Chapter Text
When Martin wakes up, the first thing he's aware of is the feeling of Jon's shirt under the skin of his fingers, the edges of Jon's jaw against his shoulder, and the sound of quiet breathing between them.
He doesn't open his eyes at first, instead letting the feeling of comfort thrum through him. He's still struggling to believe that, yes, this is his life now, and these quiet moments both astound and ground him.
Martin lets the day start slowly, with the feeling of wakefulness starting down in his toes and slowly creeping its way up his body. Only when he feels alert does he open his eyes, and what he sees takes his breath away. Jon is still asleep, his closed eyes soft, his mouth relaxed, the lines on his face having almost disappeared. He looks younger, almost his own age like this, and all Martin can think for a moment is I want this forever.
He decides not to examine that thought right away this morning. He instead presses a gentle kiss to Jon's forehead, and the sound Jon makes is so cat-like, Martin feels the chuckle bubble out of his chest out of his control.
Jon's eyes flicker open and the restful expression on his face is replaced by a sleepy smile, all love and adoration.
"Morning," Jon says, his voice laded with sleep, deep and rough. It resonates in Martin's chest, and before he can appropriately process how that makes him feel, Jon stretches and rolls off his chest.
When he turns to look back at Martin, the languid expression on Jon's face is heart-stopping. His eyes are heavy with sleep still, but his mouth is curled up in a gentle smile. After a couple of weeks here in the cottage, Jon's face looks a little less gaunt, although his cheekbones are still striking and the cut of his jaw drives Martin a little crazy. His hair is sleep-tousled, wisps flying off the top of his head and his bun loose against the back of his head.
He is the most beautiful thing Martin has ever seen, and he tells Jon so. Jon blushes, his cheeks deepening beautifully. Martin leans forward to catch Jon's mouth with his before Jon can protest his own beauty, and Jon makes a surprised, delighted little sound.
Jon breaks the kiss off with a sigh, and he stretches again as he stands. He throws a smile back at Martin before he makes his way to the bathroom, and Martin finds himself unable to stop smiling at his half-awake boyfriend.
Martin takes his turn to stretch before reaching down to the floor to find the socks he discarded the night before. Once his toes are warming up again, he sets his feet on the floor and starts his day.
As he passes down the stairs, he can hear Jon humming to himself over the sound of the bathroom faucet running, and his smile grows again. In the last few days, Jon had been humming even more, filling almost every spare moment of silence with his gentle, calming voice. Martin lets it carry him the rest of the way down the stairs and imagines he can hear it still even as he reaches the kitchen.
After filling the kettle with water, Martin places it on the stove to heat up and runs his fingers through his messy hair. It's gotten tangled again, his curls a little too unruly now. They're flopping down over his ears, and it's far too early in the morning to be annoyed with them, but he can't help it. He's always preferred his hair shorter.
Using one hand to continue finger-combing through the knots, Martin reaches into the cupboard to grab two mugs and then the tea, followed by grabbing the milk from the fridge and the sugar from the other counter. He feels a little better by the time the kettle starts to whistle, and he pats his hair down a little self-consciously.
Jon pads into the kitchen just as Martin finishes stirring in sugar to his own cup, and he hands Jon his mug. It's a soft green, and it reminds Martin of Jon in a way he couldn't verbalize if he tried. Jon smiles gently into the steam, the sleepiness slipping away to be replaced by contentment and something nearing relaxation.
They take their tea over to the sofa, settling in together. Martin pulls the blanket they left on the arm of the couch and drapes it over both of them. Jon hums his thanks, his eyes focused on the mug, and Martin takes this moment to sweep his eyes over Jon's face again, taking in the sharp eyes and soft expression and small marks along his cheeks. He feels like he's trying to memorize the man before him, and he can't quite quiet the insistent voice in his head, You don't know how much time you have left.
Before he can feel lost in the despair, Jon speaks, pulling him out of his own head again. Martin's never sure how Jon's timing is so good, his ability to distract Martin at the right moment both welcome and a little spooky. Well, uncanny—Martin trusts that Jon isn't using his eldritch powers to spy on Martin's thoughts.
"I was thinking about a walk today," Jon says, "it shouldn't rain until this afternoon, and I'd like to see the cows you were talking about yesterday."
He takes a sip of his tea when he finishes speaking, and he looks as delighted as always. Martin is proud of his ability to make Jon something he enjoys, and this morning is no different.
"And you know it won't rain this morning because the—"
"Yes, meteorological maps are in the Eye's purview, too," Jon says, laughing a little and rolling his eyes. "If it's going to stream constant knowledge into my brain, the least it can do is be useful sometimes."
Martin laughs at that, short and sharp, and he chokes a little over it, a combination of tea and air catching on his joy.
Jon looks pleased with himself, like he can't believe Martin laughs at the things he says, and as Martin catches his breath, he nudges Jon with his elbow. "Trying to kill me?"
"Well, it's the only way out of this I can see," Jon replies teasingly before taking another drink of his tea.
Martin can't help but throw his head back in laughter at that. When he brings his face forward to take another drink, his hair flops back into his eyes and he huffs as he brushes it back away from his face again.
Jon watches all of this with a fond smile, and Martin can feel heat rising in his cheeks again. He's still not used to the way Jon just looks at him now, full of love and happiness and like he'd rather be doing nothing else.
To avoid whatever embarrassing thought is working its way to his mouth, Martin says, "A walk would be nice."
"After tea? Work up an appetite for breakfast?" Neither of them enjoy eating right away in the morning, preferring to be up for a bit before having breakfast. It explains why Jon never ate breakfast at least, considering he'd wake up and throw himself into work before hunger hit him. Martin, on the other hand, used to rise early, get ready for work, and work on poetry a bit before making himself something to eat. Well, that was before Peter and the Lonely, at least—he probably has eaten breakfast more in the last two weeks than he did in the six months prior to it.
Martin just nods to Jon's question, holding the mug close since he can't do it with Jon at the moment. Jon seems to understand and shuffles his way awkwardly closer until their knees are touching. Jon bumps Martin's knee gently and Martin just smiles.
They finish their tea in silence, a comfortable and cozy one, both of them warmed by the company, the hot drink, and the blanket. Jon wordlessly takes Martin's mug from his hands and goes to rinse them out in the sink while Martin folds the blanket back up and heads to the bedroom to change. He's pulling on an especially soft cardigan over his favorite shirt when Jon walks in and makes a beeline right for the sweater.
He sighs and says, "Oh, yes, it really is as soft as it looks."
Martin laughs and leans down to kiss the top of Jon's head. "You can't take it from me, you silly man."
Jon pretends to be offended, scoffing a little as he continues to rub the material of Martin's sleeve between his fingers. "I would never!"
To make Martin's point, Jon pulls on Martin's discarded jumper from the day before over his pajama shirt—Martin can't help but laugh at the expression on his face—before digging around in the mess on the floor for his jeans. They've become a little lazy about sorting clothes out up here the last few days, knowing most of it needs to be washed anyway.
Martin leaves the room, still laughing, and goes into the bathroom. By the time his teeth are brushed, Jon has his shoes on and is trying to stuff his arms into his coat. The jumper material is making his sleeves a tight fit, but Jon seems determined to make it work.
Martin says nothing as he walks up behind Jon and holds the coat steady so Jon can use both hands to fit the wool into the sleeve holes. When Jon is satisfied and begins to button his coat, Martin slips his own shoes and coat on. He grabs his scarf, laying it loosely over his coat. He knows he won't need it, but Jon probably will and won't admit it. Martin will have to wrap him up and be satisfied with the tiny thank you Jon will let leak when his mouth is buried in the fabric.
Out in the Highlands, the wind picks up and slows down at seemingly random intervals, and Martin can tell almost right away that today, it's going to drive him crazy. His hair is of the length to make him a little homicidal, and the wind isn't helping at all.
It's about fifteen minutes out from the cottage, one hand held fast to Jon's and the other holding his hair out of his eyes, that he finally breaks down and says, "Jon, would you cut my hair when we get back?"
Jon starts, obviously having been lost in thought, and then bursts out laughing when he makes eye contact with Martin. Their hands fall apart as Jon bends over, the laughter forcing him to brace himself on his knees.
Martin, on the other hand, doesn't see what's so funny, and he frowns over at his boyfriend, arms now crossed in front of his chest, until Jon gains enough breath back to finally explain. "Your hair, my love, I'm so sorry, it was sticking around your fingers, and you just—it was very funny."
Martin, admittedly not pleased his hair had been the source of Jon's amusement, was quickly softened by the genuine smile still plastered on Jon's face. And well, that's why Martin wants his hair cut anyway, so.
"Are you sure you don't want to go into the village and see if someone there has experience? I've never cut anyone's hair before," Jon warns, taking Martin's hand again.
He shakes his head. "I'm uh," he starts, swallows, then continues, "I'm not sure I really want a stranger touching me like that. Yet."
There's a beat, and then Jon replies, "Of course I will then." His words are soft, but his hand squeezes Martin's in reassurance, so Martin squeezes back.
They finally reach the new pasture of cows Martin had found earlier, but the cows are too far out to be much more than fuzzy shapes on the next few hills. With Jon here leaning into him, though, Martin isn't too disappointed.
He's vindicated in his choice to bring the scarf, though, when Jon tries to bury his face in Martin's cardigan when they turn to start walking back. Martin says nothing, but twists the material around Jon's neck and face until only his eyes peek out over it. It's so adorable, Martin feels his heart give a sharp tug. The expected thanks drifts out through the wool, and Martin just smiles as he takes up Jon's hand again.
The walk back is just as windy, and he tries not to be annoyed with the hair whipping in and out of his eyes. He focuses instead on the way Jon's hand feels in his, how his legs feel as they take step after step, what he'd like for breakfast. He wants the annoyance that's been tickling him all day to fade away into what he hopes will be a very good day.
Finally, they return to the cottage and unbundle themselves from their outdoor wear. Jon needs Martin's help to peel the coat off, and Martin thinks Jon's arms must have been very squished in the sleeves. He didn't complain once, though, so he must have been warm enough. Good, thinks Martin. Jon is almost always too cold for his own good.
Jon immediately books it to the kitchen and starts rummaging around in the drawers. His victorious "Aha!" is so cute, Martin melts a little, standing still by the front door. When Jon looks over at him, he frantically waves Martin to the kitchen with, "Why are you still there? I can't cut your hair if you're standing."
Dutifully, if a little sheepishly, Martin makes his way to the kitchen and sits in the chair Jon points to. Jon wraps a towel loosely around his shoulders and starts to run his fingers through Martin's hair. Martin knows he's just trying to pull out the wind tangles, but he still closes his eyes and leans into the feeling. He's warm, safe, and loved, and if he'd ever doubted it, this moment would have solidified it forever.
"This would be faster if you'd just let me comb it," Jon says after a few minutes of slowly fighting Martin's wind-battered curls.
"You're a menace with the comb, Jon, and you know it," Martin replies, not opening his eyes. He'd seen how Jon brutalized his own hair when given a comb, so Martin had hidden it away from him. Of course, Jon probably Knows exactly where it is, but so far, Martin hasn't seen him attack anything with it again.
"Okay, it would be faster if you would comb your hair, then," Jon retorts, his tone almost reminiscent of the early days of Head Archivist Jon, but too soft to be harmful.
Martin laughs in return, but makes no move to go get it. "Why would I want to hurry this up?"
"To eat breakfast," is Jon's fast and dry reply.
Martin chuckles. "I'd skip breakfast if it meant I spent the whole morning with my boyfriend playing with my hair," he says simply. He's almost embarrassed by this admission, but Jon has said far more sappy things in the last two days alone than Martin has probably even thought in the last two years. This? This doesn't even remotely catch up to what Jon had to say about poetry last night.
Jon just grumbles, but Martin can hear the smile in his low murmuring. It's only a few more minutes before Jon pronounces, "There. I think I can start chopping now."
"Oh, we're going for violence today, are we?" Martin says, an unbidden image of Jon taking a cleaver to Rapunzel-style hair, endless and massive, springing to mind. He decides not to share it with Jon while Jon continues to hold a sharp implement. No need to give him ideas.
"We go for violence every day, my darling," Jon answers and starts to part Martin's hair into sections. "Do you want me to use my instincts, or ask for some help?"
Martin recognizes the genuine question in Jon's voice and so takes a moment to consider it. "Well, I've seen your instincts in action before, but I'm also not sure I want the Eye to choose my haircut for me."
"Hey!" Jon protests, and Martin sputters into laughter. "My instincts aren't that bad!"
"Jon, you have some of the poorest split-second decision making skills of anyone I've ever met."
"I--" Jon starts to retort, and then falters. He mutters quietly for a moment, seeming to argue with himself. "Okay, point taken. Still, what am I doing with your mop?"
Martin ignores the jab and says instead, "Give it a whirl yourself, love. Anyway I bet Beholding will drop all kinds of information about cutting hair all on its own, so maybe some of it will be useful."
Jon admits the truth to that statement and proceeds with sectioning off Martin's hair. "How short?"
Martin thinks carefully. He wants it off his ears and away from his eyes, that's for sure, and usually, he trusted his barber to make that happen. Now though, he's got the world's most precise and stubborn man brandishing scissors, so he has to provide some specifics.
He does start with saying off his ears and then tries to use his hands to illustrate how long he usually likes it, and after a few minutes of talking about lengths at different locations--Darling, is the back shorter than the front? What about the sides and the top, Martin?--Jon makes the first cut.
He does it so tentatively that the scissors seem to take a whole minute to complete the first snip and when the hair falls on to the towel, Jon stops. After a minute, Martin says, "Jon?"
Jon clears his throat and laughs self-consciously. "I didn't expect to feel weird about it, but I kind of do. If you'd ask me a month ago if I'd ever be cutting your hair, I'd have wanted to know how much we'd have had to drink for you to let me put scissors near your face. But today? I don't know, it seems...mundane, a little routine, even. Like this is just the first time I'm doing this, instead of...the only time."
Martin doesn't say anything for a few seconds, realizing that he had that same attitude to the situation. This was Jon learning how he liked his hair cut, not the two of them just making do.
"Away from the Institute and London, I think it's easier to think about the idea of a future," Martin finally replies, once Jon has started cutting more of his hair again. This moment is simultaneously familiar (scissors cutting through hair, Jon humming just under his breath) and strange (Jon cutting his hair). "At first, this all felt like stolen time, but now it feels more like a prelude. We've started here, and yeah, we'll have to go back to deal with Jonah and the Institute, but we'll get a reprise of this at the end."
Jon hums his acknowledgment, a happy sound, and Martin knows he's just concentrating on getting the lengths all even instead of ignoring what Martin had said. It doesn't matter, though, because Martin knows Jon has the same hopes for a future as he does.
It doesn't take Jon long to finish cutting all of Martin's hair, and when he's done, he sets the scissors in the sink and methodically gathers up the towel. He pats Martin's shoulder gently when he's done, and Martin moves to find the broom to take care of the escaped pieces. After a few minutes, there's no sign of this very domestic adventure except the loose hairs on Martin's neck and forehead and the mostly empty towel in front of the washer.
"I'll make breakfast while you go shower?" Jon offers, turning back to Martin with outstretched hands. Martin accepts the hands and places a gentle kiss on the back of the burned one in gratitude, appreciation, and adoration.
"Sounds good," he replies, looking down into Jon's eyes. He stares back before his eyes flit up to Martin's hair again. "You look very good. This might be a little too long still, but I can do it shorter next time, if I need to."
Next time.
Yeah, there will be a next time, Martin thinks, and he pulls Jon in close to kiss him.