Chapter Text
Jon had never broken into someone’s apartment before. In his defense, he had been hoping to just knock. He’d told them to go home after all (and he couldn’t imagine Martin having that much of a social life, honestly). So when his desperate rapping on the door was met with silence, Jon resorted to… Okay. He’d never broken into someone’s apartment before and he had no idea how to go about this. In the movies, they just smashed a window, or picked the lock, neither of which were an option here. Jon did try the handle, on the off chance that maybe Martin would have left it unlocked, but certain incidents had driven Martin to be extra-cautious about his security. Jon’s palms were sweaty, his hands still shaky from adrenaline that falsely promised to carry him away from the blood splattered wooden boards that truthfully promised to never let the stains fully lift. He braced his shoulder against the door and prayed the noise wouldn’t draw attention from nosy neighbors.
“J-Jon?” A voice behind him questioned cautiously. Jon froze. He was painfully aware of how this looked. He stepped away from the door and turned, slowly, raising his hands.
“I know how this looks.”
Martin stood in the middle of the hall, looking from his apartment door to Jon with wide eyes. He clutched a key in his hand, dangling from a keychain of a little white creature labeled a "moomin". His mind raced, and he started, “I, I- I thought you were sick?” Christ, was Jon really a murderer? Had he been coming to kill Martin? And he really thought he would have been able to break the door open? His flat was shitty, but not that shitty.
“I was! I, uh,” Jon searched. “You didn’t answer, and- I thought there... might be trouble.”
Martin subtly positioned the key to stick out between his knuckles, like his mother had shown him long ago. “Well… There’s not?”
“Yes, that’s- that’s good.”
Martin swallowed hard. Jon just stared at him, stared past him down the hall. “Um… So. Why are you… here?” Martin tried to chuckle, but it might have come out more as a whimper. It was uncomfortably hot, but Martin didn’t dare move to take his coat off.
“Oh, yes! I was hoping to, ah, get your help. W-with a case, a, a, a statement!”
Martin’s CV held up better than this.
“My help?”
“Yes. You’re... You’re the only one. Who can help, that is.”
“Right.”
There was a beat, and then Jon quickly stepped away from the door, gesturing for Martin to come forward. “Ah, sorry! There we go.” He looked expectantly at Martin.
Martin did not want to open the door. Opening the door seemed like the worst idea in the world suddenly. He’d been exhausted and nauseous and worried, and all he had wanted to do was sleep. He didn’t think that was an option anymore. Unwilling, he walked forward and unlocked the door. Jon followed him in. It was dark inside, but Martin didn’t turn on the light. The door shut with a finality that filled him with panic. “Jon…I-” Jon found the lightswitch and Martin jumped. He whirled around. “Jon, please don’t kill me.” He winced, mortified that his last words would be so pathetic.
Jon looked alarmed. “Wha- Oh, Christ. No- No, Martin, I didn’t- I’m not going to.” He dragged a hand down his face.
“I- I would be a lot more inclined to believe you, if I hadn't just caught you trying to break into my flat!” Martin accused. “And-and- In your office-”
“I didn’t kill him either!”
“That is exactly what a murderer would say!”
“For God’s sake, Martin!” Jon cringed at their volume but continued, “I don’t even have a weapon! I-I’m not exactly going to strangle you!”
Martin bit the inside of his cheek, still tensing and slowly stepping backward. “Okay… Okay. Then why are you here?”
Jon sighs. “I didn’t lie. I need your help.”
“Why me?”
“Because it was either you, or Tim. And I don’t think that would have worked out.”
“Wait, I’m sorry- W-what am I helping you with?”
“Well, everyone is apparently convinced I’m a murderer, so. I can’t- go home. I, I don’t really have anywhere. I’m know I’m not very popular right now.”
“You want me to hide you?” Martin cried, incredulously.
“Are you saying you won’t?”
Martin closed his mouth. He took Jon in, fully. Jon always looked exhausted, and more so as of late, but… There was something in his eyes. His clothes were disheveled, yes, and he looked like a dying houseplant that hadn’t seen the sun in days (Martin now knew the feeling). But something in his eyes pained Martin. If Martin refused to help him (the sane, logical thing to do), Jon would be lost and alone, and something in those eyes made Martin want- need- to help him. Martin dropped his guard.
“No. N-no, it’s alright. Um. You can stay.”
Jon softened. “Oh. Thank you.”
“Right. Right.” The weight suddenly hit Martin. “Right!” He turned around and walked further into the flat. It wasn’t large. The kitchen and living room were one, separated only by a counter that had been boasted as a full breakfast bar. His bedroom was off to the side, and he was grateful that he’d shut the door. Most of the apartment was unremarkable. A cheap wooden desk pushed against one wall, a sofa with a quilt draped over the back. A few shelves filled with picture frames, books and knick-knacks. He didn’t have much. Martin was painfully aware of this, of Jon taking all of this in, as he deposited his key on the desk and shrugged off his coat. “Um. Are you.. Hungry?”
“As long as it isn’t canned peaches.”
The joke goes over Martin’s head for a second. “Oh- oh. No. Ugh, God, no.” He shakes the thought, inextricably tied to worms and witches, and shudders. “Ah- Actually, can you lock that?” He points to the door as he rounds the counter.
And then they’re waiting, on opposite sides of the kitchen, ready meal packaging neatly collected and disposed of. Martin had tried to sheepishly apologize for having nothing else, but Jon had politely dismissed him, joking that otherwise he probably wouldn’t be eating at all. Martin had laughed weakly.
“So… What happens?”
"Mm?” Jon had just burned the roof of his mouth eating too quickly, and now he was taking care to blow on each bite. Martin was not eating.
“I mean, what do we- Who killed him, then? W-we saw, uh, a, a- we saw something, in the tunnels-”
“You followed me?”
“Tim thought you were being suspicious.”
“Ah.” A wave of guilt washes through him, the thought that he could have gotten them all hurt because he had been so rash. He clears his throat and adds, “Elias”.
“Elias?”
“He- He killed Gertrude. And… Leitner.”
“Wait- Leit- Jurgen Leitner? That- Oh. God.”
“I should- I should explain-”
Martin huffed.
“I- I found… evidence that Sasha- She hasn’t been Sasha for a long time.” Martin remembers the thing they’d seen, the… SortOfSasha. Jon continues, “And, I thought I knew how to- I was wrong. And then Leitner showed up. He’s been- He had been living in the tunnels. He stopped the… NotSasha. And-And he was giving a statement and I left- I shouldn’t have left. I shouldn’t have left.” Jon repeats, bitterly. For a moment, there’s silence. Jon sighs. “As for what’s next- I don’t know. I’m sorry. I- I need time to figure it out. There are- It’s...”
“It’s okay.” Martin stops him. There’s more he could say. This is enough. Martin knew the pressure and uncertainty of the future. 17-year-old Martin had made himself sick with uncertainty. He’d lived in a constant state of anxiety, alone, every day a struggle to keep hold of the things you loved. This, from here on, they could shoulder together.
He becomes aware that Jon is staring at him. That he’s been staring at Jon. He flushes and stands quickly.
“It can wait. I-I’ve, uh, got extra pillows. And such. So.” He shuffled away from the couch, depositing his now-cold food on the kitchen counter before entering the bedroom. He takes a moment to compose himself. Then, he pulls the spare blanket from the closet and grabs a pillow.
Jon is standing awkwardly when Martin returns. He sets the bedding down and Jon starts, awkwardly, “I don’t suppose… you have a change of clothes I can borrow?”
“Oh! Uh, yeah.” He manages a nod and returns to the bedroom. He has only a vague idea of the criteria as he rifles through his closet but decides on a dark plum sweater he’d gotten in a thrift shop but hadn’t worn in a while. It’s slightly oversized, and Jon will look nice in it.
No. No. The man is a murder suspect, Martin. He’s your boss, a wanted fugitive, and he just needs pajamas.
Jon jumps slightly when Martin comes back. He’d wandered from the couch, to clear the dinner mess, and now stood by the desk, examining it’s contents. None of it was inherently private- a beat-up laptop, a cup of fountain pens and a small rainbow-striped flag, a few sheets of handwritten poetry that, well... Jon wasn’t going to criticize. He still felt guilty, however. It was apparent that Martin didn’t have very many visitors, and Jon was aware that this was the only time they had ever met outside of work or related functions. Awkward was a very reserved way of describing it. And he’d been digging through the man’s trash a week ago… He turned back to the couch. Martin was putting down a small bundle of clothing.
“I think these’ll fit. Oh, and it can get a little cold, so. I brought out a second blanket. I think that’s it?” He looked up at Jon.
“It- Yes. Yes, that’ll- That’s fine.”
“Righto. Bathroom’s there. If you need anything, I’ll be in here.” Martin started to leave.
“Martin.”
“Yes?”
“Thank you.”
Martin gave him a small, sort-of wistful smile. “Goodnight, Jon.”
“Goodnight.”
Martin closes the bedroom door and leans heavily against it. He’s exhausted, and falls asleep nearly as soon as he lays down, but for just a few moments he allows himself this thrill.
Martin woke in the middle of the night, as he did most nights. Half asleep, he slipped from the bedroom to the kitchen. He retrieved a glass and turned on the tap from muscle memory.
Something nagged at the back of his mind, and he turned in the dark, trying to think.
Something was on the couch, staring at him, eyes shining unnaturally.
Martin yelped and the glass of water fell, smashing against the ground. He jumped backward to avoid the shards, and scrambled for the kitchen light. It flicked on. Jon stared at him from the living room, wide-eyed. Right. Jon was here now.
“Good Lord.”
Martin caught his breath. “Wh- Why are your eyes glowing?”
“What?”
“Glowing in the dark! Like a- Like a cat!”
Jon blinks. “Are you okay?”
Martin turned the light off. He flicked it on and off a few times, just to be sure. Jon watched this in bewilderment. After a moment, Martin left the light on and, carefully stepping over the glass, marched to the couch and grabbed Jon by the arm. Jon protested, but followed him to the bathroom anyway.
“Martin, are you sure-” Jon started, but Martin positioned him in front of the mirror. “Oh.”
“See!” Martin turned the light on, but Jon reached past him and flipped it off again.
“That… is new.”
“Why-”
“I have no earthly clue.”
“Oh. Okay then.” Martin stares at Jon, who stares at himself. Then he remembers the broken glass and grumbles softly, sliding past Jon. It only takes a few minutes to sweep into a dustpan, but he still mourns the loss. Jon emerges from the bathroom, rubbing his eyes.
He does look nice in that sweater.
“You’re not a ghost, are you?”
Jon gives him a withering glare. “No, I’m not- Ah, ah careful!” He stuck a hand out and Martin froze.
“What, what is it?”
“You missed a piece. Here.” Jon pointed to where Martin had been about to step and crossed the room. He crouched, picking up a piece of glass and dropped it onto the dustpan with a clink . He stepped away, quickly, before Martin had time to appreciate the closeness. Jon glanced around the rest of the floor before he was satisfied that it was actually clear. He nodded, and Martin dumped the pan into the trash.
“Sorry about that.” They both stared solemnly into the bin.
Martin sighed, almost a yawn, and shook his head. “S’okay. Just not used to having anyone sleeping on my couch. Especially not… well.” Jon wasn’t entirely sure if Martin was referring to his eyes or something else.
He straightened up and started to walk back to the couch before turning around. He hesitated before asking, “Do… Do they look different? In the light? My eyes, I mean.”
Martin squinted and stepped closer.
Vulnerability.
That was the look he’d seen in Jon’s eyes before. It was more than exhaustion, more than shock and fear. The walls of paranoia had cracked, his defenses had fallen, and he had nothing. And he had come to Martin. He’d let Martin in. He-
He had very nice eyes.
“No. Nope. Very normal.” He said quickly, and looked away.
“Oh. T-that’s good, then.”
“Yes, I suppose. Er, back to bed then.” He managed.
Jon cleared his throat and nodded, turning away and leaving Martin to retreat to the bedroom.
For some reason, Jon found it very hard to fall back asleep.