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They’ve been in Scotland for nearly a week now, and it’s... it’s nice. Good, actually. Fluffy highland cows and easy conversation. It would almost be like a peaceful holiday were it not for the nagging sense that the other shoe is about to drop at any time.
Still, Jon can’t remember the last time he felt so...relaxed. So safe. The problem is he doesn’t really know what to do with that feeling anymore.
Martin is having a harder time of it. Sometimes he goes for long walks in the countryside, returning up to an hour later, cold and quiet. Other times he seems desperately afraid to be alone, seeking connection like a sunflower tracks the light.
And then there are the times like right now when Jon finds him in the kitchen, making tea at half past four in the morning.
“Nightmare?” he asks gently, careful not to startle him. The answer is obvious even to him, but he asks anyway.
“Uh, yeah,” Martin replies, sheepish. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“Given my dreams, waking me up might be considered a public service.”
“Jon—”
“I know, I know; sleep is important. But you’re more important.”
And just like that, Martin starts to cry, his shoulders shaking with silent sobs. It seems to take them both by surprise. For a moment they’re completely still.
“The kettle.”
“I— What?”
“The kettle,” Martin repeats, just before a piercing shriek fills the air. He turns to the stove, tears still falling.
“Martin, just—let me do that. Don’t worry about the tea for a second. Are you—” Jon stops himself. Stupid. Of course he isn’t okay. “Do you want to talk about it?”
He shakes his head. "I don't even know why I'm crying."
“Okay. That’s fine. Do you...want a hug?”
Martin hesitates. Jon busies himself with the kettle. He can do this, at least. Maybe he doesn’t know how to comfort the person he cares about most in the world but he can make the damn tea.
“I don’t— Honestly, I think that might be a bit too much, right now,” Martin says.
“Right. I understand.”
Martin sort of crumples until he’s sitting on the floor with his back against the oven, burying his face in his hands. Jon kneels down beside him.
“I’m sor—”
“When I was in the coffin with Daisy,” Jon says, cutting him off before he can apologize for having emotions, “I could scarcely move or breathe. I couldn’t see anything. But I held her hand. It was the only thing I could feel besides dirt and pressure. Just her hand in mine. Since the coma—hell, even before that—I couldn’t remember the last time I was touched by anyone who wasn’t trying to kill me. I kept thinking that holding Daisy’s hand should hurt, but it didn’t.”
“Jon, are, um... are you saying you’d like to hold my hand?” Martin asks. He’s no longer crying, Jon realizes. A good sign?
“Maybe. Yes. If it would help. And if you want to, that is.”
“All right.”
Martin reaches for his hand—the scarred one—and Jon reflexively flinches back.
“Sorry, it’s— Not that hand, please,” he explains, or tries to, anyway.
“Oh. Oh, God. Does it hurt or...?”
“Not...exactly. It just feels sort of weird.” The truth is, he very much does not want to think about Jude Perry right now. Or ever.
So they try again, lacing their fingers together. Jon and Martin stay like that for quite a while, just holding hands on the floor of their safehouse’s tiny kitchen. Jon knows he'll probably be sore tomorrow but he doesn't want to let go.
“God, I really am a mess, aren’t I,” Martin sighs.
“We both are. At this point I think I’d be more concerned if we weren’t.”
“I suppose. At least we’re together.”
And because the world could end tomorrow, and Jon loves Martin Blackwood so fiercely a potential apocalypse almost feels insignificant in comparison, he lifts Martin’s hand to his lips and presses a lingering kiss to his knuckles.
Martin stares at him, eyes wide.
“Is that okay?” Jon asks softly.
“Y-yeah. I mean, we're probably going to need to talk about...all of that in the morning but— ah fuck.”
“What is it? What’s wrong?”
“We forgot about the tea, Jon.”