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The knock on Jon’s door is quiet, though not so quiet that he doesn’t hear it over the tape he’s been relistening to. The tape player clicks as Jon pauses the playback, calling, “Come in.”
Martin’s head peeks in through the door, his curly hair flopping at the movement. “Am I interrupting?” he asks, hand still resting on the doorknob.
“No, you’re fine,” Jon responds, “I was just— ah, listening to a tape.”
“Which one?” Martin inquires, finally stepping fully into the room and making his way to Jon’s desk.
Jon looks up at him. “One of Gertrude’s. #9790302. Yuri Utkin.”
“Mm,” Martin hums, “Notice anything new?”
After letting out a sigh, Jon says, “Martin, what did you come for?”
Martin blinks at him. “Oh, I—” His hands fumble together in front of him. “Well, it’s quite nice outside today, and I thought some fresh air might do you—might do us some good, after being in the Archives so long. And it’s been so rainy lately, hasn’t it?”
“I hadn’t noticed,” Jon responds bleakly.
“Oh,” Martin deflates, if only slightly.
“What did you have in mind, then? A walk?” Jon asks, watching as a smile finds its way to Martin’s face at Jon’s words. The corner of Jon’s mouth twitches; it takes a bit of effort for him not to mirror Martin’s expression. Since when… Jon cuts off the thought.
“Sort of,” Martin says, “There’s not much… greenery around the Institute, but there’s a park not far from here, you know, the one with the pond? And I have a blanket—left over from when I lived here—so I thought…”
“You’re inviting me to picnic with you,” Jon finishes. Martin nods a bit at his words, and Jon sighs again. “Martin, do you really think now, when the Unknowing—”
Martin abruptly cuts him off, “Yes, I do. We already have our plan, Jon, and as far as I know, listening to a tape you’ve probably already listened to upwards of thirty times isn’t going to help, so we might as well enjoy a little sunshine before marching off to our deaths—”
“Martin.”
“Yeah, yeah, sorry.”
Jon clicks his tongue to the roof of his mouth. “Did you invite anyone else?”
Martin smiles sheepishly, “They’re all busy.”
There are a few beats of silence, before: “Yeah, okay. I’ll go.”
—
The walk to the park actually is quite pleasant, all things considered. It’s been awhile since Jon’s taken a walk for leisure, and it’s also been awhile since he’s gone outside without the fear of being chased, kidnapped, or… whatever else he’s apparently consented to by taking the job of Head Archivist.
Martin has his blanket folded under his arm, and he chatters absentmindedly about his pet tarantula that he got after the whole worm thing at his apartment, and though Jon holds back on voicing his distaste for Martin’s choice in pet, he wonders to himself when he started enjoying just listening to the sound of Martin’s voice. He clears his throat and turns his focus to the slight weight of his and Martin’s lunch bags that he carries in his left hand.
There is a decent amount of other people at the park when Jon and Martin arrive, scattered about around the pond on the swinging benches or their own blankets. A small dog nearby yips at them and Martin laughs once he sees Jon glaring at it.
“Not a dog person?” Martin asks amusedly.
“Not... particularly,” he responds, watching the dog jump and pull at its leash. Its owner doesn’t seem to notice.
The dog continues to bark, and Martin replies with a slight grin, “That’s understandable. We can… set up over there?” He points to a more secluded area where a stream feeds into the pond. Jon nods.
Martin lays the blanket on a sunny patch in the grass, and Jon watches the water in the stream bubble and swirl. The foliage is thicker nearer to the bank, branches craning over the stream.
Martin settles down onto the blanket and Jon follows suit, sitting criss-cross a short distance from him. He starts to pass Martin his lunch but stops when he sees the smug look on Martin’s face.
“What?” Jon asks, squinting his eyes at Martin.
“Told you some air would be good for you,” he replies, taking his bag from Jon’s outstretched hand and unfurling the top, taking out a sandwich.
Jon concedes, “I suppose you did.”
“You suppose?”
“Right, right, fine. You did.”
Martin’s resulting laugh is airy, his face tilting towards the sun. Jon’s chest feels… tight. He starts to eat his lunch to distract himself.
And Martin really was right; the sun feels nice on Jon’s skin and the soft sound of the water tumbling over the rocks puts him slightly more at ease. He so regularly gets wrapped up in himself, in all of this. It’s easy to forget what he’s doing it for.
After the comfortable lull in conversation, Martin holds a carton of strawberries out towards Jon and says, “Go ahead, I bought them fresh this morning.”
Jon blinks at Martin before a slight grin pulls at his lips and he gingerly takes one of the strawberries by the stem, popping it into his mouth and reveling, for a moment, in the small things, in the sweet taste against his tongue and the soft look on Martin’s freckled face. Around them there is life, both in the green of the trees and the chattering of the other people picnicking today.
And it’s because of this, because of this, because of this that Jon must do what he must do. Martin, at least, will be okay.
“Martin,” he says, voice hardly above a murmur. Martin’s eyes were already on him, of course, but at his name, he leans slightly closer, eyes holding an emotion Jon isn’t sure he can handle right now.
“Yes?”
Jon swallows thickly. “Thank you,” he says, and means it.
Martin doesn’t ask. He doesn’t have to. He keeps looking at Jon and he purses his lips into an understanding, sad sort of smile. Jon finds it extremely fitting.
Once he’s finished his lunch, Martin allows himself to lie back, basking in the sun, eyes fluttering closed. Jon’s gaze lingers, but he eventually tears it away and leans back, watching the clouds drift slowly, far above them.
A few minutes pass before Martin cracks an eye open, squinting against the sunlight. “I suppose Elias would want us getting back to work,” he says.
Jon raises an eyebrow, “You’re caring about what Elias would want now, of all times?”
Martin laughs, “No, I don’t really care. Just thought I’d give you a chance to get back to the Archives and lock yourself into your dusty little office again.”
Jon huffs, amused, before he says, “No, let’s stay a while longer.”
“Okay,” Martin replies, soft.
And there’s something more Jon wants to say, something just beyond his mouth, something he needs Martin to hear. He just doesn’t quite know what it is. What can he say? What is there to say in this situation?
If all goes according to plan, the Unknowing will be disrupted and all of Jon’s team will come out safe: the absolute best case scenario. But there’s still so much they don’t know that to expect the best outcome feels childish, naive. There’s every possibility that they will lose more than they are willing to lose.
Jon lets out a long breath, scratching at the back of his neck. “Martin,” he says, but the rest of the words are lost to him. He’s grabbing at sticks in his mind, trying to string together something, anything that will let Martin know…
There are several ticks of silence, their gazes locked. Jon blinks, averts his eyes, and bites at the inside of his cheek.
“Jon…” Martin speaks, sitting up. Jon watches as the wind tousles his hair.
“I’ll make it back,” Jon says, still not meeting Martin’s eyes. He looks up at the clouds and repeats, “I’ll make it back, and we’ll do this again sometime.”
Martin grins, and the twinge of melancholy beneath it does not go unnoticed. “I’ll hold you to that,” he replies, tentatively reaching over to set his hand on Jon’s thigh, for just a moment.
Jon looks down at Martin’s hand and then back up to his face, and he thinks, I’ll make it back, no matter what that takes from me.