Work Text:
Jonathan Sims was getting old. His skin was developing wrinkles, and the amount of grey hair on his head was beginning to outnumber the black. His joints ached and swelled in the cold, wet Scotland weather. Jonathan Sims was getting old, and he loved every second of it. He’d cried the first time he’d looked in the mirror and seen wrinkles, seen hair with more grey than black. He’d cried, not out of sadness, not out of despair, but out of relief. See, Jonathan Sims was overjoyed at the fact that he was showing his age, because he’d often thought he’d be dead before he reached this point.
Martin Blackwood was growing old. The white streak in his ginger hair, a reminder of his brush with the Lonely, was growing wider and wider, seemingly by the day. His face was wrinkled, his beard streaked with white. He still loved baking, loved being in the kitchen, but it tired him out more than it used to. He needed Jon’s help more often, and they’d tag team on kneading bread. He wasn’t complaining, necessarily. He liked having Jon with him in the kitchen.
Jon and Martin still went on walks every day, but they were slower, with both men leaning on walking sticks for support. They stopped more frequently to rest, to have a drink of water, to just enjoy the scenery.
The Captain, their beloved cat, had passed years ago, but not before blessing Jon and Martin with kittens. Her grandkittens now roamed the house, acting as if they were the lords and ladies of Jon and Martin’s small cottage. They sat on Jon’s laptop as he tried to write, gnawed on the corners of Martin’s book as he tried to read, stuck their faces in Jon’s paint water and ran off with his erasers as he tried to paint or draw. More than once, Jon and Martin had wondered aloud if maybe they shouldn’t find new homes for the kittens, but nothing really ever came of it.
Their friends still came to visit. Daisy and Basira, Melanie and Georgie, Tim and Sasha, Jon’s old bandmates, all showing their age as much as Jon and Martin were. Still, they all had a lovely time, eating and drinking, talking and laughing long into the night. All of them seemed happy, and none of them seemed keen to talk about their time at the Magnus Institute or their time going through the apocalypse. It was better not to dwell on that.
Jon and Martin sat on a hillside, watching the sun set over the backdrop of the Scottish highlands. They held each other’s hand, their bodies pressed gently together as they watched the sky glow with a myriad of bright, vibrant hues. It was peaceful. They were together, and everything was alright.
“We’ve lived a long time,” Martin observed.
“We have,” Jon agreed.
“We’ve seen a lot of things,” Martin said. “We’ve done a lot of things.”
“We have,” Jon repeated.
“Do you regret any of it?” Martin asked.
“I regret a lot of it,” Jon replied. “But Martin, you’re not one of those regrets. I don’t regret loving you. I never could regret loving you. You— you’ve kept me going all these years.” Martin smiled softly.
“I feel the same way,” He said.
“You’re my reason, Martin,” Jon said. “You’re the reason I wake up ready to face whatever the day brings. You’re the reason I’m so happy with my life. You’re the reason I’m still here.” He leaned up and kissed his husband softly, gently, tenderly. “I love you more than words can convey,” he said, his voice barely a whisper. “Thank you for everything.”
“You’re welcome,” Martin said. “It was my pleasure.”