Work Text:
when martin cracks open his eyes, it isn't immediately clear what woke him up.
the window is open, but he's perfectly warm tucked under a blanket. the clock ticking on the wall is loud, but not obtrusively so.
maybe it was the cool sheet beside him, the blankets rumpled by someone who is no longer there.
maybe it was the faint whistling of a kettle from down the hall before it was hastily removed from the burner, or the turn of a page, or the gentle squeak of a rocking chair.
maybe it was the warm yellow light spilling along the walls and across the open bedroom door, or maybe it was some combination of all of them.
whatever it was, he's awake now, and acutely aware of jon's absence beside him.
he pushes the blanket off him and sits up, fumbling around on the nightstand for his glasses.
once they're on, he gets up and shuffles to the doorway, listening intently.
over his own quiet breaths, he hears pleasant humming, along with a chorus of squeaking chairs and creaking books and the mewls of sir william.
he smiles to himself, closing his eyes and standing there a few moments more before making his presence known, because it's 2am and martin is tired but he's also terribly fond of the man in the living room, humming to himself and reading and petting their cat and drinking regular tea that he made himself because he didn't want to wake martin up for the special kind.
(martin lies to him, just a little; there is no secret ingredient, unless love counts. he thinks jon knows, because jon knows lots of things, and if he does it just makes martin love him that much more.)
the floorboard right outside the door creaks, so he steps over it onto the rug. (they'd gotten it in the village nearby, from a family owned shop that sells all sorts of knick knacks and trinkets. lovely place.)
the rocking stops for a second, then picks up again. martin smiles to himself. clever man already knows he's up.
he still picks his way down the hall, avoiding boards that have been known to squeal, just so he doesn't disturb jon any more than he already has.
he stops in the doorway, leans against it. his shoulder presses into the cracked, chipped drywall. it scratches at his arm every time he shifts. they should repaint, he thinks.
jon looks up at him from the corner of the room. he has a knitted gray blanket over his legs, one that they'd gotten from the same shop as the rug. (jon loved it too much and martin can never say no. not to him.)
there's a small, soft smile on his face. his eyes look tired behind his glasses. there's a nearly full cup of tea on the table beside him. (he never finishes it if he makes it himself. martin doesn't know why.)
sir william lays in his lap, leisurely kneading the blanket and slowly picking it to shreds. he's purring like an engine, his big eyes staring up at jon, who has a hand on his belly. his fingers are lost in willie's thick fur.
the book in his other hand is a battered copy of frankenstein. it's closed around his finger to mark his page.
jon is the first to speak. "what are you doing up? i thought i was quiet enough."
martin huffs a laugh. "you were. proud of you, actually. i think i just have a very acute jon-sense."
his brow wrinkles in a playful frown. "i see. that's a boring sort of power to have."
martin shrugs. "i don't mind it. in fact, i think it's rather nice."
it's dim, and jon's dark complexion doesn't lend itself to much, but martin's pretty sure he's blushing.
"i mostly like it for times like now, when you've left me alone in bed for the third night in a row to waste perfectly good tea and ruin your eyesight."
jon rolls his eyes. "i'm not going to ruin my eyesight. and you know full well this tea is not perfectly good, because i made it. it's subpar, at best." he sniffs. "if only you'd tell me your secret ingredient then i wouldn't waste it."
martin's smile grows. "is that your subtle way of kindly asking me to make you a cup? because if so, you need to work on the art of dropping hints, dear."
jon splutters, startling the cat. (not enough to make him move, willie wouldn't move unless a building were about to fall on him.)
"it was not - i wasn't -" he huffs a haughty breath, crossing his arms. "if you've only come out here to make fun of me, you can go back to the bedroom."
martin finally comes into the room, slipping behind the rocking chair and wrapping his arms around jon.
"but darling," he starts, his mouth by jon's temple, "the bed is so lonely without you."
jon's breath falters for a second and he grasps one of martin's wrists. he turns to look at martin, but he's already pulling away.
"i'll make you that cuppa," he says, before heading into the kitchen.
"ass," jon gripes, returning to his task of giving willie all of his attention.
"i'm sure," martin replies, a smile tugging at his lips.
when the tea is finished steeping, he brings it out to jon, who accepts it with a genuine smile, one that crinkles the corners of his eyes in the way martin adores. (jon thinks his laugh lines make him look too old; martin loves that they even exist, because they mark a time when jon would laugh too much, or too loud, or at all.)
martin sits down on the couch, tugging at the throw behind him and tucking it around himself.
jon frowns behind his mug, then sets it and his book down and puts willie on the floor. he mrows quite unhelpfully, winding his tail around jon's ankle.
jon gets up, blanket trailing along behind him, picks up his tea, and settles down on the couch against him.
his cheek squishes into martin's arm, so he lifts it and wraps it around his shoulders instead.
"better?" he asks, watching jon take a sip of tea.
jon looks up at him with that same fond, purely happy smile. he lifts his free hand to martin's face and kisses him soundly on the mouth. "much."