Chapter Text
Cold. Damp. Quiet. The memories hang in the back of Martin’s mind, poised to overtake him if his thoughts drift too far. So he focuses very pointedly on his hands, clasped on the train station café table in front of him. He remembers reading an article once about a man who had been trapped alone on a boat in the arctic. It said that the man had found the world he returned to overstimulating and disorienting, after so many months with only bleak and greyscale ice. Martin wonders if that’s what is happening to him. Then Jon sits down opposite him with a mug in each hand and he pushes the thought from his mind. Jon offers Martin one of the mugs, and when he takes it their hands touch, just for a second. It’s enough to make both of them blush. He pulls the mug towards him and stares into its dark, swirling contents. It feels strange to think about it, but it was almost easier when Jon was pulling him out of the Lonely. For a small window of time, they had not been afraid of each others’ feelings and were instead afraid of greater, more terrible forces. (There comes a voice, far off in the distance.) It was simple when Jon’s arm was around his waist and Martin’s head was on Jon’s shoulder and the warmth that blossomed from where their skin touched was the only thing tethering Martin to the real world. (The voice comes again, louder.) But now that hysteria had subsided, and left only two people too afraid to face their own-
“Martin!” It’s Jon. Martin wipes the steam away from his glasses to reveal the concerned face across from him.
“Hm?” He replies, trying to make it sound like he hasn’t just been pulled back to reality at the speed of sound.
“Just making sure you’re still... here.” Martin nods. It’s nice, he supposes, having someone to make sure he doesn’t drift away, but there’s still that creeping revulsion at his reliance on other people. He stops those thoughts with some significant effort before he gets lost in them.
“I- we should probably get going. Don’t want to miss our train,” Martin says. The plural pronouns still feel wrong in his mouth, as if his grammar isn’t quite correct. It’s been ‘I’ and ‘me’ for so long that everything else has faded away.
The two of them set off into the station proper, trying to find their platform. Jon’s no good at navigating, and Martin keeps spacing out, so it takes longer than they’d expected. When they finally have the train within their sights, ten meters away, the doors are nearly closing. Jon shoots Martin a panicked look of realisation, then quickly snatches his wrist and begins to sprint towards the train. Martin snaps out of yet another trance and stumbles along, barely retaining his footing. The doors are sliding closed now, and they’re still three meters away, both of them gasping for breath. Jon’s fingers hold Martin’s arm a little tighter and suddenly there it is again. That desperation, that ease of touch, even though they’re only running to catch a train. They’re already full of adrenaline, right, so what’s a little more?
The train doors close just as Jon yanks Martin inside, the edges of his scarf just barely slipping through in time. Martin feels the disgruntled eyes of a dozen first-class passengers fix on him. He tries to shake off their gaze, laughing sheepishly, and shuffles to his seat behind Jon, who is flushing spectacularly. As they take the walk of shame, awkwardly and half-sideways, Martin feels Jon’s grip loosening on his wrist. Whatever possessed him to take hold of it in the first place has faded, and Martin realises that he desperately wants to keep it from slipping away. A jolt of panic runs through him- not much, but enough to fuel Martin’s fingers as they lace through Jon’s. Jon’s face gets even redder, but he doesn't pull away.
The standard section of the train is nearly deserted, with only a few families and businesspeople scattered throughout. Martin’s glad for it. The weight of humanity in the station had been oppressive after so many months alone, and he's already exhausted. The lack of fear is almost uncomfortable, like an itch that arises when skin starts to heal. He doesn’t really know what to do when he’s not afraid. That’s when Martin realises, with a slight pleasant surprise, that he isn’t afraid. Not with Jon here, next to him, warm and real and keeping him anchored to reality. He holds this thought in his mind like a prized possession until finally he dips his chin into his scarf and sleeps.
Martin’s eyes flutter open at the sound of Jon’s voice. No- not just the sound- the vibration of it, as well. He realises with a start that he’s been sleeping on Jon’s shoulder for- oh, for god knows how long. Martin feels a blush start to creep up into his cheeks. Jon finishes whatever he was saying and looks down.
“Ah, erm, hello,” he says. His voice is very soft, but it still sounds loud to Martin. “Sorry to wake you.”
“Oh, no, that’s fine!” Martin replies hastily, sitting bolt upright, “I’m really sorry about that, I d-”
“Ab-About what?” Jon interrupts, shaking his head as if he can cast the compulsion away. And Martin realises that maybe Jon didn’t mind, maybe Jon didn’t wake him up just to sever that single point of contact.
“Ah, nothing! Never mind!”
“Hm. Anyway, I got us some tea. I, er, I don’t really know how you take yours, and I didn’t want to- erm, so I just asked for cream and sugar on the side?” Jon says nervously. Martin smiles.
“Thanks. Yeah, I’m not really that picky-” his smile grows wider- “Not like Mr. Four-and-a-Half-Sugars over here!”
“I just think that if I’m already having tea, I should enjoy it!” Jon retorts, immediately defensive, “You know, in some countries, they put in seven sugars, I read a statement once- what?” Martin is trying and failing to stifle a fit of laughter, his eyes crinkling at the edges. “What?” Jon repeats, sounding like he’s trying very hard not to compel Martin.
“I don’t know,” Martin answers, voice warm and brimming with mirth, “It’s just- you, I guess.” And it’s true. It was such a very ‘Jon’ thing to say, and how can he keep himself from smiling at that? Keep from smiling at Jon?
Soon the train arrives in Edinburgh and the two get off. They rent a car from the only agency shady enough to let them pay in cash and set out for the highlands. The car is a 1995 green Honda Civic. It is so ugly.
“Oh, come on, doesn’t this count as ‘retro’?” Jon asks playfully.
“Yeah, maybe if it wasn’t the color of my gran’s living room,” Martin scoffs.
“Well, as long as it moves, that’s good enough for me,” Jon says, wrenching open the door.
Martin drives. Jon is a horrible driver, and he looks like he hasn’t slept in weeks. Still, he keeps his eyes open and fixed on the countryside throughout the entire drive, knee bouncing anxiously.
“Any music preferences?” Martin asks.
“I- er- usually just listen to talk radio,” Jon replies, “B-but music would probably be nice!” He adds hastily, “You can choose.”
Martin’s shoulders scrunch up as he flips through the channels. He’s always nervous when picking music for people, especially when ‘people’ is Jon. There's really nothing that good on, much less anything he thinks Jon would like. Finally he finds a station playing 80's pop hits. Jon is just about the last person Martin can imagine listening to 80's music, but it's this or celebrity gossip. He looks at Jon out of the corner of his eye, studying him for his reaction. Jon doesn’t take his eyes off the window, apparently lost in his thoughts. But a slight smile begins to tug at the edge of his lips, and Martin has to remind himself to keep his eyes on the road.
As they drive, the sky grows darker until the grey has faded into a soft blanket of black. By the time they stumble into Daisy’s quaint little safe house, it’s very late. Jon looks as if he’s about to snap like a twig, and Martin doesn’t feel much better. They drop their bags on the doormat and heave a collective sigh of exhaustion. Jon kicks off his shoes, and they land haphazardly in the general vicinity of the door. Martin blinks at him for a moment, and then-
"Jon, how tall are you?" Martin asks, voice thick with the delirious confusion that only comes from exhaustion.
"Wh- What?" Jon replies eloquently. The two of them might as well be in two different fugue states at this point.
"No, it's just- wow, I did not realise how much height your shoes gave you." Martin isn't exactly the tallest person in the world, and Jon usually stands a good centimeter or two above him. Now, though, he is… he's really quite short. Martin is struck with the knowledge that he could probably pick Jon up if he wanted to, which he does, but these are ideas for another time. He’s just about ready to collapse into bed, when-
“Er, Jon?”
“Hm?”
“You know there’s. Erm. There’s one bedroom.” Jon blinks, his brain processing sluggishly.
“Right. I’ll take the couch, then.”
“No- Jon, it’s-”
“Really, i-it’s fine, I don’t mind at all!”
“Jon, seriously, you can’t-” Jon is not listening. He has already flopped onto the glorified armchair in the living room, clothes and all, and… actually appears to be sleeping soundly. “Keep doing this to yourself.” Martin finishes. He sighs and pulls a blanket over Jon, hand resting for just a moment on his shoulder, then changes and makes his way to the bedroom. It’s sparsely furnished, with a plain oak table and what might be a gun safe next to the bed. On the wall there hangs a bare wooden plaque, like one that might be used to mount a deer’s head, but instead the phrase “NO TAXIDERMY! FUCK THE STRANGER!” is gouged into the wood. That’s… that’s only slightly less unsettling than actual taxidermy. Martin crawls under the bed covers. The house is silent around him, almost eerily so, the wind outside the only sound. But he reminds himself that Jon is here, only a thin wall between them. Martin tries to imagine the sound of his breath, carrying over from the living room. Not alone. He thinks. Not alone.
Again, Martin awakes to the sound of Jon’s voice. He blinks, dispelling the sleep and fog from his eyes, and reaches for his glasses.
“Who are you?” Jon’s voice echoes from the living room. He sounds concerned. “Why are you here?” Martin freezes. Panic starts to stir somewhere deep inside his chest. It could just be a normal person, someone from the nearby village, he forces himself to consider. It’s pitch black outside. It’s not just a normal person.
“What do you want?” Jon’s voice comes again and concern is no longer concern, but fear.
Martin takes a shaky, shallow breath and slips out of bed. His mind reels with questions and answers and implications that he deeply wishes weren't there. Have they been found? Are they in danger? Is he in danger? They lurk, predatory, just beneath the surface of his subconscious, and every time a terrible thought comes up out of the water he has to fight to push it back down. The panic is clawing its way up his throat. He creeps to the door, heel-to-toe, making no sound. He turns the handle of the door, and opens it centimeter by painful centimeter. Whatever is in the living room is still obscured by the short corridor, so Martin presses his back against the wall and moves slowly along it.
“Who are you?” Jon’s voice is shot through with panic. Martin doesn’t understand, why isn’t Jon compelling this thing to answer his questions? Unless… Unless he can’t. Peter had tried to resist Jon’s compulsion and it was a fight he had lost. If the same struggle is happening now, with Jon already so exhausted, then-
“Tell me!” It’s not just concern and fear and panic now, he sounds labored. He sounds like he’s losing. Martin's heart slams against his ribs, breath so shallow it feels like it's carrying more adrenaline than oxygen. Fear explodes and throbs in his chest, sharp and white-hot. He’s more terrified than he’s been in months, because then it was just him, and if he died it was just him, and now it’s Jon as well; it’s everything. Martin rounds the corner into the living room, not ready to face their attacker but still going to anyway.
But there’s nothing there. There is no attacker, no monster, no hideous being locked in combat. It’s just Jon, trembling and curled up on the couch, talking in his sleep. All the fear and suspense melts away and Martin feels a very different kind of concern spread within him. He treads softly to Jon’s side, a poor mockery of his earlier stealth. He hesitates for a moment, then places a hand on Jon’s shoulder. He wouldn’t have been able to save him from a real monster, but he can save him from this one.
“Jon?” Martin’s voice is quiet, and Jon doesn’t stir. “Jon!” He says, more forcefully, and with a flutter Jon’s eyes finally open. They search the room, confused and taking in every detail of the scene. The cottage, the dark night outside, Martin kneeling next to the couch. Understanding seeps into his gaze, slowly, and then:
“Oh.” Jon’s voice is soft and hoarse. He stands wordlessly and walks to the bathroom, throwing cold water into his face. Martin approaches him hesitantly, standing in the bathroom doorway and leaning his head on the frame. Jon stops and stares into the sink.
“I’m… sorry. About that.” He says flatly, as if his brain hasn’t fully processed the reality he’s returned to yet. Martin’s automatic response is ‘it’s fine’, but clearly it isn’t. Not for Jon.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Martin asks, with the confidence of one whose interlocutor doesn’t have to answer every question they ask. Jon’s fingers dig into his hair, getting stuck in the tangles.
“Honestly? It never came up.” Martin regards him with suspicion. “And, it’s not that big of a deal. Had them since- well, I’ve had nightmares for a while. I didn’t want to worry you.” Martin laughs humorlessly.
“Well, it didn’t work.”
“No, I suppose not. We’ll worry each other no matter what.” Martin looks at him, taking in the many shadows and sparse moonlit highlights of his face. He takes a shaky breath.
“You might disagree with this,” he begins cautiously, “but I think- maybe it would be… good. To not be alone. To not sleep alone.” He’s expecting Jon to flinch, or maybe gasp, but instead his fingers go a little deeper into his hair and he says,
“I mean, yes, I’m sure it would be very grounding to have you there, but I could never ask-”
“Jon.” Martin cuts him off. “I meant… for me, as well.” There’s a pause, then Jon’s face softens- no- it melts, and his eyes fill with guilt and worry.
“Oh, Martin, I- God, I'm sorry.”
Martin searches for words that are more true than 'It's fine'.
"I- It'll be okay."
Jon's brow furrows in concern, but he just says, "If you say so."
Martin closes his eyes. And he smiles, just a little, because even here, in the broken aftermath of the nightmare, Martin sees Jon. He sees the tilt of his head, the shadows under his eyes and the shine within them, the way light plays across his eyelashes. He sees all of Jon’s finest details. They are infinite, and each one makes Martin love him a little more.
“Come on,” He says, wrapping an arm around Jon’s shoulders, “Let’s get some sleep.”
There are no more nightmares that night. Nor are there nightmares the next night, or the one after that, and maybe it really is good for Jon not to be alone. On the third night it almost feels routine. Jon scrunches himself up on one side of the bed, a ball made up of more quilt than person. Martin lays on the other side, eyes wide with the reality of it all. There is a barrier down the center of the bed, a few centimeters of space charged with enough electricity to power a city. Martin doesn’t know if Jon is asleep, but to ask and break the silence would be as monumental as breaking the electric barrier between them, as impossible as touching him. The slight unease, the nervousness of another’s weight pulling too much quilt to the other side of the bed- it’s wonderful. It’s the warm, fluttery fear of not being alone and it has been so long since Martin felt that. He takes a breath, deep and content, and closes his eyes.
Something is wrong. It’s not a sound, not a feeling, it’s a vague but certain knowledge that something is amiss. Martin feels for his glasses but they seem to have fallen to the floor. He glances at Jon, eyes squinted, and then he realises what it is. It isn’t a sound or sensation, but the silence and stillness that woke him. Jon is lying flat on his back, every muscle tensed, chest and lungs still. The only parts of him that move are his eyes, darting and rolling wildly under their lids. A faint green glow, barely noticeable, leaks out from under his eyelashes and silvery tears run down his face into his hair. This is not like the other nightmare; perhaps it is unlike every nightmare Jon has ever had. It’s almost enough to make Martin hesitate before placing a hand on Jon’s arm and calling his name. Jon doesn’t stir, but his eyes move still more rapidly around their sockets.
“Jon!” he calls again, shaking Jon gently. It feels like trying to move something that has been staked into the ground.
“Come on, Jon, wake up.” Jon’s eyes are frenzied and unseeing, the green light flickering over his rod-straight body. They are unseeing, the thin layer of skin separating them from what is real and what is not. If only he could see, if only…
“Jon.” Martin holds Jon’s face in his hands. If this doesn’t work, then he doesn’t know what he’ll do. “Jon, open your eyes.”
All at once the rigid line of Jon’s body shatters, warm brown eyes snapping open. They do not search the room or come slowly to reality, they just gulp in the scene they’ve been wrenched into. Jon gasps so sharply that he chokes on his own breath and he throws himself into a sitting position, eyes peeking through his fingers.
“Jon- hey- don’t sit up so fast, you’ll get dizzy,” Martin tries to speak with a soft, gentle voice, but honestly he’s more frightened than he would like to admit. “I think you’re hyperventilating, erm, so just try to take deep breaths.” Jon’s chest is rising and falling rapidly, and Martin can't tell if it's the breathing of a wounded animal or of a creature coursing with energy from the hunt. Jon can’t seem to get any words out between breaths and he hardly looks like he’s listening. Martin coaxes his head back onto the pillow, searching his face with concerned eyes. Jon wraps his arms around Martin, and he holds him in kind, tightly, as if it will stop Jon shaking. Jon buries his face in Martin’s chest, hiding in him, and Martin thinks he can feel Jon’s breathing slow, just a bit. They stay like that for a long time, pressed up against each other. Jon doesn’t need to tell Martin what happened. Martin doesn’t need to know. There aren’t words for the fear in Jon’s eyes as they were ripped open, or for the love that Martin hopes is seeping into him now. They cling to each other as a ship clings to its anchor, and Jon’s grip does not loosen until he drops off into sleep. Even then, Martin stays, lying next to Jon in the center of the bed, resting in the shattered remains of the barrier, before he too drifts off.
The sun streams through the windows, playing across the bare wooden plaque, and Jon’s head rests on Martin’s arm. The barrier was not real; it was a fragment of their minds, and its broken pieces dissolved when they fell asleep. The sunlight is warm, but not as warm as Jon, who is presently sleeping soundly, his silvered hair spilling over his face like tangled water. Or maybe Martin’s just blushing. Martin twists around and peeks over the edge of the bed, squinted eyes searching for his glasses. When he finds them and turns back around, Jon is gazing at him through eyes like pools of honey. It’s enough to make Martin’s breath catch, just a little.
“Morning,” Jon says softly.
“Hm? I mean- erm- good morning!” Martin can feel his face getting hot, but Jon smiles sleepily, like Martin has just confessed his undying love for him. If… if that was something that Jon actually wanted to hear, which it probably… Martin pushes the thoughts from his mind.
"I'm going to make breakfast," Jon announces.
"You- what?" Martin replies intelligently, "I didn't know you could cook."
"Well, yes, maybe that's because every time I so much as look at a knife, someone starts having a bloody aneurysm," Jon says in a deadpan that isn't quite good enough to hide the fondness in his voice.
"I just, you know, I worry!" Martin says indignantly.
"I do know," Jon assures him, "I do the same thing."
Tragically, Jon's accusation does nothing to stop Martin from 'having a bloody aneurysm' while Jon is chopping vegetables.
"I don't even think I can get injured anymore!" Jon tells him.
"Honestly, I think it's just a habit at this point," Martin replies from his perch on the counter. Jon hums quietly, and they lapse into a comfortable silence.
Martin hops off the counter to put on the kettle, letting his autopilot run through the familiar motions of making tea. When it's finished he brings it to the small kitchen table and takes a seat, waiting for Jon. He turns over the night's events in his mind, wondering if Jon even remembers what happened. Martin isn't completely certain he didn't dream the whole thing up. It felt real, though. The fear felt real. Martin shivers at the thought, hairs rising on his arms. He had just awoken from a dream himself, one filled with fog and ocean waves that didn't really have the wherewithal to be a nightmare. Definitely preferable to whatever Jon was dreaming of. Nice, even. Pleasant. In fact, Martin would go so far as to say… to say…
The thought dissipates before it can fully form, and Martin blinks slowly. Jon is kneeling in front of him, one hand on Martin's shoulder and the other holding his hand. As soon as he sees the recognition in Martin's eyes he pulls him into a tight embrace, standing and pulling Martin to his feet.
"You looked scared," Jon whispers into the crook of Martin's neck.
"I don't know if I was," Martin replies absently. Jon laughs, breathy and humorless.
"That makes one of us." Jon pulls away just enough to unwrap his arms from around Martin's waist, to cradle his face in his hands.
"Martin." He says, and Martin feels a faint touch of warmth at the sound that fades almost immediately. "Last night, I- I think I visited the Lonely- the Forsaken- whatever. And it- Martin, look at me- it was- I'm not going to let you experience that again. I won't let it happen," Jon finally manages to get out, and he searches Martin's face for comprehension. And it's only then that Martin fully returns to reality. He hears the conviction in Jon's voice, feels Jon's warm, rough hands against his cold skin, sees Jon's face mere centimeters from his own, and overwhelmed by it all, he does the only thing he can think to do. He leans in and kisses him.
Jon lets out a soft gasp which quickly turns to a sigh of relief. Martin lets Jon pull him closer, his hands finding Jon's hair. They hold each other like that, in almost perfect stillness, for a few precious seconds that Martin wishes could last a lifetime. Then Jon pulls away ever so slightly, finding Martin's eyes and locking them in his gaze. "I'm here," He says, "When you need me. I'm here." And he pulls Martin into another kiss, long and soft and wonderful.
"Come on," Martin says quietly, as if it's an intimate secret, when they finally pull apart, "Tea's getting cold."