Archive of Our Own ^beta

The first night in Daisy’s safehouse is something of a blur.

After the Lonely, honest-to-god fleeing London, and a ten hour drive, the last 48 hours have left Martin feeling more exhausted than he can ever remember feeling in his life, which. Is really saying something, believe it or not.

It’s fine.

Everything’s fine.

It’s, well. It’s overwhelming, and it’s terrifying. But it also comes with an undercurrent of relief.

It’s just… Somewhere along the line, without his own notice, Martin’s started caring if he lives or dies again. And he finds, suddenly, that he’s quite glad to be here. He’s even more glad that Jon is here with him, but he's walking on a thin, fragile foundation right now, and everything is far too shaky to really examine that quite yet. All he knows is. He did all of this to keep Jon safe, didn’t he? So.

So, yeah, he’s glad it worked.

Looking at Jon, alive and whole beside him, he’s really, really fucking glad it worked.

It’s late, when they finally get to the cottage — because it is a cottage, a proper little cottage in the Scottish highlands, no matter what Daisy bought the place for — past midnight by the time Jon wrestles the door open, dark and eerily quiet without the noises of a big city around them.

(There’s a moment where Martin tries to remember the last time he left the city, the last time he heard crickets instead of traffic, the last time he saw real stars. He can’t pull up any memories, tired as he is. Maybe when he was a kid? Before his mum started—)

It’s late and it’s dark but the lights work when Martin tries the switch and that’s enough for now.

Martin just wants to go to bed, but he and Jon agree that they should probably at least give the place a cursory sweep before settling in and making themselves vulnerable. Safehouse or no, it’s hard to believe and accept that there’s any kind of safety for them after… After everything.

They don’t talk much. Neither of them seem capable of that level of cognizance right now. It’s fine (Martin’s saying that a lot, isn’t he?); there’s too much to say tonight, anyway. Best to leave it. They’re gonna be stuck here for awhile, anyway, without much else to do. Plenty of time to talk.

Martin sets his bags inside the bedroom door. Jon does the same without a word, leaving their duffels and rucksacks in a lumpy pile that, like everything else, can be dealt with later. There’s bedding in the hall closet, stuffed untidily atop the water heater. (And that’s a small win, isn’t it? The promise of hot water.)

Martin just grabs everything he can carry and hopes it’s enough to make up the bed. Jon helps him when he gets back, wordlessly taking half of the bundle of fabric from Martin’s arms and dropping it on the bed to sort through. Martin copies him, and they manage to dig out a fitted sheet, a heavy quilt, and pillowcases. Martin offers to get the sheet on while Jon fits cases onto old, floppy pillows.

It’s easier than it is at home, just, logistically. Martin’s bed is tucked into the corner, but this one’s out in the middle of the room, headboard tucked up against the wall facing the door, and Martin gets the sheet tucked in and tosses the quilt unceremoniously on top of it.

Jon huffs. He’s smiling when Martin turns to him, tired and haggard but so solid it's almost dazzling. When’s the last time Martin saw Jon smile like that? When’s the last time he saw Jon smile at all?

“What?” Martin blushes faintly. “I’m. I’m knackered.”

“Hey, I didn’t say anything,” Jon tells him. He’s still smiling. Martin doesn’t even know if he realizes he’s doing it. It’s making Martin want to smile back, and isn’t that novel? When’s the last time he smiled, either? When’s the last time he even wanted to?

He really is tired, though. So he just nods, and takes the pillow from Jon, tosses it up onto the bed while Jon wrestles the second one into its case. Martin doesn’t even bother changing; he toes his shoes off and drops his coat on the floor by their bags, another in the long list of things To Be Dealt With Later.

He flops back on the mattress and shuts his eyes. The pillow doesn’t do much; it’s old and seems to have lost a good three-quarters of its feathers sitting away in that closet for who even knows how long, but after the last couple days, Martin doesn’t care. He exhales heavily and sits up briefly to drop his glasses and his (dead) phone on the nightstand closest to him.

“Should I… get the lights?” Jon asks, hovering awkwardly at the end of the bed.

“Oh.” Martin blinks up at him. “Yeah, if. If you don’t mind.”

Jon clicks the light off. Martin settles back, closes his eyes. A second later, Jon climbs into bed beside him, and slips his arm around Martin’s chest, letting out a soft breath against the back of Martin’s neck.

If Martin wasn’t so tired, he might’ve found a way to overthink this, work himself up into twisted knots of anxiety. Even though they’ve been touching in one way or another almost continuously since they left the Lonely, they haven’t talked, really. Not about… This. As it is, though, he barely has the energy to form coherent thoughts, so all he can do is sink into it, let himself fall into Jon’s embrace, tuck himself back against Jon’s chest.

Jon mumbles something, clearly as exhausted as Martin is because he can’t pick out any distinct words from the mess of syllables and affection, presses his face to the back of Martin’s neck and hides there. Protected and protecting, safe and sound.

Martin breathes out slowly. Contended and so, unbelievably glad.

Eventually, they both drift off and for the first time in a very, very long time, Martin falls asleep peacefully.

—

The next day, there is a lot to deal with.

The cottage looks different in the light. There’s a moment, after Martin wakes, where he feels completely off-kilter. It’s too bright, and for a handful of disorienting seconds he has no idea where he is.

But then his eyes adjust to the unfamiliar brightness, and the rest of his senses chime back in, and he becomes aware of a weight on his left arm, an arm draped snug over his chest.

The last night comes back in a bubble of terror and delight. The cottage. Jon. No more Lonely. The light that woke him is coming from a window on the far wall, big and east-facing, no curtains or blinds to speak of, letting in plenty of mid-morning sunshine.

The whole room looks bigger in the daylight. It also looks… significantly more dusty and cluttered, but that’s probably to be expected. Anyway, Martin can’t really find it in himself to care, not when he’s still got Jon’s arms around him, his stubble tickling Martin’s neck where his face is hidden away in the crook of his shoulder.

Martin thinks the romantic thing would probably be to stay still and wait for Jon to wake up. Unfortunately, Martin’s arm is asleep and he went to bed in the same slacks he was wearing when Peter tossed him into the Lonely and they’re really not comfortable to sleep in and with the constant sun and the heavy quilt and Jon’s body heat to boot he’s starting to get sweaty. And he’s never been good at sitting still for indeterminate stretches of time.

And he’s not sure if he’s… meant? allowed? to do romantic things for Jon. Yet. Things exist in a very nebulous state between them right now.

So. Okay. It’s fine.

Maybe it would be weird to just sit here and watch Jon sleep anyway. Right? Jon does a lot of watching these days. Maybe he’d be okay with it. Maybe Martin will ask, after he wakes up, in case this is… something that will be happening again. (God he hopes this is something that will happen again. How long has he ached to wake up in Jon’s arms like this?)

Carefully as he can, Martin starts to slip himself free, maneuvering out of Jon’s grip. It’s… harder than it sounds. He's not sure why he’s surprised that Jon clings. It seems right in retrospect, when he thinks about who Jon is and what he’s like as a person. Maybe Martin just never expected to be the one being clung to.

Jon’s fingers tangle in the front of Martin’s shirt in one last sleepy effort to keep him in place, and it almost kills Martin to dislodge him.

The second contact breaks entirely and Martin climbs quietly out of bed, he feels cold. He’s sure it’s just because he’s left the quilted cocoon, but he can’t help attributing it to a sudden lack of Jon. It was cold, in the Lonely, and Jon runs warm. With one last self-indulgent look, Martin slips out of the bedroom.

In the daylight, the cottage opens up.

It’s still dusty and old and un-lived in and small, but it doesn’t feel as cramped or decrepit as it had the night before.

There’s two doors in the hall; the bathroom and the closet with the water heater facing each other. The front room, half-living room half-kitchen, has tacky 70’s wallpaper and faded checkered linoleum and that awful beige-brown carpet you always see in cheap apartments. (AKA every apartment Martin’s lived in all his life.)

And— oh! Martin’s not sure how he missed it last night, but set against the wall, there’s an honest-to-god fireplace. The kind made of bricks and set into the wall with a proper mantel and everything. Martin’s fairly certain if he were to go outside, he’d see a goddamn chimney poking out of their roof.

It’s small but not cramped, disused and dusty but oddly cozy.

Martin feels a little giddy. Two days ago, he’d been ready to effectively hand his life over. Whether he died or not, he’d been almost certain that was it for him. Now, he’s up in the Scottish highlands, hiding out in a cozy little cottage with—

“Martin?”

Martin jumps, spins on his heel, and there’s Jon. Standing beside him in, like Martin, the same clothes from yesterday, a pair of slightly too-long jeans and a faded What the Ghost? hoodie, hand half-outstretched towards Martin.

“Jon,” he breathes, relaxing.

“Sorry,” Jon says, “didn’t mean to startle you. Just. I woke up and you weren’t there. Got a bit worried.”

“Oh.” Martin hadn’t thought of that. Maybe creepy staring would’ve been alright after all. “Sorry.”

Jon shakes his head, drops his hand — right onto Martin’s arm. “No, don’t be. It’s fine.”

“Right.” Martin ducks his head. Nods, looks back up. “We have a fireplace.”

Jon blinks, follows Martin’s line of sight to the wall. “Ah. So we do.”

“Can we have a fire?” Martin asks. “Tonight?”

Jon’s eyes get wide. It’s incredibly endearing. “Do you even know how to make a fire?”

Martin shrugs. “Can’t be that hard, right?”

Jon gives him a look. “I don’t know,” he says, “can it?”

“I mean, can’t you just…” Martin makes a vague, wiggly gesture with his hand. “Know how?”

Jon looks at the floor, vaguely uneasy. “I-I-I don’t, it doesn’t really work like that. And I don’t— I don’t think I should be. Ah. S-Seeing things right now, if we’re trying to lay low.”

“Right,” Martin says, deflating a little. “Well. We’re two adults, I. I’m sure we can figure it out.”

Jon nods slowly. “We would have to… find some wood?”

“Bet we can find some in town. Or, or maybe Daisy keeps a stash somewhere?” It's not hard to imagine Daisy in a flannel and heavy boots, chopping firewood with a hefty axe or carrying stacks of logs.

Jon hums. “If we’re going into town, food should probably be our main priority.”

“We can get both.”

Jon tips his head to one side, smiles faintly up at Martin. “I suppose we can.”

We. We we we. All throughout the conversation, that word has been there. Implied, explicitly stated, a given.

They are a we now.

Martin’s never been a part of someone’s we, someone’s us.

Martin smiles. He’s fairly certain it might be his first one since the Lonely. “Lots to do today. If we’re going to… be here a while.”

Jon freezes, for just a moment, lips parted, before he nods, once. “Yes.”

Martin doesn’t move. Neither does Jon. His fingertips, light as a feather, remain resting delicately against Martin’s elbow.

It’s Martin who looks away first. Drops his eyes to the ground, scuffs his socked toes against the floor. “Er,” he says, “Sh-should we… Get to it?”

“Oh. Um.” Regrettably, Jon’s hands fall back to his side, leaving just the memory of warmth to linger on Martin’s skin. “Right. Yes. I-if you’d like.”

Martin would like to keep standing there with Jon’s hands on him for the rest of his life, but he’s not sure how to ask for that yet. “We probably should.”

“Probably.”

They stand there for another handful of seconds. Martin finally looks up, meets Jon’s eyes again. He smiles, tentatively. Beautifully, Jon smiles back.

—

Eventually, they get a move on. Martin showers and Jon unpacks his things, and then they switch and Martin unpacks while Jon showers, and then they sit together on the bedroom floor and polish off the last of the snacks they’d bought at a service station last night as a pitiful sort of breakfast.

Martin finds an outlet behind the bed side table to plug his phone into. It’s one of two mismatched little nightstands, like you might see in a married couples’ home. He thinks about Basira just having a key to this place on hand, knowing exactly where to send them, and wonders if Daisy ever actually came up here on her own. If she ever intended to. If she, like Martin, saw no safety to be reached without the one she loves with her.

(For some reason thinking about that makes him ache, just a bit, when he remembers the brittle sadness written in every line of Basira’s usually impassive face. No matter what he might think of Daisy and Basira, no matter what Peter said, he does feel for the pair of them. He has to think Basira will get Daisy back, the same way Jon got him back, and they’ll just flit off to another safehouse hidden neatly away on some other corner of the continent.)

After that, they make another round of the cottage now that exhaustion isn’t clawing at the back of their throats.

Jon counts the doors (there are five: the front door, the bedroom door, the hall closet with the water heater, the bathroom, and another closet in the bedroom they’d mostly missed last night) and writes a note which he tacks to the bedroom wall, right by the light switch, a ward against the Spiral.

Martin pulls all the bedding he can find out of both closets. He wants to get it all washed before he’s tired again, but there’s no washer and dryer in the cottage and… Martin’s never had to hand wash anything before.

“I mean, what,” Martin says, “do we get, like. A washboard? Hang things out on clothes lines?”

When Martin looks over at him, Jon is trying very hard to suppress a smile. “Are you saying the idea of pinning the sheets up on a clothes line wouldn’t appeal to you?”

Martin purses his lips. “Seems like it would take ages to get anything actually dry. And what if it rains? It’s autumn. In Scotland. There’s, there’s going to be rain, right?”

Jon gives up and grins, although he has the decency to duck his head, pinching fabric between his fingers like he’s inspecting it for flaws. “So there’s nothing about the aesthetic of it that suits your tastes?”

Okay, maybe there is something a little charming about the idea of hanging his and Jon’s laundry out together, but… “Still. Must take awhile.”

“We’re not going anywhere anytime soon,” Jon points out.

“Okay, but we have to sleep tonight. And I don’t think this place has central heating, so we’re going to need blankets—”

“Alright,” Jon says, “Maybe there’s a laundromat in town.”

Martin hums. “Maybe.”

“And if not, we’ll manage.”

He sounds so calm. Martin tries to remember the last time he saw Jon properly calm, and comes up blank. It does funny things to him; they’re hiding out in a foreign country, on the run from the police and their evil boss and any number of monsters that would jump at the chance to kill either of them. By all rights, Jon should be panicked beyond belief. Martin thinks he would be, if the last year surrounding himself with the Lonely hadn’t left him completely emotionally wiped out.

And yet, here is he, serene and smiling in the sun in Daisy’s honest-to-god safehouse.

They aren’t on vacation, Martin reminds himself. He has no right to feel so… pleased. The relief was one thing, a natural result of not dying and not having to watch the love of your life die.

But he looks at Jon, sees the easy smile and the way the near-permanent crease between his brow has smoothed out, and can’t help feeling pleased anyway.

They decide to deal with the sheets later.

In the kitchen, they discover there’s plenty of cookware and dishes, but no food to speak of, which moves grocery shopping up near the top of the list of things that need to be taken care of.

They leave the house sometime in the early afternoon. It’s chilly but not properly cold yet, so Martin pulls on a thick sweater but leaves his coat behind. Jon does the same. As in, he also pulls out one of Martin’s thick sweaters and leaves his own coat tossed on the bed. Martin tries not to think too hard about that, because it leaves him feeling strangely choked up and vulnerable in a way he can’t really process if he wants to be of any use for the rest of the day.

Jon has to dig the car keys out of his discarded jeans where he left them, tossed aside on the bedroom floor, and they lock up the cottage and head to the car. (It’s Daisy’s, too, but neither of them have a car so Basira had told them to take it when she all but bodily shoved them out of London.)

When he and Martin both come to the driver’s side door, he stops, looks up at Martin, makes a face.

Martin holds out his hand. “Car keys?”

“I have them,” Jon tells him.

“Right.” Martin nods. “And I’ll need them to drive.”

Jon raises his eyebrows. “You’re driving?”

“Was planning on it.”

“Really.”

“Really.”

Jon levels a stare at him. “Martin, you don’t even have a driver’s license.”

“I don't,” Martin agrees, “but I want us to get there in one piece, so I’m driving anyway.”

Jon scowls. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Martin huffs. “It means I’ve no idea what sane driving instructor ever thought it would be a good idea to let you behind the wheel of a car unsupervised.”

Jon crosses his arms. Martin would say he pouts, but he knows Jon would have a fit if he did. “I’m a fine driver.”

Martin raises his eyebrows. “Jon.”

“What?”

“Jon.”

“I am! I got us here, didn’t I?”

Martin gives Jon a look. “Barely.”

Jon throws his hands up. “It was a ten hour drive!”

“Yes, and if I hadn’t been fresh out of the Lonely and barely aware of where I even was, I would’ve spent that entire time fearing for my life,” Martin deadpans. “I only just returned to the mortal world, Jon, I’d prefer not to leave it in a fiery car crash so soon.”

He’d meant it as a joke, just a bit of teasing, but Jon sobers, his face shuttering and closing off.

“Sorry. Joking, only joking,” Martin tells him. “Too soon to joke about that?”

Jon blinks and comes back, though he frowns. “No, it’s— I just— It’s fine.”

Martin’s own face pinches. His hand twitches, and, after a moment of hesitation, he sets it on Jon’s shoulder and squeezes briefly. “I know you wouldn’t do anything to get us hurt.” 

Jon seems to relax, fractionally. “Yes. I know that, too.”

“… But you were driving for ten hours yesterday,” Martin reasons, “so I still think it’s best if you let me drive us to the village.”

Jon looks wary, but normal grumpy-Jon wary. “Can you even drive?”

“Yes,” Martin insists. He can; he’s competent behind the wheel, he’s just lived in London so long, and it’s not like he could ever afford his own car, anyway, so he never really bothered to get his license. “Used to drive Mum around back before— well. Before. Just won’t be legal, technically.”

“Ah,” Jon says. He continues to soften with a languished sigh. “I suppose.”

He holds up the keys, and Martin snags them. “Thank you.”

Jon hums. “I’m not coming to your rescue if we get pulled over.”

Martin rolls his eyes. “Oh, yeah, because I’m sure the village of, what— twelve people—”

“Six-hundred-and-forty-seven people,” Jon interrupts.

Martin decides to ignore the fact that the Beholding almost certainly gave him that information. “— is going to have a very aggressive police force just itching to pull over any unknown cars and interrogate their unsuspecting drivers.”

Jon rolls his eyes, and Martin beams at him in response as he slides into the driver’s side door. Jon grumbles and crosses to the passenger side. “Do you remember how to get to the village?”

“There’s really only one road around here, Jon. Kind of hard to get lost.”

“You were exhausted when we got in last night, you can hardly fault me for making sure.”

Martin adjusts the seat to accommodate his longer legs, makes sure he can see out of all the mirrors. “I’ll give you that.”

Acquiesced, Jon settles back in his seat and Martin pulls out of Daisy’s long drive. Jon was right; he was too exhausted last night to really pay any attention to much on the ride up here. There’s a lot of rolling hills and farmland, a few other cottages and cute little whitewashed farmhouses dotting the grass in the far off distance. Martin imagines this is the type of place that would have bored him to tears if he’d grown up here, but he’s so used to cluttered, claustrophobic cityscapes that the countryside is novel enough to be breathtaking in its beauty.

It’s all very serene and charming and cute, until he rounds a bend and has the slam on the brakes to avoid hitting a cow that’s standing in the middle of the road.

“Christ!” Jon exclaims, throwing an arm out to brace against the dashboard along with Martin’s wordless little shout.

The cow, big and orange and fluffy, doesn’t seem at all bothered. It stands, chewing on a weed sprouting in the middle of the dirt road, and slowly lifts its head. It gives their car a lazy once over, but ultimately seems to deem them unworthy of its attention.

“That,” Martin starts, “that. Uh. That definitely wasn’t there last night.”

That startles a laugh out of Jon. “No. No, it wasn’t.”

Martin can’t remember the last time he saw a cow in real life, up close like this. Skyscrapers and asphalt aren’t exactly their natural habitat. Maybe he passed some farms on the train to visit his mum in the care home, but he never paid them any attention if he did.

“Uh…” He says, urging his heart back down to a steady rhythm. “What— what do we do?”

In the passenger seat Jon relaxes, shrugging. “Not much to do. Just wait for her to move.”

“What if it doesn’t.”

“She will eventually,” Jon tells him. “… Probably.”

Martin hums. He looks over to Jon. “How do you know it’s a she?”

“Uh. Just a guess?”

“Not the Eye?”

“I don’t think so. She just looks like a she.”

Martin smiles. “Oo-kay. Fair enough.”

Jon gives him a tentative smile in return, and Martin has to look away before he blushes. He taps his fingers on the steering wheel.

She is not alone; off to the side of the road there are two other cows and a calf, all just as orange and fluffy as the one taking her sweet time having a snack right in front of the car.

“I guess she’s actually kind of cute,” Martin admits. “Y’know, when she’s not giving me a heart attack.”

Jon hums. “She kind of looks like you when you’ve gone too long without a haircut.”

Martin tilts his head. “Are you… saying I’m cute?”

“Uh,” Jon stammers, splutters out a few more fragments of what might be words or the beginnings of sentences, but doesn’t get much further than that.

Martin’s smile broadens.

“I’m saying. I’m saying, she’s. Uh. She’s fine, she’s. Good,” Jon manages to get out.

“She’s good,” Martin repeats.

“Yes.”

And Martin has mercy (and is also liable to get just as flustered, if this conversation continues) so he relents. “She’d be better in my book if she would get out of the way.”

Jon snorts, and even if it’s a little at Martin’s expense, it makes him feel good. “Well, here, you could always just—” he leans over, and presses the flat of his palm to the horn with a short but jarring beep.

“Jeez!” Martin jumps, and the cow jerks her head back up to stare into Martin’s soul.

Jon holds up his hands defensively — or maybe placatingly, Martin can’t really tell.

“Rude,” Martin accuses him.

“Well — it worked!”

It’s true, it did. The cow abandons her little plant patch and meanders slowly to join her compatriots off in the ditch. One of the other cows approaches her and sniffs her curiously, bumping their noses together in a clumsy little nuzzle. It’s unexpectedly, achingly cute. They’re just cows, probably just doing the cow equivalent of saying hello, but everything feels so sharp after the Lonely that even that is enough to sting Martin somewhere in his chest.

Jon’s hand lands, soft and tentative, on his forearm. “Martin?”

Martin blinks, realizes he’s been staring at the cows and totally zoning out for a good handfuls of seconds. He turns back to Jon, smiles quickly, and hopefully, reassuringly. “Right. Guess it did.”

He shifts the car back into drive, taps the gas pedal to get them back into motion, and gives the cows a friendly wave as they pass.

It’s nice, honestly. That these are the things they have to worry about now. Even if it’s just a stopgap, a temporary reprieve, in this moment Martin feels very, very human.

He should tell Jon as much; he wants to tell Jon as much. The words won’t quite come, but Martin tells himself that’s okay. Just the wanting is a good sign. That he cares enough to want again. He can tell Jon later. They’ve got plenty of time to talk, now.

—

They drive through town and make a full lap before doubling back to stock up on food from the little general store that seems to be the only place for groceries. Martin stops to buy firewood from an older man selling bundles of it out of the back of his truck outside the post office (Martin still wants that fire). There is, decidedly, no laundromat. It’s okay. Martin’s… genuinely not worried. Food, first. The rest later.

The store’s parking lot is tiny, and there’s only a handful of other cars out front. They grab a shopping cart out front and head in.

“Where should we start?” Jon asks, sticking his fingers in through the wire mesh of the basket.

Martin leans on the cart and pushes it slowly. He hasn’t even gone shopping for himself in so long, let alone anyone else. “Erm.” He swallows. “I, I don’t know? What do you usually eat?”

Jon huffs. “Whatever’s left over from the takeout Basira brings back to the Archive?”

“Ah.” Martin just nods.

Jon hums. “Uh. H-how about you?”

Martin bites the inside of his cheek. Not exactly a casual way to say he’s spent the past year so depressed that just walking into his kitchen felt like it would take more than he had in him. “Much the same, really. Lots of takeout.”

Jon huffs. “I suppose things have been…” He trails off, lets the thought hang unspoken in the air.

Martin nods stiffly. “Yeah.”

There’s a moment of silence. Martin realizes they’ve come to a stop, standing awkwardly in the middle of the produce section.

“Oh!” Jon perks up, expression going from something lost and distant to something bright and determined so quickly it takes Martin’s heart by surprise. “Tea!”

“Tea?”

“We need tea, don’t we? Haven’t got any of that.”

“No, we don’t,” Martin agrees, perking up himself. Tea. He can do tea. He can go with Jon and pick out a tea they both like and then tomorrow morning he can fix them both a cup — or maybe Jon will be there to fix it with him. “That’s a good place to start.”

The store isn’t very big, and they find the teas at the end of an aisle with pasta and flour and herbs and spices.

After a great deal of deliberation, he holds up two that he thinks looks promising, shows them to Jon. “What do you think?”

Jon gives him a look. “You’re the expert here.” He shrugs. “I trust your judgement.”

It’s silly, and almost entirely inconsequential, but it makes Martin blush anyway. After everything, after Martin screwed up so badly with Peter Lukas and the Lonely, it’s nice to still have Jon’s trust. Even if it’s just on tea.

“We’ll try both,” Martin reasons, setting both boxes gently in the cart basket. “See which one suits us.”

Jon smiles easily. “Whatever you say.”

It’s easier after that, when Martin realizes they can just… try stuff out. He’s not used to shopping this way; years and years of only buying what was absolutely necessary, picking out the cheapest off-brand options so he had enough to look after himself and his mother leaves a mark.

But being Peter’s assistant came with a significant (if... not technically Institute approved) pay raise, and anyway Jon’s got plenty saved up after collecting salary without actually having any expenses to speak of from living in the Institute. Sure, they might have to make their savings last for a bit, but… Until they figure things out, until they settle and decide what they like, how they can mesh their lives together in a comfortable way, Martin thinks this is okay. He’s got so many other things to be anxious about, money, for once in his life, does not even make the top ten.

It feels a little thrilling, like he’s getting away with something. But he is technically literally on the run right now, so. Maybe he is. Maybe a bit of reckless spending just completes the image.

After the tea comes sugar, which also comes with things like flour and salt and a generous trip down the bulk spices section and then it’s just a natural leap to pasta and rice.

“We could make our own bread,” Martin suggests, idly fiddling with a packet of dry yeast.

“We could,” Jon agrees. “I think I still remember my grandmother’s challah recipe.”

“Oh, wow, I haven’t had fresh challah in…” He only has a handful of vague, hazy memories from when he was small; spooning out latke batter into a sizzling pan, his father’s big hands guiding Martin’s small ones as he taught him how to braid the challah dough. “Heh. A long time.”

Jon gives him a look, curious but gentle, but doesn’t say anything. Martin adds the yeast to their growing pile of groceries.

They get honey and milk and then cheese and Martin even picks out a strawberry yogurt that is apparently made at a farm up the road that he thinks will be fun to try.

Martin finds out Jon has very strong opinions about vegetables in the produce aisle.

“I don’t really cook much,” Martin confesses, while Jon scrutinizes an onion so intensely Martin’s half convinced he’s Beholding it. “I mean, I can do the basics. Like, I’m not totally incompetent, but. I’m gonna need Google if we want anything… fancy.”

There’s a few seconds of silence while Jon finishes his staring contest with a white onion and apparently deems it worthy enough to join the rest of their groceries in the cart. “Really?” He asks, light, conversational.

Martin nods. He wonders if Jon even listened to the tape. The one he made when they were all… dealing with the Unknowing. “Had to… teach myself, mostly. I was pretty young. Never got very good.”

Jon tilts his head consideringly. “I cook,” he offers simply.

Martin leans a little ways over the front of the cart towards Jon. “You do?”

He’s not sure why he’s surprised; maybe he just remembers too many afternoons spent haranguing Jon into eating anything, even bad take away or some stale crackers from the break room, to be able to picture him taking any amount of time out of his schedule to cook.

“I was raised by my grandmother,” Jon tells him, like that explains everything.

“And she cooked a lot, did she?”

“Oh, yes.” Jon nods. “She wasn’t the most hands-on caregiver in most regards, but she was quite insistent I learn to take care of myself before I entered society at large.”

Martin could stand there and look at Jon and let Jon look back and talk about this all day, but he figures the village general store isn’t the best place to spill his deep dark secrets and childhood traumas. Better to save the heart-to-hearts for the safehouse. “So you… know what you’re doing with all this?”

Jon nods, once, with more confidence than Martin’s used to seeing from him, these days. "I do."

“Alright then.” Martin nods back at him decisively. “I’m trusting you to keep us well fed.”

Jon looks oddly pleased. “I’ll try not to let you down.”

Without even noticing until it’s happening, Martin’s smiling. “You won’t.”

Jon ducks his head, goes back to giving some potatoes the stink eye, but Martin can see his cheeks color. It makes something unspeakably fond unfurl behind Martin’s lungs, and he has to take a deep breath in through his nose before he can get on with the shopping.

After Jon deems a suitable amount of veggies worthy, they get meat — chicken winds up being the only thing they can both agree on, and when Martin looks in the cart basket it seems like a pretty decent haul. Enough to keep them going for awhile, at least.

“Anything else?” Martin asks, scuffing his toe against the floor.

Jon tilts his head in consideration. “Uh. Toothpaste? Paper towels, maybe? Stuff, stuff like that?”

“Ooh, right,” Martin snaps his fingers. “Good call.”

Martin picks up a toothbrush (he forgot his back in London). They get toothpaste, and dish soap, and toilet paper, and about a million other things, it feels like. Martin’s starting to feel like some kind of doomsday prepper, which, he figures, is not entirely inaccurate. The last thing he picks is a pack of plasters. He’s got a T shot coming up. (He’s not sure when Jon last idd his, but they might be here awhile, and they’re nice to have around, anyway.) He normally likes to buy fun ones — with little patterns, or something — but the store only has the basics. It’s fine; it feels better to be practical anyway. More authentic to the whole on the run thing. Which is a bit silly, but. Martin’s always been a bit silly.

Jon taps his fingers on the side of the cart. “Right. Done here, then?”

“I think so.” Martin can’t think of anything else they need immediately, and the shop’s only a 20 minute drive away if it comes down to it. “Let’s get—” He stops himself from saying let’s get home just in time. It’s only been a day, it’s way too soon to think of any of this as home yet, right? “Let’s get back to the cottage, shall we?”

—

Back in the safehouse, they unpack all the groceries together, leaving the bundle of wood in the living room by the fireplace. It’s not very late, yet — the sun hasn’t even set — but it’s been one long day after the other and they barely ate breakfast, so Jon starts cooking right away.

Martin offers to help, but Jon seems very adamant on doing this himself. So Martin leans against the counter to keep him company and watches Jon’s nimble, slender fingers chop potatoes and onions and fiddle with the stove, mesmerized by the way spices and seasonings cling to the whorls and hollows of Jon’s scars, the way they wrap around the handle of a wooden spoon while he stirs.

He thinks about what it would’ve been like, earlier, if they’d held hands in the store, while they were getting groceries. He thinks Jon probably would’ve let him, if he’d tried it. He might’ve even taken Martin’s hand himself, if he knew that was an option.

Jon catches him looking, but this is what they do now: they see each other, so Martin doesn’t look away. Jon smiles, stays relaxed and calm under Martin’s gaze.

Martin pulls plates down from the cupboard for Jon when he’s finished cooking. Jon plates rice and the simple curry he’s prepared and takes their food over to Daisy’s rickety kitchen table while Martin pours each of them a glass of some of the juice they bought at the store earlier. This is probably the first time either of them have had a home-cooked meal since long before the Unknowing, so why not make a bit of a fuss about it?

They sit down at the table, not quite sitting next to each other not not exactly across from one another either. It’s a round table, so it’s not like there’s sides to pick, but the closeness still seems deliberate.

They eat together and they talk — not about anything serious. They still haven’t, and Martin’s still not sure how or when they’re meant to broach the serious things, but it also feels good to just. Chat. To sit down with someone he cares for a great deal and share a meal and a conversation. To learn the little things you can only learn when you’re not afraid for your life and trying to stop the end of the world.

It’s good. They stay at the table a long time after they’ve cleaned their plates, the sun setting through the window above the sink creating a soft, honey-gold backdrop to a soft, honey-gold moment.

If things weren’t… The way they are, Martin would say it almost feels like what normal people might call a date.

Hesitantly, he says as much to Jon.

Jon goes quiet, and for a moment Martin has a spark of anxiety— maybe he’s said the wrong thing, maybe he’s misreading things, maybe— but then a small, tender smile blooms on his face.

“Yes,” Jon says softly, “I think you might be right.”

Martin takes them both by surprise by huffing out a breathless, relieved little laugh. “Helluva build up for a first date, I guess.”

Jon snorts when he laughs. It’s adorable. “Now, hang on.” He leans forward a little, towards Martin, putting his elbow on the table and letting it take his weight. “If we can have dates almost entirely by accident, without even realizing it until they’re over, then..."

Martin raises his eyebrows, a silent go on?

"... Then this isn’t our first.”

Martin’s eyebrows shoot right back down, furrowing together. “It isn’t?”

Jon shakes his head.

“Wh— Um.” Martin swallows. His heart has done something funny and he can feel it picking up speed. “What was our first, then?”

“Hm…” Jon taps one finger against the woodgrain table. “Ah. Do you remember — Um. It was… Christ, years ago, now. Before the… the Jane Prentiss… incident? Attack?”

Martin blinks. “Before Jane?”

Jon nods, gaining surety. “Yes. You were living in the archives, and I was barely leaving. And there was one night, it was. God, it must’ve been nearly midnight, and you noticed the light on in my office and barged in and asked if I’d eaten.”

“And you hadn’t,” Martin guesses, because even though he can’t yet recall the exact night Jon’s thinking about, Jon’s self care was predictable as anything back then.

“I had not,” Jon confirms. “So you, you bullied me into getting up—”

“You can’t call it bullying if I’m just trying to get you to take care of yourself, Jon—”

“I’m trying to tell a story, Martin,” Jon accuses. Martin huffs, but falls obediently silent to let Jon continue. “Right. You… harangued me into leaving my office and ordered some mediocre delivery pizza to the Institute and we ate it together in the break room and we. We talked. Kind of. We tried to talk, and it went better than normal. I was. Er.” His eyes dart away, fixing on his hand, now laying flat against the table. “I-I was significantly less of a prick than I usually was back then. I think. I hope.” He shrugs. “Oh. And you made tea.”

Martin has hazy memories of the night in question, now. Godawful pizza, bitter tea, and one of the first real conversations he’d ever had with Jon Sims.

“I remember,” Martin tells him.

“You do?”

Martin nods. He does remember that night; it was by no means an isolated incident, neither the first nor the last time something like that would happen. There were plenty of late nights with Jon back when he was living in the archives. But he remembers that night as the first time he felt normal again. The first night he didn’t spend scared. “Yeah, but… I don’t think that one quite counts.”

“Oh? Why not?”

“Well,” Martin says, “I think… If you don’t actually notice it’s happening, it doesn’t really count as a date if there aren’t any. Y’know. Feelings involved. I mean, I went out for drinks plenty with Tim and Sasha back then, too, but those were never dates because I never had feelings for Tim or Sasha.”

“There were— There were feelings,” Jon blurts, going very red.

Martin almost cringes. “That obvious, huh?”

“I— no, I mean,” Jon stammers for a moment. “On my end. There were feelings on my end, at least.”

“No,” is all Martin can say. “No way. Not. Not all the way back then. You—”

“I did,” Jon insists. “I didn’t… I don’t think I quite realized what I was feeling, at the time, and I know I handled it... poorly. But. Yes, all the way back then.”

Martin just stares at Jon. “Okay.” He nods, slowly. He gets the feeling this is something he will have to process, like this new information hasn’t quite set in yet and might take some time before it does. “Well. If you put it like that, then this would be… What, date thirty? Forty, maybe?”

That startles a laugh out of Jon. “Good lord. Things must be getting serious.”

Martin feels light headed. “We did kind of run away together.”

“You may have a point there.”

There’s a moment of silence. Jon meets Martin’s eyes and holds them, the things they’ve said and all the implications and silent truths therein settling like dust motes around their ears.

“Martin,” Jon says, softer this time. “I— I’m really glad you’re here. With me. I know this whole situation is… hardly ideal, but. I’m still. I’m still glad.”

Martin might pass out. He feels like he’s going to pass out. He wraps his hand firmly around the opposite wrist, a steady reminder that he’s still here and this is still real. Solid. “A-at least we didn’t have to gouge our eyes out to be here.”

Jon sucks in a sharp breath. Martin worries he’s said something wrong, stepped on another boundary without meaning to, picked the wrong time or the wrong topic to joke about. But then Jon slumps in his seat and absolutely beams and says, “I love you so much.”

Martin opens his mouth, but if he’d had anything to say, it doesn’t come out.

Whatever’s on Martin’s face, it makes that little crinkle appear between Jon’s brows. “… Martin?”

Martin gives his head a little shake. “Sorry, I. Uh. I—”

And that’s about all he can get out.

Jon loves him.

Okay. Yeah, on some level, Martin thinks, he knew that already.

He was pretty sure he knew it when Jon led him out of the Lonely, when he fled the country with him to a safehouse in the Scottish countryside. He thinks he knew it when Jon spent the better part of a year following Martin’s lead on blind faith and still trusted him enough to make them a we and an us without hesitation the first chance Martin gave him.

But Martin remembers stacking tape recorders on top of a coffin for three days because Jon had walked right into the Buried for someone whose kindest action towards hum at the time had been to not slit his throat in the middle of the woods.

He remembers being 16 when his mother stopped telling him she loved him. He remembers being 18 and finally giving up on saying it to her at all, being 20, 22, 25, 30, watching her pull away and away and away and thinking I know she loves me, I know she does, even if she never said it, never even showed it. Because she was his mum. She was supposed to love him no matter what. So she had to, right?

And he thinks a part of him really did believe that, until the day of the Unknowing when he’d confronted Elias and unwittingly lost everything that had been keeping him afloat those past few years.

So yes, on some level he knows Jon loves him, but there was still an uncomfortable little but does he, really? floating around somewhere in his head. So. It’s nice to have some… some reassurance.

(See: Martin is very good at being in love. He thinks it might be the only thing he’s ever been properly good at in his life. He’s just not very good at being loved back. Consequence of not having much experience, he supposes.)

Martin blinks, and then he blinks again, and a few more times, trying to clear away the stinging in his eyes. He opens his mouth again, but it feels like all the air has been sucked out of his lungs. It’s stupid. It’s stupid it’s, it’s so—

Martin ducks his head and squeezes his eyes shut, biting at the inside of his cheek.

Wordlessly, he holds his hand out across the table, and Jon scrambles to take it, slipping his fingers over Martin’s palm and grabbing on. He pushes himself out of his chair and comes to stand in front of Martin, his free hand coming up to fold over Martin’s cheek. Martin’s dimly aware he must be holding on too tight for comfort, at least for Jon’s comfort, but he can’t seem to let go, he just wants—

“Martin,” Jon says, and Martin finally looks back up at him, at the unbearable and unflinching tenderness written across every one of his features, at the soft set of his lips, the concerned furrow between his brows, the way his eyes are just a little wider than usual.

Martin’s breath returns in a rush and gets stuck in his throat, and he finally lets go of Jon’s hand so he can wrap his arms around his waist, pulling him forward and shoving his face against Jon’s chest.

“Martin,” Jon breathes, again, wrapping his arms around Martin’s neck, dropping his head onto Martin’s, burrowing his face down into Martin’s hair. He presses close, and Martin pulls him even closer until Jon’s half-sitting his lap, half sharing his chair, about as comfortable and close as they can get in the rickety old kitchen chairs.

Martin can’t breathe, because he knows the next time he opens his mouth he’ll start crying for real, and he can’t — it’s been so much nothing, for the last year, and less than a handful of days of this, and if he starts crying now he’s not quite sure how he’ll manage to keep holding himself together, so he just holds onto Jon instead.

“I love you,” Jon mumbles into Martin’s hair, fingers twisting into the weave of Martin’s jumper, nestling in the short hairs at the base of his neck, stroking his skin with the type of care and gentleness Martin isn’t sure he knows how to handle anymore, if he ever did to begin with. "I really do."

That’s what really does it, he thinks.

He falls apart, just a little bit, and then completely, with his nose pressed into Jon’s collarbone hidden from the world and kept safe by the circle of arms around him.

There are some people who think saying ‘I love you’ too much will make it lose its meaning; believe the words lose their power, their truth, if they’re spoken aloud too frequently. Martin tried to tell himself he was one of those people for a long time. Tried to make up for not hearing them too often, as if their absence in the air might make any love in his life stronger, easier to hold in his heart.

Jon, Martin discovers, for all his issues communicating, all his struggles with words, his stops and starts and the way being the Archivist has stolen the confidence from his voice when it’s not being stolen to record statements, is not one of those people.

He keeps saying it, mumbled over and over again, into Martin’s hair, against his forehead, the shell of his ear while he sits there and cries and tries very, very hard to accept it.

“I love you,” he says, “I love you, I love you. I love you, Martin— I am so in love with you.”

So Martin falls apart, but it’s okay, because Jon holds him together through it all until Martin finally finds the strength to do it himself.

Martin pulls back, and Jon’s hands slip forward until he’s holding Martin’s face, palms warm against his wet cheeks.

Martin sucks in a sharp breath, reigning himself until he can get his throat and his lungs to cooperate. “I love you,” he practically chokes out, almost unintelligible around all the sobbing. “Jon, I love you,” he tries again, and it comes out stronger this time, easier.

Jon smiles, a shaky thing, wobbling in its foundation but still so, so loving. “I love you,” Jon says again, even though at this point Martin’s lost track of how many times he’s already repeated it.

Martin amazes himself by smiling back, even with tears in his eyes and his chest heavy. “I love you.”

Jon laughs, incredulous and beautiful, a sound of pure relief.

They keep saying it, back and forth until it stops sounding like words and then comes around again. It doesn’t feel like it loses its meaning. It doesn’t feel any less heavy, any less real, with each exchange. It feels like the opposite, like the pair of them just have had so many I love you’s building up inside up over the last few months, the last few years, that finally being able to get them all out in the open just solidifies it, makes it finally, finally something he and Jon can share.

It’s easier to breathe, now that the love exists as theirs, now that it’s not a heavy, painful thing Martin has to tuck behind his ribs and keep a secret.

When Martin finally stops crying, he straightens up, pulls back, wipes at his eyes with one hand while he keeps the other pressed into the small of Jon’s back. Jon tilts his head and looks at Martin, combs his fingers through Martin’s bangs, pushes his hair back. They spend a moment just looking — lower-case L, thank you very much — at each other, cataloguing and memorizing the moment.

“You love me,” Martin murmurs, low and quiet.

“I do,” Jon agrees. “And you love me.”

“I really do.”

Jon smiles again, and even if he hadn’t just spent the last ten minutes confessing over and over again Martin would’ve been able to see the love there.

“Jon,” Martin says.

Jon’s thumb traces over Martin’s brow, the pad of his fingertip warm and gentle on Martin’s skin. “Hm?”

Martin’s eyes drift shut under the touch. “I. I’m really glad we’re here, too. T-together.”

Jon pulls him back into his arms, folding him up into a fierce, careful embrace. The chair isn’t comfortable on the best of days, and being cramped together like this isn’t helping, but they stay like that for a very long time before moving regardless.

—

Martin had thought coming back from the Nothing of the Lonely would hurt, that remembering how to be a person again would be too much. And it’s hard, sure; it’s a lot. It’s overwhelming, it’s difficult, and jarring. But… He never anticipated it would be this gentle, even though now it seems silly to think otherwise, with Jon here to guide him along.

The sun sets, and eventually they migrate from the kitchen to the living room. (Jon offers to handle the dishes, but Martin doesn’t want to be that far away from him right now, so they leave them in the sink to soak for now.)

Instead they sit on the couch together, and Jon runs his hands through Martin’s hair and they talk, a little, but mostly they’re just. There. Together. Sharing space so simply.

Eventually, through their combined efforts, they even manage to build a fire in the fireplace. Just in time, too; there’s no central heating, and Martin has no idea how insulated the walls are. He’s had trouble with the chill ever since he got involved with the Lonely. He’d kept plenty warm last night, sure, but he attributes that mostly to spending night in Jon’s arms.

Martin sits on the floor and rips their shopping bags to shreds and balls them up under a loose pile of kindling, with some bigger logs stacked in a tipi formation around it. It looks like the fires Martin’s seen in movies and on TV, so he figures it’s a good place to start.

“Um, have you still got that lighter?” Martin asks.

“Hm?” Jon picks his head up from where he’d laid it to rest on Martin’s shoulder. “Oh. Ah, yes, I think so. Hold on a moment, I’ll just—”

At least 30 of his joints pop as he stands, grimacing slightly. It’s things like this that make people think Jon’s the older one rather than Martin, even with the mismatched socks and overlarge sweater sleeves falling all the way to the tips of his fingers. It makes Martin smile after him as Jon retreats back to the bedroom.

He comes back with his mysterious spiderweb zippo and offers it to Martin as he settles back down beside him on the floor. Hesitantly, Martin holds the flame to the bundled paper. The first time, it sizzles out and fades, leaving a charred corner and a faint smell of smoke in the air.

“It’s scrunched up too tight,” Jon says, “a fire needs heat and fuel and oxygen, there’s not enough airflow— Er.”

Martin bites the inside of his cheek. “Thought you weren’t going to Know things.”

“I’m trying not to,” Jon grumbles. “The Beholding is— quite stubborn.”

“Well… at least it gave us something useful this time,” Martin reasons gently.

“I love you,” Jon responds, words rolling off his tongue like nothing.

Martin’s cheeks go very hot, and he rearranges the things in the fireplace for better airflow to give himself something to fidget with. It takes two more tries and a minor burn on his left thumb before the kindling catches, starts eating up towards the logs. If all goes to plan, they’ll catch, too, and then they’ll have an actual honest-to-god fire in their actual honest-to-god hearth.

Martin lets himself feel a flicker of pride. He did that, with his own two hands. Well, and a little bit of Beholding influence, but. He still built it, and now he and Jon will be warm.

He scoots back and sits with his back against the couch so he can watch the fire, make sure it doesn’t go out before it even really gets going.

Jon moves to sit next to him, and when Martin offers him his lighter back he takes it with one hand, and then takes Martin’s hand with the other.

Jon’s hands are warmer than Martin’s. Smaller, but with longer fingers. Polka-dotted with the last remaining evidence of Jane Prentiss’s attack. A lifeline, when Martin had needed one most.

Martin used to have warm hands. He used to be warm, as a person, in general. He used to be proud of that warmth in a way; he liked being warm. It felt like the person he wanted to be. But maybe… maybe it’s not so bad to be kept warm, either.

“What are you thinking about?” Jon asks, voice low, and quiet, and soft.

Martin opts for honesty. “Your hands.”

“O-oh.”

Jon is flushing beautifully when Martin looks back up at his face.

“Only good things,” Martin assures him.

Jon nods haltingly. “I didn’t realize you had… good things to think about my, uh. My hands.”

Martin has good things to think about every part of Jon, but he doesn’t know how to just come out and say any of them.

“Did you know— um…” Martin loses his confidence half way through, looking down at Jon’s stolen sweater, the way it hangs over his shoulders, bunches up around his wrists.

Jon squeezes his hand, nudges Martin’s thigh with his toes. “Mm?”

“Well, you know, um. Sea otters, they. When they’re out, in the ocean, th-they hold hands. When they sleep, so they don’t, like, drift away. They just, hold onto each other.”

“I-I think I might’ve… heard something like that once,” Jon says uncertainly.

“Yeah.” Martin nods. “That’s — I mean, it’s like that. Holding your hand. I’m not gonna… I won’t drift away. You, um.” He pauses, takes a breath. “In a weird, metaphysical sense, you keep me… grounded.”

“Like an anchor,” Jon blurts.

“Like an anchor,” Martin agrees.

For a handful of seconds, Jon is silent. And then, in one surprisingly confident motion, Jon puts his hand on Martin’s face, tilts his chin up, and kisses him.

Martin’s first thought (once he can manage thoughts again) is one of mild surprise. Not that Jon is kissing him, but that they’ve never kissed before. It doesn’t feel like a first kiss; fumbling and awkward and careful. It feels like coming home after a long day, like setting into bed with a warm cup of tea and your favorite blanket. It feels right, like it’s just another part of their routine.

Which isn’t to say there’s no learning curve; it always takes a minute to adjust, when you’re kissing someone new. You have to learn all the angles, the way their lips move, how to move yours with them. It’s just that it doesn’t feel strange, rather it feels more like settling into something.

There’s no hesitance, which is funny considering who both he and Jon are as people. Jon’s hand migrates from Martin’s cheek to slide into his hair, and Martin reaches out to hold onto Jon, wrapping his arms around his shoulders.

Jon still tastes a little like their dinner, and the mango juice they bought at the store together. His whole body feels... warm. Every point of contact between them feels warm in a way Martin hasn’t felt in a really long time.

When they finally break apart, Jon’s nose bumps against Martin’s, and Martin lets out a breath he feels like he’s been holding for four years.

Martin can’t open his eyes yet; his heart is dancing and his mind has gone pleasantly blank. Still, he can hear the smile in Jon’s voice when he speaks.

“Hi,” he says, fond and so, so warm.

Martin breathes out a shaky laugh, which comes out closer to a giddy little puff of air. “Hi,” he returns, with an amount of fondness that manages to surprise even himself.

—

Their second night in the safehouse is thick and syrupy-sweet. The whole house is still warm from the fire by the time they get sleepy, and when they crawl into bed together, the exhaustion hanging over them feels less immediate, gentler. They’re tired, but not down to the bone, this time. Martin changes into something comfy to sleep in; Jon keeps Martin’s sweater on, but takes his jeans off before bed so he’s just wearing it with his boxers.

The lights off, his glasses safely left on the bedside table, Jon’s outline is hazy but real in the moonlight as they face each other on their pillows.

“I still want to find a way to get these sheets cleaned,” Martin says.

“We will.”

“Before it starts raining.”

“We will,” Jon assures him. “Martin, we’ve survived worse than some dusty sheets. We’ll figure it out.”

There it is again; the implicit we, the promise that whatever comes, he and Jon will be facing it together. Martin smiles into the dim light, leans over to kiss Jon on the corner of his mouth. “Okay. We will.”

Jon’s smiling too when Martin leans back, a cautious and hopeful thing.

Cautious and hopeful. That’s about how Martin feels, too. He’d be stupid not to be wary, but it’s impossible not to let some kind of hope bloom when he’s lying in bed with the man he loves and bickering about laundry.

Even though he’s taller than Jon, that night Martin falls asleep with his head pillowed on Jon’s chest, arm slung protectively over his slight middle.

Jon’s fingers card, slower and slower as he slips closer and closer to sleep, methodically through Martin’s hair, the other hand resting delicate and tender on his shoulder blade.

“Goodnight, Martin,” Jon whispers.

Martin smiles softly into the dark. “Goodnight, Jon.”