Work Text:
Thunder cracked in the sky as Jonathan Sims hurried up the short paved road to the safe house.
The door was finicky to open, it took two attempts at twisting the knob, and then he had to fight to push it upward and inward. When it finally deemed to let him, his fingers were icy and his limbs shaking.
“Martin!” Jon’s teeth threatened to clatter, a full-body shiver rendering him useless for a moment. The steady trickle of rain slowly roared alive until it came crashing down on the roof with enough force to make Jon consider leaks. He wasn’t in the mood to find buckets for that, so he hoped their patched-up roof would hold.
“Oh god,” Martin snickered at the sight of his poor love all but drenched. He peeked out from the kitchen, a mug of warm chai already in his hands. Tea, spices from their lunch, and firewood burning in the chimney. The smell of home melded wonderfully with the wet earth and harmless ozone outside.
“Thank you, dear,” Jon pressed a frozen kiss to Martin’s cheek, exchanging grocery bags for the mug to feel the warmth seep into his fingertips. Martin cringed at the lingering chill, but couldn’t help himself when he returned the gesture, warm lips against a rain-wet cheek.
“I’ll be right back,” Jon handed him the mug before wrestling with his rain-sodden boots, disappearing towards the loft. His quick footsteps thudded out against the stairs. Martin sighs at the sound, ducking his head as lightning shoots across the sky, thunder rolling shortly after. He busied himself at the stove, cleaning up the mess from his attempt at dal.
“You’ll get it right,” Jon reassures him, coming up behind him to wrap thin arms around his waist. He’s not as twiggy as he used to be, it’s something he’s rather proud of. He rests his hands on the swell of Martin’s belly, burying his face in Martin’s back.
“Miss take out,” Martin says, defeated, “I love it here, but if I have to eat at Mrs. Murphy’s one more time-“
Jon laughs, nuzzling against him. His hair is still sodden, dripping rain onto the floor and no doubt soaking Jon’s shoulders. Martin turns in his arms, reaching blindly for the clean tea towel to run over Jon’s head. He smiles at the sight of Jon in his old jumper and comfortable shorts. He runs warm, so Martin fights the urge to get him in fuzzy pajama pants.
The thunder roars again, and Martin forgets to be charmed, forgoes dignity to duck into Jon’s wet shoulder. His boyfriend's hands come to wrap around his neck, hands carding through his hair as a smile presses to his cheek.
“I’ll keep you safe,” Jon murmurs. Martin presses his lips into Jon’s shoulder, amused and fond. A man against the sky, all because it sets the man he loves a trembling with fear. There’s poetry in Jon’s mundane bravery, and he is so brave and solid, small and sturdy in Martin’s arms.
He leads Martin out of the kitchen, cat-print tea towel still laid over his head as they make their way up the stairs.
“I didn’t put the groceries away,” Martin says.
Jon shoots him a smile, “There’s nothing that’ll go bad in there.”
They get into bed at three in the afternoon, the sun hidden behind thick clouds and the torrential downpour. Jon makes no attempt at staying on his side. Martin’s hardly sliding in when Jon’s already pressing against him, legs tanging and head coming to rest on his chest.
“Mr. Sims! This is hardly conducive to a professional work environment.” Martin teases, one leg propped on the floor to keep himself from falling off the bed. “Can you give me a damn moment?”
“No,” He says, tossing a leg over Martin’s.
Thunder shakes the sky again, a terrible lingering sound that shakes the bones of the house and its inhabitants. Martin yelps, slipping underneath Jon in a moment of panic. Jon laughs above him, not unkindly, but in that awfully fond way of his.
“Shush,” Martin holds him close and Jon brings their fuzzy blanket over their heads. His hair is still wet, it clings to both of them and makes the pillow damp.
“Come here,” Jon says, as though he’s not already in Martin’s arms. Still, Martin obliges and Jon so can better cling to him. They get comfortable, Martin hiding away in Jon’s shoulder while Jon lets his hands rest on Martin’s back. “I love you,” he says, soft enough to be drowned out by the pouring rain and the rattling of his frozen bones, but honest enough that Martin latches onto it.
“Love you too,” Martin says, braving the final grumbles of thunder to stretch up and kiss Jon.
Jon presses his freezing feet to Martin’s.
“I’ll keep you safe,” he says, “You keep me warm.”
“Oh you,” Martin huffs, pressing a lingering kiss to Jon’s neck. “You’ve got yourself a deal.”
Martin wakes when another particular roll of thunder reaches the house, far off enough to be more a purr than a roar, but still enough to set him off.
He buries himself into his pillows, one arm pulling the blanket firmly over his head and the other reaching out for Jon. The bed is empty.
"Jon?" He can hear him downstairs and thinks of the poem where the narrator practices saying ‘I love you’ and all of the world, all he could ever want of the world coming down the stairs - up the stairs in Martin’s jumper, in Martin’s socks, the only thing Jon wears that is his own are those terrible shorts.
Jon looks at him, peeking out from his mass of blankets, with that same type of fondness that speaks towards devotion and a promise of something unspoken, a promise that Martin is inclined to believe most of the time.
“Sorry I had to-Well. How are you feeling?” Jon asks because he led them to bed for Martin’s sake as much as his own.
“Thank you for sitting with me,” Martin says instead of admitting he feels ridiculous. A thirty-year-old man terrified of thunder. Jon knows how he feels, of course, but he likes gratitude over self-deprecation. It makes them both feel better.
He crosses the space from the door to the bed in a matter of three long strides, and he’s kissing Martin before either of them can ruin the moment. It’s a chaste kiss, a sweet kiss, a kiss that lingers until Jon’s curiosity gets the better of him. His tongue prods Martin’s bottom lip, and things spiral from there as he pushes Martin back into the pillows, licking into Martin’s mouth while his boyfriend's hands paint aimless lines across his back.
Jon breaks the kiss with a gasp, leaving Martin starstruck and dizzy.
“I lied earlier,” Jon tells him, “I have to put the groceries away.”
“Jon!” Martin sighs, throwing the blankets off of him. Jon promptly tucks him back in.
“You stay there. I have a surprise for you. You have to like it, even if you don’t.” He says, nervous energy evident in the way his hands twitch.
“…Okay? Sure. I love it already,” Martin says with a polite nod.
Jon grins such a lovely grin. He has always been lovely, all sharp angles of him softened by the warmth and kindness so inherent. He knew it was there, of course, he did. But Martin still considers himself so lucky to be the one at the receiving end of it.
It won’t always be like this. He knows that. Thinks it doesn’t matter because they have it right now and it's sweet and perfect and in years to come it will still be sweet and perfect in its own way.
Jon comes back about ten minutes later, his hair is fluffy from being air-dried and his smile is amused while his eyes are determined.
“Oh?” Martin stares at the giant glass measuring cup in his hands. It’s full of steaming milk. “Wow…I love it.” He cringes.
“Shut up Martin,” Jon says, carefully crossing over until he can set the seaming cup on Martin’s makeshift bedside table. There’s a small box under his arm, and he hands it to Martin with a pleased look.
“Oh!” Martin sits up as Jon sits beside him. A giant chocolate sphere stares back at him. The box claims there are marshmallows and sprinkles in it, and all he has to do is place the sphere into some hot milk. “You shouldn’t have.”
Jon takes the tone of voice to mean Thank you, I love you .
“Thanks, I love it,” Martin decides to put words to the feeling, the rain outside still pouring down. The thunder has moved on, but the storm has yet to pass.
“I thought we deserved a treat.”
“I think you’re right,” Martin opens the box carefully and Jon watches as he places the chocolate orb into the giant measuring cup. It was the only thing they had that could possibly fit the thing.
“Maybe we should have done this in the kitchen?” In a pot, the thinks, but Martin’s eyes are trained to the sphere. He watches his boyfriend give it a poke as it floats, and slowly, oh so slowly, begins to sink.
They gasp in unison when chocolate powder, sprinkles, and an array of tiny marshmallows float out.
Martin laughs, an honest full belly laugh as he holds Jon close again. Fear ebbs away as the chocolate continues to melt, his heart bursting at the seams at all the little ways Jon’s kept him safe from the storm.
He kisses his cheek, beaming at Jon with his warm brown eyes.
“I love you.” He says. “Thank you for today.”
“Of course,” Jon smiles, leaning to press a kiss to his forehead. “I love you too.”