Work Text:
Martin rides with Jon to the train station. It isn’t as if Basira is going to see him off, not with everything that has happened with Daisy and the police… someone has to stay back and explain. And, well, Martin insisted. Said he shouldn’t have to go there alone. “Nothing worse than leaving on a trip with no one to send you off,” he’d said. Jon had nodded, gratefully, and swallowed back the burning lump of what he wanted to say— Come with me, come to Scotland, I don’t want to leave you alone again. He kept hearing Martin’s words in his head: I really loved you . And he couldn’t ask Martin to do that, to leave his whole life and everything behind to become a fugitive, cower in Scotland and throw his whole life away. It’s too much. And Martin has already sacrificed so much for him.
He’ll be content with Martin seeing him off. That can be enough. That will be enough.
Jon keeps ahold of his hand in the back of the cab, the whole way there. He doesn’t want to let go. Call him a coward, or selfish, and you'd probably be right, but he came so close to losing Martin forever, and he has to leave again in a few minutes. He held Martin's hand the whole way out of the Lonely, his fingers icy between Jon's. And Martin didn't let go. They came out in the tunnels and Martin leaned into him like he was tired, his forehead tipped against Jon's shoulder. They didn't let go until Basira found them there. He doesn't want to leave Martin alone. He doesn't want to be alone. He doesn't know if he can do that. And then he's holding onto Martin's hand tighter, holding it in both of his, and Martin's looking towards him with concern and saying, "Everything all right?"
Jon pushes the thought from his head, steels his shoulders and says, "Yes, of course." Basira will take care of Martin and Martin will take care of Basira, and they'll both be fine without him. Better, even, like Melanie and Georgie. He tells himself that as he takes one hand away, and he tries to move the other, but Martin doesn't let go when he does, and Jon pretends he isn't grateful.
They make the station within twenty minutes of the next train's departing time and have to more or less run to make it. A bit of a haul with the bag Jon packed from the things he had at the Institute, but they make it in time. "Oh, good," Martin says, panting a bit, when they stop at the platform and the train is still there. "I… was worried you wouldn't make it."
There's an odd sort of tone in his voice that Jon can't read—maybe he wants Jon to leave, is looking forward to it? But then he remembers Martin's face in the Lonely, when he broke through, how tightly he'd hugged Jon back, and Jon pushes the thought away. Not positive thinking. Georgie would tell him to have a better outlook on things if she was still talking to him. "Well," he says quietly, setting the suitcase by his feet, "here we are."
"Here we are," Martin says quietly. He's still got Jon's hand; he tugs it towards him insistently. "Stay safe, all right? Don't do anything reckless on the way up there. That'd be just your luck—run into a Darkness monster or something."
"That would be my luck," Jon says dryly, and Martin laughs a little. He laughs, too, clears his throat and adds (because it feels important), "I hate leaving you all behind here. If something happens…"
"You don't need to worry about that," says Martin. "All you need to worry about is getting to safety, all right?"
"But after everything with… with Elias, and t-the Hunters… it doesn't feel right to leave you and Basira in the thick of this."
"Jon, c'mon, we've been over this. Basira told you to go. It's the best thing for you to do. You're not allowed to feel guilty about this, all right? I'm serious."
Martin looks stern in an unserious sort of way, and something aches deep in Jon's chest. He squeezes Martin's hand so he won't do something more, like ask to kiss him or ask him to come along. "All right," he says. "But you… you've got to tell me if something happens. Promise me that, at least. I don't want anything like this to happen to you again." The past few days have passed in such a rush that it feels like no time has really passed at all, and he can still remember the sick panic that seized him when he heard the tape of Lukas telling Martin he wouldn't be coming back. Of finding Martin gone because Lukas had taken him, the period when he thought he wouldn't be able to get him back. He won't let that happen again, not to Martin or to any of them.
Martin takes a shaky breath, and for a moment, Jon worries he might cry. But all he says is, "Okay. I promise," and that is enough.
Jon swallows hard, nods. Checks his watch and relaxes a bit when he sees seven minutes before departure. He'd hoped for more time; seven minutes is enough time to talk for a bit more, even if it doesn't feel like any time at all. But Martin sees him do it and says, "Oh, uh, I—y-you should get onto the train now. So you don't miss it."
Jon swallows hard and says, "Right." Damn it. He isn't ready to get on, isn't ready to walk away and leave Martin alone again. The words bubble up in his throat— Come with me, please —but he still can't say them. He'd asked Martin to run away with him before, and Martin had said no; he has to respect that.
Martin will be fine. He will be. Martin is strong and resilient, a million times stronger than Jon ever has been. He doesn't need Jon. Jon has to believe that he'll be all right.
"Jon," Martin says quietly, and his voice is strange again. "I don't… I don't know how to thank you. For… coming for me. For getting me out of there."
There's things Jon should stay here. Of course I'd come for you, or I wouldn't have left you alone there or You don't need to thank me. But all he can manage is, "Martin." And then they're pushing towards each other, Jon's arms folding tight around him, the two of them clinging together on this train platform surrounded by dozens of people. He's not sure how long they stand there like that; he doesn't want to let go.
Finally, Martin says, "You… you should catch your train, Jon," in a choked up voice. "Don't want to miss it."
Jon takes a deep breath, counts to five in his head before saying, "Right," and slipping his arms out from around Martin.
Martin shoves up his glasses to rub briefly at his eyes; he must be exhausted. "I'll… write to you," he says. "Or call with updates, or… both, I dunno. Always thought it was nice to get letters."
"I'll write to you, too," Jon says. Next best thing to actually having Martin there, as long as he gets to talk to him. As long as there's something beside this long silence over all these months. Maybe he could write some poetry of his own—but no, that's ridiculous, he's never written poetry a day in his life, and Martin wouldn't want that anyway. Doesn't think of him like that.
"Oh. All right." Martin rubs at his eyes again with his sleeve, as if they itch or something. Jon looks at the train, then back at Martin. He doesn't want to go. But Martin says, "Off you go, then," in a thick voice, and Jon nods, and then he's climbing onto the train. He convinces himself not to look back.
He waits until he's seated, in a seat by the window, to look back. He doesn't Look—he wouldn't do that, he swore he wouldn't Look for his friends unless they were in danger, he doesn't want to invade Martin's privacy, and he won't do it. He looks out the window instead, like regular people do, fully expecting to not see Martin there. But Martin is still there, on the platform, wringing his hands as he looks at the train. Seeing him off, as it were. Literally, even.
Jon has to wipe his own eyes, then, pretend he isn't crying a bit. He swallows hard and leans his head against the window and watches Martin through the glass until the train pulls away from the station.
---
Martin stands at the platform for too long after Jon's train leaves, watching the empty tracks. About as pathetic as you can get. His hands are freezing, so he keeps them in his pockets, and he watches for fog and listens for the churn of the ocean, but there's nothing there. Just the pressing crowd of the train platforms. Other trains come and go, but of course, Jon's train doesn't come back.
He's safe, he tells himself, over and over again. He's safe, and that's all that matters, isn't it? That's why you did what you did with Peter. You did it, you saved him. And he couldn't have gone with Jon, anyway.
Three trains come before Martin stands up from the platform and walks towards the cab stand. To go home, he supposes, or go back to the Institute. Basira could probably use the company, too, after Daisy. (Except he and Basira have never really been that close, and Melanie has gotten away, and his mum is gone, and Jon's gone too, now, and here he is, alone again…)
Martin takes a sharp breath and shakes his head. He won't let that happen again, he won't, it's not going to happen again. He pulls his phone out of his pocket, desperate for something to fill the empty spaces in his head. His first instinct, looking at his phone screen, is to call Jon. Looking at the seventeen missed calls from Jon, from when he was gone with Lukas. But he can't—Jon just left, that's ridiculous. So he calls Basira instead, just to check in. Just to hear someone's voice.
She picks up sounding frantic, with that hard edge Basira usually has in her voice. "Martin? What's wrong?"
"N-nothing's wrong," Martin says quickly, pushing up his glasses to wipe his eyes again. He's sick of the crying, it's leaving his glasses all fogged and blotchy. Probably sounds like something is wrong. "Just… wanted to check in. Are you all right?"
Basira sighs. "I… yeah. Fine. I've been… I've been looking for Daisy." She sighs again, sharply, and says, "Jon's off, then?"
"Yes. Yes, he left about… forty minutes ago." Martin checks his watch uselessly; he knows how long it's been. How long he spent on that platform imagining himself chasing after the train like he's in some movie—ridiculous. How long he sat there wishing he'd just gone along. "Everything seemed all right. Nothing… nothing off about it."
"Good," says Basira. "And… you? What are you going to do, Martin?"
Martin knows what he should say. Things like I'm going to go and get some sleep, or I'll come and help search for Daisy , or I'm going to find Elias, I'm going to end this before it goes any further, before he hurts any of us ever again. But he doesn't say any of that. He says what he wants to say, without even thinking about it, the words tumbling out of his mouth almost involuntarily. His fingers tighten around the phone, like it is the only thing that is holding him up, and he blurts, "I'm going with him."
Silence on the other end. "What?" Basira says, finally. "I thought… You said he was already gone."
"He is. I'll—I'll get the next train, I'll figure it out. I… I have to do this, Basira."
He says this in a rush, like he's defending himself. Like he's expecting Basira to argue. But all she does is sigh again and say, "All right. Sure. I should've known something like this would happen, with you two."
Martin searches for the words for a moment, turning back towards the station, towards the place where Jon left. He could be there in just a few moments, headed for Jon, going after him. "You… you won't need me here?"
"No. No, Martin, we've done well enough without you these past few months."
Martin flinches, fingers tightening around the phone, and he's ready to say something in response—maybe in apology, maybe in defense of himself, he isn't sure—but before he can, Basira says, "Shit. Just—forget I said that. I know why you did what you did, Jon told me. Just… just go on, all right? Do what you need to do. I'll… I'll just be looking for Daisy. I can call when I have news, about the… the police and everything."
Martin takes a shaky breath, bending nearly in half. "Okay," he says. "Okay." The reality of what he's doing is solidifying, somewhere by the lump in his throat. He doesn't want to be alone again. And he doesn't think he'd be alone if he stayed; if nothing else, he has Basira, and maybe Melanie if she'll talk to him. But it's not just that. It's not just about being with anyone. He wants to be with Jon. Right now, he wants to be with Jon.
"Go get a train or… whatever. Keep Jon from doing anything stupid, when you get there," Basira says sternly.
"Okay," Martin says again. "I… thank you, Basira."
"Don't thank me. You do what you need to do." There's a bit of a silence again, before Basira finishes with, "Stay safe." And then she hangs up. Martin hears the beep in his ear.
He slides the phone in his pocket and takes a few deep breaths. Walks to the ticket booth and gets a ticket on the next train to Inverness.
No time to go home and pack, so Martin goes back and sits on the same bench to wait for the train, huddling up in his coat. It's nearly as cold here as the Lonely. He'll have to stop and buy some things; he doesn't think any of Jon's things will fit him. He tries to picture what Daisy's house must look like. Jon says it's near the ocean; he hopes it isn't like the Lonely. He doesn't think it will be, especially not with Jon there.
Martin rests his head against a concrete post and resists the urge to let his eyes slide shut. He takes out his phone again to call Jon, just to let him know. Doesn't want to just show up on Jon's doorstep with no warning, especially if Jon would rather him not be there at all. (He doesn't think Jon will be opposed to him coming—well, he can't be sure, but he guesses not. Jon did follow him into the Lonely, after all, pulled him out and held his hand, and if nothing else, Martin thinks they could both use a friend. And if Jon doesn't want him to come, if his voice is full of stiff politeness that masks any conflicting feelings he might have, well, Martin will get a cab home before he's actually en route there. It's as simple as that.)
He listens to the phone ring and ring, but Jon doesn't pick up. Maybe his phone is dead. Or maybe it's too soon to call. Or maybe Jon is avoiding him…
Martin sighs and ends the call. No use lingering over that. Basira has texted him Daisy's address, so he'll be able to find the house either way. He saves the text and turns off the phone to save the battery, and boards the train as soon as it arrives, thinking only of arriving in Scotland and of finding his way to Jon. Jon found him, followed him into a lonely hell and saved him, and now it's Martin's turn to search for him, even if it's just in Scotland. He can keep Jon safe, keep him company; they can take care of each other. Be there for each other. That's all Martin really wants.
---
Jon wakes up several hours into the journey and finds his phone dead. He Knows, then, exactly where his charger is, curled up on his cot beside his pillow, and he feels stupid for not thinking to bring it. There goes any chance he has of talking to Martin or Basira on the trip up. He'll have to get a new charger in Inverness.
There's very little to do on the train, and lucky him, he's also forgotten any books to read. Or any statements. He isn't hungry or anything yet—Peter Lukas's statement might keep him going for a while now—but that might prove to be a problem later. (Jon wonders, briefly, if this is an excuse to ask Martin to come down here with him—but no, that's ridiculous, Martin shouldn't have to trek all the way to Scotland to deliver statements.) So, nothing to do. He spends some time watching out the window, and the scenery is nice, but even that gets tedious after a while.
He tries to write a letter to Martin—it seems like it's too soon, but he's got nothing better to do, and he can mail it in Inverness if he sends it now. (And besides that, he misses Martin, even now. Saved him and went right back to missing him.) But everything he writes is all wrong, things he couldn't possibly send. Dear Martin, I miss you. Dear Martin, There's so much I want to tell you about, so much I wanted to tell you when you were gone. I should have told you everything while you were still there to tell. Dear Martin, I am so sorry I treated you so badly for such a long time. Dear Martin, I'm so sorry I didn't come for you sooner. Martin, come to Scotland. Martin, I still want to run away with you. I never stopped wanting that. He folds more than one letter up and shoves it away in his suitcase so he won't have to look at them. (A part of him can't really bear to throw them away.)
Jon goes back to watching out the window. There's a fog settling over the rolling green hills outside that instinctively makes him think of the Lonely. (Martin's hands had been freezing when Jon pulled him out of the fog. He spent half the walk out trying to rub warmth back into them.) He Knows it isn't the same, though; it's just normal fog, it's a rainy day. It's chilling and beautiful all at once. It makes Jon think of walking down a cold beach shouting Martin's name, Martin turning away in the fog, and he has to look away.
He starts composing another letter in his head without even thinking about it. Dear Martin, It's chilly here, but the scenery is beautiful. I think you'd like all the hills and the trees and the fields of flowers, all that green. You don't see that in London. It feels like something you might write poetry about, if you still write poetry. I wish you were here to see it, too. I wish you were here with me.
---
Martin doesn't sleep on the train for a long time. He's too anxious, knees rattling against the seat in front of him until the man inhabiting it gives him a dirty look. He's brought nothing with him, nothing to do, so he's left with more or less digging through his pockets to see what he has besides his wallet and phone. There's a couple pens; he kept carrying pens even after he fell out of the habit of jotting things or turns of phrase he liked down. He finds some crumpled statements Peter wanted him to read deep in one coat pocket and is instantly relieved; he figures Jon will need statements, and he's never read these far as Martin can tell. It's not a long term solution, there's only three of them crumpled all to bits, they'll have to figure something else out, but Martin realized twenty minutes after Jon left that they hadn't sent Jon with anything for sustenance, and this seemed like it was better than nothing. He should've asked Basira to send some; he'll ask the next time he talks to her. And in the meantime, at the very least, if Jon doesn't want to see him and sends him off, Martin will be able to deliver some statements so Jon doesn't starve to death.
Martin doesn't think Jon will send him away. It doesn't make any sense that he would, not after he pulled Martin out of the Lonely. They're friends; Martin is sure of that. It doesn't make sense for Jon to save him and then turn him away. But Martin can't break the anxiety that leaves him worried that Jon won't want him there. That he'll have traveled all that way for nothing. It's entirely possible; if anything, Jon has earned some peace and quiet, some solitude. He doesn't need Martin's problems mucking it all up. But maybe… maybe he'll want a friend. Maybe he won't want to be alone either. He… he did ask Martin to come with him, after all, both of them blind themselves and leave the Institute and go live a happy life. And Martin had said no.
Martin tries not to think about it. He spends some time looking out the window, watching the countryside flit by. There's fog gathering up on the hill, floating down towards the train, and Martin has to look away after a while. He keeps reliving the moment when Peter yanked him into the Lonely, how blank and trudging everything was until Jon found him. He never wants to feel that empty again.
Eventually he does fall asleep, hands knotted in his lap, head against the window. His dreams are full of fog and salt-air and the endless gray ocean. The ocean's never looked like that when he's been in real life.
When he wakes up, he feels cold all over, shivering in his seat. He reaches for the memory of Jon in the Lonely, embracing him at the shoreline, until he feels warm again.
---
It's mid-afternoon when Jon's train arrives in Inverness. He's got about an hour and a half drive to Daisy's house, a bit of a haul after the hours he's spent traveling. He doesn't have the energy to shop before he drives out there; there's a village closer to the house where he can buy things, anyway. Jon doesn't want to do any of it; he just wants to get to the house and crawl into the bed and sleep so that he doesn't have to think about any of this. Doesn't have to relive the attack on the Institute, Basira and Daisy disappearing behind him, Martin being lost, Georgie turning away from him, Lukas ripping apart in the Lonely. Martin coming back to himself, the two of them hugging on the shoreline. Martin standing on the platform while Jon's train pulls away.
Jon doesn't want to think about it, and so he buys a phone charger from one of the stores in the train station and plans to call and check in tomorrow. Call Basira for practicality; call Martin just to talk. He wants to talk to Martin; he hopes Martin will want to talk to him. He goes and rents a small car that won't take too much petrol, and he puts his one small bag in the boot, and he starts the long drive out to Daisy's. He Knows the way without having to check. The route isn't far from the sea; he can look out over the ocean sometimes. Remind himself of childhood, of the better moments in childhood. He hopes it will remind him of the moment when Martin came back to himself, not the moment when he left Martin behind.
Hours later, over half a day later, and Jon still can't believe that he's left Martin behind. It was the best decision, it was the right thing to do, it seemed like the right thing to do. He was in danger and he shouldn't hang that all on Martin. Shouldn't press Martin into following him when there was nothing to gain and maybe everything to lose. But Martin was alone before this, left behind when Tim died and Sasha died and his mother died and Jon sort-of died. Alone and willing to throw everything away to keep them all safe. Willing to make himself even more alone. And Jon had followed him, Jon had brought him back. And now he's just going to leave? Leave Martin behind, alone again, like nothing's happened. After Jon's spent months wanting Martin to be there. After Jon asked Martin to leave with him. This was their chance, and Jon was too much of a coward to take it. Didn't want to ask Martin because Martin didn't love him anymore, but even if Martin didn't love him like that, they were still friends, and Martin still went into the Lonely for him, and Jon went in after him, and then Jon left him again. It's horrible, it's cowardly and horrible and Martin deserves better. Martin deserves so much better.
And that's when Jon decides: he's going back. He's going back to get Martin, even if it is dangerous, he doesn't care if it puts him in danger if it saves Martin. If it keeps him from being Lonely. He'll go back and get Martin and ask him to come to Scotland, and if Martin says yes, they can come back together, hide out here and experience peace for the first time in years, maybe, or face whatever comes together. Basira can come too, if she wants, if it's safer in Scotland than London, and if neither of them want to come, then Jon will come back on his own, he'll do that, it's fine. If he's lucky, though, Martin will want to come back with him, and they'll be here to keep each other company. It's a good plan, a good one. Worse comes to worse, Martin won't want to come and Jon will have made a ridiculous round trip for nothing, but it seems like a risk worth taking. Not like he's got much better to do.
Jon turns the car around, right then. Right then. He'll go and catch a train right now, ride all the way back, no use in waiting. It's not as if anyone is waiting at Daisy's. No time like the present, and besides that, he doesn't want to wait any longer. He wants to see Martin. He wants to see him so badly—even though it has been less than a day since they saw each other, even then, he still misses Martin as badly as he has all these months. Like air.
Jon drives too fast the whole way back to the station.
---
Jon won't be at the station when Martin's train arrives. Martin knows this. He does. But a small part of him is still disappointed that no one will be there when he gets off the train. He used to take the train up to visit his grandmother for the summer when he was little, at his mother's insistence ( I can certainly get help around the house, Martin, don't be ridiculous, the quiet will do us both good ), and he'd always enjoyed the summers, but the rides home would be awful, knowing when he got back he'd take a cab home alone and his mother would say, simply, So you're back then, when he walked in the house. He used to daydream about having someone meet him at the train station someday, but he grew up and got jobs and stopped visiting his grandmother, and then he stopped taking trains anywhere.
He knows that won't happen today; Jon doesn't even know he's coming, and how could he know? Martin knows Jon is trying not to Know; he told Martin that while they were waiting for the cab to the train station, and Martin's grateful for that. He doesn't expect that. He'll get a car or something out to Daisy's, and hope that Jon doesn't want him to leave, and that will be enough. It will be. All that matters is that he's come here, and he's going to see Jon in a few hours, even if it's brief.
The train arrives, and Martin gets caught up in the press of people trying to get off the train, fumbling with his suitcase. It's crowded and a bit choking; the people pressing in on either side of Martin is some of the more direct human contact he's had in months. It takes a moment for him to steady his breathing, pushing his way off the train and to a spot where he can stand alone. He wipes sweaty palms against his jumper and tries to breathe deeply, reminds himself that he is out of the Lonely, that he isn't alone anymore. Relives all the little moments where he's been touched since he got out of the Lonely, mostly by Jon. He'll see Jon in a few hours. He's here and it's all going to be fine.
There's voices all around him, talking in that way that all sort of blurs together to a long buzz, and Martin doesn't bother trying to listen. No one looking for him, after all. But then, over the din of the people on the platform, Martin suddenly hears it: the rising sound of someone calling his name. " Martin? " the voice says, familiar, achingly familiar and incredulous, and then again, louder: " Martin! "
Martin whirls around, searching for the source of the voice, calling out in disbelief, " Jon? "
There he is, pushing his way through the crowd, and he must spot Martin because his face does something funny, and then he's moving towards Martin, and tears are burning in Martin's eyes, and he shouts, "Jon!" right back. And then Jon's there, and he's throwing his arms around Martin, crashing into him so hard that Martin stumbles back a step or two.
Martin doesn't mind. He embraces Jon right back, knots his hands in the back of Jon's shirt and presses his face into Jon's hair. "Martin," Jon says muffledly, mouth moving somewhere against Martin's collarbone. "Martin, you're—you're here ." He sounds like he can't believe it, even with his face mashed against the front of Martin's jumper. "I didn't think—" he starts, and then seems to change his mind mid-sentence and says, again, "You're here ."
Martin nods. His glasses are fogging up, shoved up on his forehead, and he's probably holding Jon too hard, but that doesn't seem possible because Jon is holding him just as tightly, a hand tangled in his hair. "I didn't…" he starts, and then changes his mind mid-sentence. "I missed you," he says instead. "I wanted to come. I missed you, Jon."
Jon takes a sharp breath. His head tilts abruptly so he and Martin are nose to nose, his hand suddenly warm on Martin's cheek. Martin's crying; he thinks Jon is crying, too. And then Jon is kissing him, tentative at first, deep and messy and sweet, in a way that Martin can't remember having been kissed before in his life.
Martin's breath catches in his throat and he tugs Jon forward by the hem of his jumper, even though there's barely any space between them anyway. Kisses Jon like he's wanted to for years. He's thinking, absently, of the moment where he heard that Jon had woken up, and he'd had to go and lock himself in the bathroom and cry, hands over his mouth so Peter wouldn't hear. Thinking only of going to the hospital to hold Jon's hand, to hug him and tell him how happy he was that Jon was all right. He's thinking of when Jon asked him to leave with him, and Martin had said no and it had felt right, but the gap had opened up as soon as Jon had left and he'd wanted to go after him, run after Jon and say of course he'd go with him, he'd follow him anywhere. Go after him and kiss him like this. It's been so long. He never quite thought they'd get here.
Jon pulls away slowly, breathing a little unsteadily, whispers, "Is this… is this all right?" Martin says, "Yes, god, yes," and kisses him again. Softer this time, slower, the kind you can really melt into. They have time now. They have time.
When Jon pulls back again, it's not all the way; he rocks his forehead forward against Martin, warm together, and they don't move for a long moment. Martin reaches between them for Jon's hand and Jon takes it, holding on tight. Martin blinks back tears, keeps his eyes shut, lost in the thick of it, so it takes him a minute to realize that Jon is speaking. Saying, "I'm so sorry," in a thick voice. "I'm so sorry, Martin."
"Don't apologize, " Martin says, his voice breaking, and he pulls Jon's hand up to kiss the back of it. Jon's face screws up, full of some emotion Martin isn't sure of, and he shakes his head. "Don't apologize," Martin says again, almost worriedly. "I don't—why are you…"
"I should have asked you to come," says Jon. "I… wanted to ask you to come. So badly. I wanted to… I was afraid you wouldn't want to. Or that I would be overstepping. And I'm sorry."
Martin chuckles, stunned and self-deprecating and maybe even in disbelief. Tugs Jon closer to wrap his arms around him tighter. "I wanted to come," he says softly. "Pictured myself… chasing after your train or some ridiculous shit like that. I wanted to. I should have… said something." He chuckles again, slowly. "I'm an idiot."
Jon laughs, too, and the sound is almost surprising. He squeezes Martin's hand. "I think we've both been idiots, Martin," he says quietly. "At least a little bit."
"A bit, yes," Martin whispers, kissing Jon's fingers again. Jon shivers a little, tugs Martin to the side. They end up on another bench, at another train station, leaning into each other like they're going to fall over. Looking out over the train tracks. Another train arrives and leaves. Neither of them are on it. Martin is glad. He doesn't want to be anywhere else.
"You… came to get me," says Martin, after a long moment. Jon's got Martin's hand in both of his, their fingers a jumbled mess on Jon's knees, and he only seems to hold it tighter at that. Martin clears his throat, a little awkward, leans his head against Jon's. "Did you… Know I was coming?"
"No, I didn't," says Jon, apology thick in his tone. "I didn't want to… I try not to Look for anyone anymore. I told you that. And… my phone is dead. I didn't get your calls. I didn't… I came back to—to get a train for myself. Back to London. To… to ask you to come back with me."
Martin makes a shocked sound, muffled by his free hand. "You… you were coming to London? To get me?" he says, the words squashed under his hand and the disbelief. "You'd taken the train all this way and you were coming back? "
"Yes. Well, I." Jon sounds almost embarrassed, pressing his face into Martin's shoulder. "It seemed like the thing to do. And I… I wanted to see you. I… I've missed you so much, Martin."
Martin laughs, shaky and teary. "I'm not… I'm not making fun. Much. Since we both had the same exact farfetched, ridiculous idea. I just… can't believe you would do that."
"I'm not known for wise decisions, Martin. It just… it occurred to me and I knew I had to do it. I know it's ridiculous." Jon's voice goes suddenly soft around the edges, quiet, as he adds, "And anyways, yours… yours, at least, was romantic. Mine was just poorly thought out."
"Oh, Christ, Jon, don't be telling me yours wasn't," says Martin, his stomach twisting at the word romantic. (Not a bad twisting. Not at all.) "I can't believe you would… you've already done so much for me."
"I'd do it all again," Jon says, earnestly, squeezing Martin's hand again. "Every bit of it. I would." He must learn forward a bit, his head falls against Martin's again. He says, "I-I'm so glad you're here, Martin."
Martin takes an unsteady breath, scrubs at his eyes with his free hand and shuts them again. Tries to stifle a wobbly smile until he can't anymore. "I-I'm here," he says shakily. "I am. And I'm not planning on leaving anytime soon."
Jon must be crying, too; Martin can hear him sniffling. He shifts a little on the bench, sits up and turns towards Martin, keeping ahold of Martin's hand and wiping his own eyes with his other hand. "Th-there's only one bed at the house, Martin," he says quietly. "Just the one. Is… is that all right?"
Martin takes a sharp breath, looking at Jon, whole and alive and in front of him with nothing to tear them apart, at least not anytime soon. He's thinking of white starch sheets and hospital rooms and Jon's cold hands, moaning coffins and the smell of dirt, late nights in the office before the Unknowing and the surprising softness in Jon's eyes when they'd talk sometimes, the stunned hurt in Jon's eyes when Martin had to turn away from him in the halls or close the doors, or say no to running away, escaping with him. He's thinking of early mornings and warm comforters and cool sheets and tea, first thing, of holding Jon's hand under the covers, of going to bed together at night and turning out the light and not having to be alone. Neither of them being alone again.
"Yes," Martin says, and this time, he doesn't bother to hold back the smile. Jon smiles, too, uncertain like he isn't sure how to do it. But it's as real as anything Martin's ever seen. "Yes, that's all right."