Work Text:
If someone had told Martin his priority in the apocalypse would be to try and get his eldritch boyfriend to stop being overprotective for five minutes, he would have laughed at the impossibility of literally everything about such a scenario.
Turns out it’s not so impossible.
“Jon, you need to sleep ,” Martin repeats in what feels like an endless cycle of stubbornness.
“I need to make sure we’re safe , Martin,” Jon argues back the same way he does every day. “I don’t even need to sleep, remember?”
It’s with great difficulty that Martin resists the urge to punch the love of his life. “Yes, love, I haven’t suddenly forgotten that you’re immune to the weakness of the human condition or whatever, but”- he opens his eyes and looks directly at Jon- “that doesn’t mean you don’t still need to look after yourself.”
Jon sighs. “You don’t know what’s out there.”
And nor does he want to, which is something they’ve discussed far more than strictly necessary because Jon can’t seem to resist Knowing exactly what dangers he’s trying to protect them from; it’s endearing in one of the worst ways possible.
“But you do, don’t you? So you’ll know if the things out there get any closer. I mean, don’t you think it’s silly to stand out there with an umbrella when you know the forecast won’t predict rain any time soon?”
There’s a weighted moment of silence, after which Jon sighs again. “I need to keep you safe, Martin. I need to… I can’t take any risks here, not with everything at stake.”
Martin steps forward and cups his hands around Jon’s face, gently tilting his head up so he stops glaring at the floor, something in his chest softening at the way Jon leans into his touch with nothing but ease. “I promise I’m not going anywhere.”
“Martin, I can’t…” Jon starts, then swallows heavily. “You know I need to make sure you’re safe.”
He thinks it’s a little unfair how sincere Jon sounds when he says such frustrating things. Still, he leans forwards until their noses are pressed together, just enough to make sure Jon’s attention is solely on him without them having to go cross-eyed. “And you know it’s my job to make sure you’re safe. So let me do my job and make sure you get some rest, okay?”
“I don’t need--”
“What was Sasha’s last name?” Martin interrupts quietly.
Jon frowns. “Why are you asking me that?”
Because he’s been systematically clicking all the joints in fingers too frequently for it to be out of need and Martin doesn’t want to watch him dissolve into an exhausted paranoia again. For obvious reasons, he doesn’t voice that aloud. “What was her last name?” he repeats instead.
“I really don’t see how this is relevant but fine. It’s… her name was… Sasha… Sasha… I--I don’t know, Sasha… I--” Jon squeezes his eyes shut even as several others blink into existence on his cheek and neck and arms, all staring expectantly at Martin.
Martin gently rubs the pads of his thumbs along Jon’s cheekbones to make sure his mind doesn’t spiral too far. “James. Her name was Sasha James.”
“James! Of course, I knew that…”
“You would have,” Martin corrects gently, “if you weren’t so tired.”
Jon opens his eyes again, and he abruptly looks drained. Martin knew he would--it was a low blow and they both know it--but he doesn’t regret it because, as expected, it works .
“Maybe you’re right,” Jon mutters, though he makes it sound like a crime.
“Maybe?” Martin echoes, and he’s only half teasing.
Jon, however, is entirely serious when he lifts his own hands to cover Martin’s and nods solemnly. “You’re right and I’m sorry for not listening to you.”
“Woah, okay, you must be absolutely exhausted,” Martin says, blinking in surprise.
But Jon frowns. “No. I mean, yes, I am tired but I mean it. I… I think I get it now. I can’t keep you safe if I’m not at my best.”
That is most definitely not what Martin was trying to convey, but he knows better than to argue with the full force of Jon’s problematic rationality and he’s not going to refuse this victory, no matter how misguided it may be. “So you’ll come to bed?”
Jon clicks his tongue the same way he always does when Martin says something domestic that sounds out of place in their current circumstance, halfway between awe and anger. “Alright, then.”
Martin doesn’t waste a second taking Jon’s hand, weaving their fingers together and pulling him to their bedroom. He lets go only to make sure Jon actually gets into bed, carefully but firmly making sure he settles under the duvet.
“Stop manhandling me, I’m fine,” Jon mumbles, half-heartedly swatting at his hand, “and I certainly don’t need to be tucked in like a child.”
Neither of them actually know much about being tucked into bed as children, but Martin thinks it would be useless to bring that up. With a sheepish grin, he too slides into bed and curls around Jon, wrapping his arms around him and pulling him closer until it’s unclear where either of them begin and end, just the way they like it.
“There, see, this isn’t so bad, is it?” Martin asks smugly.
Jon rolls his eyes--each and every wayward one of them--before shrugging. “I suppose not.”
“Oh, you suppose not, do you?” Martin giggles. “What else do you suppose , then?”
“I suppose I love you,” Jon whispers without missing a beat.
Martin freezes, then grins so widely that his face immediately begins to ache. “Even though I manhandled you away from your noble guard duty?”
With a chuckle, Jon nods. “Even then, yes.”
“I love you too,” Martin whispers.
Jon doesn’t reply but he does practically melt into Martin’s arms as he dozes off, the green glow in the room fading when every last one of his eyelids droop with the exhaustion he’s finally giving in to, until there’s nothing but a comfortable darkness left surrounding them.
“Good night,” Martin adds, inexplicably knowing in the very depths of his heart that it will be.