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Red embers glittered at the end of the cigarette, almost a glowing eye in the brooding darkness.
Jon drew in a long, slow breath, feeling the acrid smoke coat his tongue and trickle down the back of his throat. The intervals between his "I've been clean since…" cigarettes had grown shorter of late. No longer five years.
Perhaps not even one.
It was a familiar burn, hot and bitter behind his teeth. But it was a comfortable one, something he had complete control over - a rare thing to say in the recent miasma of his life.
The frigid air was almost wet against his skin, the rising mists in the valley scattering crystalline drops across everything in sight - including The Archivist's flesh. He drew a long drag on the cigarette, dropping ash on the step with a practised flick of his wrist. Idly, he wondered if smokers ever lost that instinctual discard. He certainly hadn't.
His eyes slid closed, his upper half tipping back to rest on the rough brickwork. It was cold and uncomfortable, but Jon found he didn't mind. He didn't like the way his hands shook every time he let his mind wander; the simple act of holding a cigarette steadied them for the time being.
It was early. Pre-dawn, even. He'd left Martin asleep in the warm double bed upstairs, carefully extricated himself from blankets and boyfriend - and here Jon paused, rolling that word over in his head - and made his way here. It would be eerily similar to The Lonely if Jon were to let his mind wander that way, to equate the mists of here with those infernal mists that had almost swallowed Martin whole… he stopped that trail of thought, tightening his hand on the cigarette until the heat almost burned his fingertips.
"No." He growled aloud, surprising himself with the ferocity. His eyes snapped open and he shook his head, trying to clear the thought from it. The cigarette had almost burned down to a stub now and The Archivist stared at the glowing tip, the red embers sparkling like jewels in his long fingers. He took a final drag on it, the dying flicker flaring to life as he did so.
It wasn't as comforting as the previous, it burned in the same way but this time it wasn't a familiar burn, it was something vicious. He stifled a cough, dropping the burnt out end on the concrete step.
"Jon?" Martin's voice was soft and rough with sleep, quieter than Jon was used to. Martin faltered, stood in the doorway with a look of uncertainty about him, as if he was afraid his presence would upset Jon.
"I'm here, Martin." The Archivist shifted, making room for Martin on the step. It was still dark, though the faintest glow was peeking over the horizon - a promise to burn away the early morning mist. Martin folded himself next to Jon, almost instinctively snuggling against him. There was no other word for it than 'adorable' and Jon wrapped his arm around the other man's shoulders.
"I woke up and you were gone." Martin's voice was so very soft, as if the earliness of the hour had invoked some kind of honesty in him. "Just… gone." Jon traced his fingers carefully up Martin's upper arm, pressing his cheek to the top of his head as he did so.
"Sorry." Jon knew he smelt of smoke, there was no point lying or trying to hide the vice that had gripped him in those early waking hours. "I didn't want to wake you."
"I know." They sat together in silence, watching the sun haul itself over the horizon and spread golden rays over the valley. The mist swirled thinner and thinner under the direct gaze; it would eventually burn away to nothing. The day was promising to be bright and clear. Martin shivered a little, nuzzling closer to Jon in their shared embrace.
"Martin?" Jon's voice was gentle, halting almost. "How much do you actually… know about me?" There was a pause, a comfortable one, stretching out as the sun rose ever higher in the sky. Both men seemed frozen, watching daylight break.
"Some, I guess." Martin shrugged, the movement awkward. "And not… not to be pathetic or anything but could we move inside? I'm freezing." Jon wondered acutely whether his numbness to the temperature was a side effect of what he was becoming, and the thought scared him. He hadn't noticed the cold, not really, but Martin was trembling slightly beside him.
"Oh! I'm sorry, Martin I didn't…" He trailed off, fumbling with the words. They were so close but intangible, scattering like the suspended water droplets in the mist.
"It's okay." Martin shifted a little, looking up at Jon's pale and drawn face. "It's okay." He stood, brushing down his soft cotton pajamas as he did so. Jon didn't move, not immediately, gazing out at the serene hills. "Hey." Martin's hand was outstretched and Jon took it, folding his fingers over the other man's and rising unsteadily to his feet.
"Let's get warm." He murmured, mostly to himself, chancing one more stolen gaze at the burgeoning sunshine.
Steam swirled from the placid surface of the tea Martin had made them both. It looked phantom-like, an intangible spirit that curled and spiraled, unspooling like a thread. Jon stared at it, eyes unfocused and gazing through the vapour. The Archivist jumped as Martin's knee brushed the table, disturbing the smooth biscuit-coloured plane.
"Sorry." Martin gave Jon a sheepish smile, not quite meeting his eyes.
"It's alright, Martin." Jon's voice was soft, rougher than he had anticipated. "Don't apologise." He lifted the pale blue mug from the tabletop and cradled it in hands that shook ever so slightly, shaking the previously pristine surface into gentle furrows.
"Are you… okay?" Martin reached his hand out, gently resting his fingers on Jon's wrist in an effort to still the tremors. "What's going on inside that head of yours?" His voice had a joking tone to it, but Jon could see the concern etched in every line of Martin's face, welling up beneath his skin.
"What I asked before…" Jon paused here, shaking his head a little as if to clear it. "How much do we really know about each other? We quite literally faced hell together but I don't… I don't know you as well as I feel like I should."
"You weren't exactly pleasant in the beginning." Martin agreed, looking across the table at him. "To me or to anyone. That definitely scuppered the 'getting to know you' part of our working relationship." Martin shrugged, releasing Jon's hands to take his own cup of tea. He took a sip, eyes fluttering closed for a moment.
"No you're… you're right I wasn't." Jon had the good graces to look sheepish, not meeting Martin's eyes, instead staring into his tea as if it held the answers to questions he didn't even know how to ask. "How do I make it better?"
"You don't." Martin shrugged, placing the mug down on the table between them. "You can't undo what's happened, no one can. I don't think even Elias - Jonah - could do that." Martin let out a steadying breath as he spoke, the air hissing between his teeth. "But you can be better."
"I want to be."
"Good. That's… good. Well… um…" Martin held out a hand, looking earnestly at Jon. Jon didn't take it immediately, hesitating for a few seconds before carefully depositing his cup on the table and taking the proffered hand. "Was there anything you wanted to… tell me? Or ask me?"
"What? Oh–." Jon shook his head, a strange fuzzy feeling growing, smothering his thoughts. "Did you ever think I killed Jurgen Leitner? Really, I mean? I know Tim did." The mention of Tim brought a stabbing pain in the centre of Jon's chest. They had ended on such bad terms, he'd never had the chance to make it right. And now Tim was… gone.
"No." Martin's voice was steady, sincere. "I worried you might have done something in your paranoia but… I don't think you'd have it in you to kill a man. Not like that." Martin lightly turned Jon's hand over, his fingertips ghosting over his scarred burns on his wrist and palm. It was something he'd longed to do for years, ever since Jon had turned up with it pathetically bandaged at The Institute. They were shiny, smoother than the surrounding skin and still warmer somehow.
"Right." The fuzziness in his head was still there, but the feeling of Martin's hand touching that gnarled and broken part of him was going some way towards making it vanish. The feather-light touches had his breath stopping in his chest, a queer sadness welling up inside of him.
When was the last time he'd been touched with such tenderness? He didn't remember. Wearily, The Archivist rubbed his free hand over his face, pushing his greying hair out of his eyes as he did so.
"Why me, Martin?" He asked softly, the suddenness of it surprising him. He had been thinking it since Martin's plaintive confession, unable to wrap his head around it.
"Is it so hard to believe someone could love you?" Martin responded almost instantly, resting two fingers over Jon's pulse point in his wrist.
"I…" Facing demons seemed to be the trend for this conversation and Jon was deathly afraid of this one. "Yes." He replied after a period of silence, sliding his gaze back to the table. "I'm not… the easiest of people to get along with. I'm difficult. Paranoid." He shook his head, the greying locks now falling into his eyes like a protective shield. "How could anyone - especially one as patient and genuine as you - ever love that?" He hadn't meant to sound as pathetic as he did but the words had ripped out of him, dragged out like a torrent.
"Because you saw me." Martin's answer was maddeningly simple. "You saw through me right from the start. You saw me and it changed nothing. You knew me even before I knew myself." Jon's focus shifted from the table to Martin's face, gazing at his warm eyes and seeing no deception in them. "Plus you're pretty handsome." He laughed a little, shrugging awkwardly.
It was delightful. So delightfully Martin that Jon almost cried, feeling a rush of warmth flow through him and leaving him tingling.
"Pretty handsome? Even after Prentiss? Jude Perry? All the… disfigurements?" Jon wasn't vain, but he knew he bore physical marks from altercations. His burned hand was only part of the tapestry spun by violence that was etched onto his skin like a tattoo.
"Jon…" Jon felt his hand drop as Martin pulled away and he heard the screeching of the chair as it was pushed back over the stone floor. His eyes closed, not wanting to face whatever disgust he was sure was visible on Martin's face.
But instead he felt warm hands cradling his cheeks and he became aware that Martin was knelt in front of him, nudging his legs apart. Jon felt Martin's thumb swipe over a scar on his cheekbone - a leftover from the first attack on The Archive - and he shivered. Martin was so gentle, fingers carefully grazing his skin as they plotted a path between scars and fresher bruises. Jon felt himself sink into the chair, whole body slumping and releasing whatever pent up energy remained.
Martin's hands had finished with his face, now sliding down his neck with those same ghostly trails. Each time the searching digits stumbled on a scar they soothed over it as if it were a fresh wound, gently cataloguing each position. Jon had the distinct feeling Martin was making mental notes of every single one, the intensity of this moment was not lost on him.
"Martin." It wasn't a question, it wasn't even a plaintive sob like he'd been expecting; no, it was a ragged whisper that grounded him. Nothing on this Earth made sense in this second except for the soft, warm hands that captured him.
"It's alright, Jon." Martin's voice sounded far away, echoing in the stillness of the kitchen. For one wild second Jon forgot where he was, panicking that Martin had once again slipped away into the whirling murkiness of The Lonely. His eyes opened, panic clouding them for the briefest moment before his racing thoughts slowed to a trickle. Martin was staring at him, hands loosely cradling either side of his neck. He'd never seen him like this, so intense and focused. "It's alright. I'm here." The hands slid further up, returning to his cheeks and holding steady. Automatically, Jon leaned down and pressed his forehead against Martin's, breathing in the comforting scent of tea, laundry detergent and shampoo that cemented him firmly to the ground.
"I thought I lost you." Jon whispered, his own hands scrabbling for purchase in Martin's soft jumper. "I thought… I…"
"I know." Sadness tinged Martin's voice, the faintest echo of guilt tangled in his speech. "But I'm here. I'm real. I think so, anyway. Are any of us real?"
"An existential question." Jon murmured, dragging Martin up from the floor and into his lap, burying his head in the clean-smelling knitwear Martin had thrown on to get out of bed. Martin's arms went around him, holding him tightly.
"I think we've both been feeling more than a little existential recently." As he said this he accompanied it with a shrug, tightening his grip on The Archivist. Jon nodded against his collarbone, suddenly struck with tiredness - he had barely slept, after all.
"Would you mind if we went back to bed?" Jon asked softly, his voice muffled by the soft wool of Martin's jumper. "I didn't get a huge amount of sleep and… I think I'd like to lie down." Martin didn't respond immediately, merely basking in the warmth and shared closeness. His hand slipped down Jon's side, resting gently on his hip.
"We can do that." He replied, voice soft and gentle in the still morning air. "Come on."
Martin lay awake as Jon slept, his fingers tracing delicate paths across his bare skin. As he slept his soft cotton shirt had risen up, revealing a pale strip of stomach. Martin's fingers trailed across, skating tenderly across his hips, lingering on old scars from various altercations with avatars in the past.
It was rare to see The Archivist like this - rarer still to see him so still. Jon was always a ball of nervous energy, pacing when stood up or fiddling with whatever was in his hands when sat. He would often tap gently on the buttons of the tape recorder - never hard enough to depress them fully, but enough that if Martin listened to a tape he could often pick out that subtle rattle.
But right now he was asleep, still and calm in the morning sunlight. Martin couldn't help but catalogue each breath that rose and fell in The Archivist's chest, committing that sight to memory. Jon's face lost all tension when he slept, furrowed brows and creases at the edges of his mouth slackened into smooth skin. Martin rested his hand lightly on Jon's chest, feeling the slow rise and fall of breathing and, beneath that, the steady thumping of his heart.
Everything had happened so quickly that he too had struggled to process it all. The descent into The Lonely, giving himself up to Peter Lukas completely; then Jon at the centre of it all, risking it all for him. He could still feel the ghost of Jon's hands cupping his face, desperately asking him what he saw.
"You." Martin whispered into the silence of the room, feeling a shudder race down his back. "I saw you. Just you." Jon had been his beacon, so vivid and bright in the muted colours of the domain he had taken for his own. If he closed his eyes, he could still feel the cloying mist on his skin. The thought made him feel nervous, as if by remembering he was summoning it to him, like he could disappear if he–.
Jon's hand was on his wrist, tight. Martin gasped, the colour flooding back into the room suddenly. He let out a breath that was more of a ragged gasp, rubbing his eyes so hard phosphenes burst in the corners of them. Jon moved on the mattress, slotting himself against Martin so he could feel how warm and fiercely here they both were.
"Jon I–."
"I know." Jon's hand slid across Martin's cheek, cradling it the way he had before. "I know, Martin."
They lay there in silence for a while, Martin stifling sobs that burned in his chest. Jon felt every tremor, every tear that trickled from the barricade and onto the pads of his fingers. It seemed neither of them had made it through the ordeal unscathed, both men harbouring memories that threatened to drown them if they lifted the defences too far.
Eventually, Jon brushed his lips over Martin's forehead, tangling their fingers together under the duvet. Martin burned where Jon kissed him, fire tingling beneath his skin and flushing him a pale red.
When Jon's lips reached Martin's the whole world seemed to freeze for just a moment. Both men just breathed, warm air cooling on each others faces.
"Jon…" Martin whispered, arching upwards and closing the gap between them. It didn't matter that Jon tasted of old smoke or that it was clumsy and a little too hard. It didn't matter that Jon whimpered in the back of his throat when he felt Martin's hand slide into his unruly greying hair. All that mattered was the feel of each other, lips slanting and tasting.
"I love you." Jon whispered against Martin's lips between kisses, his palm grazing his cheek and tangling fingers into his soft hair. "I'm sorry it took me so long to realise." Because it had taken almost losing him for Jon to realise that the growing warmth every time he thought of Martin was love. Martin didn't have words, too choked and broken in that moment to respond.
Instead, he tapped a gentle message onto Jon's scarred wrist. How Jon interpreted it, he didn't know. But he did. He knew.
I know. I love you, too.