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Jon and Martin had been in the safehouse for nearly a week now and it was… weird. And wonderful. But mostly weird. The first couple days had been mostly silent, with Martin still in the haze of the Lonely and Jon feeling absolutely useless. He had wanted to help Martin, more than anything, but found himself totally lost on how to do so. After some deliberation Jon had settled on hovering and making Martin endless cups of sub par tea. Although he knew that his efforts were sorely lacking, they did seem to help, if only in the capacity that Martin was (finally) not alone.
Even once Martin had mostly come back to himself, an air of tension had remained. They hadn’t exactly talked about what had happened in the Lonely, their confessions, their feelings. Jon desperately ached to resolve some of the tension, but was just as desperately terrified of any awkwardness the conversation would inevitably entail. He wished that they could just skip forward, past figuring out any hazy details, and just be together. Didn’t they deserve that, at least? After everything?
Despite all of this, they did manage to settle into the cabin considerably. When they had first arrived Jon had cleaned and dusted the best he could, and they had braved the trek to the only supermarket in town a few days later. Daisy owned a surprisingly large collection of books, along with a somewhat serviceable collection of DVDs, allowing them to pass the time with little difficulty. Jon had even managed to coax Martin out of the house to go on walks, which were usually fairly eventful (read: cows).
***
On their twelfth day in the cabin, Martin has a nightmare, and wakes up alone. The nightmare aspect of this was hardly unusual, though the alone part certainly was. It was unusual, not only because he and Jon had been awkwardly sharing the only bed in the cabin, but because Jon was very much not a morning person. This had been a surprise to Martin, who knew all too well of Jon’s notorious habit of arriving at The Archives painfully early most days, always several hours before the work day officially started. At the safehouse though, without the pressing responsibility of work, Jon can usually not be fussed to get out of bed anytime before 10 o’clock, at the absolute earliest. Martin, however, was a morning person, out of habit and necessity if nothing else. Years of getting up at the crack of dawn for work and his mother had trained his body to wake up no later than 7 everyday of the week.
Rolling onto the empty space on the bed that Jon had left, Martin squinted at the alarm clock on the bedside table. 6:23 am. A quick wave of panic surged through him. He stumbled out of bed and into the hallway, only to find all of the lights off. He made his way to the kitchen and felt around for the light switch, switching it on with a light “Ha!” of triumph. He hesitantly crossed the kitchen until he found himself in the doorway leading to the small living room.
“Jon? Are you there?” He switched the light on to find Jon on the couch, curled up and wincing.
“Light.” Jon croaked.
Martin tilted his head in confusion. “What?”
“The light.” He looked pained. “Off. Turn it off.”
Embarrassed, Martin hastily switched off the living room light. Jon let out a sigh of relief.
“Thank you.”
“Yeah, of course. Are you-” He paused, concern coloring his voice. “Are you okay? Nightmare?” They both were plagued with them. There was rarely a night they both slept through, at this point.
Jon huffed out a laugh. “No, for once. Migraine. It woke me up, I didn’t want to wake you up as well.” He looked a bit sheepish at this. “Guess I did anyhow.”
Martin was quick to reassure. “No, no! You didn’t-” He faltered, embarrassed. “I, uh. I had a nightmare.”
“Oh. Oh. Oh my god, Martin, I’m so sorry, I didn’t even think- I mean-”
“It's fine, Jon. I’m fine. I’m… used to it by now.” This was clearly not the reassurance that Martin had hoped it would be, as now a frown was quickly making its way onto Jon’s face, and he looked more guilty than ever. Martin could feel himself flushing at the concern, something he was sure he would never get used to. He hurried to move the conversation away from himself. “Are you okay, though? Migraine, you said?”
Jon sighed. “Yeah. I get them often enough. I have medication for them, for all the good that does me. Light is… not pleasant, at the moment. Not much to do but ride it out, unfortunately.”
Martin searched Jon’s face, or what he could make out from the faint light from the kitchen. He looked almost adorably grumpy. His brows were furrowed harshly in discomfort, but any effect this may have had were offset by his quite noticeable bedhead and rumpled pajamas. He looked endearingly soft around the edges. Vulnerable, in a way that Martin had only recently become privy to. It thrilled him to see Jon like this. To know that Jon was allowing Martin to see him like this… Martin quickly pushed any further romantic ramblings out of his head. Focus.
“Do you need anything? Paracetamol?”
“I’m fine, Martin.” Jon wringed his hands as he spoke.
Martin raised his eyebrows at him. “You don’t seem very fine.” He waved a hand at Jon, very clearly referencing to the way that he was curled up miserably on the couch. He continued to peer down at him, waiting. Jon met his eyes in turn, jaw clenched, unyielding. About thirty seconds ticked by like this. They were at a stalemate. Finally, Jon sighed, his resolve crumbling before Martin’s eyes. He couldn’t help but feel a faint gleam of satisfaction at this.
“I-” Jon looked away, embarrassed. He refused to meet Martin’s eyes. “That is, if you wouldn’t mind, could you-” He scratched the back of his neck. Finally, looking back up to meet Martin’s eyes, “Could you sit with me? Just for a bit?” His voice had raised several octaves at this point, Martin noted.
Martin had to fight to conceal a smile. It was refreshing (and endearing, and sweet) that for once, Jon was the flustered one. Despite his best efforts, he can feel the beginnings of a grin begin to slip through. “Scootch over, then.”
And so they sat, together, on Daisy’s floral patterned couch, as the morning sun slowly broke over the horizon. The few inches of space between them were tense, charged with electricity. Perhaps, if Martin were a braver man, he would close the space between them, take Jon’s hand in his, lean in closer, closer... but he was not a brave man. He’d long since come to terms with this fact.
Fortunately (or perhaps unfortunately, if Martin’s desperately pounding heart and sweaty palms were any indication) Jon closed the space for him. With a tired sigh, Jon shifted, slumping down and towards Martin until his head came to rest on Martin’s lap.
Oh god, oh god, oh god. Martin’s thoughts seemed to glitch, stuck on an unending, panicked loop. He froze, like a deer in headlights, fearing any movement that might jostle Jon.
“Is this- alright? I’m sorry, I should have asked, I suppose I kind of went on autopilot there for a moment.” He let out a self-deprecating chuckle. “I- I used to get migraines a lot in uni. Mostly due to stress, although I suppose the concerts didn’t help.” Concerts? “Georgie would- she would have to basically force me to lie down, more often than not. I mean, I suppose you know how I can get.” He certainly did. “Anyways, she would lay with me, like…” He trailed off shyly, though Martin could fill in the blanks easily enough. Like this.
Martin cleared his throat. “It’s alright. I- um. I really don’t mind.” He could feel Jon nod.
“Good, good. I don’t mind either.” He shifted slightly. “Obviously.” He said this part under his breath, and Martin was fairly certain that Jon hadn’t meant for him to hear it.
Maybe it was Martin’s overwhelming need to sooth, to help, or maybe it was Jon’s muttered confession, but either way Martin suddenly found the courage to do something that he’d longed to do since his stay in document storage. He lifted his hand, and slowly (so slowly, so slowly it ached) let it rest on the crown of Jon’s head. Perhaps, all things considered, he should have expected it, but he couldn’t help but be surprised by the way Jon seemed to melt under his touch. Gaining confidence, he began to move his hand, began to knead. Any doubt that may have lingered in Martin’s mind was immediately dispelled as Jon let out a soft hum of approval.
Martin couldn’t help but chuckle at this. “Yeah?” He was glad that Jon couldn’t see his face at that moment; it was incredibly smug.
Jon humphed. “Shut up.”