Chapter Text
Martin takes Jon's plate from his hands and adds it to the soap bubbles already threatening to overflow the too-small sink. He accepts next their cups followed by the forks, and then he reaches out for the sponge to begin scrubbing.
Dishes are any easy task for the two of them. They're too real to keep Martin from accidentally fading, they require enough focus for Jon's thoughts not to wander too far, and well, they're still taking every chance they can to brush up against each other.
Not that either of them has said much about it yet.
Without speaking, Martin passes the first of the clean dishes to Jon to dry, and he finds himself drawn slightly to the right, leaning toward Jon's humming as he works. If Martin had known Jon hummed doing mundane domestic tasks, he might never have been able to stick it out with Peter Lukas; he might've thrown himself at Jon the second he read that letter.
He keeps coming back to the letter. He had started carrying it in his pocket, folded as small as possible and pushed deep under everything else, just in case Peter could sense it. It had helped keep him grounded in his purpose as the Lonely started to catch at him. Being Lonely to save Jon was worth it, Martin still believed that, but it had been hard to keep that in his mind sometimes.
It's been four days since they arrived at Daisy's safehouse up in the Scottish Highlands. Martin fell in love with the Highland cows almost instantly, and he's spent a lot of his time out on all of the walking paths, seeing just how many cows he can find and thinking about what it is he wants.
And it's obvious: he wants Jon. He knows that, once, Jon wanted him, too. He hopes that's still true.
The hard part now is figuring out his way across the divide that he purposefully created between them.
When he starts to scrub at the forks, he seeks out the first words, and what comes out of his mouth is less smooth than he'd been hoping but thankfully not deeply embarrassing.
"I read your letter." He passes the forks over to Jon, who takes them without comment, instead just giving him a confused noise. "Ah, um, the one you wrote for me?"
The forks clink slightly as they're dropped in the drawer. "Martin, I'm going to need you to be more specific," Jon finally says, accepting a cup to dry from Martin. "When you were…gone, I wrote lots of letters to you, to stop myself from running upstairs every five minutes to talk to you."
Martin snorts, but his face is definitely pink now. He wonders if he'll ever get to see any of those other letters.
"The—uh, the letter you wrote before you went into the Buried," Martin clarifies, passing next the second plate to Jon. "It was in your desk when I went to look for more tapes to play, and well, it had my name on it so…well, I, I kept it? And then I, um, I read it?"
"…ah," Jon say, the plate he's drying slowly losing height as his arms relax. He shoots an embarrassed glance at Martin. "I really hoped you'd never see that."
"Why!" Soap bubbles go flying as Martin drops a cup back into the sink in surprise. "It—it helped me, Jon, to remember why anything I was doing mattered."
"Why didn't you say anything, then?" Jon asks softly, his whole body focused on the plate that is very, very dry now. The towel keeps circling its surface, though, and Martin sighs.
"I…" That's as far as he gets, though. He doesn't have a good answer, and honestly, sometimes he's a bit petty. Jon has known about Martin's feelings for a long time, he has to have heard that tape by now, so he spins it back. "Well, why didn't you say anything?"
Jon very delicately sets the plate in the cupboard before turning to look Martin in the face. "You said loved, Martin." At what must be an obvious look of confusion on Martin's face, Jon sighs. "In the Lonely, you said you loved me, past tense. I didn't want to presume anything when you came back out, I was just so happy to have you back in my life in any capacity."
Oh.
Oh.
"Oh, Jon," he says softly, and forgetting his wet hands, he presses one against Jon's cheek. The other man starts a little but then leans into the contact. "I love you. Present tense."
Jon smiles, soft and a little disbelieving, but then says the first words that take Martin's breath away in his whole life: "I love you, too."
It's hard to say who moves first, but the next thing Martin is sure of is Jon's lips pressed against his, soft but firm and oh so perfect. Realizing he's allowed to now, Martin brings his other hand up to the back of Jon's head, lacing his fingers through the hair that's grown so long. It's as soft as he's always thought it would be, and Martin runs out of thoughts as he kisses the man he loves.
Fuck, Martin thinks as words dissolve from his head.
They stay like this, for how long Martin really can’t tell, until Jon suddenly jumps back with a slight shriek, reaching frantically for the back of his neck with the towel.
Martin, confused and startled, can only stare as Jon begins laughing. "Your hands! Christ! They're still wet, Martin! You dripped water down the back of my shirt!" He looks down and, yes, there's still some soap bubbles on wrists and the knuckles of his right hand, and he laughs, too.
"We should finish the dishes," he finally says, flicking some of the bubbles at Jon, who ducks and laughs.
Jon straights back up, his face still painted in joy, and then takes Martin's face in his hands. Martin leans down just a little, staring back into the open adoration in Jon's eyes with what must an equally sappy face. Jon kisses him once more, this one less soft but just as filled with meaning. Martin, remembering the wet hands this time, does nothing but stand there, filling his senses with Jon and what it's like to kiss him.
Jon breaks the kiss then and seems to shrink away. Oh! Martin glances down and sees Jon firmly planting his feet on the ground; Jon had been lifting his heels off the floor, and Martin is so delighted by this. It will require more experimentation later.
Jon doesn’t move completely away, though, instead wrapping his arms tightly around Martin’s middle and resting his head on Martin’s chest. Awkwardly, keeping his hands away, Martin presses his arms into the backs of Jon’s shoulders. It’s a strange hug, but it’s still one of the best he’s ever had.
Keeping his right forearm still lightly touching Jon's left, Martin turns back to the sink and finishes first with the remaining cup, then starting in on the spoons, knives, and spatula used to prepare dinner. The cutting board follows, and then Martin's left only with the two pans and their lids, sitting next to the sink waiting their turn.
He's never wanted to not finish dishes more in his whole life, not when he could be kissing Jonathan Sims instead of scrubbing at the bottom of fucking pans.
Jon must have this same thought, because he reaches over Martin to drag them into the sink before Martin's decided what to do. He kisses Martin's cheek, then adds some soap to the pans, gives Martin's forearm a light peck, fills the pans with water, kisses Martin's jaw, dries his hands off, and then hands Martin the towel.
Martin, stunned by all of this physical affection and only thinking desperately shit shit shit, dries his hands without hesitation, mesmerized by the look on Jon's face. It's shy and open and urgent and happy all at once, and Martin would give one of his ribs to keep that look there forever.
Before the towel has even left his fingers, Jon flings himself back at Martin, pushing him into the counter with the force of his body. His hands are on the back of Martin's neck, his mouth warm and soft and perfect against Martin's, and Martin cannot think. All he can do is kiss back, desperate and hungry and hopeful and so goddamn grateful to be here, one hand pressed against Jon's spine, the other finding his hair again. Martin would die right here right now if the last thing he could ever know was this feeling.
Simultaneously, he feels the flash of Jon's warm tongue on his bottom lip and the pull of nails against his neck, and while he doesn't know what sound he makes, it's definitely a little embarrassing. Jon doesn't seem to mind, though—Martin can feel the slight smile against his mouth and the nails prick a little firmer now.
Well.
Two can play at that game.
Martin pushes back against Jon, moving his hands into the small of Jon's back and leaning him into them, tilting his head a little further to the right as he does so. Jon gives a sharp inhale and now Martin is smiling. He holds Jon firmly, pressing the pads of his fingers deep into Jon's back to show him he's secure, and Jon relaxes into the contact.
If there's one thing Martin knows about himself, it's that he's a good kisser, and he puts all of his knowledge and experience to good use, delighting in every small sound Jon makes against his mouth as he slowly experiments with tongue, teeth, and kisses down his jaw and neck.
When Martin's positive of his victory, he pulls back from Jon only a little, just enough to look at the expression on his face. His eyes are still closed, but his brows have furrowed a bit. He blinks up at Martin then, looking a little put out. Martin chuckles at bit, but Jon doesn't seem to care about speaking right now. Martin, his hands still on Jon's back, feel Jon push up on his toes and find Martin's mouth again.
Okay, he can confidently say now: if he knew Jon kissed like this, he definitely wouldn't have been able to stick it out with Peter. He would've been kissing Jon senseless from the moment he found out Jon had woken from his coma.
Despite their equal desperation to never stop kissing, they both eventually admit they need to breathe, and they separate, foreheads pressed together and heavy breathing mingled. Martin keeps his eyes closed and, while he can't be certain, he'd bet Jon has as well.
The newness of this deserves the sanctity and intimacy of this moment, together but without the need to look.
So many wasted months longing for each other, trying to protect each other, only for it to have amounted to very little in the end. Peter probably wasn't exaggerating about the things he kept away from the Institute, but with Jon as powerful as he was after the Buried, maybe they never needed Peter's protection to survive.
As Martin's breathing returns to normal, his eyes flick open to see Jon already looking at him. His gaze is soft, loving, and it's more than Martin could ever have hoped for.
Martin leans back and watches as Jon lowers himself back onto the floor. Without speaking, they move to the couch hand-in-hand, which Martin is deeply grateful for. He'd rather die than admit it, but leaning down to kiss Jon like that had left a slight cramp in his back.
He'll still risk any future cramps for the chance to do that again, though.
"We've never talked about it, you know," Martin finally says as Jon tucks himself up into Martin's chest, one hand playing with Martin's jumper and the other still entwined with his own. Their legs mingle somewhere next to them, and while Martin knows his feet will eventually fall asleep, he couldn't give a single fuck at the moment.
It's Jon's turn again to be confused, Martin guesses, because the look he gives Martin is the lovesick version of one he saw many times in the early days in the Archives, when Jon would come out of his office to ask Martin to explain his report. If only he could tell his past self that the look he'd dreaded would ever become so wonderful.
"The Buried, I mean," Martin explains, moving his free hand from Jon's back up to play with the ends of Jon's hair. It really is absurdly long now, but Martin loves it.
Jon huffs a laugh. "Martin, you were kind of avoiding me then."
Martin cringes at the bald reminder, but Jon's still gently laughing, not judgmental but pleased somehow.
"I just meant, I never knew how you got out. I suddenly Knew," he explains, emphasizing that last word, "that you'd need to hear the tapes to come back out, but I was drawn back to the ones in your desk. I mean, I never would've found the letter if I hadn't, well, Known that you had tapes you needed to hear in there." He chuckles a bit. "I've never exactly been in the habit of going through your desk drawers."
Jon leans back to look up at Martin, smiling. He doesn't comment on Martin's attempt at a joke, instead asking if Martin listened to those tapes.
When Martin shakes his head and quickly explains about Basira and Melanie returning at that moment, Jon's smile gets a little bigger.
"Well, you were my anchor, Martin—it was the tapes you recorded that I could hear in, in the Buried," he says, his eyes fixed on Martin's. They're still warm and soft brown, but the edges of the irises are flecked with green now. "You led me out, or at least my love for you did."
He feels a little like someone just pinched him. He'd probably left the room only a few minutes before Jon and Daisy had come out of the coffin, and if he'd stayed and listened to Basira and Melanie's conversation, he would've still been in the room when Jon had emerged, pulled by the sound of his voice.
"Christ, Jon, I—" Martin starts, his mouth planning on apologizing or agonizing or something else with an a, but Jon stops him short with another kiss, earnest and sincere.
And, well, there's not much room for thinking when he's kissing Jon Sims again, is there?