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They arrived at the safe house early in the morning, having taken all night to drive in from London, and came up the drive just as the sun was coming up. The small cottage was unassuming but lovely; backlit and washed in the warm light from the sunrise coming up over the rolling hills surrounding the property. There were cows, asleep and dotting the hills, and the leaves on the trees were just starting to turn. Jon felt as though all the world around him was warm and bright and glowing with morning dew. He was struck, all at once, by the near-impossibility of the moment, of the impossibility of a fresh start, spread out perfectly before him. Jon didn’t deserve a fresh start, didn’t deserve this idyllic scene, this warm morning in Scotland. He turned from where he was staring out of the windshield to glance at Martin, sitting beside him.
Jon didn’t deserve Martin, either.
But he was here, in the car with him; just like the cottage was there before them, quiet and unassuming in the protection- the home, a hopeful voice whispered in the back of Jon’s head- it offered, and Jon couldn’t bring himself to push any of it away.
They went inside, bags slung over their shoulders but still managing to hold hands, even as Jon dug a key out from under a long-dead flower pot and unlocked the door. The safe house was dusty, and worn, and quiet; but there were oddly no spider webs in the corners, and every few minutes something in the old house would creak as it settled around them. There was something inherently warm about the safe house, which somehow reminded Jon of the Daisy he’d met after the Buried- the Daisy that listened to the Archers, and tried to get him drunk in the middle of the work day, and would tuck herself into the corner of his office so neither of them would have to be alone.
The deep, yawning pit of grief in Jon’s chest opened a little wider; adding Daisy to the list of people he’d failed, people who were gone or dead or worse because of him.
Silently, Martin squeezed his hand.
Together, they opened the windows, swept the floors and the fireplace, put away their things, and set the cottage as much to rights as they could. The breeze that came in through the windows was brisk, and Jon stole a worried glance at Martin everytime it blew through the house- worried the cold would remind him of the Lonely, worried Jon would lose Martin too- but Martin would always catch Jon’s eye with a soft, uncertain smile. His eyes were always clear, with none of the haze Jon had seen in the Lonely; but Jon checked every time anyway.
There was one bedroom in the safe house. The queen-sized bed stood in the middle of the room, draped in a faded floral duvet. Jon stared at it, standing in the doorway, for at least five minutes before Martin had come up quietly behind him.
“Oh,” Martin breathed.
“Right,” Jon answered, to nothing in particular. He stepped forward and peered around, half hoping there was another bed hiding somewhere that he hadn’t seen. There wasn’t. “Right,” He repeated.
“Jon, I can-”
“No, no, Martin, I can sleep on the couch, or the floor, or- I really haven’t been sleeping that much anyway,” Jon quickly said, turning away from the bed, standing stubbornly solitary in the middle of the room, to face Martin. He was standing, half leaned against the doorframe, with an expression Jon couldn’t parse on his face.
“Jon, you need to sleep, you-”
“Martin, I’ll be fine, you’re the one who-”
“Just got out of the Lonely.” They said simultaneously. There was a beat of uncertain silence as they peered at each other from across the room. Then, a startling and wonderful thing happened.
Martin started to laugh. His face opened up- eyes crinkling at the corners and hands coming up to touch his mouth- as he giggled at first, which quickly rolled and grew into a gasping, hysterical laugh. And without thinking about it, Jon started to laugh too. It was perhaps the first time Jon had laughed in a long time- since the Unknowing at the very least, and perhaps even longer than that. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d heard Martin really laugh.
All at once, the tense uncertainty that had been hanging over them like a last remnant of their time in the Lonely dissipated. The air cleared around them and Jon felt something in his chest loosen, watching Martin smile warmly at him. Their laughter died off, leaving a comfortable, albeit awkward, silence in its wake.
“Right,” Jon muttered, trying to wipe a small smile off his face.
“Jon, we’re- we’re both adults, right? We can just… we can share? If you’re comfortable with that, that is,” Martin said uncertainly. “I wouldn’t want to ask you to do something you weren’t comfortable with, and I really am fine sleeping somewhere else if you didn’t want to- that is, I wouldn’t mind- ah, I mean, given what happened in the Lonely I’d really rather not sleep alone, but I wouldn’t want to… I mean it’s really it’s up to you-”
“Martin?” Jon interrupted gently. Nerves threatened to bubble up in the pit of Jon’s stomach, but he ignored them. “I… wouldn’t mind, so long as you’re sure-”
“I’m sure, Jon,” Martin said, and for a second Jon thought he heard something like hope in his voice. “I’m fine with it if you are…?”
“Right,” Jon breathed again, nodding.
“Right.” Martin smiled at him, soft and earnest, and nodded back.
The bathroom was just down the hall from the single bedroom. Jon stood in the watery yellow light and stared at himself in the mirror. It was dusty, and warped a little with age- he and Martin hadn’t managed to clean very much past the kitchen before exhaustion overwhelmed them. Martin was already in the bedroom, settling in for the night, and Jon had shut himself in the small bathroom to change into his pyjamas.
Jon scrutinized himself in the mirror as he brushed his teeth. He was wearing a t-shirt he’d stolen from Martin years ago- back when they were both still living in the archives. Faintly, Jon wondered if Martin would recognize the shirt when Jon came out wearing it. He wondered if Martin would even care.
His thoughts drifted to where he’d left Martin, already climbing into bed. His eyes tired, his hair mussed, dressed in sweatpants and a plain t-shirt. Jon remembered that Martin used to always be warm- like a human space heater, Tim had said. Jon remembered sitting next to Martin, their shoulders pressed together in a single point of contact, as Prentiss raged just outside the locked door. Martin had been warm, then, even through the fabric of Jon’s sweater. His hands had been icy in the Lonely, though, pressed to Jon’s cheeks like he couldn’t believe he was there.
Jon shivered at the memory. The idea of sharing a bed with Martin terrified him in a way he didn’t want to name. Inches away from each other, Martin’s warmth radiating across the scant inches that would separate them… after so many months of worrying after him, Jon didn’t know how to handle having Martin so close so fast.
He didn’t know how to handle the feeling that Martin was still too far away, either.
“It’s fine,” he muttered, shaking his head as he finished brushing his teeth. He stared at himself, watery and drawn in the bathroom mirror. Scars stretching across his skin, partially hidden under a few days’ worth of stubble he hadn’t yet had time to shave off. The stolen t-shirt draping off his bony shoulders. His eyes- Were they bigger, wider, clearer than they used to be? What does it mean that I can’t remember anymore? Were they always this green?- staring back at him from his reflection, as piercing and tired as they always were these days.
“It’ll be fine,” Jon muttered to his reflection, pushing away the curiosity- what does Martin see when he looks at me?- that rose to the back of his throat.
Jon pulled his fingers through his hair, tugging apart the knot he’d tied it up into earlier in the day. His hair fell around his shoulders, and Jon gave his reflection one last look before turning away and leaving the bathroom.
“He said it was fine,” Jon reminded himself firmly, and crossed the hallway back into the small bedroom.
Martin had already turned off the lights, and Jon could see his body, a shadowed lump curled on one side of the bed. His breaths were deep and even, and only the top of his head was visible under the covers from where Jon stood, hesitating, in the doorway. A tremulous kind of uncertainty hung in Jon’s chest. It was too much, too quiet, all at once. He’d spent months- years- running and hiding and working endlessly, and now he could just curl up next to Martin and sleep.
Jon wanted that, more than anything. He just hoped it was real, not another shattering daydream turned nightmare.
He crept as quietly as he could across the room, his socks shush-shushing against the wood floor. The duvet was a plain white, one that Martin had found in the linen closet that afternoon, and he’d draped a smaller throw over the foot of the bed. Jon shivered, suddenly aware of how cold he was. October in Scotland, a poorly heated old cottage, and him, dressed in a thin t-shirt and sweats. The bed- Martin’s warmth a silent promise in Jon’s memory- beckoned.
Painstakingly, Jon lifted the corner of the duvet and slipped into bed, lying down on his side and pulling the sheets up high around his shoulders. His back was to Martin, but in his mind’s eye Jon saw them lying, only a handful of centimeters apart, tucked together like parallel parentheses. In his mind’s eye, he imagined Martin rolling closer, closing the distance between them; what his arm would feel like, warm and heavy, tucked around Jon’s waist. Neither of them moved.
Jon closed his eyes, and waited for sleep to drift over him. He focused on Martin’s slow, even breathing. On the gentle creaking of the cottage settling around them. He tucked his arm under his pillow, cradling his head on it. He pressed his face into the pillow, breathing in the comforting smell of old dryer sheets and dust. It reminded him of his grandmother’s house. Behind him, Martin snuffled a little in his sleep, and Jon was reminded of the weeks they spent living together in the archives. Back when their biggest problem was Prentiss, back before Jon pushed everyone who trusted him away. He remembered seeing Martin in the mornings sometimes- before the others came in- making tea in the break room, rumpled in his sleep clothes and his hair in a soft tangle over his eyes.
Jon thought about what Martin would look like in the morning when they woke up, whether he took his tea the same way he used to, whether he would smile at Jon, sleepy and soft, like he used to so long ago.
Jon’s chest clenched tighter.
Slowly, as quietly as he could manage, Jon rolled over onto his other side. He settled, pressing the other side of his face into his pillow.
Martin’s eyes were closed, with one hand resting on the pillow in front of his mouth. He looked calm, relaxed and comfortable in a way Jon didn’t know if he’d ever seen him, certainly not since Prentiss trapped him in his flat for two weeks. Sleep had smoothed all of the worry and exhaustion lines out of Martin’s face. He looked young, peaceful. Like he had never started working at the Institute, like he hadn’t seen friend after friend die, like he hadn’t witnessed dozens of supernatural horrors first hand. Like he hadn’t just walked out of the Lonely.
Without letting himself think about it, Jon reached out and slowly closed the distance, until his hand was hovering a hair’s breadth away from Martin’s cheek. Jon wanted to press his hand to the skin there, feel the warmth, trace his thumb along Martin’s sleep-soft mouth, brush his finger along Martin’s brow.
He didn’t, though. He knew where the lines in the sand were, and while Martin might be comfortable with sharing Daisy’s old bed with Jon, he wouldn’t be okay with Jon staring at him and touching his face while he slept. Probably.
Either way, Jon withdrew his hand without touching Martin; pulling it in so his elbow pressed against his stomach and his hand rested in a mirror position to Martin’s on his pillow. Jon blinked, and when he opened his eyes, Martin was staring back at him.
There was something searching, and uncertain, and somehow sad in Martin’s expression; and Jon swore, that even in the near-darkness of the bedroom, he saw a flush rise on Martin’s cheeks.
“Did I wake you?” Jon whispered. His heart was in his throat. He couldn’t stop staring at Martin.
“No,” Martin whispered back. “I’ve been awake.” Jon felt the back of his neck get hot. Suddenly the duvet was suffocating, dragging him under, but Jon couldn’t move. His pulse raced, kicked into overdrive by Martin’s voice- soft and rough with sleep- and Jon felt pinned in place by Martin’s gaze.
“You didn’t have to stop,” Martin breathed.
Jon felt as Martin’s hand brushed against the mattress, and came to rest lightly on top of his. Martin’s hand was warm, and Jon was suddenly, viscerally aware of their proximity. Martin’s hand on top of his, mere centimeters away from his mouth. The idea of Martin feeling Jon’s breath on the back of his hand sent a spiral of panic through Jon’s chest that he hadn’t felt in years. It wasn’t altogether a bad feeling.
“You could tell?” Jon asked, and pulled his hand away. He pressed his face further against the pillow, dragging his gaze away from Martin. You’ve been caught staring, he thought to himself, but he doesn’t look- he glanced back- he looks…
Carefully, Jon raised his hand and let it drift forward, placing it gently against Martin’s cheek. Like he’d been waiting for it, Martin tucked his hand into Jon’s elbow, keeping his arm in place, and turned his face into Jon’s palm.
“When you spend so much time alone,” Martin said, his eyes falling closed, “you become acutely aware when people are around you.” His face was relaxed again, like it had been, but this time he was smiling. Tiny and contented, his chin raised so his cheek was flush with the whole of Jon’s palm. His thumb rested next to Martin’s ear, his fingers curling around right where his hair started at the back of his skull.
Jon suddenly remembered an ancient desire to run his hands through Martin’s hair, a passing consideration from years ago as to what it would feel like. His hair was soft as Jon slowly carded his fingers through it, and Martin’s smile grew.
He tilted his head, his hand moving from Jon’s elbow to hold his wrist. Jon felt all the swirling uncertainty and burgeoning panic in his chest stop and settle as Martin placed a single, sweet kiss to the inside of his wrist.
Jon exhaled, quiet and stuttering, as Martin tucked his head back against his pillow. His hand placed Jon’s against his cheek again, before moving back to rest in the crook of Jon’s elbow.
I really loved you, you know? Martin’s voice from the Lonely echoed in Jon’s head. Jon had missed so many opportunities, wasted so much time, completely blind to what- who- had been standing beside him from the beginning. Grief washed over Jon as he watched Martin smile against his hand, thinking about what he could’ve had so long ago if he hadn’t been so stubborn, so- so blind.
“Martin,” Jon breathed. One of Martin’s eyes cracked open in recognition. “Thank you. For having loved me.” Jon said.
I’m sorry I didn’t see it, he thought.
Martin sat up slightly, leaning up on one elbow. He stared at Jon for a moment, and Jon watched as Martin picked him apart and pieced him back together with his eyes. It was terrifyingly vulnerable; but it was Martin, so Jon didn’t mind.
Abruptly, Martin shifted his weight and lifted himself fully onto his hands, one on either side of Jon’s shoulders, holding himself above Jon as he looked steadily down at him. Jon’s heart hammered so hard he was half afraid it was going to beat a hole through his chest and come out the other side.
“Jon.” Martin’s voice was firm, the kind that brokered no argument, and his expression had settled into one of quiet determination. “I haven’t stopped.”
Oh.
Oh.
Suddenly, the rushing in Jon’s ears was gone, and all he could hear was his and Martin’s breathing. With painstaking care, Jon raised his hands- an old memory of hands raised in worship, cupping golden light through a window, flashed in Jon’s mind- and brushed his fingers along Martin’s jaw.
“I’m not the same person,” he told Martin. I don’t know if I’m still human. I see you, even if I didn’t use to. I don’t know if I’m good enough for you. I’m willing to try to be. I’d follow you into hell again. I’ll never let you be alone if you’ll let me. I’ll love you, if you’ll let me.
“Neither am I.” Martin whispered, and oh, if that wasn’t everything.
Jon tucked his hands along the side of Martin’s face, his fingers resting in the soft intersection where jaw met neck met hair. His thumbs brushed against Martin’s cheeks. Painstakingly, he guided Martin’s head down, down, in a slow approximation of a bow. His arms bending at the elbows and his eyes drifting closed.
Jon pressed a gentle kiss against Martin’s forehead.
Martin pulled away, sitting up just enough so that he met Jon’s eyes again, but not so much that Jon had to let go of his face. He exhaled, tiny and warm against Jon’s face, before leaning in.
Martin’s lips were gentle against Jon’s. A brush, a caress. Lovely and sweet and gentle. But not enough, Jon realized. They’d been waiting for this moment for years. He pushed his hands through Martin’s hair, cradling the back of his head in his palms, and pulled him closer. Martin made a noise, surprised and happy, and titled his head to get better access to Jon’s mouth, and- oh.
Jon’s mouth slid open beneath Martin’s, and he felt Martin’s hand move to hold the back of Jon’s neck, angling him up. Closer together, always closer together. A giddiness bubbled up in Jon, taking with it his anxieties, his fears, his uncertainties; if only for the moment. He felt incandescent, full of a warm golden light. Jon smiled against Martin’s mouth, which made Martin smile in return, which made it hard to continue kissing. Martin drifted, peppering slow, loving kisses along Jon’s face, tracing his cheek bone, pressing one to his ear.
Jon’s hands against Martin’s neck. Martin’s hand tangled in Jon’s hair. Martin’s thigh and hips pressed against Jon’s. The wave of giddiness passed, leaving a heavy, comforting exhaustion in its wake. He was tired, something he hadn’t really felt in years; bone deep and contented.
Martin shifted, falling back onto his side, his legs still pressed against Jon’s under the covers. His hand, warm and heavy, cradled the back of Jon’s neck.
“Thank you for coming back for me,” Martin whispered.
Jon reached up to touch Martin’s hand, tucking his fingers around Martin’s until they were almost holding hands. “I always will,” Jon promised. Martin’s face softened, breaking open. He smiled at Jon, all weariness and joy and grief.
Martin hooked his hand around Jon’s hip and pulled him closer, rolling Jon onto his side until they were hip to hip, nose to nose. Jon kissed him. Jon kissed him again and again until it felt like they were going to fall asleep like that; curled together, kissing and smiling.
Eventually, Martin pulled the duvet up over them, bundling them together until Jon couldn’t quite tell where Martin ended and he began. He pressed a kiss to Jon’s forehead. Jon’s hand tugged at Martin’s t-shirt beneath his shoulder, pulling him closer until they were chest to chest, and Jon could feel him breathing. Martin’s hand moved to rest in the space between Jon’s shoulder blades, rubbing small absent-minded circles on Jon’s back, like he was reminding him- reminding them both- that he was still there. Jon tucked his head into the nook between Martin’s chin and shoulder, breathing in the scents of detergent and tea.
“I love you too,” he mumbled into Martin’s shoulder. He felt Martin press another kiss to his hairline in response.
And there, in Daisy’s old cottage in the middle of the Scottish highlands, cradled in Martin’s arms, Jon fell fully asleep for the first time in years.
Safe, protected, warm. Loved.