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Jon doesn’t know how he realizes that Martin’s passing by his office. One moment, he’s holding the latest Fairchild statement in his hands and trying to pretend like it’s done anything to soothe the itching static that’s begun to build in the back of his mind, and the next he’s standing quickly and flinging the door to his office open because Martin is outside, holding a stack of folders, and he’s wearing a lovely blue tie that you’ve never seen before.
“Martin,” Jon says, a bit breathlessly.
Martin startles at the sound of Jon’s voice, nearly dropping his files. “Jesus,” he says, clutching the folders to his chest as he turns and affixes Jon with what is probably supposed to be a glare but is too weary around the edges to be one. “What do you…?” He shakes his head, looks away from Jon, and says, “How did you know I was here?”
“I… I don’t know.” A bit of the anxious energy bleeds out of Jon, and he hugs his arms to his chest. “I… I just did.”
“Right,” Martin says. He doesn’t sound angry. He doesn’t sound anything.
Quietly, Jon says, “I haven’t seen you. They… they say you’re working for Lukas?”
He phrases it as a question, but he already knows the answer. The small, pinched look that comes across Martin’s face only confirms it. “Ah. N- no, Peter’s…” He makes an ambiguous gesture with his hands, lets out a small, frustrated noise, and says, “It’s complicated.”
“Right,” Jon says. Complicated. He doesn’t remember the last time anything had been simple.
“Anyway,” Martin says, looking vaguely uncomfortable, “I should, er. I should probably get back to—”
No, no, don’t go, not yet—
“H- how are you, Martin?” Jon says quickly, taking a few steps closer to Martin. He doesn’t miss the way Martin tenses at the motion. “Er, I- I know it’s probably not great, but I… I’ve missed you, quite- quite a lot, and I- I know I haven’t been here, but I just… I want to make sure that you’re all right.”
Martin’s quiet for a few moments. Then, without meeting Jon’s eyes, he says, “Yeah. I’m all right. Everything’s… everything’s fine.”
Jon studies Martin’s face—the flat line of his mouth, the unhappy slant to his eyebrows, the far-away look in his eyes—and says, softly, “Is it?”
Martin doesn’t respond. He grips the folders tighter and lets out a slow, measured breath before looking back at Jon, his expression almost pleading.
Jon moves closer, close enough that if he wanted to, he could reach out and rest his palm against the side of Martin’s face. “Martin.”
“It’s fine,” Martin says, barely more than a whisper. He looks down at the ground. “I… I should go.”
“Oh,” Jon says, his voice cracking a bit around the word. “Martin—”
“I- I should go,” Martin repeats. He doesn’t move. “I… I shouldn’t be here. I’m not supposed to…”
He trails off, and Jon’s heart breaks. He reaches out a hand, then hesitates, his fingers curling back towards his palm as he takes in the quiet misery written across Martin’s face. He wants, more than anything, to tell Martin not to go. To hold him close and keep him safe and to never again hear the words Peter Lukas. But that… that wouldn’t be fair of him. Because no matter what he wants, it’s Martin’s choice. And he just has to trust that Martin won’t make the wrong one.
“Okay,” Jon says, barely getting the word out around the lump in his throat. He swallows sharply and repeats, brokenly, “Okay.”
Martin still hasn’t moved. He’s looking at Jon, his eyes tracing over every one of Jon’s features individually, like he’s trying to commit them to memory. Jon’s struck, suddenly, ridiculously, by the fear that Martin’s preparing to leave him forever. That this moment will be all Martin has to remember him by.
That this is all they’ll get to have.
“Martin,” Jon says desperately, uncurling his fingers and crossing the remaining distance between them to lay his hand gingerly against Martin’s cheek. “Just, b- before you go, I- I need to tell you—”
“Jon,” Martin cuts in, sounding exhausted, “don’t—”
“I- I know,” Jon says quickly, “I know you need to- that you don’t want to, to hear it, but I just- if this is the last time that I get to- to see you I need to—”
“No,” Martin says firmly, but his voice breaks a bit around the word, like he’s forcing it out. “Please, just… just don’t.” He hesitates, as if considering, before saying, “I… I’ll still be here, Jon. I- I can’t see you, but… I’ll be here. I’ll be safe.”
Safe. Jon wants to laugh. They haven’t been safe since the moment they signed their lives away to the Institute. “Is that even a possibility?” he says, a touch of humorless laughter bleeding into his voice.
“Probably not,” Martin says quietly. “But it’s all I can give you.”
That, at least, Jon understands. “Okay,” he says, indulging himself for just a moment as he brushes his thumb over the curve of Martin’s cheekbone, across the starburst of freckles that sits just underneath his eye. Martin shivers minutely under his touch. “I… I trust you.”
“Thank you,” Martin says. He looks at Jon, and he doesn’t smile, and it threatens to break Jon apart.
He doesn’t want to lose him.
I don’t want to lose him.
I love him.
I love him.
I love him.
Jon’s not sure when he decides to kiss Martin. But when he does, Martin doesn’t move away, just exhales softly against Jon’s mouth as Jon brings his other hand up to Martin’s cheek and holds him gently close. He tries to memorize the way that Martin’s lips feel against his—warm and dry, a bit chapped from the winter air—even as he tells himself he doesn’t need to. That, someday, this will all be over and he’ll get to have this. That they can be together and happy and safe, in a little house somewhere, sharing tea and planting a garden and staring up at the stars at night, mapping the constellations together.
Jon pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against Martin’s, letting their breaths mingle in the space between them, and says, “I’ve missed you.”
“I know,” Martin whispers, pulling back, and Jon aches at the loss. Martin extracts himself from Jon’s hands, worries his thumb over the edge of the files, and says, wearily, “You can’t find me again, Jon. I- I can’t see you, not- not right now. I’m sorry.” He takes a step back; the distance feels like a chasm, and Jon can’t see the way across. “I’m sorry.”
“I’m sorry too,” Jon says, hugging his arms to his chest in a desperate attempt at comfort. He looks away, squeezing his eyes tightly shut against the tears he can feel building in the corners.
When he opens them, Martin is gone and he’s alone, with only an ache in his chest and a lingering warmth on his lips to keep him company.
“I’m sorry too,” he repeats softly before turning and walking back to his office. He ignores the finality of the click as the door swings shut, takes a slow, shaky breath, and sits down to record another statement.