Chapter Text
Martin wakes with a jolt to the sound of the front door opening.
His eyes fly open and he lays deathly still. Gaze darting around the suddenly unfamiliar room.
The door- it was locked. Prentiss- does she know how to pick locks, can worms pick locks?
This isn't his livingroom.
He’s laying down, he can make out a coffee table, covered in various items that are too blurred without his glasses to see in the dim light from the TV screen. Darkened by the popup asking if he’s still watching.
He takes a deep breath.
He has power, the lights are not out, he is not in his flat. That was not Jane Prentiss. He’s on a couch- Jon’s couch. He remembers now. He’s on Jon’s couch. He’s in Jon’s flat, on Jon’s couch, and Jon’s…
There is the soft sound of a closet door opening, then closing, and the quiet shuffle of socked feet across the floor.
He relaxes.
Jon is awful about late nights. He keeps telling Martin he goes in early in an effort to leave on time, and perhaps that might be true. But the man has the time-telling capabilities of a cardboard watch. And once he does come home Martin swears he spends more time puttering around the flat than actually sleeping. So the sound of Jon shuffling around at all hours has become something of the norm. It’s actually rather comforting, Martin’s decided. To have someone so close by. It makes the fear of the whole situation feel just a little bit further away.
Martin closes his eyes, letting himself sink back into the comforter. Jon's couch is much nicer than his, quite livable really. That combined with the soft sounds of Jons nightly wanderings, he finds himself drifting.
He sighs.
The shuffling pauses, and he hears Jon's voice. Soft and muddled, he can’t make out the words. The corner of Martins mouth twitches up slightly at the sound.
Jon talks to himself sometimes, another one of his odd little habits that Martin can’t help but find a little endearing. Against his better judgement.
The shuffling starts again, and Martin allows himself to be lulled by the sound. He wonders vaguely what time it is, how many hours of sleep Jon is going to stumble into tonight.
He hears Jon's voice again, still too quiet to decipher. But definitely closer as something brushes the side of his head.
“Mmh?” Martin humms. Blinking his eyes open and turning towards the voice. He can make out Jon's shape, lit gently by the greyish TV light. He’s leaning over the back of the couch around Martins head, his hand suspended in the air between them, somewhere above Martins head. His face is the picture of shock to a degree Martin might find funny if he was more awake. Martin blinks fuzzily at him. “Wh’’d you say?” he slurs eloquently. Far to sleep-muddled to care.
Jon gapes at him for a moment, flexing his fingers absently. Before pulling his hand back and schooling his expression into something more neutral.
“I said ah-” he huffs “At least one of us is getting some sleep.” The corners of his lips tick up into a wry smile. “Clearly that wasn’t entirely accurate.”
“Prob’ly. ‘S fine though.” Martin nods, throwing him a sleepy smile. “Woke up when you came in, I think.
Jon’s face falls.
“Oh, My apologies Martin I didn’t-”
Martin waves a hand lazily, stopping him in his tracks.
“Shush, ‘s fine.” He says as he rolls back towards the TV. “It’s nice to hear you come home.” He adds. Because it’s true. Martin does like hearing Jon come back, to hear him wandering around humming to himself when he doesn’t think Martin’s listening. To make all the little sounds that have so quickly become white noise. It’s easier to fall asleep when Jon is home.
“Oh,” Jon says, so softly Martin almost can’t hear. “I see.”
There’s a long silence, and Martin almost forgets that Jon is there until he hears a small sigh. And he begins to shuffle away.
“G’night Jon.” Martin says, almost as an afterthought as he begins to drift off properly into sleep.
“Goodnight, Martin.” Jon replies after a long moment.
He’s answered by a soft snore.