Work Text:
Martin’s arm had started to fall asleep, tickling where it touched Jon’s hair, but frankly, it didn’t matter. He shifted slightly against Jon’s shoulders, carefully as not to disturb him. Jon flipped the page and clicked his tongue in disapproval.
“So you expect me to believe - “ He raised a hand, rolling his wrist in thought. “- that not only are the paragraph breaks on purpose, but they’re artistic? Not just a lazy editor?”
Martin resisted the urge to laugh as he tilted his head back against the couch, trying to match Jon’s serious frown. “It’s like a breath, to show emotion.” Jon rolled his eyes, just barely, and Martin took this as a sign to continue. “You know, so the poet can gather their thoughts?” Jon’s eyebrows only knitted closer together and Martin couldn’t resist chuckling at the sight of his face.
“Really, Jon? After all we’ve gone through, this is what makes you truly and deeply spiteful? Paragraph breaks?”
Jon scoffed and looked back at the page. “Breathing. You really just have to read it all in one breath, that’s how I do a statement. Quicker that way, much more efficient than your pesky inhales.” There’s no way - Martin whipped his head around to face Jon.
“You do breathe during a statement...right? The Eye doesn’t, er, breathe for you, does it?” Martin had a sudden horrifying image of an eye pulsing inside Jon’s lungs, keeping his body functioning like the cogs of a ticking clock. “Jesus Christ, is that even possible - ah.” One look at Jon’s smirk was telling enough. “You’re an evil man, did you know that?”
“So I’ve been told.” He shrugged once, ducking his smile into Martin’s shoulder. There was something vulnerable about his smile; something you couldn’t take back, a drop of joy creating ripples. It was strange - not in a bad way, just new. Martin couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen Jon smile before the safehouse - excluding the Lonely, he supposed. That tiny smile on Jon’s lips, just for a second, one of surprise and hope and relief, flooding through his face, as if looking at something holy and staring directly into the light. Martin could barely believe it had been at him.
It wasn’t that he disliked Jon’s smile; quite the opposite, in fact. It was just that the whiplash of seeing it, with Martin as the cause, would take some getting used to.
Silence stretched on comfortably between the two of them, with Jon tucked into his shoulder and Martin’s arm wrapped around him. The rain played a quiet staccato on the roof, dancing lightly on the cottage like fingers drumming softly on a table. He felt his mind start to drift, grounded only by the comforting press of warmth beside him. Martin could’ve stayed like that forever, the gentle rise and fall of Jon’s chest against his own lulling him to sleep.
As his eyes fell closed and the room started to soften and flow away, he felt the barest hint of a kiss pressed to his temple. It was so fleeting that Martin wondered if he was dreaming, keeping his eyes shut.
Did he just - ?
“Sometimes I still can’t believe you loved me.” A whisper, nothing more than a breath between heartbeats. “To imagine that someone as kind and patient as you, had ever felt something for me...it’s unbelievable. It’s impossible.”
Martin didn’t think he could open his eyes if he wanted to. He could feel the tremble of Jon’s throat as he spoke the words, the heat radiating off his cheeks. He...he had to be dreaming.
“Even when you’re not kind and patient, because in the past week I’ve seen that you can honestly be a real pain in the ass. You’re just so rude and stubborn when you set your mind to it. Is it really that hard to remember to take your boots off before coming inside? After walking among cows, for god’s sake. It’s infuriating and annoying and just so...you, I suppose. And somehow, so…” Jon’s voice trailed off before starting again, a whisper against Martin’s neck.
“Endearing. I’ve found...that even when you’re snippish, I just...can’t take my eyes off of you. You’re mesmerizing. I love the way you hold your tea, like it’s something delicate. Or that frown you never seem to believe you wear when you make bread, like it’s the flour’s fault for getting on your jumper. I could be with you forever and never get bored. You surprise me, Martin. And I really do like it.” Jon laughed to himself, but quickly silenced it, and Martin realized that he was trying not to wake him up.
Suddenly, Martin felt more awake than he had in months. He cracked open one eye.
“You surprise me too, Jon.”
“I-!” Jon’s hand shot to his mouth before flinging himself to the other side of the couch. “Good lord, were you-? I, er, was just rambling to myself, it’s really nothing, I -”
Martin took a deep breath, pressing his hand to his forehead. If that whole conversation had just happened, not as a dream or a fantasy, than that must mean -
“Whatever you’re thinking, Martin, let me just stop you right there, it was just, er, notes! Notes...er, notes for some of my own poetry! Those paragraph breaks, you know, rather useful!”
That, combined with the look of sheer effort written on Jon’s face to create a horrible lie, and Martin couldn’t help himself. It was almost incredible. Despite a week of living with each other, neither of them had actually ever clarified anything, stuck in this limbo of hesitant cuddling and gentle smiles. Martin crumpled over, his body racked with bursts of laughter. “I’m sorry, Jon, I just...god, how have we not talked about this yet?”
Jon narrowed his eyes. “Talked about what, exactly?”
“You know what.”
“Enlighten me.”
“Us. You and me.”
Jon cleared his throat, once. Then he did it again.
There was a beat of silence as they stared at each other, Martin with tears in his eyes from the laughter. Suddenly, the realization hit Martin like a ton of bricks: he never told Jon. And here he was, laughing in his face. After Jon confessed.
No wonder Jon had drawn his knees tight to his chest, sitting rigid as if he was strung with wire. And it was because Martin hadn’t yet said -
“Jon. Jon, look at me, please.” Martin gently took his hand and met Jon’s dark brown eyes with his own. Jon stared suspiciously back at him, and stated, devoid of emotion, “If you need to tell me, tell me. I got a little lost in the moment. The poetry discussion must have influenced my psyche or something. I completely understand if you - “
God, Jon, how was it not obvious?
“Jon, I love you.”
“You...you what?”
Martin wished he could replay that moment again and again in his mind: Jon’s eyebrows shooting up in disbelief, his mouth falling into a perfect O. He felt a laugh bubble in his throat as nerves began to creep into his thoughts.
“Jon, I love you so much. I still do. I never stopped loving you, I haven’t stopped, and I don’t think I’ll ever stop, as long as you let me.” Jon shook his head, disbelieving, his eyes never leaving Martin’s, and Martin felt the words spill out of him before he could stop himself. “I want to be with you, here in the safehouse, but I want to be with you wherever you are. I love you, Jon, and I’m never going to stop, really.”
“You’re...you’re being serious.”
“Wha - of course I’m being serious!”
Martin almost couldn’t believe it as Jon lifted his other hand, the one that wasn’t holding Martin’s, and cupped it to the side of Martin’s face. After a flood of words, the silence carried a different type of intensity, an energy of charged stillness that made Martin’s face flush with warmth. They sat only a couple of inches apart, yet Martin felt a sudden need to be closer. But even if he had wanted to draw nearer, Jon’s gaze, steady and unflinching, rooted him to the spot.
“Martin...I…” His thumb brushed over Martin’s cheekbone, as if his face were made from glass. It was such a simple gesture, and yet Martin could barely breathe.
“Yes, Jon?”
Jon let go of Martin’s hand, and, for a second, terror flooded through him. Had he misinterpreted what Jon had been saying? Was it some kind of prank? Was it actually practice for a horribly timed poem? But before he could say another word, Jon’s other hand pressed softly against his other cheek. The warmth was so familiar, and as Jon carefully tilted Martin’s face towards his own, he realized it was the same gentle hold when Jon had brought him back from the Lonely. He remembered the reassurance of Jon’s hands against his face, soft and unprying, holding him as if he was cupping sunlight. The very thought made Martin’s head spin.
Jon cast his eyes downward, breaking their gaze for the first time, and then slowly lifted them back up to Martin’s. There was the faintest brim of tears, sparkling in the light of the lamp, before Jon blinked them away.
“I...I love you, too.”
Martin realized he’d been holding his breath. “Really?”
“Really.” Jon brushed a finger underneath Martin’s eye. Was he crying? He wasn’t sure, but as Jon looked at him like that again, warmth radiating from his smile and eyes, looking at him with a fondness he’d seen before but just thought of as a polite gaze. Had it - had it always been this charged with warmth? He felt a tear slip down his cheek, and Jon wiped it away again.
“I love you so much, Martin, and the idea that you love me back - it’s astounding.” Jon shook his head again, and Martin realized that this moment - the moment he’d been dreaming of ever since he’d seen Jon in that cramped office, a sneer on his lips as he questioned Martin about the dog, six inches shorter yet glaring up at him with a vengeance that only seemed to make him cuter - well, Martin realized that this was the moment he’d been dreaming of for years.
Martin turned his head slightly, and pressed his lips to the palm of Jon’s left hand, the one without the scar. Jon took a sharp intake of breath, and Martin looked back at him. “Is...is this ok?”
He nodded, and closed his eyes. “You can, er...the other one is fine too. I don’t mind. It’s actually...quite nice.”
Martin nodded, feeling a warmth bloom through his chest for the man in front of him. He turned his head the other way, and softly kissed Jon’s other palm, the one with the burn running jagged across it. It was just a simple press of his lips, an effort to express all the thoughts racing through his brain without the words to do so. They stayed like that for a minute or two before Jon lifted the opposite hand off of Martin’s face, and swiped a finger under his own eye.
“Everything ok?” Martin’s gaze met Jon’s again, and saw a tear spill over, slowly, as it had all the time in the world. “I know it’s….it’s a lot to absorb.” Jon laughed, the sound watery through his tears.
“Honestly, Martin,” he paused before continuing, his voice just loud enough for Martin to hear. “It’s just been a long time since someone touched me like that.” Jon exhaled and smiled gently, and Martin knew he wanted to remember that smile forever.
“You deserve it, Jon, you really do.” Martin couldn’t help it. He wanted Jon to know that he was worthy of so much love, of all the love the world had to offer. He was worthy of soft kisses and gentle hugs, of meandering conversations where you drifted off to sleep by the end of it, of warm meals cooked together and cozy hand knitted scarves. “I could kiss you all day if you let me.”
Realization dawned on Martin as he took in Jon’s suddenly darkening cheeks and the way he was suddenly very interested in the strings of his sweatshirt.
Martin buried his head in his hands as Jon began to chuckle softly at first, then crack up, his laughter filling the whole room with sound. His cheeks burned as he realized how he, Martin K Blackwood, had started to spout sappy poetry on instinct. “God, I can’t believe I just said that aloud, don’t look at me, I know you’re enjoying this, but that has got to be the most embarrassing thing that’s ever left my mouth -”
“Martin.” Jon’s chuckled once more, and Martin could hear the smirk in his voice as he spoke. “It’s fine, really. I’m flattered. And I, er, wouldn’t be opposed.”
Martin looked up from his hands, as Jon’s eyes darted to his lips, and then back to his eyes. Oh.
A heat blossomed in Martin’s chest as he slowly raised his hand and pressed it to Jon’s cheek, mirroring his own action from before. He gently pulled Jon’s head forward, fingers trailing into his long hair lying loose at his shoulders, so that his ear was next to Martin’s lips as he whispered his next words.
“Can I kiss you?”
Martin heard the faintest exhale from Jon, who inclined his head ever so slightly to the side. Their noses were a hairsbreadth apart.
“Yes.”
Martin closed his eyes, and leaned forward, meeting Jon halfway. It was simple; chaste; quiet. Just a press of their lips, only a couple of seconds, but somehow it lasted an entirety. The gentle sweeping motion of Jon’s fingers carding through his hair, sifting through the curls on his neck, the rapid hummingbird beat of his heart against Martin’s own. Any other doubts or fears fell out of his mind as Jon hummed softly against his mouth, the kiss like golden sunlight dappled across the walls, a hug at the end of a long day, fingers curled around a steaming cup of tea. It was heaven, for just a moment; and then it was over.
“So.” Jon cleared his throat, and Martin realized with a start that his own eyes were still closed, his mind still lost in the kiss. The only other sound in the room besides Jon’s voice was the steady rhythm of the rain against the roof, a blanket of white noise over the two of them. “That was…”
“Don’t you dare try to objectively judge my kissing skills, I know I’m rusty.”
“You’re rusty?” Jon brought his hand up to his mouth, stifling a laugh. Martin struggled to keep the pout on his face, his lower lip jutting out slightly, but it was difficult to keep up the joke with Jon practically glowing in front of him. “Jesus, Martin, we’ve both been a bit out of the dating game. You’re...you’re good. Quite a bit more than good, I’d say.”
He wasn’t quite sure what he’d been expecting, but that wasn’t it. It had been more than a while; Martin hadn’t dated since starting his job at the archives, and after that...well, his thoughts had been preoccupied with a certain individual, and then a murderous worm queen, and then killer clowns, and then the literal embodiment of solitude...the list went on. Even before the archive, romance had never been a top priority, when his various jobs and his mother had taken up most of his energy. Regardless, it was always reassuring to hear that the kiss, which had left Martin breathless, had left Jon feeling the same way. In an effort to cover up his surprise, Martin reached over and tucked a strand of hair behind Jon’s ear, before pressing another kiss to his forehead, then his cheek, and then the tip of his nose, reveling in the sound of Jon’s small sigh as he quickly tried to cover it up with a righteous sniff.
“I see. This is your revenge for the paragraph break disagreement, isn’t it? You’re trying to seduce me into silence.”
Martin grinned, pressing another kiss to his cheekbone, then his eyebrow. There was so much of Jon, from his raised eyebrows to the smile playing on his lips, that Martin wanted to kiss, with the desire to remind him that every part of him was beautiful.
“If I wanted to do that -” Martin kissed his jaw, loving the way Jon melted against him.
“ - I’d probably kiss your mouth -” His temple.
“And not your face, hm?” With that, Martin leaned back, smiling widely at the sight of Jon, blushing furiously and desperately trying not to show it. Jon huffed, before suddenly draping his arms over Martin’s shoulders, and gently pulling him closer, lacing his slender fingers behind Martin’s neck. Martin could’ve swore he heard his own heartbeat in his chest, Jon’s eyes darting up to meet his own. In response, Martin leaned forward ever so slightly, almost conspiratorially, and did his best to imitate Jon’s trademark smirk. “Did it work?”
Before Martin could say another word, Jon had closed the distance between the two of them and was kissing him soundly, fingers tangling in his hair. Time melted away, and Martin let his thoughts settle until it was only Jon, his warmth and his snark, his hidden smiles and his exasperated sighs, dancing through his mind. He felt one of Jon’s hands tilt up his chin, and Martin realized that, by sitting on the couch, the two were the same height and Jon was gladly using that to his advantage. The thought made him a little giddy.
Martin pressed a hand to Jon’s back, deepening the kiss, pulling him closer, until -
“Shit!”
A thousand thoughts stampeded through his brain, sudden panic flooding his senses. Did he do something wrong? “God, I’m so sorry, Jon! Did I -”
Jon waved a hand dismissively at him. “No, no, no, you silly man, you’re perfectly fine, more than fine. Our clothes!”
Martin’s mind came to a sudden grinding halt, and he frowned. What was he talking about? “What about...our clothes?”
“On the clothesline! They must be sopping wet by now! It’s been pouring rain and we didn’t even think to check!” Jon flung his hands up in exasperation, standing up from the couch and stretching in the golden light of the lamp next to them. “We’d better go bring them in. I have a couple of jumpers out there that I’ve been dying to wear and I simply refuse to smell like a wet sheep.”
Martin tried to suppress a laugh and failed. “Well then, let’s go already!” Jon grinned, grabbing the umbrella by the door and offering Martin his hand as the two walked out of the cottage and into the rain.
“Hm,” Jon said, the ground squelching at their feet. Martin suddenly remembered with a grin that he’d better take his shoes off before going back in.
“Everything alright?”
“I suppose I just ruined a rather romantic moment, didn’t I?”
Martin started to unclip the clothing from the line, wringing it out before meeting Jon’s eyes. “Number one, Jon, you didn’t ‘ruin’ it at all. That was perfectly reasonable, because god forbid that both of us smelled like wet sheep in one tiny cottage? Yikes.” Jon had begun to chuckle as Martin spoke, and the sound of it made his chest warm. He went on, unhooking clothes as he went.
“And, most importantly, number two - “ With this, Martin took Jon’s hand in his, pressing a quick kiss to the back of it. “Don’t worry about romantic moments or whatever. Just...just being with you, here, is enough. You are that moment, I suppose.”
Jon’s eyes widened before he smiled broadly. “What a poet.”
“You love it.”
“Fine, fine, I admit it, you’re right.” Jon stepped forward, raindrops like diamonds glittering in his lashes before grinning up softly at him. “I guess I shouldn’t worry about just one moment. We have time to get used to this. Used to us.” He gestured to Martin, and then to the cottage, rivulets of rainwater streaming off the red brick. “Used to all this. That’s the one thing we’ve never had, isn’t it? Just...time.”
The thought was so simple, and yet it somehow made Martin’s heart ache, with a fragile joy he’d been terrified to acknowledge. They had been running and fighting for so long, every single day leading up that pivotal moment in the Lonely. Then, they’d been separate, isolated, glimpsing scattered fragments of the other in desperate snatches. Both had worn the armor of a carefully built facade, desperate to protect it lest anyone see them clearly, until there’d been no reason to keep the shield up. Now, somehow, against all the odds, they were together.
That was all Martin needed. Just the echo of promised time, and the one he loved to share it with. Martin pulled him in for a quick hug, trying to express everything in his mind, before Jon protested with a grunt about the wet clothes in between them. Martin apologized once, then began to grin as he threw a sopping wet sweater at him, and then apologized again at Jon’s withering glare that melted into an exasperated, fond smile.
The two walked back into the cottage, and Martin realized that for the first time in his life, with Jon’s hand in his own, he felt truly safe. And that could be enough.