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Get out of London . Those were Basira’s last words, not last words, Jon reminded himself. Those were her last words to them until it’s safe enough to make contact again, she’ll be safe and we’ll be okay. Jon tells himself, in a vain attempt to tamp down the growing panic rising into his throat like bile. This was, what, the third time he’d run from the institute as a possible murder suspect? If Jon hadn’t just nearly died he might have laughed at the absurdity of the turn his life had taken. How had a research job at an academic institute turned into him fleeing for his life on a regular basis? The more he thought of it, the panic swelling in his chest bubbled into a mania that tickled his throat until he barked out a strangled sort of laugh, if you could call it that, in reality it was more of a high pitched wheeze. Before he could spiral further into his own mind he felt a hand on his shoulder, warm and grounding. Martin.
Beside him Martin was looking at him with concern in his eyes, a look of such unapologetic kindness that Jon didn't think he'd had directed at him since, well, since he woke up from his coma and Martin was gone. He removed his hand from Jon’s shoulder, the touch fleeting, and Jon found that the brisk night air was already chilling the spot where Martin’s warmth had been. His hand still hovered in the space between them, hesitant, as if he wasn’t sure whether to pull back into himself or reach back out. Noticing this, Jon didn’t wait for him to make that decision, he grabbed Martin’s hand with both of his own, desperate for his comforting warmth. Martin gripped his hands back, a little too tightly, but Jon didn’t say anything, only tightened his hands back in three short squeezes. He hoped that Martin knew what that meant.
They're still standing outside the cafe where they met Basira, a few blocks out from the institute, unsure of what their next moves need to be. Jon has a bag slung over his shoulder with a few tight rolls of cash, a key, and instructions on how to get to Daisy’s safehouse hastily scribbled on a napkin stuffed inside of it. He didn’t ask Basira where she got the money, but he didn’t need to See anything to guess as to why she and Daisy keep a stash of liquid funds at hand and a key to a house in Inverness in case things got unsavory with the police, and, well, unsavory is putting it lightly at the moment. It’s well past half ten at this point, and while foot traffic at this time of night is lighter, London is London, and people push past them where they stand on the sidewalk. Jon takes this moment to take in his surroundings, the damp chill of the night, Martin’s hand in his, the still cloudy distance present in Martin’s eyes despite the fragile hope trying to peek through. And, oh, Martin. Wasn’t he the reason, the reason Jon walked into the clutches of the Forsaken, the reason he used his powers to kill, the reason he was able to make it back out, back home. Because that’s what he had told Martin, wasn’t it? ‘Let’s go home.’
Jon shoves aside the list of worries rattling in his mind, he’ll have time to deal with the consequences of what happened today another time, for now he needs to protect Martin, he’s all that matters right now.
“Right,” he says. “All my things were in the archives, I can’t exactly pack, as it were. The essentials can be bought on the way, I think. But what about you?”
“Oh, r-right. Um, my flat’s not too far from here, um, just down the Victoria line.”
Jon takes in the way Martin stammers out his short response, and a wave of fierce protectiveness washes over him.
“Perfect, then let’s go, shall we?”
He gives Martin’s hand another squeeze with both of his for good measure, before letting one drop to his side and interlacing their fingers with the other. He turns and begins to lead the way towards the underground, with Martin quickly falling into step close beside him.
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Martin’s flat was close. Inside it was small, about as large as you’d expect an assistant’s salary could get for a single occupancy flat in central London, the size isn’t what concerned Jon. What bothered him was how un-lived in the apartment seemed to be. The only signs that someone actually lived here were a few dirty mugs left in the sink and a single pair of slippers by the door, which Martin didn’t bother to put on when he shuffled into the apartment after unlocking the door and letting them both in.
“Make yourself at home,” Martin called over his shoulder as he walked towards what was, presumably, his bedroom. “I’ll only be a minute.”
Jon nodded at him and flashed what he hoped was an encouraging smile, “I'll be waiting here,” he said in return.
He listened to the rapid open and close of dresser drawers and the ruffling of fabric through the crack in the bedroom door that Martin left open. As he waited he took in the fine layer of dust that coated all the surfaces, the way there were no blankets strewn about the living room in spite of the dropping temperatures outside, the way all the blinds were drawn over the windows. A pang of guilt shot through Jon, maybe if he’d woken up sooner Martin wouldn't have needed to turn to Peter Lukas, maybe he wouldn’t be so Lonely. But, no, this wasn’t the time. He was protecting Martin and getting them out of London, there will be time to wallow in ‘what if’s and guilt after their lives stop being on the line.
In what felt like less than five minutes to Jon’s distracted mind, but must have actually been closer to twenty, Martin re-emerged from his bedroom with a duffle bag slung over his shoulder. Jon caught his eye and gave an assuring nod, and when Martin smiled back it seemed to be less shaky than it was before.
“Right then, how do you suppose we get to Inverness at 11 at night on a weekday? I don't have a car, I don’t even have a license, actually. Growing up in London and all, never needed one, you know?” Martin ended his rambling in a low and self-conscious tone, which sent another small pang of guilt through Jon, but he’s glad that Martin seems to be slowly coming back to his chatty tendencies.
“There’s a sleeper train that leaves from Euston in thirty minutes, we can catch it if we’re quick.” Jon was peripherally aware that train schedules to the Scottish highlands wasn’t information that he should have known without looking up, but he supposed that Knowing things wasn’t an issue if it wasn't invading anyone’s privacy, no harm in letting his cursed power be actually useful every once in a while.
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They made it to the station just barely in time to catch the train before its departure, and after exchanging apologetic looks with the station workers that they held up with their late arrival, they found their way to an empty compartment at the back of the train car. Jon stepped aside to let Marin in first, who, after tucking his bag in the chair across from him, took the window seat. Jon put his own bag away, and after only a moment of hesitation, took the seat directly next to Martin. The conductor gave his last call, and as the train began to pull out of the station Jon let out a sigh of relief and felt tension drain from his shoulders that he didn’t realize he was holding, and by the way he could feel the brush of Martin’s shoulders and hear the low rush of air he let out, he assumed that Martin was feeling the same way.
Jon leaned back against the headrest and angled his head so he could look out the window, but instead he studied Martin in his periphery. He looked tired, worn down in a way that was beyond physical exhaustion, though he looked that too. His bone-weariness shown through his eyes, in the way that he still had wisps of that clouded over distance lingering from the Lonely in his gaze. Or how when he blinked it looked as though it was only through sheer force of will that he was able to open his eyes back up again. Jon’s attention strayed to the gentle slope of his nose, the way it came to a soft point at the end, in contrast to his own long and sharp one. He turned his eyes to the freckles dusting Martin’s cheeks, like small galaxies pattering the delicate round shape of his cheekbones and the bridge of his nose. It wasn’t until Martin quietly cleared his throat that Jon realized he was staring, he wasn’t even pretending to look out the window anymore, how long had he been openly gawking at Martin?
Martin’s eyes were flitting around their small compartment, out the window, at their luggage, over Jon’s shoulder, anywhere but directly at Jon. A blush was creeping up his neck and he was fiddling with the hem of his sweater, looking like he was seconds from melting into the back of his chair when Jon realized that he should probably say something.
“It’s a long way to Inverness, about nine hours if I’m not mistaken. You should get some rest- we , should. Been a long day, for the both of us, yeah?”
At that, Martin seemed to calm, his eyes finally meeting Jon’s.
“Yeah, it really has been… been a long couple of months, if I’m being honest,” he said with a resigned air and a fragile look in his eyes.
A desperate need to comfort Martin overcame Jon, and without a second thought, he reached out his hand, placing it gently over the hand that was now resting on Martin’s knee. He felt Martin’s hand tense, but it was only for a second, before he relaxed again and turned his hand around, palm up. Jon laced their fingers together, Martin’s hand was large, almost fully encompassing Jon's own, with calluses that Jon knew were collected from all the odd jobs Martin had taken up through his youth before eventually landing at the institute. His hand felt safe, warm, rough but still somehow soft at the same time. Jon began to wonder what his hand felt like, with its wrinkled burn scar spreading across his entire palm, and small worm scars marring the back of his hand and up his wrist. Did it feel gross? Was Martin unnerved by the feel of his leathery ruined hand against Martin’s own perfectly soft skin? His worries, however, quickly dissipated when Martin gave his hand a tight squeeze, holding for a few seconds before releasing the pressure. Jon felt something flip in his stomach, he squeezed back and gave Martin a smile that he hoped could convey the butterflies in his stomach and the warmth spreading through his chest.
Breaking eye contact for the first time in their whole exchange, Jon leaned back in his seat and readjusted his position so he was closer to Martin. Looking back over, he said, “let's try to get some sleep then, we’re safe here.”
Martin shifted in his seat too, so he was laying back more comfortably and leaning into Jon’s side. “Promise you won't leave?” He whispered.
“Of course, Martin. I’m right here, I won’t leave your side.”
At that Martin rested his head on Jon’s shoulder, a position that Jon was sure couldn't be comfortable given his general bony-ness and the sharp angles of his joints, but it must have been comfortable enough for Martin, as in no time his breathing evened out and he fell asleep. Jon, allowed himself a few more minutes of unabashedly staring at Martin, pillowed his head on Martin’s curls and closed his own eyes.
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“It’s-”
“It’s… It’s quite cute, isn’t it?” Martin said. After following Basira’s instructions and making their way to the safehouse nestled between the hills on the far outskirts of a small fishing village outside of Inverness, the two of them shuffled through the door and took in their new surroundings.
“It rather is. Not quite what I expected of a safehouse… or of Daisy.”
“It kind of looks like something my Gran would own” Martin said, eyeing the old couch, a faded pink with a floral pattern stitched into the upholstery and a crocheted afgan draped over the back.
“Mine too, actually,” Jon replied, remembering the absolutely ancient furniture that decorated the interior of his childhood home.
The safehouse was more of a small cottage, the kind a family might own to go on holiday. Though a family’s holiday home usually doesn’t have illegal firearms stored in a secret cupboard hidden behind the bookshelf. Oh, well that was information Jon didn’t mean to know, but could be helpful in the future, he tucks it away in the back of his mind for later. It was small, comprising only of a living room, kitchen, and a staircase leading up to a single bedroom. Oh, of course there’d only be one bedroom, this is Daisy’s place, only she and Basira come here, why would they need a second bedroom? He files that information away to deal with later too.
Moving further into the room, he noted the old wallpaper, a wooden bookshelf in the corner, and lace curtains, Martin shuffled over to the window to draw them open. There was a layer of dust coating the bookshelf, but Jon turned his attention to the books that were lining the shelf. There were several history books, the kind that Basira would like to read while in the archives, spanning across time period and subject. Scattered throughout were a fair number of poetry anthologies, something that something that surprised Jon, he hadn’t thought of either Daisy or Basira as the type, but judging by the state of the bindings they were well-loved reads. They’re nothing that interest Jon, the likes of Byron, Keats and other romantic poets, all of which he finds to be nauseatingly fluffy, but he knows they’re exactly the kind of poetry Martin loves. He was about to let Martin know about his findings when he spotted, on the bottom shelf, a collection of cheap, trashy romance novels. A shocked chuckle finds its way bubbling out of his lips.
From where he’d made his way across the room to the kitchen to check what kind of supplies Daisy had on hand, Martin called, “what is it?”
“ Romancing the Duke, A Rogue by Any Other Name, The Governess Affair… Hah! who knew Daisy was into steamy romance stories.” Jon called back.
“ What?!?” Martin whipped around, slamming the cupboard he was inspecting closed.
“You think I’m making it up? Come see for yourself!” Jon answered back. With quick strides Martin joined him in front of the bookshelf.
“Oh man,” he laughed out, “you think she’ll kill us if we give her shit for this?”
“Oh most definitely, if Basira can find her…” Jon trailed off into a tense silence. He hadn’t meant to bring up the fact that Daisy was currently missing and dampen the good mood they had. “Um… any food in the pantry?” Jon tried, hoping to lift the sour atmosphere he’d brought down on them.
“Oh, uh, not much!” Martin caught the hint and lifted his voice back to a peppy tone, “some non-perishables, and some canned soup we can heat for lunch, but we’ll definitely need to go into town for some shopping before dinner.” As he was talking, Martin turned back towards the kitchen, and Jon followed him as he continued, “ Oh but Daisy does have a kettle, I can make us some tea, you know, to help settle in. Though no milk, I’m afraid, and actually these tea bags are probably rather old now that I think of if. But there’s sugar! I just thought it might be nice to have a cup of something warm, it’s quite cold in here- oh I turned the radiator on by the way.”
“That sounds lovely, Martin” Jon cut in before Martin could keep rambling. He was vaguely away of the doe eyed expression he was looking at Martin with, he couldn't help but be endlessly endeared by his chattering, but any sort of embarrassment that he could have felt for staring with such open adoration was made up for by the blush rising on Martin’s cheeks his staring earned him.
“Well then I’ll make us a cup,” Martin said, and turned to the tap to fill up the kettle.
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They spent the day dusting, airing out the sheets, and making the hike into the village proper to do the shopping- taking several stops on the way back to admire the “good cows” along the way. They stopped to take a few breaks to enjoy the view, definitely not because Jon was getting rather winded carrying the groceries back to the cottage (they bought a lot of food and the bags were quite heavy, he’s fine it’s just that the walk back is mostly uphill, and no you don’t have to take one of his bags from him, Martin). Martin cooked them both dinner when they got back. As it turned out Martin was a great cook, and much to Martin’s amusement, and Jon’s indignation, Jon was something of an atrocious cook. Though Martin let him help chop the vegetables along with the promise that, “yes, Jon, you can do most of the cleanup.”
He was just about done rinsing the suds off the last pot when beside him he heard Martin yawn, and out of his periphery he saw him lift his hand that wasn't holding the drying towel up to cover his mouth. It was still early in the evening, only about half seven, but considering all that they’d both been through, running for their lives and all, and the fact that the only rest they got the previous night was sitting up on sleeper train, Jon figured calling it a night early was well-deserved.
“Shall we turn in, then?” he asked after passing the clean pot off and wiping his hands dry.
“God what are we, old men?” Marin quipped, then he stifled another yawn.
Jon chuckled at that, “hah-” he breathed out a laugh, “maybe so, but it couldn’t hurt.”
“I won't tell anyone we went to bed before eight if you don’t.”
“My lips are sealed. Though, I think your cool guy reputation was shattered when you started recording poetry on tape in the break room, Martin.” Jon gave what he knew was a shit eating grin, but he couldn’t help teasing.
“Hey! I told you, they have a nice lo-fi sound!” Martin said with a pout.
Jon couldn’t help but notice how the dim light of dusk bathed Martin in a soft glow, his embarrassed flush was cute, his brow was furrowed annoyance that Jon knew was mostly for show, seeing how the corners of his lips, which he was desperately trying to keep in a pout, kept twitching up into a smile. His lips looked soft, and standing shoulder to shoulder in the kitchen like this, Jon thought about how easy it would be to close the small distance between them, and feel just how soft his lips actually were.
But he doesn’t.
Instead he chuckles and bumps Martin with his hip before turning and saying, “c’mon, let’s get ready for bed.”
Jon doesn’t actually have pyjamas with him, they bought him some essentials while they were in town, but neglected to do any clothes shopping while they were there, deciding that it was best not to weigh themselves down when they had such a long walk back. Martin had lent him an old T-shirt, saying it was the smallest he brought with him, but looking at himself in the mirror of the small bathroom upstairs Jon saw how Martin’s shirt hung loose around his neck, exposing much of his collarbone, the short sleeves fell about elbow length, and the bottom of the shirt landed so low around his hips that only about an inch of the bottom of his boxers were visible underneath. He looked at the worm scars cascading across his clavicle and scattered up his neck and cheek, the thin silver scar across his neck left over from Daisy’s knife, the streaks of grey shot through his overgrown hair, which was tied back at the nape of his neck in a loose bun. He looked- he looked tired. And old, older than he actually was, the dark circles under his eyes and the sharpness of his cheekbones were not helping him maintain a youthful glow. He frowned at his reflection for another moment before huffing out a breath and leaving the bathroom. Back in the bedroom, Martin was perched on the edge of the bed, clad in flannel pyjama bottoms and a rumpled T-shirt, which he was nervously fiddling with hem of.
“So I can take the couch-”
“You can have the bed-” They started in unison.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Martin, I’m not going to take the bed from you.”
“Well I’m not going to take it from You, Jon!” Martin said this with a flail of his hands.
There was a moment of silence then. Jon looked about the room and shuffled his feet a bit, before turning his gaze back to Martin, who looked as though he was having the same train of thought.
“We could- if you don't mind- we could, share? Share the bed, that is?” Jon didn’t mean for it to come out so much as a question, but in his nervousness the inflection ended in a pitch much higher than he intended. “That is, of course, if you’re comfortable with that. I wouldn’t want to over step or-
“No! No, you're not- um, you wouldn’t be overstepping at all. I would, actually, like that a lot.”
Jon felt his heart flutter in his chest, and he gave a shy smile, which Martin returned. “Oh good, me too. I would like that too. I’ll get the light.”
After shutting off the light and feeling his way through the dark to the bed, Jon crawled into the space left open for him, Martin holding the comforter up so he could crawl under it. He laid down next to Martin, leaving enough space between them that they weren’t touching, but if he reached out his hand he could grab Martin's.
“Oh! My glasses.” Jon reached up to take off his glasses, but when he turned to put them on the side table he realized there wasn’t one.
“Oh here Jon, there’s a table on my side, I'll put yours with mine.”
“Ah, thank you, Martin.” He reached to hand them off to Martin, when Martin reached back their fingers brushed, before he pulled away and turned around to set the glasses down next to his own pair. The touch was fleeting, but it made Jon’s breath catch nonetheless. Which was ridiculous, really, they’ve held hands, multiple times actually. Hell, they're sharing a bed! And yet Jon could feel his face heating.
Martin settled back into his pillow and a silence fell between them, not a tense one, but still heavy, as if charged with energy.
“Jon…?”
“Yes?”
“Do you mind if-” after a pause, Jon heard Martin's arm slide though the sheets, and felt his pinky finger stretched out to timidly brush his. Jon smiled, Martin was so gentle it hurt. He moved his hand under martins and wove their fingers together before turning onto his side to face him.
Between them he brought their clasped hands up and whispered, “I don't mind,” he swept his thumb back and forth across the back of Martin’s hand, “I don't mind at all.”
In the dark he could just make out Martin’s smile, as he brushed his thumb over Jon's knuckles in return. Martin turned onto his side to face him as well, and under the covers their legs intertwined.
“‘Night, Jon.” Martin whispered.
“Goodnight, Martin.” He whispered back.