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The safehouse is quiet, and still, and by all rights calming, and despite all of that Jon can’t fall asleep. It’s not that he isn’t tired — he’s tense, and exhausted, and he’s been running on caffeine and hubris for far too long already. But he also knows that the less sleep he gets, the less his victims (because they are victims, aren’t they) have to suffer at his hands, and even though he may be a monster, that doesn’t mean he has to act like one. So he can’t fall asleep. Won’t fall asleep.
He sighs softly, turns away from Martin in the bed next to him, because he’s quite certain that it would be weird to watch someone else sleep, no matter how much they made his heart pound in his chest. Besides, it’s horribly self-centered to think about Martin like — like that, especially now, especially when they’re so close and Martin’s got too much of the duvet and Jon is matching his slow breaths to the rhythm of Martin’s. So Jon very pointedly ignores the proximity, and tries unsuccessfully to keep his mind from drifting back to the warmth so close to him.
⁂
The air is uncharacteristically cold, even for October, and a low fog rests heavy over the hills. It’s weather to lose yourself in, and Martin isn’t sure whether the chill soaking into his bones is from the gloom outside or from the Loneliness that still curls around his fingertips when he’s not careful. Soothing rain patters against the windows of the safehouse, but it’s not quite enough to lull him off to sleep. The fear is irrational, he knows, but some deep part of him is worried that if he closes his eyes, when he opens them again he’ll be Alone on an empty, misty shore of quicksand that dulls his heart and drags him under and leaves him for dead. The thought burrows into his chest, stinging with hurt.
He bites the inside of his cheek, reminding himself that he’s real, that he’s here. Jon shifts slightly next to him, and Martin stares at the gentle rise and fall of his shoulders, letting a soft smile edge its way across his face. He adjusts himself in bed, getting slightly closer to Jon’s sleeping form, and lets a hand rest loosely on Jon’s shoulder. The first night in the safehouse, Martin tried to sleep alone, and Jon found him sobbing, fading out, and so he’s not allowed to sleep alone anymore. Not for the time being.
And it’s — nice. In the quiet dark, wrapped up in blankets and duvets that barely keep out the chill, Martin can look at Jon and pretend that it’s all a part of something more, can pretend that Jon reciprocates his feelings, can pretend they’re together, and hot shame pools in his stomach like lead at the thought. It’s pathetic, watching someone sleep and fantasizing about them, and he almost pulls his hand away, except—
⁂
Jon is sure that Martin’s asleep, because it’s late. Because Jon can hear the steady rise and fall of his breathing, even without looking. And so when Martin’s hand falls gently onto his shoulder, it has to be because he’s dreaming. Jon remembers Martin’s nightmares, remembers having to messily comfort him, and so he places a hand over Martin’s to assure him that he isn’t alone. Martin’s fingers twitch slightly at the contact, and Jon shifts closer to Martin in bed, hoping to anchor him firmly away from Loneliness.
They lay like that for a long time, both grasping for the plausible deniability afforded them by sleep, as the rain taps lightly against the window. The moment is only broken when Martin, so quietly as to be nearly imperceptible, whispers a soft “I love you, Jon,” into the cool night. In an instant, Jon realizes that Martin is awake — god, how long has he been conscious, Jon is nestled so close into his arms at this point and it’s horrifically domestic — and then the words finally process, and oh. Oh. He rolls over to look at Martin, then realizes how little distance is truly between them. They’re almost nose-to-nose, Martin’s arm still curled around Jon’s shoulders, and their eyes lock.
“Sorry," says Martin, flushing, “I thought you were- asleep, I didn't-" but Jon reaches up, traces the side of Martin's cheek with a shaky, unsure hand, presses their foreheads together, and Martin cuts himself off with a breathy "oh.”
“I- I do too, Martin,” Jon whispers. “I feel- I feel the same way.”
And it’s far from eloquent, because, okay, maybe Jon isn’t the best at expressing emotions, but the way Martin ducks his head and bites back a smile don’t take much interpretation to understand, and Jon can’t help himself from smiling back. They stay like that, breath and bodies intertwined, for a long moment, holding one another close against the great and terrifying weight of the world, and in the lull, everything seems to fall still.
It’s broken by Martin pulling back slightly, and for a moment Jon worries he’s done something wrong, but Martin glances down at Jon’s lips, whispering “Is this- can I- can I kiss you?” He doesn’t finish the sentence before Jon murmurs a “yes,” and when their lips meet it’s soft and gentle and everything that neither Jon nor Martin believes they deserve.
Jon's lips part with a soft gasp that catches in his throat, and both of them grin against each other's mouths at the sound. They separate, their breath heavy and mingling, and Jon props himself up on one elbow to stare down at the delicate flush painting Martin's cheeks. With the thumb of his free hand, he traces the curve of Martin's lips, bowed into a gentle smile, then tilts Martin's chin upwards slightly and kisses him again, harder this time. Martin's hands fist in his hair, pulling him closer with a gentle surety, and Jon obliges, nestling even closer to Martin as if trying to fit every contour of their bodies together, running a hand down Martin's side to rest at his waist.
Both of them know how fragile this moment is, how easily their world can break in unsteady hands, but none of that matters. They are here, and they are together, and at least for the night, they are going to be okay.