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Martin could tell Jon was getting tired. Probably a few hours off from admitting it, of course, but Martin had learned to see through that years ago. The limp that plagued him since Prentiss grew more pronounced as they went, and Jon leaned more heavily on the stick that served as a makeshift cane with every step.
And then, of course, the wings. Only a few days had passed since Jon’s transformation, and the nightmare that led to it, but Martin had already begun to learn to read them. It was hardly a challenge to, now--they slumped from Jon’s back, silvered wingtips trailing in the dirt. It would be easier for Jon to fly than to walk, Martin was sure, but he was as unwilling to suggest it as he knew Jon was to leave him. Martin tightened his grip on Jon’s hand to steady him.
Martin glanced at the horizon, slowing to a halt. The sun hadn’t vanished yet, its dying glow still staining the horizon a sickly yellow-green. A few hours before Jon would stop on his own. At his side Jon slowed with him, but the soft green glow of eyes on face and wings alike continued to scan every which way.
Martin squeezed the hand in his again. “Can we stop, Jon? I’m really tired.” All at once the weight of Jon’s gaze was upon him; not the searing intensity of the Archivist, but enough to knock the breath out of him with the sudden weight of his concern.
“Of course,” said Jon, so gently, as if any heat in his voice would ignite Martin’s old insecurities. His hands fluttered like birds unsure where to land before skating up Martin’s arms to his shoulders. “Come on, let’s make camp.”
Make camp was a generous way to put it, no thanks to the sinkhole that opened beneath them that morning. Martin knew he should be glad they escaped with their lives, even with some of their gear, but losing the sleeping bags was a wrench. Even if they didn’t freeze at night, even if Martin knew the feeling of comfort he drew from them was baseless, it was nice to bury himself beneath their weight. But the only thing his grasp sought as they fled was Jon’s hand, and he couldn’t bring himself to regret it.
(At least the nights were getting warmer, now--or maybe it was that grip on his hand chasing the dregs of the Lonely away. Martin could still see the fog stalking him, sometimes, creeping like starved rats after the piper, but none dared to come near.)
They found a little hollow by a gutted tree--barely more welcoming than the open ground, but few things were welcoming now. They huddled beneath it as the wind whistled by, hands still joined as they shared one of the few surviving granola bars. Their nighttime ritual was sadly shortened with no tent to set up or blankets to tuck round each other. Martin still rubbed heat into Jon’s numb hands, gentle round his scars, and kneaded the stiffness out of Jon’s bad leg. In turn, Jon dug his thumbs into the muscles on Martin’s shoulders that the weight of the pack would have left sore after a day’s furtive travel. They weren’t sore today, but Martin was in no hurry to stop him. Afterwards, Jon tucked himself against Martin as best he could, the elegant stretch of his wings now folded clumsy and cumbersome behind him. The feathers brushed against Martin’s cheek and he laughed, soft and shaky, running his knuckles along the arch of one wing. Jon answered with a low hum, eyelids fluttering. Suddenly his eyes shot open again, wide green and gold, and Jon bolted upright. “I have an idea,” he announced before Martin could react. All at once Jon was tugging and prodding and fussing, a rustling jumble of limbs and doubled-up jackets.
First went the extra jacket on the ground, then Martin, bemused but patient and Jon coaxed him into place lying on top of it. Jon tucked his cane at Martin’s side, and two pairs of gloves bundled together beneath Martin’s head. Finally, Jon knelt awkwardly beside him and unfurled his wings. They were as broad and beautiful as ever, the underside black and silky in the shadows, the eyes on the other side gleaming a fluorescent halo behind him. It was still light enough to see the flush creeping over Jon’s cheeks as his hands hovered between them.
“For warmth?” said Jon, voice pitching high and nervous.
Ridiculous man , thought Martin as he nodded. As if they hadn’t spent all these weeks past huddled as close as physical forms would allow.
And then suddenly it was much less ridiculous as Jon crawled onto Martin’s chest. All the air seemed to rush from his lungs as Jon pressed himself as close as he could, arms wrapped around him and hands tucked beneath his back, head nestled beneath his chin. The wings draped across them both like a majestic blanket.
“Good idea,” said Martin, barely more than a wheeze. The feather-down brushed soft against his forehead, and Jon’s hair soft against his chin.
“Put your hands on my back, it will be warmest there,” said Jon. Martin was quick to obey, sliding his hands along Jon’s sides to settle at the base of the wings. Jon was right; they were warm, and soft, and strong, and Martin debated the merits of taking his gloves off so he could feel the silky feathers on his skin again. As it was, he trailed his fingertips along Jon’s spine, or where he guessed it was beneath the puffy layer of his coat. The effect was immediate, and he could feel Jon melt against him.
“It’s, ah...like moths,” Jon muttered into his chest.
“Moths?” repeated Martin.
Jon’s chin poked into Martin’s sternum as he ducked his head, and his wings shifted above them. “I, I read about it as a child,” he said. “They frighten off predators with their wings. They, the, the spots— it’s to look like a different creature with eyes. Something more dangerous, a predator.” His voice dipped on the last word, wavering, and Martin drew a hand from the warmth of the feathers to weave his fingers into Jon’s hair.
“Sounds useful,” hummed Martin, and felt Jon relax into him again. Their feet stuck out beneath their shelter, and though Martin wished he could pry off his boots before sleep, it didn’t stop him from tangling their feet together as best he could.
The wind hissed over their little hollow. It rattled the dessicated leaves of the tree looming overhead, but beneath the canopy of wings it could not touch them. If Martin listened, he could hear voices carried in its eerie tune. He didn’t listen. There were always voices in the wind. Martin held Jon closer and closed his eyes.
Like most nights, Martin felt himself dropping off quickly, and like most nights Jon spoke again before he could. “Moths mimic other things, too,” Jon squeezed out alongside a yawn. He ran his fingertips along the collar of Martin’s shirt before tucking them beneath the scarf Martin still wore (which originally belonged to Jon, but Martin made sure he had one of his own).
Martin didn’t open his eyes. “Mm?”
“Mhm,” answered Jon, sounding just as drowsy. “Tree bark? That’s one. Birds, too. Wasps, tarantu--” Here Martin felt him fall still, and ran a firm hand along Jon’s flank. Jon drew a steadying breath. “Um..and, ah, other things.”
“I like yours better,” said Martin, rousing himself enough to press a kiss to Jon’s hair.
Their coats rustled as Jon shifted, an audible blush, and a flustered tinge colored Jon’s voice as he went on. “Th-they’re interesting, though. Most people only care for butterflies, but…”
Martin listened through half-closed eyes, giving a grunt of interest whenever the soothing ramble of Jon’s voice slowed. Something about the number of species of moth compared to butterflies, something about how they eat. Martin realized he couldn’t tell if the wind carried screams anymore. He smiled.
“Luna moths don’t eat, just live long enough to mate,” Jon was saying. He huffed an odd little noise that Martin had learned to interpret as a laugh. “Guess that’s the one I’m least like, wouldn’t you say?”
Martin giggled, though that could be blamed more on Jon’s roaming fingers; they had dug far enough beneath the scarf to touch the skin of his neck, and it tickled terribly. “Jon,” he chided, craning his neck to look down at him. “You’re trying not to Know, remember? Wears you out, and all that?”
Jon shifted on top of him, and Martin knew he was blushing again. “Oh! That-- that I knew already. I mean, ah, the regular way. There was this book of insects, you see, and I was fascinated with it as a child. I...memorized quite a lot of it. I thought it would impress people if I could recite facts from it.” Jon peered up at him through his eyelashes, sheepish, and Martin’s heart stuttered in his chest.
Martin cleared his throat, trying to reign in the wave of adoration as he frowned in mock betrayal. “So all this time, you knew spiders were important to the ecosystem.”
Jon scrunched his face in distaste. “Technically, spiders aren’t insects. Too many legs,” he said primly. “Besides, we really shouldn’t be talking about spiders when we’re sleeping on the ground.”
Martin yawned, trying to fight his drooping eyelids, because the way Jon was pouting up at him was so--well, cute . He ran his fingers through Jon’s hair again. “I’m not worried, you’ll protect me.”
The sudden softness that overtook Jon’s expression took Martin’s breath away. Skating a hand over Martin’s chest, Jon shifted and fanned his wings with a sound like wind in the leaves (like the wind back home, back in Scotland, not the shriek in the skeletal thing above them). The feathers brushed soft against Martin’s cheek again. “You’re right,” said Jon, voice softer still. “I will.”