have a favorite tea, just a favorite person to make it for him.
He left the list on the kitchen counter, pinned down by a cat-shaped salt shaker, and went into the bathroom looking for something else to do. In the cabinet above the sink, there was a sparse assortment of OTC medications, which Jon looked through carefully until a noise from the next room over startled him.
It sounded like… moaning? Jon watched his own face color darkly in embarrassment in the dusty mirror. It was fine, Martin was an adult with needs, there was nothing weird about it, he reminded himself as he moved to go back to the front of the house.
He stopped short when the noise changed significantly. Martin was crying, a soft, snuffling sound that made Jon's heart break in his chest. Coming back to the door of the bedroom, he knocked softly without thinking. God, wait, what if --
"J--Jon?"