Chapter Text
It’s sunnier in Scotland than Martin thought it would be.
He always figured it would be cold and rainy, and that probably would have been much more appropriate weather all things considered. Instead soft afternoon light streamed into the room and it was almost enough to chase the chill out of him. The window is open and the moth-eaten curtains are gently buffeted by the breeze. Jon must have opened the window, Martin can vaguely remember him mumbling something about airing out the place.
When Jon told him back in London that Basira gave them the keys to Daisy’s safe house in Scotland, this was not what he had imagined. If he was honest at the moment he hadn’t really been thinking much of anything. In the Lonely everything had become so dull and even after Jon had pulled him out he wasn’t able to shake it completely.
The trip here had been tense, mostly consisting of hushed harsh tones and Jon pulling him along by the sleeve any time Martin began to get far away. That was how it felt at least like he was about to drift away at any moment only to be tugged back by the gentle but firm grasp of Jon’s hand. And what a novel thing that was, Jon there with Martin, keeping an eye on him. The one good thing— if you could even call it that— about the Lonely was how it dulled all the sense, including embarrassment. If someone had told him a year ago he would eventually be lying beside Jonathan Sims on a small full-sized mattress he would have thought it was a cruel joke. He knew that under other circumstances— better circumstances— he would be blushing and stammering, but all he could do was stare up at the cracked ceiling.
He is gradually becoming more aware of his surroundings, feeling the sun’s warmth on his skin and hearing his and Jon’s breath in the quiet room, where before he barely noticed when people knocked into him at the train station or the time a car horn blared at him when he accidentally stopped in the middle of the street. So, now he does notice when Jon turns onto his side, looking right at Martin.
Everything had been delicate for so long. With Tim being gone and Jon in a coma, Martin was left surrounded by strangers and people who didn’t actually like him. Elias was out of the picture but the world felt even more dangerous than before. Peter got it in Martin’s head that if he let someone in even for a second that it would damn the whole world, that it all depended on him. He knew it was bullshit the whole time, but he needed Peter to believe him, and to be that convincing Martin forced some part of him to believe it as well. He thought that now with all that pressure suddenly taken off him it would make things easier, but now he realized it had been what was holding him together. The notion that if he just stuck to the plan, followed through as long as he could, everything would be okay again. Things didn’t go how Martin expected, but at least it was done now. Was this the “okay” he had been striving for? No, it wasn’t. He hadn’t spent all that time and effort to eventually be staring at a dusty ceiling fan not looking at the man he loves because if he does he will burst apart.
He clenches his jaw, seeking any amount of resolve he had left. He would not fall apart now. He escaped the Lonely, he survived. Martin wasn’t sure if it had begun to become a part of him the same way as Peter, or if it was slowly eating away at him, incorporating what was left of Martin into the amalgamated grey. He isn’t a full Avatar of the Lonely, he was never able to make the final step, but he has the feeling he hadn’t been too far off, and if Jon had— stayed gone, he surely would have. Peter with his ability to cast people into the Lonely at will was what a true Avatar was. All Martin could ever do was tuck himself away. It had been a neat trick, pretty useful too, but now he is wondering if that had actually been the early stages of power manifestation or just the Lonely playing with him until it got bored.
The thought hurts, which probably meant it was true.
Martin lifts his hand up against the cracked ceiling and for a moment it’s fine. It’s his hand, even if it doesn’t necessarily feel like it. Peter was dead, but he still could feel the icy hand that had curled around him, slowly crushing. He feels a chill pass over him, the same feeling he had every time he would disappear, the same feeling he felt right before Peter cast him out. He watches his hand pale, and become less solid, parts of it seeming to drift away. He really was only ever meant to be part of the fog. Martin wishes he was more alarmed by this than he is, but all he can do is stare as his hand gets slowly carried away by the breeze, creeping up his wrist until eventually all of him would be gone—
No, he doesn’t do that anymore. Martin clenches his hand into a fist and it becomes solid once more. His blunt fingernails barely nip into his palm and he feels it, feels real. More sensation returns to him. He is real. He is Martin Blackwood. He didn’t need to disappear anymore. Especially not when it was just him and Jon.
Oh god, Jon. He feels tears begin to brim in his eyes. Pathetic. If he hadn’t been sure before Martin knew now that he couldn’t look over at Jon. Martin can feel it now, Jon’s gaze. It feels like a tangible thing that is holding onto Martin, although not in the way he wishes, it holds him in place all the same. Making him feel seen— unable to disappear no matter how thick the fog became, no matter how much he wants to.
God, what is he doing? When Jon had asked him to quit, to go off together— one way or another— Martin hadn’t believed Jon for a second. Martin had been the last thing familiar to Jon from before everything went to hell and he was grasping at straws, that was all.
In the Lonely, Martin had been sure Jon was merely a cruel memory coming to haunt him, taunting him, in what would be an eternity of fog. His time with Peter had been like gradually lowering to volume on a radio until you could hardly hear it, and in Lonely it had finally been clicked off. When Jon made him See, it was like someone had cracked the volume to the maximum.
Martin hates how he treated Jon. Made Jon feel unwanted, alone. What had it all been for? Did any of that amount to anything? Does anything Martin ever do amount to anything?
Martin feels the brimming tears, finally spillover. With the warmth and color slowly coming back to him, so did the hurt. He squeezed his eyes shut not even wanting to see Jon in his periphery anymore, it was too much. Martin clenches his jaw, and tenses his shoulders, and holds his breath. He is not going to cry in front of Jon, not again, once was embarrassing enough. They haven't talked about the Lonely yet, he is kind of hoping they never do. It’s too much, too much, too—
There is a shift of fabric and then he feels thin boney fingers wrap around his wrist before tentatively sliding down and intertwining with his. At this point, Martin is very familiar with Jon’s hands. It started with accidental brushes in the moments it took to hand over a file or a cup of tea; there and gone, blink and you’ll miss it. When things became more… dire, those moments of contact were much more intentional. A hand clutching his forearm in document storage as worms close in on them. A trembling, tired hand of a paranoid man squeezing Martin’s after he admits to faking his credentials for a shitty job he hates. A lingering, unsure touch hours before they hoped to save the world. The months’ Martin sat in a hospital room grasping the hand of what should be a dead man. Martin always thought Jon’s hands were cold, poor circulation probably, but now they feel incredibly warm. If Martin thinks back hard enough he can just remember the feeling of two warm hands holding onto his face as Jon asks Martin what he Sees.
Now, the pressure and warmth of Jon’s hand makes Martin feel brave enough to finally look up. What he sees makes his chest tighten. Jon had taken off his glasses before laying down and the side of his face was smooched into the pillow where he was turned looking directly at Martin. There was no sign of judgment on his face, just gentle patience and a small smile at Martin finally looking back at him. Martin could see there is a slight shine to his face, the telltale sign of quiet tears, and he feels more of that chill curled up in his chest release.
Jon shifts fully onto his side, bringing their interlocked hands up and holding Martin’s with both of his. Martin wants to say something— though he isn’t sure what. I’m glad you’re here. The fog hurts. I’ve missed you. Thank you. But none of that feels quite right.
He suppresses a shutter as Jon brings Martin’s hand— still held in both of his— to his lips in a whisper of a kiss— barely a touch but it still manages to begin to bring the warmth back into Martin’s hand. Jon’s gaze is so gentle— had anyone ever looked at Martin like this? A few more tears fall down his face as he returns Jon’s own watery smile. He has nothing to worry about. Jon was here with him. Jon asked Martin to come with him. Martin didn’t need to flee the Institute— no one was looking for him like they were looking for Jon. He is here because Jon asked Martin to leave with him first, just like before.
Martin turns over, fully facing Jon, and allows himself to look. He can look now, as much as he liked, with no eyes-meeting-before-shifting-away. It’s just them. The thought terrifies Martin, but something relaxes inside of him he didn’t realize had been tensed for so long. It wasn’t perfect. Martin still feels like he had been hollowed out. Several supernatural entities and probably the authorities were looking for Jon. He didn’t know how long the two of them could stay here before something worse happened, but right now? Right now it was just them.
An unsure look passes over Jon’s face before he slowly reaches his other hand out toward Martin’s face. He pauses just shy of touching Martin’s cheek and hesitates. Martin makes the choice for him and pushes his face up slightly, pressing into Jon’s warm hand, and holds it there against his cheek. It’s Jon’s right hand, unnaturally smooth where it had been so badly burned by Jude Perry. Martin doubts he has much feeling left in it but he hopes Jon understands the sentiment all the same.
The hand slides back into his hair. It was longer than it had been in years. He doesn’t remember the last time he cut it. Definitely well before the Unknowing, and then he had become so busy trying to take care of everything at the institute that it always got pushed further and further down his list. It also didn’t help he got it in his head at some point that someone, even a stranger, touching him might ruin his plans with Peter.
Blunt fingernails lightly scratched his scalp and god when was the last time someone touched him like this? Jon brushes through his hair a few times before his hand slips out and Martin’s hair flops over his eyes, causing Jon to let out a small laugh, something he hasn’t heard in so long. Chasing that sound Martin let out a small huff, blowing the hair briefly out of his eyes before it settled back again, messier than before.
A genuine laugh comes from Jon and it warms Martin to his very core. He could feel it now. Feel the slightly scratchy sheets against his face, the way Jon’s hand fit so perfectly in his, the breeze from the open window. The fog is still there but he could feel it beginning to burn off in the sun coming in through the window.
This close Martin could see the warm brown of Jon’s eyes, rich and dark, and wow. In the Lonely he vaguely remembers how Jon’s eyes briefly glowed green, like a beacon. It would have been terrifying if Martin’s senses weren’t completely dulled.
When Martin shifts a beam of sunlight falls on Jon’s face, highlighting the darker and lighter flecks in his eyes. Martin is allowed to look now, and look he does. Jon’s face screws up at the sudden brightness before he laughs again. Jon’s eyes narrow into a familiar scowl, the face Jon used to give him their first year working together any time he decided Martin’s work was subpar. Martin remembers how he used to fear the expression, thinking he would sooner or later lose his job. But now, here, seeing it on Jon’s face slightly mashed into the pillow while holding onto his hand, Martin could feel something in him behind to crack. At first, he thinks he’s finally going to break down but instead a laugh bubble up from low in his chest until it burst from him. Martin didn’t remember the last time he laughed. The sound is unfamiliar but it feels as natural as breathing. Jon quickly joins in, breaking the silence that shrouded the room.
Martin pulls Jon to him, craving the closeness, the warmth. He rests his hand on the back of Jon’s head to keep him close. Martin feels Jon laugh as much as he hears it. Martin can’t remember a time where he ever heard Jon laugh like this. He used to believe “care-free” wasn’t in Jonathan Sim’s repertoire. He knows better now.
When they both settle, he realizes how close they were. Martin’s hand rests on the back of Jon’s head. Jon’s hand settled on Martin’s waist. Their foreheads touching and barely any space between their bodies. Martin realizes he isn’t afraid for the first time in so long. He is safe here with Jon, and isn’t that a nice thought? He thinks he should at least be feeling butterflies in his stomach, but no, warmth has taken up residency at his core and he is determined to not let it go.
Martin does not hesitate before he pushes forward to kiss him.
It would be an utter lie to say Martin hasn’t spent a decent amount of the past four years thinking about what kissing Jon would be like, though the exact amount of time he certainly would be taking to the grave. Even so, Martin had no idea what it would be like. He knew very little about Jon’s dating history, and what he did know was from third-hand sources and certainly was not his business to know at the time. Martin would have been fine if Jon only ever wanted to be his friend. After all, Jon had gone into the Buried after Daisy, someone who had literally tried to kill him, so it wasn’t out of the realm of possibility that Jon lept into the Lonely with no additional feeling attached. Martin may have self-esteem issues but he knew he at least ranked above Daisy. But Martin is sure now, he saw how Jon looked at him in the Lonely, how he looked when he asked Martin to run away with him both times, how Jon hasn’t stopped looking at him since they left London. With so much uncertainty it’s nice to be faced with something— someone— that left no room for ambiguity.
Jon kissed him back with equal warmth, and to Martin’s delight, even more enthusiasm. His hand clutches at Martin’s sweater as he shifts forward with a small hum of contentment, and it’s so nice.
When they pull back and Martin sees Jon looking at him— looking at him like nobody ever has— he doesn’t mind everything has gone to hell. They didn’t have to be alone. Whatever came their way, they would face it together.